was accomplish an impossible feat.

"Please." The specter held out his hand, beseeching. The chains clinked. His father glanced over his shoulder. A look of sheer terror passed over his face and then, with another wail, he was gone.

When the howling, clanking, and moaning ceased, when the room was once again wreathed in silence, Lachlan let out a breath, though he couldn't stay his shaking. It always affected him like this, wrapped him in a panic so profound he could barely move. He didn't know why. It was only a ghost.

Ah, but it wasn't only a ghost. It was more than that.

It was a reminder that his time was running out.

And the closer he came to his thirtieth birthday, the more frequently the specter visited. The more adamant hispleas. As though he, too, knew time was short.

Far too short for the luxury of sleep.

Lachlan tossed back the blankets; when they coiled around his legs, he kicked them off. The movement made his head spin. He paused, waited for the world to right itself. It was always like this when he woke. His brain in a fog. His consciousness in the claws of some deep, dark dread.

Now that he was here, home again in Scotland, closer to his doom, it had gotten worse. The fear was sharper, the panic more profound.

Though it was the middle of the night, there would be no more sleep for him. He glanced at the bottle of laudanum, the one the doctor in London had prescribed to help calm his nerves.

What a