Call of the Clan

by Patti Wiggington

  "She has no obligation to Muncaster."

  "Not yet. But he might think so. He did ask her to marry him, as you well know."

  There was a snort. “Aye, well, and as I recall she hasn't said she'd do so. She's not a piece of property he can just stake a claim to."

  "No, but Kilgraeme is. You know, it could be entertaining to mix things up a bit around here,” she purred.

  "Mix things up? Don't you cause any trouble for her. She's been more than charitable towards you, from what I've seen, though you hardly deserve it."

  "She doesn't like me one bit,” sulked Trish.

  "Well, that gives us something in common, then, doesn't it? I've never liked you either."

  "Thanks.” She gave a short, harsh laugh. “I heard what you said to Evan that night, you know."

  "Which night was that?"

  "The night he asked for her delicate hand in marriage, which, by the way, has got Much in a horrible tizzy. When you told him if he ever hurt her, you'd cheerfully kill him. Very sweet. The noble warrior coming to the rescue of the fair lady,” she sang.

  "I doubt that she's in much need of rescuing, but if it makes you feel better, Trish, the same goes for you."

  "Beg your pardon?"

  His voice dropped so low I could barely hear him. “It goes for you, too. If you do any harm to her, you can be certain I'll make you quite miserable, aye?"

  "Oh, please. The whole knight in shining armor act is wearing thin,” Trish laughed. “Where is the Murray, anyway? I haven't seen her today."

  "I have no idea where she might be right now,” replied the deep voice. In a way, it was true. He didn't know if I had gone into the bathroom or was perched behind his bedroom door, hanging on every word. “Is there anything else?"

  "Yeah, actually there is,” Trish said. I could picture her with her fluffy hair, batting her lashes and smiling that catlike smile of hers, most likely positioning herself so that Cayden could see down the front of her shirt if he chose to. “You might want to let the Murray know, if you see her before I do, that is, that I've dug up something very interesting about Lachlan Murray. I know where he went, and I know why."

  "Where did he go, then?"

  "That is absolutely none of your business,” she said lightly. “Bye."

  I heard a door slam. Finally, Cayden called, “You can come out now, Brynne. She's gone."

  I exhaled in relief, and went back out to the main room.

  He took my hands, and nuzzled my fingers. “Brynne. I need to run out for a wee bit."

  I frowned. “What for?"

  "Something I need to take care of, but I'll be quick about it. Would you wait for me? I'll cook us some dinner when I get back, aye?"

  "I can go with you,” I offered, but he shook his head.

  "I'd rather no one saw us together, at least not until you've told young Muncaster where things stand, aye? People might get the wrong idea,” he winked.

  The wrong idea, indeed. I shivered again, recalling the feel of his lips against my neck. “Okay,” I whispered. “I'll wait."

  He nodded. “I'll try not to be over long, aye? Make yourself at home, then."

  When he was gone, I plopped down on the couch. There was no television, so I got back up again and began exploring his bookshelves. A single shelf was devoted to classics by. The rest of the books were non-fiction.

  Anne looked interesting, so I sat down and began flipping pages. The text was a thoroughly readable story about a young woman who had aided the rebellion during the second Jacobite Rising. The Highlanders had respected her enough to call her Colonel Anne. Although the book was entertaining enough, I was starting to feel a little fidgety.

  Restlessly, I prowled around the rest of the croft. After all, I reasoned, if he had anything to hide, he shouldn't have left me here unsupervised.

  Cayden lived simply. The shower contained a bar of soap, a bottle of shampoo and some conditioner that smelled like green tea. The counter by the sink held another bar of soap, a can of shaving cream and a razor. I peeked inside the medicine cabinet and saw a toothbrush, toothpaste, a bottle of aspirin and a box of super hero band-aids. No fancy decorations, no jars of seashells on the back of the commode.

  The bedroom was plain as well, an exquisitely carved oak headboard was the only hint of extravagance. A wardrobe was shoved up against one wall, with a small dresser beside it. On the dresser were three photographs, including one I recognized of Cayden and his sisters, along with a young man I assumed to be their brother Bruce. He had the telltale auburn hair and brilliant smile of the Spaldings.

