Never in all his days had he enjoyed a lassie's company this much outside of a bed. There was a way she had of looking up at him that made him grin like a lad, and he seemed to have the same effect on her. She must be in somewhere in her twenties and she laughed like a schoolgirl. By the time they reached the fourth storey he was sorry the journey was coming to an end.
He struggled to stay professional and remember that she was a paying guest. One wrong word or move on his part and he could face a hellish lawsuit and publicity. Every instinct told him she'd never do that to him, but Zavier Campbell would no' think twice.
Callum had put himself in a position here that was wide open to trouble and he'd be daft to forget it.
Up here all the rooms were empty, used only by his parents when they were home and for family gatherings... and by himself. They walked by his own bedchamber without her knowing, though he noticed she glanced back at the door after they'd passed it. No nameplate. Nothing to identify it as his. Someday they'd no' be passing it by. Someday it would be the end purpose of their walk.
A few more turns and they were there.
"It's in the corner room up ahead." Did she slow her pace at that, or did he? "Are you ready for this?"
"Getting a bit edgy now. Just how much of a likeness is it?"
"I've actually no' seen it myself since I was a young lad. It's a memory for me like it was for the clansfolk."
He opened the door for her to go in but she held back.
"You go first, Callum."
"Feartie! See, it's still wrapped up."
All the chairs had been removed and lined up along the walls. The picture lay flat on the circular oak table, and with nothing between it and the door save another long stretch of destiny's path. They walked to the table to find there was no catalogue number, no title, dates, artist's name nor even a photograph of what was inside the acid-free paper. If there had been the usual label, it had been removed for the time being. One old tag only, with the word Minstrel.
The powers that had been summoned in the room had no' abated much. He blinked hard, for the oak was singing its energies as if his hands were still upon it and the Elders chanting. He would swear that the ancients were still to the fore in here, their voices at the edges of his mind. What were the Wisewomen playing at, insisting he bring her to this room? He was pretty sure it would be their idea.
He reached into the side of his sock and fetched out his skean-dhu. "Use this. I'll let you do the honors."
"Wait... are these Celtic deities?"
She was looking round the wall carvings in amazement.
"Aye, but they don't bite."
"Oh I know that. I used to collect figurines when I was younger."
"Did you now..." He ran a hand over his jaw, intrigued to hear more but needing to get this over with and get out this room. After all the blushing she'd been doing this morning, it was odd to see her so pale again. More so than her usual, was clear, the way she was rubbing at her forehead.
Maybe he was no' the only one here feeling the sizzle in the air. Now he was convinced this place was the Wisewomen's choice.
She took the sharp knife and sliced the strings upwards, then carefully ripped aside several layers of paper until only the underlying tissue remained. His heart hammered the worse as she turned to give him back his skean-dhu and lifted her brows in question. Her glance darted to the open door as if she'd heard something, then around the carved panels which seemed to have her as spellbound as the painting.
Needed some encouragement here, did she? "Go on, then. See if she looks like you."
She parted the tissue with a flourish and there it was. There she was, exactly as he'd remembered her and even more of a likeness to the living lass beside him than he could ever have imagined. Uncanny, he'd called it. Bloody bizarre.
"Freya?"
She leaned her hands on the table. "I need to sit down..."
It wasn't that room which came into focus again but the carpet of the corridor outside, and Freya couldn't think how she'd got there. She was sitting against the wall now with Callum kneeling beside her, holding her shoulders while she groggily raised her head.
"Can I get you anything? Water?"
She didn't know what she wanted – except to see that painting again and stay upright and clearheaded while she inspected it properly.
"No... I'm fine..." She struggled to get up and didn't quite manage it.
"Sit a while yet."
Freya shook her head and immediately regretted it. The dizziness and ringing in her ears came back, and with it the sound of those voices again. Chanting. An old language, but not the Latin or Gaelic she'd learned at school. A comforting song that was nothing to be afraid of... though difficult to make out the words. Callum would know. She'd ask him. Soon. When they stopped...
"Will I get a doctor, Freya? Is there medication you need?"
She thought she answered him and realised she hadn't because her mouth was still closed, her chin resting on her chest again while she fought for clarity. How mortifying was this! He lifted her wrists one by one, and then pulled at the poloneck of her sweater as her head lolled.
"Do you wear a medical alert pendant?"
His words were all professional standard procedure and looking after a customer but his face said different. She must reassure him. Didn't want him to be scared for her. Couldn't let him see her this weak and ineffectual.
"Not diabetic... nothing to worry about," she mumbled as the voices finally slipped away. She lifted her head and managed to keep Callum's face in focus. "I'm fine. Really. And I'm embarrassed enough so please put your phone away..."
"Tell me what you need."
"Fresh air. Feel like I'm on fire."
Oh how stupid a thing to say! True... but she wasn't sure now if it was from her passing out or from his fingers touching her neck. She could still feel them there even though they were gone.
Her legs weren't as clever as she thought once she squirmed away. She tried to stand up and thudded against the wall instead. An arm came round her back and another under her knees, hoisting her up and carrying her through a doorway.
