There was a glint in her eye that told him what she was really asking. Did he have something more important waiting at home, such as a wife.
"My commitments are to my clan and to keeping my guests happy. In that order. But the clan are managing fine."
Maybe he should ask her about the theme for the wedding. Or maybe no'. Let her be the one to tell him what she wanted. Besides, it would no' be happening anyway. He'd let it play out until the last minute, just to make sure she didn't go off and book it elsewhere, but Freya Harper would belong to none but himself.
That became his want when he'd twice carried her in his arms upstairs, and a bloody certainty when he'd seen her lying on his bed in the room he'd used until last year. It had taken much willpower for him no' to lie down with her there and then, and kiss her and touch her and lick every bit of her until it was something far better than shock that made her faint.
MacKrannans only ever wed for love. All except his own people would expect him to marry an heiress to bring the millions needed for the upkeep of a castle like this. No' happening. Never met a supremely rich lass yet who would survive a day in his clan.
Freya Harper was the one for him. His gift. The Fair Lass of Monlachan was off to a fine start as wife to the future Chief of MacKrannan with her knowledge of Celtic deities and a spey-wife for a grandmother. He could no' have asked for better.
First he needed to get her off hotel grounds so that she stopped being his customer.
He led her into the Brewery offices and Tara came to greet them in her white labcoat and hairnet. She made a show of holding up Freya's hand to the light to see her engagement ring and he saw her sneaking in much palm-reading while she was at it.
"The bees are settling down nicely this morning, chieftain. All is well."
"Glad to hear it. Do you have enough Yule Brew for Miss Harper's wedding?"
"I could spare two barrels. And there's the Royal Jelly Liqueur, of course. It's always popular for weddings. An aid to fertility, they say."
"Oh we won't want that!" said Freya, appalled and amused all at once.
"Dearie me... do you have plenty of bairns already, then?"
"None. We don't want children. Not for a long while, anyway."
"Ah well, let's hope you can talk him into it while you're still young. No doubt we'll still be doing our Royal Jelly range on mail-order when he decides he's ready."
Tara's cheery disapproval was miles out of line, though nothing worse than Freya would be used to with the normal blunt honesty of her fellow countrywomen. Rustic charm had its limits when you were running a business, and it was luck that Freya was a Scot who tolerated such directness. But Tara had hit the mark with who was holding back.
The lass got flustered and defensive, which seemed out of character. "Zavier is at the top of his profession and we work together. I do a lot of travelling."
Tara wouldn't leave it be. Any who knew her as the Grandam Wisewoman would detect a bit of prophecy coming out when she said, "I'd like to see you home with a brood of bairns at your feet, lass. Two strapping brown-eyed lads and a wee lass as fair and bonny as yourself."
"Oh... interesting. That's what my Auntie Harper used to say but I can't think where the brown eyes would come from when both of us have blue. Well, who knows. Can we talk about candles now?"
"You were wanting the ones in the shape of Christmas Trees." A hint of censure there.
"Zavier did, but we're going for a different theme now. Plain dipped candles in varying sizes would be nicer..."
Tara beamed at that. She'd been against moulding her beeswax in daft shapes no matter how much customer demand there was.
"...And about the Yule Brew. You're sure two barrels will be enough?"
"Oh aye," said Tara. "Though you'll need to speak nice to my bees. They don't let every bride have it, my dear."
Here it was. This was why he wanted to be with Freya at the Brewery, to see how she reacted. Most young brides laughed at this part. A pride welled up in him when her eyes went wide and she nodded in all seriousness. "Of course."
Could Tara be any more chuffed? Her own matronly chest puffed out to fill her labcoat as she nodded right back. "Of course. Aye, you'll do grand."
MacKrannan Castle got weirder and weirder. Or more ordinary by the minute, if Freya reverted to her childhood.