  Another picture was of the Spalding parents. I peered closely at them, seeing immediately the resemblance between Cayden and his late father. I sighed. They looked happy.

  I picked up the final photo, which must have been three to four years old. Cayden and my father were sitting in the sailboat, grinning like drunken fools. Also in the picture was Evan Muncaster, a serious expression on his face, and a lovely young woman. Her jet-black hair blew in the wind, and she was laughing.

  Melissa.

  I wondered who had taken the picture. Everyone in the shot looked happy except for Evan, and I made a mental note to ask Emily about it.

  I tiptoed back out to the living room, and nestled into the depths of the couch. With thoughts of a tartan-clad woman leading desperate men into battle, I fell into a restless sleep.

  When I awoke it was dark. The fire had burned down low, and a soft glow filled the room. I stretched luxuriously, still on the couch but comfortably warm under a pile of down quilts. I smelled bacon.

  I sat abruptly, looking around. “Cayden?” I whispered.

  "Over here, Brynne,” he replied. I turned and saw him standing in the kitchen, in front of the stove, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and some mauve oven mitts.

  I giggled. “What are you doing? You look scandalous."

  He waved a mitt at me and grinned. “I'm fixing us dinner, if you don't mind staying. I had rather hoped you would,” he admitted.

  "I'd love to,” I smiled, aware of the harsh rumblings in my stomach. “Oh!"

  "What?"

  "Dinner! I need to call Mrs. Much and tell her I won't be there,” I explained.

  "Already done. I, er, took the liberty of talking to her myself, aye?"

  My eyes widened. “Dear God. What on earth did you tell her?"

  He scooped some butter into a skillet, and swirled it around carefully. “That you'd gone and ravished me, and that you threatened to castrate me if I didn't feed you properly following an afternoon of perfectly magnificent lovemaking."

  "You didn't!” I squawked, hurling a pillow at him.

  He ducked, laughing, and began cracking eggs into a bowl. “I didn't. I told her you were having dinner with me, that's all. I left out the part about you ravishing me."

  I snorted. I had indeed been planning on thoroughly ravishing him, but the sexual tension that had existed earlier in the day was now replaced by an awkward and somewhat tentative friendliness. I watched in silence as he cooked.

  "Supper's ready.” He chopped the omelet in half deftly with the spatula, and slid it out of the pan, where it landed with a loud plop on my plate.

  "Oh, thank you,” I sighed. “That smells heavenly.” I helped myself to a few strips of bacon and some toast as well.

  He seated himself across from me, and I could feel him watching me as I bit into the omelet. It was divine.

  "My God,” I mumbled through my mouthful of eggs. “What's the secret?"

  He laughed, tiny lines forming at the corners of his eyes. “Green onions, cilantro, a dash of cayenne pepper, and cheese made right here locally."

  "Mm,” I replied, savoring the warm cheese in my mouth. “Gil and Mark would die for this. I'm glad I stayed for dinner, er, breakfast. Whatever."

  "I'm glad you stayed too,” he said, reaching across the table and taking my hand.

  "I really do have to go back to the house, you know,” I said. “Pe
ople will be looking for me."

  "They won't have to look far, once yon Trish MacGregor opens her big mouth."

  "You think she knows I was here?” I asked, slightly concerned.

  "I think she suspects it."

  "Did you get your errands taken care of over at the village?"

  "Aye. So,” he said casually, “what exactly is the situation with you and Muncaster?"

  I dropped my fork, and hurriedly scooped it back out of my lap. “Well, um, there really is no situation with Evan."

  "Are you going to marry him?” he asked.

  I stared at him incredulously. In the absence of a reasonably good answer, I settled for righteous indignation. “I can't believe you have the audacity to ask me a question like that."

  He shrugged. “I just like to know where I stand, aye?"

  I hesitated. “I am incredibly attracted to you. I think you know that,” I said cautiously.

  "Well, I rather thought you were, but you could still plan on marrying Muncaster."