"Really, I'm fine." Even to her own ears she sounded pathetic.
"Rest in here. I'll call down for your man to be fetched."
"Oh please no... don't want him to see the portrait... know about it..."
This wasn't the room with those Celtic carvings. A bedroom of dark blues overlooking the sea. A four-poster that he laid her on and strode quickly away. A place without a current resident but with signs that it once had. A row of windows that he went along, opening every one until the wind caught strands of her hair and blew them tickling across her nose.
She breathed the freezing salty air for a long time, fighting hard to be as fine as she kept saying she was. Callum stood silently at the last window with his shoulder leaning up against the recess, watching her.
"I don't do fainting," she insisted from the bed.
This room was obviously kept only for family. It was more homey with its bookcases and boyhood trophies. A brother, most probably, long since married off. The real deal of a lineage that traced back well over a thousand years, according to the website brochure. The real bits that the tourists didn't get to see.
Freya was suddenly aware of the trust he'd placed in her by bringing her up to this private storey, by showing her that Celtic room and the painting. Callum had brought her to the inner sanctums of his clan. Well... to the boundary edges anyway. She'd bet any money that this castle held a wealth of bigger secrets than the ones she'd just seen. And that wasn't all he was holding back. There was more than concern for her in that look he was giving her.
"You got a shock, lass. Like I said, the likeness is uncanny, even more so than I remember of it."
Little wonder he'd thought he knew her yesterday and talked to her now with an ease not strictly appropriate between a hotel owner and a guest. The painting was like looking in the mirror for her – no, not a mirror
image but a photograph made to look like an old painting – except it really was old. Regency period, which matched up with an artist from her own family.
The whole scenario should have creeped her out. It didn't. All she wanted was to get back to the portrait. She'd shut out whatever ghosts came with it. First, the big question.
"Callum, tell me the truth... is this some joke you're playing along with? Is the painting a fake cooked up for fun?"
"No' a joke."
Some of Zavier's friends were pranksters but it would have been too much trouble to go to with the amount of people involved here and elsewhere. Besides, they'd have set him up with something, not her.
"I believe you. Can't see you laughing now."
"Doubt you'd be amused if I collapsed in a heap." He took a deep breath that swelled his chest and then let it out. "I'm thinking it was a mistake to let you see that painting. Should no' even have told you about it."
"I'd say I was entitled. You'd have no right to keep it from me." She sat up gingerly and put her legs over the side of the bed. Callum stepped towards her, the worry written on him. "Honestly, I'm fine now. Look, I'm standing! I want to see her again. She might be my great-whatever-grandmother."
He shrugged without answering, turned away and started closing the windows. Freya was out the door and into the corridor when he appeared at her side.
"No' without me there."
A low voice, almost a grunt. The deep Scots brogue of this Highland chieftain towering over her sent her tingling. Ridiculous... she was just scared in case he'd try to stop her.
Straight into the turret room she went, keeping her eyes fixed on the table and blanking out those Celtic deities. But the singsong chanting was there again when she looked at the perfect image of herself.
This time she was determined to stay in control. She'd missed the Argyll Yoga class at the Spa this morning and now wished she could have gone there first, been wholly centred for this.
She looked up at Callum and found him absently rubbing at the middle of his brow. Third-eye chakra bothering him too, was it? Little wonder, with the energies in this room. It felt as if last night's thunderstorm had left this one space electrically-charged.
Putting her hands on the table to lean over the painting made everything worse. She ignored the subject now and concentrated hard on the rest of what she was looking for. The brushstrokes, the style, the background, the color mixes. All confirmed by the word Minstrel on the label. Yes, she'd been right. The artist was many generations back in her family tree. Auntie Harper still had some of his work.
Solving part of the puzzle solved only left more questions. It explained why Callum thought he knew her yesterday when they'd first met. It didn't explain why she knew him.
"Okay, I've seen enough."
Callum took a couple of pictures of it on his phone, and looked as relieved as she felt to close the door. This time he took her along a corridor she'd not yet seen.
"Changing the route, are we?"
His turn to be embarrassed, though he said nothing as he led the way down a steep spiral staircase. Another door needed his handprint to open electronically, same as on the way up, the sort of doors that would once have had guards posted either side.
They didn't stop at the treasures on the way past and within a few more minutes had arrived back in the public area, never having spoken a word since they'd left the Celtic room. She should retrieve her coat and leave him here. Thank him very much and return to the suite and Zavier. Freya didn't feel ready for that.
The Reception Desk was only a hallway away when she said, "You haven't asked me what I saw."
He didn't reply until a couple of American teenage girls had passed by, saying "Hi, Callum!" through their braces as they openly gave him the onceover.
"No' for public ears. We could walk to the Brewery together? Tara will be wanting to speak to you."
"Let me leave a message for Zavier. He thinks I'm at the Spa."
"He's there at the desk."
"Oh!" With his baggage? "Zavier?"
"Freya! Where in god's name have you been? Call from Dubai. Nightmare. Bathroom fittings supplier has totally screwed up. Got to go, babe!"