She'd grown up among the fey women of the Highlands with their tea-leaf predictions and horseshoes and omens and daily protection against witches. Where she came from everyone who kept bees engaged in regular conversation with them, and she hadn't missed how pleased both Callum and Tara had been when she didn't argue... or sneer, as many brides would.
The MacKrannans were so traditional in their ways that Freya felt very much at home – the home she'd deliberately moved away from to escape traditions just like these. She'd wanted to be normal. The colossal amount of Second Sight she'd been born with just attracted the wrong kind of friends once she hit her teens, and the more Auntie Harper developed her, the lonelier Freya had become amongst people her own age.
Nobody normal could understand what it was like to walk into the university and see things like an ambulance shadowing a professor, a pushchair in front of a fellow student, a cleaner with a prosthetic leg... and none of those items real yet. But they would be by the time she'd graduated, and many, many more like them. She never told anyone except Auntie. Once in a while she also saw people's deceased relatives standing beside them as bright as the living, and had to check herself from including them in the conversation.
So she'd made her choice. Far better to beseech the spirits for her abilities to be gone from her, to let her be normal. Auntie had been awfully disappointed and hurt, but Freya was determined and the spirits had complied.
No more psychic stuff. She'd swapped courses from History to Business and got a job in hotel design, a career that was far removed from anything esoteric. Such things were fine if you stayed in the Highlands. Freya would rather have travel and adventure... and now with the bees thing and that Celtic room, she almost wished she'd accepted a Las Vegas wedding.
And the portrait? Uncanny – just as Callum had described it, but far easier to deal with.
He seemed to be in a hurry as they left the Brewery. Only fair, when she'd monopolized him all morning. The estate was a big place to run and the hotel seemed to be rather busy for early December when most places like it were half-empty. Her own booking for a suite had been accepted only after her call had been transferred to the Events Manager because of wanting her wedding there so soon – the same man who'd just disappeared to Glasgow with the bridegroom.
"You've been so kind, Callum. Thank you. I should let you get back to work."
"Is that London code for you wanting away now?"
"Not at all! No... I really should sit down and plan out everything I want before Robbie gets back from Glasgow, but my head's too full of that portrait to concentrate today."
"It would be. What are your plans, then?"
"I'll go to the Spa. Think I need a good long thorough massage after everything this morning."
He turned his head away sharply. She'd meant it innocently, yet the second she'd said it her mind was whipped back to lying on that bed with him watching her. Groggy though she'd been at first, she'd definitely seen something more than concern in him. He wasn't alone in thinking about more than the portrait and her immediate health. What girl wouldn't spare a passing daydream for a man that looked like Callum?
Change the subject. Say something else quick.
"...Or I might go up to Monlachan instead. Have a look at Auntie Harper's landscapes and find out what she knows. The suspense is killing me. Would that be alright? I give you my word not to tell out anything about the Celtic room or..."
That got his attention. "Hope you're no' thinking on driving. You were passed out no' an hour ago."
"Honestly, I have never fainted before in my life. It must have been the shock. Can't imagine many people would still be
standing if they saw that. And it's not as if I banged my head or anything."
"I'll take you to Monlachan."
He was looking away over the mountains as he took long strides. With anyone else on the planet Freya would have trotted ahead and faced him, asked him why he'd want to make a five-hour drive each way for this and why he assumed he was welcome to join her. With this chieftain she simply said, "Thank you. We can be there and back in a day if we leave early. What day's best for you?"
"We'll go now. My car."
Zavier never minded where she was or who she was with. Now she wasn't quite so sure. Suddenly that comment about a naughty weekend with a caber-tossing lover came back to hit her and it was her turn to look away. Her face must be a very bright pink.
Now was the time to tell Callum she'd be taking the rental car. Alone. And she may have done that if she hadn't justified it all to herself with how many questions Auntie Harper would have about the portrait, and how much better it would be if he was there to answer them.
"Okay," she said. "Meet you back at Reception? I'd better call Auntie first, tell her we'll be there for dinner."
