by Dee Davis
Mr. Abernathy rubbed his hands together, surveying the room. "Let's see what we have here that might interest you." He gestured over to a small glass case in a corner. "There really isn't much, but Agnes likes to think of it as a museum. And if it pleases her, then it pleases me."
Katherine brushed past Jeff as she followed Mr. Abernathy, whispering, "Hardly John Cleese—more like Benny Hill."
Her brother slapped a hand across his mouth, trying desperately to turn his laughter into a coughing spell.
They caught up with Mr. Abernathy and peered over his shoulder into the case.
"There are several old family pieces here. The lady's comb dates back to the early seventeenth century. The sporran is a little older than that, late sixteenth century. The small book isn't all that old, but it's a first edition. Sir Walter Scott's. We're very proud of it. The dirk in the very back is the oldest piece we have in here."
Katherine looked at the small knife. The hilt was intricately carved in what looked like gold. Set into the gold, above the guard, was a large brownish black stone. It was uncut and looked like a crystal of some kind. The blade itself was fashioned out of some other metal and even in the case appeared very sharp. The dagger was at once lethal and beautiful, and hauntingly familiar. Katherine chewed on her lip, trying to remember where she had seen it before.
"Mr. Abernathy, how long has this museum been here?"
The Scotsman rubbed his chin. "Well now, as I remember it, Agnes started putting things in cases almost as soon as we took over the hotel."
Katherine's stomach did a little flip-flop. "So none of this was here eight years ago?"
"Oh, it was all here. Just spread about over the castle. It was Agnes' idea to put it all together for the guests."
Okay, so she could have seen it before. It was probably just displayed somewhere else in the castle. Relief mixed with disappointment flooded through her.
"That's some weapon." Jeff bent closer to the case, examining the dirk.
"Aye, it is. There was a time when a good Highlander went nowhere without his dirk. Now days we only wear them for special occasions. To impress the tourists mostly."
"Do you know who it belonged to?" Jeff asked, looking over the top of the case at Mr. Abernathy.
"No. We know it was probably in the possession of the first Laird of Duncreag. But the knife itself is older than that. So who knows how he came by it." Mr. Abernathy stepped back from the little case. "If you're interested in weapons, Jeff, let me show you the ones in the great hall."
Katherine watched the two of them walk away, deep in conversation. They were totally absorbed. Satisfied that they would not notice if she lingered, she turned for another look at the dirk. The dark stone almost seemed to glow in the late morning sunshine. Suddenly, in her mind's eye she could see Iain's strong hands turning the blade in random circles, an absentminded gesture she remembered well.
She jerked up from the case, interrupting her... what? Flashback? Her imagination was definitely in overdrive. First a door that wasn't there and now memories of a museum piece. What she needed was a friend. Someone who didn't think she was crazy. Elaine. She checked her watch and did the mental arithmetic to arrive at New York time. Assuming she'd done the calculation correctly—and she knew that was a big assumption—she ought to be able to catch Elaine before she left for work.
She dashed out into the great hall. Jeff and Mr. Abernathy were standing near the fireplace, enthusiastically examining the large collection of weaponry. Jeff held a huge sword, brandishing it this way and that with something less than grace. But what he lacked in expertise he made up for with sheer glee. He looked for all the world like a small boy on Christmas morning. Chuckling to herself, Katherine headed across the hall, satisfied that Jeff would survive her brief absence. If memory served, there was a public telephone in the lobby downstairs.
"Kitty, come here. You've got to try this." Jeff's voice rang through the large room.
"No thanks, I'd probably manage to slice off an ear or something. I'm going to the lobby to make a phone call. I'll meet you here for lunch. See you later, Mr. Abernathy."
Jamie turned, shield in hand, and waved in her general direction. Ah, weapons, Katherine mused, the universal language of men.
*****
Elaine Macqueen hit the snooze alarm and snuggled down under her comforter with her dream for ten more minutes. She smiled sleepily and tried to remember just where she'd been when the incessant buzzing had started. Ah yes, blond hair, blue eyes ...
The telephone rang, effectively shattering what was left of her dream. With a sigh, she gave up. Pushing riotous curls out of the way, she lunged for the phone, only to come up empty-handed. Dratted cordless phones. Now where was the darn thing? The phone rang again. She listened, trying to figure out where exactly the ring was coming from. Not an easy task, since the room was awash with, well, stuff.
She fumbled out of bed, stepping on the sharp edge of a shoe heel. Hopping and spitting out rather unladylike phrases, she heard her answering machine pick up. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the molded plastic edge of the elusive phone. Tossing aside a pair of jeans and a six-month-old magazine, she grabbed the receiver.
"I'm here. I'm here. Just hold on a minute. I've got to turn off this blasted machine."
Still holding the receiver, she managed to hit every button on the answering machine except the one that turned it off. She finally hit the correct button, only to be greeted by hysterical laughter.
