Oh, ye'll take the high road and I'll take the low road,
An’ I'll be in Scotland afore ye;
But me and my true love will never meet again on the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomon'....
It was stunning. I stepped back and shut the door quietly, feeling I was intruding by listening. Strangely, I was afraid that if they saw me, they would stop and the magic would be gone. Like fairies or leprechauns.... I waited a long time until the singing, cleaning pixies had made their way out of the hallway. Finally, their sweet, high voices faded down the corridor.
Now that I'd gotten lost, on what was apparently my own property, I figured it was high time I went and visited the village. According to Evan, I owned a good deal of the land within and around it. He had told me it was only a mile or two northeast of the house, so I put on my boots, still muddy from my wallow in the creek, and set off across the moors. I made careful note of landmarks like big rocks and trees in relation to the house, hoping I wouldn't find myself lost again. I reminded myself again to drive to Arrochar and get a cell phone. I'd disconnected mine before leaving Charleston.
The grass was thick and coarse, in varying shades of green, interspersed with clusters where clover, thistles, and heather grew. Here and there piles of rocks broke out, thrusting up from the grass as though trying to escape. The effect was spectacular.
Shortly, I came to a narrow road. I paused and peered both ways. Off to the west was the dirt path Evan and I had traveled to get to the manor. Now that I had my bearings, I knew that if I stuck to the roads, I could always find my way home.
I trudged along happily, glad to be out walking again. I had always gone for strolls in the morning in Charleston, and although this was an entirely different environment, there was a good deal to be said for the clean, crisp air of the Highlands. After about twenty minutes, I crested a hill and saw a cluster of houses in the distance. A small wooden signpost confirmed my suspicion that this indeed was the village of Kilgraeme, established 1648.
In truth, it wasn't really much of a town. Several whitewashed houses lined the road, and there were a dozen or so cars parked along the sides of the narrow street. A few people wandered the sidewalks, but for the most part, it was just another early morning in a sleepy Scottish community. A wooden plank sign creaked above me indicating, to my great joy, the presence of the White Rose. The door was open, and I heard voices within.
I peered inside, trying to adjust my eyes to the dimly lit room. It was warm inside the pub, and conversations drifted to a halt as the patrons noticed me. From the darkness, I heard a voice several inches above my head growl, “Tis the Murray herself. Come to mingle with the peasants, have you?"
A tall shape materialized beside me, and I was once again in the presence of Cayden Spalding. I didn't like his comment about mingling with the peasants. He obviously thought I placed myself far above the rest of the residents of Kilgraeme, and I wasn't thrilled by the implication.
"Peasants?” I asked sweetly. “Why, I thought only the most boorish of people used that term in this day and age."
"Hah,” was the only response I got.
He was still blocking my way. “Do you mind?” I asked politely. “I thought I'd come in and have a bite to eat.” I had skipped breakfast, and something smelled marvelous inside the dark confines of the pub, perfect for an early lunch.
"Kilgraeme is yours, isn't it? You're welcome enough in here, I suppose,” he growled begrudgingly. As I squeezed past him, he placed a hand on my shoulder and steered me towards a table at the back, beside a large fireplace that crackled merrily in the dim light. I didn't argue. Even though Cayden Spalding hadn't been terribly nice to me so far, my good Southern breeding, and my growling stomach, forced me to be civil to him in spite of his perpetual hostility.
Besides, arrogance notwithstanding, he was drop-dead sexy so I was willing to give him a bit of leeway.
A stout man approached our table holding a large tray with two mugs, a pair of bowls, and a loaf of crusty bread.
"Thank you,” I said politely, helping myself to a bowl as Cayden grumbled his thanks. The stew and bread were heavenly, and I sat back and enjoyed my meal, washing down every few bites with a sip of Guinness.
I watched him surreptitiously as we ate. His red hair was swept back from his face, and the high cheekbones and aquiline nose suggested a blend of Saxon and Celtic blood. I suspected the Spaldings had been here as long as Scotland itself. The firelight reflected off his fair skin, and I tried not to stare.
He really was tasty-looking. Too bad he'd been a complete ass so far.