Half an hour later, Freya had her first sight of Callum MacKrannan in denims and a sweater. His legs went on forever, same as the jumping of her heartbeat. He towered over her all the more now that she'd ditched her heels for sensible hiking boots, and her heart thumped even harder when he opened the passenger door of his four-by-four.
Last chance, girl...
"Thanks," she said, fastening her seatbelt while her overnight bag was hoisted into the back with his own. Strapped in on the rear seat were a beautiful gift basket of MacKrannan produce plus a six-section basket of bottles from the Brewery. For Auntie Harper, no doubt. Not enough to be ostentatious, and not too little to be insulting.
She couldn't help remembering how Zavier had to be talked into buying a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates, anything to arrive with other than a single bottle of wine that he'd drink most of himself. Auntie would have thought badly of him otherwise. It wasn't the done thing to arrive at a Highland home empty-handed, especially not for that generation. That concept had taken a lot of explaining.
Callum knew the ways and she was eager for Auntie to meet him. To talk about the portrait and the minstrel, of course.
Before he started the engine he said, "I need to make something clear to you before we leave. I should have told you before we got this far."
"Sounds ominous."
"It's no' really. Just that here you're a hotel guest of MacKrannan Castle. Once we're off the estate that stops."
In that moment her heart plummeted. Surely she hadn't got him so wrong. He really couldn't be that penny-pinching, could he? Better to make the offer anyway.
"I'm happy to pay for your fuel, and Auntie Harper says she wouldn't hear of you staying anywhere but with..."
He shook his head. "You'll pay for nothing and you'll owe me nothing, Freya. And your room charges have been suspended until I bring you back. What I'm meaning is, the formalities get dropped. I'll no' be the castle chauffeur and you'll no' be some guest on a jaunt. We'll be on time off, both of us, while we're away. Regular people. Are you okay with that?"
Her heart bounced up again and skipped a beat. "I'd like it better. Can we start now?"
"Aye, we can, in everything except liability insurance. Mine will protect you until we're off the estate. After that you'll need to rely on my chivalry in all things, lass – if you're willing to accept the risk."
She couldn't help laughing at him. "I think it's a chance I can take."
Chivalry indeed. This man wouldn't know how to act otherwise. It was inbred in him. Seeing how he filled the driver's seat almost made her wish she was single for one more day without chivalry coming into the equation. And seeing how he filled those denims... maybe she should have done this drive alone.
Those pale blue eyes softened and his shaft hardened. Hell, she was something, and what an infectious wee laugh she had, considering there was no' a chivalrous thought in his head this minute. He could lay her back in that seat and be inside her at the slightest invitation, making a start on siring those three bairns she'd been foretold of.
Patience, man.
He wanted to say, 'Tell me everything about you. Tell me all the years I've missed. What are you doing with that pillock Campbell? Does he make you happy? Does he even try?'
What he rationed himself to was "Do you miss Scotland?"
She told him the first parts anyway with scant prompting along the winding single-lane roads while he dodged sheep and cattle. Little family left. Parents dead within a year of each other when she was young. The farmland sold, the farmhouse kept. Auntie Harper who brought her up was actually her great-aunt Isla, her grandfather's baby sister, so a true Harper by birth.
Freya was trying to persuade her to move to London beside them and Isla Harper was no' having it. Maybe when she reached her dotage she might consider it. And as Auntie said, what would be the point when Freya was abroad half the time anyway?
And she did miss Scotland in some ways, but the headhunting job offer she'd got from Zavier Campbell Design was too good to pass up and she'd moved in with him soon after.
A silence opened at the utterance of the name that Callum was no' keen to fill, considering Freya was in his passenger seat headed the opposite direction from her fiancé in Dubai.
She'd been turning to look at the back seat constantly since they left, so he asked her, "Enough of a hospitality present, do you think, or should we stop at a florist's?"
"It's perfect, and she'll really appreciate you doing that. Let me buy you lunch. It's the least I can do."
