THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

perpetual fires of hell, than bear witness to such a violation of his home. 
    Wishing his recently departed heir—-the one who hadn’t been man enough to marry and produce an heir—a well-deserved stay in hell, he threw open the mullioned windows and heard the thudding of an aluminum hull against whitecaps. Over the wave-slapping racket he picked up the familiar high-pitched whine of Silverstein’s launch engine.
    He craned his neck for a better view of the harbor and cursed seeing a woman, her dark hair whipping in the breeze, sitting next to Silverstein.
    God had granted his solicitor the love of a good woman and the gift of a wee babe—something he, a laird, had apparently been unfit to receive, dying unloved as he had and with the blood of three wives on his hands—and look what the daft fool does. He’s put the poor woman in his miserable boat!
    “God’s teeth! In her condition, she should be lying in, not bouncing like a bloody cork across the bay.” He started down the stairs. “He’ll be shakin’ the wee babe loose, for God’s sake.” Outraged by this real possibility, he raced to the great hall, determined to confront Thomas Silverstein face to face.
    Generally, he preferred subtle—-and sometimes not so subtle-—displays to demonstrate his displeasure rather than materializing before the living. Becoming visible always took far more effort than most offenses warranted, while his temper tantrums were easily done and usually proved both effective and entertaining.
    But Tommy Boy had now done the unthinkable; risking his child’s life was tantamount to slapping God’s face and placing Blackstone on the block. For those sins, his solicitor would pay dearly.
    ~#~
     
    Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding clutched her really good designer knockoff tote to her chest without a thought to its prized contents and gasped as a huge, spiked gate suddenly ground down behind her with an ear-shattering screech.
    “Don’t be alarmed, Miss Pudding,” Tom Silverstein yelled as he strode toward the keep tower with the rest of her luggage in hand. “The portcullis occasionally slips its chain. There’s a hand crank on the left side to raise it again.”
    “Ah,” Beth said, not caring for the image of herself suddenly skewered by the enormous rusting teeth should the damn chain slip as she passed beneath. Deciding fixing the ancient gate would be number one on her list of things to do, she followed tall and lean Mr. Silverstein through the courtyard—or bailey as he called it.
    Frowning at the weeds and withered vines clinging to the fifteenth century stonework, she wondered how some people managed to go through life with taking pride in ownership. It only took a little love and elbow grease to make any place a home.
    Not any home, but her home . Hers to do with as she wished. In her twenty-four years, these ancient granite blocks would be the first walls she could lay honest claim to.
    Until two days ago, the latest place she’d call home had been an overpriced, roach-infested efficiency in an aging Bronx brownstone, but still the roof, the stairs, and pride of ownership had belonged to another. Even the roaches had a “here today, gone tomorrow and then back again” attitude as if she’d had no say in the matter.
    She raised her gaze to the sixteenth century mullioned windows above her. They should have been refracting multi-prismed rainbows as they faced the setting sun; instead they stared back at her, dull and opaque like the eyes of a landed cod.
    With a proprietary eye, she gauged the height of the four-storied tower before her and the depth of its windowsills.
    “Doable,” she muttered, deciding to clean them as soon as possible.
    Hell, she’d hung many a time out her fifth floor tenement window risking life and limb to scrub soot off warped plate glass for a clearer view of a brick airshaft. For an ocean view out a leaded window, she could climb a rope with her teeth.
    She frowned seeing her castle’s thick, arched door hadn’t fared any better than the windows. The solid oak was stained by creeping mildew and so cracked it appeared to be made of cork. Mr. Silverstein forced it open with a shoulder and said, “Welcome to your new home, Miss Pudding. Welcome to Castle Blackstone.”
    Ruminating over the delicious import of his words, Beth followed him in. She grabbed the rope railing with her free hand and carefully climbed the tightly curved, well-worn stones to yet another