  "I'm not. We're not even dating, we just hang out. He's my friend.” I frowned. “No one seems to care about my feelings in all of this. I've told him that I couldn't make any kind of commitment, but all anyone can talk about is Evan this and Evan that."

  He stared at me. “Do you love him?” he asked softly.

  It was the first time anyone had bothered to ask me that. I cared very much about Evan. But deep down, in my heart, I knew I would never love him.

  Cayden leaned back. “If you have to think about your answer, then you must not be very sure of it."

  I ignored the satisfied smile on his face, and tried to come up with a witty retort. Fortunately, I was saved from having to say anything at all by the ringing of his cellular phone on the coffee table.

  I observed him out of the corner of my eye as he strode across the room to answer the phone. Shirtless, he was a sight to behold. His rust-colored hair hung loose across his shoulders. As he scooped up the phone, and turned towards me, I noticed a few strands of silver among the red.

  I wanted to toss my eggs in the trash and go take a bite of Cayden Spalding.

  "Hello,” he growled. As I watched him, a strange expression came over his face, his eyes narrowing. “Michael, are you certain?” He glanced at me, mouth set in a grim line. “Aye, she's with me now. She's fine."

  What in the world is going on now? I wondered. The only Michael I knew of was the policeman from Arrochar, Michael Kerr. “What's happening?” I whispered, but he shushed me with a wave of his hand.

  He nodded to the unseen caller. “We'll be there in a moment. Don't let anyone leave, aye?” With a flip of his hand, he snapped the phone shut, and looked at me intently.

  "What is it?” I asked. “What's happened?"

  He took my hands. “We have to get you back to the house. There's been another death at Kilgraeme."

  The words shot through my veins like ice water. “Murder? My God,” I whispered. “Who?"

  His eyes were troubled as he peered down at me. “It was in the library, up in your rooms. Get your coat."

  "Cayden,” I hissed. “Tell me who."

  With a sigh, he pulled on a shirt and his heavy jacket. “Well, I imagine you'll find out soon enough, so it can't hurt to tell ye.” His gray eyes flicked back to mine.

  Somewhere, deep down in the pit of my stomach, I felt ill. And somehow, I knew what he was going to say before he said it.

  "Brynne, Trish MacGregor is dead."

  Chapter Twenty

  When Cayden and I arrived at the manor house, the lights of police cars and an ambulance were flashing on the lawn beside the front porch. I felt a migraine building, pressure squeezing my head as though my corneas were squashed in a vise. Emily was sobbing in the front parlor, and her mother stood stoically against a wall. The walk up to the third floor had a surreal quality to it.

  Trish MacGregor had been strangled in the library just outside my bedroom door.

  The Arrochar constable, Michael Kerr, met us at the top of the steps. “I'll need to account for everyone's whereabouts today, miss,” he said gently, taking me by the elbow and leading me back down to the landing. I craned my neck for a glimpse of Trish, just to be sure it was real. All I could see was a white coroner's sheet draped across a shape on the floor.

  Cayden nodded his head. “You know we'll cooperate, Michael."

  "Aye. Cayden, I'll need you to give me a moment to speak with Miss Murray, er, Marlette, alone. The place has been ransacked,” the constable said quietly, guiding me down the stairs and pulling a notepad from his jacket.

  "Now, then,” he said politely. “I hate to be asking you these sorts of things, miss, but you understand it's all routine?"

  "Yes, of course,” I murmured. He had done the same thing after Sandie MacFarlane's death. I fought a wave of nausea, and felt my breath coming in short gulps.

  I was very afraid.

  He frowned. “I understand you weren't home this afternoon?"

  "That's right,” I nodded. “We held Council this morning, and then I spent the rest of the day with Cayden."

  "Well, good, then. I suppose he will confirm that you were together the whole time?"

  "Of course,” I began, and then stopped abruptly. In fact, we hadn't been together all afternoon. After Trish had come by the croft and argued with him, he had left for a time. He had told me he was running into the village....

  Michael Kerr must have noticed my shudder.

  "I wasn't with him the whole time,” I said slowly. “He went out for a little while, and I laid down and took a nap."

  My stomach churned with a vengeance.

  Kerr frowned. “How long were you alone?"