"So,” he began. “You're here to claim what's yours, aye?"
"Not exactly.” I didn't like the tone he was taking. “To tell you the truth, I'd rather be in Charleston."
He nodded. “So why did you come, then?"
"I needed the money,” I shrugged. Nothing wrong with being honest. “I don't want Kilgraeme. I just need to pay off some bills, and I can't do that unless I get my share of the cash."
"Which you can't do until you've stayed here a year,” he finished.
"Right."
Cayden looked at me thoughtfully. “And when your twelve months are up? What do you plan to do then?"
"Go home,” I replied, looking at him levelly.
"Kilgraeme is your home, isn't it? You're the Murray."
"Look,” I said patiently, “I know this whole clan and kin thing is a big deal to all of you, but honestly, the Murrays don't owe me anything, and I don't want anything. I never got anything from Jamie Murray when he was alive, and I don't feel I need anything from him now."
"You've no plans to keep Kilgraeme, then?"
"None. Why?” I asked. “Who gets it when I leave?"
He snorted. “When you leave, it's still yours. When you die, it passes to your children."
"I don't have any."
"Well, whatever child you may have in the future would inherit,” he explained. “'Tis the way the land's entitled."
I pondered that for a moment. “And if I don't have kids at all?"
"You're the last of the Murrays,” he said. “If you were to die without issue, I suppose Muncaster would have to find another heir, aye?"
"So I assume.” I paused. Really, that wasn't my problem. It would eventually be Evan's. “Well, I have no intention of staying here any longer than my mandatory year. Maybe that's mercenary of me, but I have no reason to."
Cayden nodded wisely, gray eyes glittering. “A boyfriend back in Charleston?"
"No,” I said, not like it was any of his business. “Just my brother. We're very close."
"Ah.” With that, he rose to his feet and tossed some money on the table. “It's on me. Goodbye, then.” Then he walked away, and out the door of the White Rose.
My mouth dropped open. That was the most abrupt end to a non-conversation I'd ever seen.
By the time I got outside, Cayden Spalding was nowhere in sight.
* * * *
When I returned home, the hallway sparkled for the first time since my arrival at Kilgraeme, and probably for the first time in a few decades. The main stairs and lower hall also looked as though the girls had gotten to them. I peeked into the Museum From Hell, and saw that although it was still cluttered, at least the windows were open and the glass cases were sparkling. Impressed, I paused on my way to the kitchen to examine some of the portraits on the walls. I hadn't really had a chance to look at them before, what with getting myself used to business at Kilgraeme, and the layer of dust that had covered them until this morning.
One in particular caught my attention. It was of a young man in eighteenth-century clothing, holding a long basket-hilted sword in one hand. His other hand rested on a mantle that I recognized from the dining room fireplace. His brown hair was pulled back and tied in a queue, and he had the deepest green eyes that I had ever seen. With a jolt, I realized that it was like looking into a mirror. Other than this being a man draped in a tartan and wearing a kilt an
d sporran, the resemblance to my own appearance was uncanny. I kept staring at him, fascinated.
"You've found Dugald,” purred a voice from behind me, making me jump. It was Trish. “A fine-looking specimen, isn't he?"
I wondered fleetingly if my father had looked like our great-ancestor, too. “Quite dashing. When did he live here?"
Trish recited from memory. “Dugald was born here at Kilgraeme in 1727. He joined the Rising, at his father's insistence, in 1745. After Culloden he traveled around a bit, but came back here in the fall of 1755."
I motioned to the next painting. “He looks pissed off in that one."
Trish arched her brows. “That one? Oh, no, that's not Dugald. That's Lachlan, his twin brother. He does look angry, doesn't he?"
I was surprised, and stood up on my toes for a better look. The two men had very similar features, but while Dugald's eyes seemed friendly and content, there was a glint of something malicious in Lachlan's, something ... off.
"This is Catharine,” Trish added, indicating a lovely chestnut-haired woman. I still had the eerie feeling of looking at my own reflection.
"A sister?” I guessed.
"Yep. She's supposed to be the ghost that roams the halls of Kilgraeme."