Real life came back with a thump. They were supposed to be using this weekend together to begin planning their wedding, and she'd just been doing something she'd rather he didn't know about. And lying on a bed that another man had carried her to, even if it was for a valid health and safety reason.
"Should I come?"
"You could have gone instead of me but I couldn't find you! Get a new phone fast, will you? Listen, Rebecca's got everything covered in London for now. You stay on and sort out the booking with Mister Clan Chieftain here and for godsakes talk him into letting us have some pizzazz." He tickled her under the chin and gave her a peck of a kiss. He was already a step away when he said, "Decided what you're wearing instead of ostrich feathers?"
"Well... I'm thinking we should stay contemporary and let the castle speak for itself."
"Fan-tastic! Order me a top hat and I'll be back in time to wear it. I've left you the rental car. Robbie's is faster. Contractors are on stand-down until I get to Dubai so I've got to make the evening flight from Glasgow."
And he was gone, and so was the Events Manager doubling as taxi driver, the gravel spitting up behind a nifty red sports number with noisy twin exhausts as they sped away from the castle.
She should have been left with a sense of loss, and it niggled her to feel a sense of relief instead because it delayed having to tell him about the portrait.
The walk to the Brewery with Freya was a peaceful thing after the dynamo of Zavier Campbell passing through checkout. Grand luck that her hyper man had been called away – either that or the Elders had far more powers than Callum had credited them with.
The storm had blown itself well out now and the forecast was good for the next few days. They'd walked beyond the stables before finding solitude. Out here in the winter sunshine her hair was blonder than ever and blowing in the breeze, her wee nose pink at the tip with the cold and her lips reddened with nibbling at them. She was jittery, far more than she'd been in the castle.
Work worries? He didn't think so. He'd tried to make small talk about the Dubai thing while there were people coming and going on the paths. How big a hotel was it? Did her work take her to the Emirates a lot?
Her answers were polite and nothing more, so he let her have the space to think her own thoughts because he suspected Zavier Campbell was no' in them in as kindly a light as he should be. And what kind of insipid kiss was that to get from her man when he was headed thousands of miles away?
Fine with him if she didn't want to talk about it. It saved himself the chore of owning up that Robbie was the very person who knew where to find her, being both the clan historian and the custodian of the portrait, and had instead offered the Campbell a fast drive to the airport.
"Are we in private yet, Callum? Can I tell you what I saw?"
"Aye, go on."
"Well, first, there aren't any old portraits of my family. Most people couldn't afford the artists to paint them – or the houses with ceilings high enough for the kind of pictures you have on your walls."
"I know. I was born into privilege."
And trained into the responsibility for a whole clan of people that came with it, which he'd no' be mentioning for now. Privilege never came alone.
"Okay. So I only know what my people looked like from the late eighteen-hundreds when photography really took off. And yes, I look quite like my people on the Harper side, but once it gets back a century, all that's there is the blonde hair and paleness, maybe one or two features. So to see a painting from two centuries ago – is that about right? – someone who's exactly like me... that's why I got such a shock. But I know who the artist was."
He stopped still and she turned. "Do you now..."
"My great-whatever-grandfather the minstrel. I recognized the brushstrokes, the style. My Au
ntie Harper has some of his landscapes. He was the last of the true Harpers, the ones who played clarsach around the country. He must have been here. And he painted a lot on his travels to make extra money. But he only ever did landscapes. Or so we thought."
"Mystery solved, then."
"Some of it. I've been seeing portraits of your clan chiefs going back how many years? About five centuries or more? None of them look exactly like you beyond some family resemblance. I mean, they're all very tall, and the warrior muscles and the black hair and dark eyes are there, but they're not you."
She'd noticed that much?
"...That's the weird part, you see. How could he know that a girl would be born looking exactly like me, the way I wear my hair and everything? It's like he invented me. It can't be coincidence."
"Likely not."
The way she was staring up at him, so intense in her telling, those pale blue eyes so bright...
"And it doesn't explain why I recognized you too, Callum MacKrannan."
He ran a hand over the back of his neck. "No."
She leaned in closer to speak low. "And there's something funny about that room with the Celtic carvings. You know there is. It got to you too, didn't it?"
He cocked his head. "Maybe."
"Are there more rooms like that in the castle?"
She took his lack of answer for an aye, and laughed. "My Auntie Harper would freak out in there."
"Would she now... does she collect Celtic deities as well?"
"Oh she has them all, and more than one of some. Her favorite is the Cailleach. Nine of her along the mantelpiece. But it doesn't take one of the northern fey to sense the atmosphere in that room of yours. Not anything bad, though. Is it because the portrait was in there?"
He stepped away from her then and looked at his wristwatch. Had to, or he'd have pulled her in for a good kissing and damn the consequences.
"Want to come and meet Tara now?"
"If she's the one in charge of the honeymead, yes, I do. But I'd like to talk more about this later. Unless you have other commitments?"
The Chieftain's Yule Bride - a Highland Christmas novella (Clan MacKrannan's Secret Traditions #10) Page 4