  "I don't know,” I whispered. “An hour, hour and a half maybe.” My head began to spin, and I grabbed the banister to steady myself. What had Cayden's mysterious errand been? Had he gone to the village as he said, or was it possible that he had come back here to the main house? He had said he talked to Mrs. Much....

  I slid to the floor slowly and Michael Kerr's eyes met mine. “Well, then,” he said gently. “That'll be all for now, aye?"

  "Yes."

  "Mmrph,” he said. I had gathered that this was sort of an all-purpose noise that the locals made to indicate they had nothing else to say.

  Quite honestly, I couldn't think of anything else to say either.

  Kerr went back up the steps to the library, and I was about to follow him when I heard Evan's voice on the stairs below me.

  "Brynne?” he asked, his face pale. “Are you alright?"

  I nodded mutely.

  "I'm so sorry,” he said simply. He pulled me into his arms, and before I knew it I was in tears.

  "I know,” I sobbed. “I can't take this, Evan! Two people have died since I came to Kilgraeme, and I've only been here three months!"

  He stroked my shoulders gently. “Now, then, it's not your fault, though, is it? Sandie was killed by a drifter. Trish has naught to do with that."

  I could hear voices upstairs, including Cayden Spalding's unmistakable growl. I couldn't make out what was being said, but it sounded as if he might be arguing with Michael Kerr.

  "Come on,” Evan said softly. “Let's go downstairs to the kitchen. They'll be bringing her out soon, and you don't wish to see that."

  He was right. I really didn't want to see Trish's lifeless body carried out on a gurney. I didn't want to see it, or even think about it. I was tired of death. I wished, more than anything, that Gil was there with me.

  I escaped to the parlor, slamming the door behind me for some privacy, and began mashing numbers on the phone.

  "What's wrong, pudding? You sound awful.” Sweet Gilbert. He sounded so concerned.

  "I feel awful. I hate it here.” He listened patiently as I unloaded my miseries upon him. He didn't even interrupt. Finally, when I paused to blow my nose, he spoke.

  "Brynne, poodle, why don't you come back?"

  "I don't know,” I wailed. “What a
bout the money? I can't get the money to pay off all those stupid bills if I leave now."

  "I know, sugar, but we'll find a way. If you're that miserable, come on home,” he sighed.

  "Gil? Would you? If you were here, and I was in Charleston, would you come home?” I asked softly.

  There was a pause. “No,” he said finally. “I'd stay. I'd stay and find out what the hell is going on that two people have died for."

  I wiped my eyes. “Gil?"

  "Yeah, honey?"

  "Do you think I'm in danger?” I whispered.

  He was silent.

  "Gil?"

  "I don't know, Brynne, I really don't,” he admitted. “But I think you need to be careful. Someone is going to great lengths to hide something at Kilgraeme."

  We talked for a long time, and when I realized the conversation had gone on nearly two hours, I decided it was time to cut him off.

  "I love you, bubba. Kiss Mark for me."

  "You bet. Be careful, honey. I love you."

  I hung up the phone with a sigh, and stared at the ugly carpet of the parlor. Silently, I slipped through the rear door, into the Museum from Hell.

  It was essentially the same as it had been the night of the séance, when we encountered Catharine Murray by way of Emily Much, only the light was now provided by a few discreet table lamps rather than four zillion candles.

  I peered into the display cases, and the bronze torque once again caught my eye. The case had no lock, so I raised the lid cautiously. In addition to the torque, there were several pieces of jewelry and bronze work from different eras. Many looked primitive and simple, and I found I preferred those to the more elaborate designs.

  I pulled a small bell-shaped box out of the case. It was decorated with a series of ornate carvings, depicting a man slaying a dragon.

  "St. George,” said a voice behind me, and I screamed, the box slipping from my grasp.

  Cayden Spalding reached out swiftly and caught it before it crashed back into the case.

  "Damn it,” I hissed. “Would you quit sneaking up on me? I've had enough surprises lately to last a lifetime!"

  Steel gray eyes peered down at me. “Aye, well, I didn't mean to startle you."

  "You always say that,” I snapped. “Stop doing it."