At this, I shivered, recalling the noises from the night before. Determined not to appear concerned, I rolled my eyes and blew a raspberry noise. “Nobody really believes that, do they?"
There was a noise on the steps above us, and I glanced up. It was one of Emily's friends, watching us intently as she polished the banister for what appeared to be the second time.
"Hello,” I called politely. “Thanks for your cleaning skills."
"You're the American,” the girl announced.
I was beginning to get used to this. “So they tell me."
"You should take a haunting a wee bit more seriously, if you ask me."
"Well, she didn't ask you, did she?” put in Trish. “Go away, Sandie."
"No, it's okay,” I intervened. “Why do you say that? About taking it seriously, I mean?"
The girl smiled, her dark eyes sparkling. “Have you met your wee ghostie yet?” she asked.
Keeping my face calm, I shook my head. “No,” I said slowly, “not yet."
"'Tis true, you know. Yon ghostie is Miss Catharine, aye? She's lookin’ for the Murray treasure. Sometimes she moves things about in the hallway, peekin’ behind tables and such, hoping to find her Da's gold. Him an’ Robert Ruaidh MacGregor stole it from the Earl of Montrose and hid it at Kilgraeme,” she explained eagerly.
"That's enough out of you, Sandie MacFarlane,” Trish snapped. Her dislike for the girl was apparent.
Chills ran down my spine. There was a sound from upstairs, and the girl looked up. “I must go.” She pointed at me solemnly. “You're the Murray, and you should take such things more to heart, aye?” She scampered up the stairs.
Trish rolled her eyes. “Don't pay any attention to her. Kilgraeme's ghost is just family legend, nothing more. Sandie has a vivid imagination. She's a MacFarlane, from Arrochar, and those people think they have ghosts in just about every house in that village."
I was pretty sure that when the book had fallen off the shelf in the night it had been more than just my imagination, but I didn't mention it to Trish.
"By the way,” said Trish casually, “I heard you met Cayden Spalding yesterday."
"Boy, word travels fast around here. Saw him this morning, too, in case anyone was wondering.” Did these people have nothing better to do than discuss me?
"Muncaster mentioned it at breakfast. I did look for you, you know,” she said, faintly accusatory. “What did you think of our local recluse?"
For some reason, everyone wanted to know what I thought of the man. “He's rather lacking in the charm department,” I said dryly. “I barged into his house yesterday and fell asleep on his couch. When I woke up, he pretty much sent me packing. Then I ran into him in town today, and we had lunch together. The conversation was pretty much limited to why I came to Kilgraeme in the first place. Then he just up and left."
Trish laughed. “That's typical. He doesn't like women."
"Really?” I blinked. “That's strange. My brother doesn't either, but somehow I didn't pick up on that vibe with Cayden Spalding."
Trish stared at me, and then burst into giggles. “No, not that. I mean he genuinely doesn't like us. It's a shame. He's really sexy in that brooding, Heathcliff-of-the-moors kind of way. He was married once and his wife whored around on him. So now he hates all of us equally."
I briefly thought of my mother, drinking herself into a stupor after Steve Marlette left her. “Lots of people have bad marriages. Now that he's divorced, isn't it time to move on and get over it?"
"Mm. No, that's the thing. He didn't get a divorce, his wife died."
I instantly felt bad. “Oh, the poor guy...."
"Poor guy, my ass,” Trish said with a smirk. “He was probably relieved when she died. His wife was a slut. She'd been fooling around on him for years."
I wandered into the kitchen, trolling for coffee, and Trish followed me. “You seem to know an awful lot about things that go on here."
Trish pulled out a stool and poured herself a cup of tea. “That's my job."
Mrs. Much had come in from the storeroom and was glaring at Trish. “I heard you. You stop spreadin’ tales, missy."
Trish narrowed her eyes at the cook. “It's not tales, Much, it's common knowledge whether you like to admit it or not. Ask anyone, they'll tell you all about any number of local scandals. A lot of people think he did it,” she said conversationally.
"Did what?” I asked.
"Killed her,” Trish replied, dumping a heap of sugar into her cup. Mrs. Much walked up to her and smacked the spoon out of her hand. I was appalled. The attack was a lot worse than when she rapped my knuckles for peeking at the stew.