Five miles later her head jerked round again to look out the rear window and then came back to stare in her wing mirror as if worried they were being followed. She didn't know what was bothering her and he didn't tell her.
They stopped in Fort William and he got to face her over the table for a while, drinking in her nearness while he answered her questions. Probing ones, they were. Less of the 'Where did you go to school' stuff and far more of the 'Have you ever been married yourself' and 'Are you seeing anyone now' kind, though she sneaked them in amongst ordinary chatter and did no' put them so plainly.
He let her know that aye, he had a girlfriend until this week. Nothing serious between them anyway. And no, he'd never been married.
She was a damned sight more relaxed in the restaurant than she'd been in the car. It was as if they were out on a date, which in his mind they were, and in some corner of hers too if he was reading the signs right – even though she was wearing sensible outdoor clothes and hiking boots much like his own, though half the size.
Denims hid little and he was glad of the overhanging tablecloth. He'd changed out of his kilt, thinking it would look like a castle uniform when he needed her to break that connection, to see only the man. Mistake. He made do with taking the bill from the waitress and holding it over his crotch when he stood up and disappeared to pay it with his back turned.
Near Drumnadrochit they pulled into a layby to stretch their legs along the side of Loch Ness while there was still some daylight, and she asked him the queerest question.
"Any monsters in your dungeons?"
He didn't laugh. She'd taken a breath before asking, and kept looking at the water when she did. The legend of Nessie the Loch Ness Monster had become nowt but a story for the tourists and fine she knew that, but it came to him what her real question might be.
"None that I've met nor heard of. Our dungeons were only ever used for temporary capture by one generation and never since. My ancestors used a wee island nearby as a prison to keep the worst away from the clansfolk. The castle is a clean place in that respect."
That brought a smile to her face. If his suspicions were right about what had happened in the Turret of the East, this lass had a wee touch of her Auntie's feyness about her and would be sensitive to lingering things like that.
"Can we walk a lit
tle longer?" she asked.
"Fine with me."
Up to her. She'd know the journey time from here and when they were expected.
The sun had gone down by the time they drove through Inverness and she navigated him onto the Monlachan road. After cutting through the village she reached into her pocket for a handkerchief and said, "Do you mind if I nip to the Clootie Well? The sign's coming up on the left. I won't be long. "
"In a forest, in the dark?"
"Who's the big feartie now, Callum? I don't mind it. I grew up here, remember? It's hardly worth visiting now until after the tourists have gone."
He pulled into the deserted car park and doused the headlights. Near pitch black and the new moon the only light source. He switched them on again full beam to light the footpath ahead.
"Please, turn them off. It spoils it."
"Will you let me come with you?"
"Yes – if you leave an offering. A superstition thing," she added cheekily, mimicking his comment in the Banqueting Hall. "You know the way of that."
"I do. Another of our islands has its own Clootie Well, for the clan only. I'm trusting you to keep it a secret."
That made her sit up.
She was a determined one, and they were soon standing over a water-filled stone trough in the sparse moonlight. She dipped her handkerchief into the trickle of feeder water, wiped her brow with it and then rinsed the cotton in the water again before tying it onto a twig.
There was sparse room for it. The woods around them were dripping thickly with fabric hopes and wishes and remembrances of the dead. This site had gotten a wee bit too popular for its own good. He took his turn, asking nothing from the Spirit of the Well, just dropping all the coins from his pocket into the trough along with his trust, and feeling his ancestors hovering in the forest shadows.
Callum had known to be silent on the walk to a place like this and to stay silent until they were back at the car. She seemed to appreciate that. It was the only reason he could think on for why her hand slipped into his and squeezed it and then it was gone so quick he thought he'd imagined it. No. The imprint was there, singing its way up his arm.
The Chieftain's Yule Bride - a Highland Christmas novella (Clan MacKrannan's Secret Traditions #10) Page 5