"You stop that,” the old woman spat, trembling with rage. “Don't you come here makin’ accusations about that man. The Spaldings are good folk, an’ always looked after the Murrays, an’ there isn't a one of ‘em likely to do murder, unless ‘twas called for. So you mind your business, missy, you just mind.” Her face was crimson. “Get out o’ my kitchen, you jealous harpy,” she hissed.
Trish swallowed the last of her tea and, with an amused look, departed. She left her cup for Mrs. Much to wash.
"Jealous harpy,” the woman repeated under her breath. I was afraid to speak. It seemed as if Mrs. Much had forgotten my presence. Suddenly she glanced up at me. “You need to watch out wi’ that one, aye?"
"With Cayden Spalding?” I asked, momentarily confused.
"Nae, with yon Miss MacGregor. Way too high an’ mighty for the likes of Kilgraeme, if you want my opinion,” the woman sniffed.
I was beginning to wonder about Trish. Cayden Spalding had seemed disturbed when Trish's name came up, and now the cook was advising me to be careful around the genealogist as well. “How long has she been coming here?"
Mary Much frowned. “About four years ago, as far as I can recall. ‘Twas right after Mr. Muncaster came to work for old Ranald, I believe. Aye, that must have been when it was. She was here for Emily's twelfth birthday party."
Recalling the musical cleaning team this morning, I smiled. “I heard her singing this morning with the girls upstairs. Emily has a lovely voice."
Mary Much laughed and shook her head. “Aye, she got that from her father, God rest his kind soul. Emily and her sister would sit wi’ my husband singin’ and chantin’ till the wee hours of the morning.
"Oh,” I blinked. I hadn't seen any other young women around, besides Emily's cleaning team. “Does your other daughter live here at Kilgraeme, too?"
The cook looked startled. “Good Lord, child, no! Melissa has been dead these six months past."
"Oh, Mrs. Much, I'm sorry,” I gasped. Once again, I had opened my mouth and my foot had promptly inserted itself there. “I didn't know."
"Well, o’
course I suppose you didn't know, lass. I'm wagering there's a lot about Kilgraeme you don't know yet, aye?” the woman laughed softly. “My Melissa was a wild one, to be sure. That's what done her in, in the end."
I shook my head. “I'm confused. What happened to her?"
"She died with the man she loved. ‘Twas she that Miss MacGregor was talking about. Cayden Spalding was Melissa's husband once, aye? When they were young. But it wasn't him that Melissa loved.” She shook her head. “Well, she got to be wi’ the man she wanted, when it was all said an’ done."
A feeling of dread began to seep through me. “Who was it?” I asked softly.
Mary Much looked at me with a look I can only describe as pity. “Twas Jamie Murray, lass. My Melissa and your Da drowned together on Loch Lomond."
Chapter Seven
Emily Much and her cleaning fairies had tackled the bedroom for me, and left it smelling of fresh air and lemons. The wood on the posts gleamed with polish, and the area rugs were beaten free of dust and other residue. I wondered briefly if Ranald Murray had passed away in the bed I slept in, but Evan reassured me that the old man had actually dropped dead in the dining hall, face first into his plum duff, right in front of everyone. Armed with that mildly comforting knowledge, I began making the third floor of the manor house my own. I added small touches that said Brynne Lives Here—photos of Gil and Mark, a framed picture of my brother and me sitting for a long-ago Christmas portrait with our mother and Steve Marlette, a print of Charleston's Rainbow Row, and some potted herbs from Danny Beaton's garden.
After the incident with Mrs. Much, in which she had revealed my father's connection to her daughter, I had come to the disturbing conclusion that there were far too many secrets at Kilgraeme. It wasn't so much that people were hiding information deliberately. On the contrary, it was just that they just conveniently forgot to mention things to me that might be important.
I had called my brother the night before, running up what I was sure were going to be astronomical telephone charges. I didn't care. With my Kligraeme inheritance, I could afford it, and Gilbert was my link to sanity and the outside world.
Call of the Clan Page 6