"All right, you've had your jollies. Who is this?"
The voice on the other end was still breathless with laughter. "It's me—Katherine. What did you do, kill the machine?"
"No, I don't think so, but I'd really like to."
"You can't blame the phone, you know. It isn't like you can find anything in that room of yours."
Elaine sighed. It was the beginning of an old conversation. So she ignored it. "I'm glad you called. I was going to try you later. I assume you've arrived safely?"
Katherine filled her in on the trip down and her day at Duncreag.
"So you and Jeff have talked about your theories. What does he think?"
"That I'm crazy as a loon. And that if I'm right the implications are somewhat overwhelming. And that Christmas in medieval Scotland could be interesting."
"All that, huh?"
"And then some."
"So, how are you? I mean, really, how are you?"
"I'm fine—just a little afraid, I guess."
"Afraid that something will happen or afraid that something won't happen?"
"Both. How's your case going?"
"Well now, that's why I was going to call you. As they say, there's good news and bad news."
"I'll bite. What's the bad news?"
"The man pled guilty, so there won't be a trial. Which I suppose is good news for the man on the street, but bad news for me. I was really looking forward to trying the case."
"Elaine, you're the only person I know who would actually wish a murderer wouldn't confess. So what's the good news?"
"I'll be seeing you in the heather tomorrow afternoon."
"What?"
"I figured you and Jeff shouldn't have all the fun. So, I'm on my way to Duncreag. In fact, I leave in a few hours, so I'd better ring off and start packing." She paused. "Hey, it's okay for me to come, isn't it?"
"Absolutely. In fact, I'm feeling better just knowing you're on your way. Whatever happens, I'll be glad you're a part of it."
"Good. Hey, will you reserve a room for me? I'll take mine without a doorway to medieval Scotland, if that's okay."
"Very funny. Jeff will be glad to know reinforcements are coming."
"Reinforcements?"
"Yeah, he'll figure if he can't talk sense into me, you'll be able to. Bye."
"See you tomorrow."
Elaine hung up the phone and looked around her room, wondering how in the world she was going to find her suitcase.
*****
Katherine sat by the phone, smiling with relief. Elaine was coming.
Jeff came bounding down the stairs. "That's a big smile. Who were you talking to?"
"Elaine."
Jeff's eyes lit with pleasure for a moment before he masked the look with studied nonchalance. "How is she?"
"You can ask her yourself. She'll be here tomorrow."
"I thought she had a big case."
"She did, but the guy confessed. So she's coming here to be with us."
"You mean to be with you."
Katherine nodded absently, thinking that in actuality Elaine was probably coming to be with Jeff, not with her. Which was exactly how she wanted it.
Chapter 9
"YOU'RE SURE THEN that they were Macphersons?"
Iain stood in the window alcove looking at the two men seated in his working chamber. Ranald sat back, his arms crossed, one booted foot resting on the table. Fergus sat forward, arms on the table, his eyes narrowed in thought, waiting for an answer to his question.
"They were wearing Macpherson colors." Iain looked at his cousin. "Ranald can verify that. We saw them often enough at Moy."
"That we did, and the sett was definitely Clan Macpherson's. But as to whether the lads wearing the plaids were Macphersons, that I canna say. Seems to me 'twould no' be impossible for a weaver to copy the Macpherson colors."
Fergus frowned at Ranald. "You're saying then that they werena Macphersons?"
Iain answered for him. "I think he's trying to say we canna know for sure. All we can say with certainty is that they were dressed like Macphersons."
"I say if they dress like Macphersons they are Macphersons," Fergus snorted.
"Well, there was certainly no one left to ask," Ranald added dryly.
Fergus' craggy face split into a lopsided grin. "Aye, I wish I could have been there to help you send the thieving bastards straight to hell. All of them dead but one, and I doubt that he'll have much interest in stealing Mackintosh cattle now."
" 'Tis true. He probably thought he'd met the devil himself when he saw Iain brandishing his claymore." Ranald leaned back against the wall and propped his other foot on the table.
"More than likely it was your ugly face that sent him screaming from the pass." Iain felt the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement, then drop back into a frown. He narrowed his eyes in speculation. "If they were Macphersons I canna figure out why they'd be reiving on Mackintosh lands. Our clans are at peace, united under Chattan. It doesna make sense."
Fergus pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Aye, well the call of an empty belly can sometimes be stronger than the ties of clan alliances. And those cattle would have gone a long way toward filling hungry mouths."
"True enough. If it were just the reiving, I'd be inclined to consider the matter closed. They paid dearly for their arrogance. But there's this still to be considered." Iain drew his father's dirk and with a flick of his wrist sent the dagger slicing through the air. It landed point-down, embedded in the table. Fergus pulled it out and examined it carefully.
" 'Tis Angus'. You say you found it on the body of one of the reivers?"
"Aye, the leader, a big red-haired man. I'd never seen him before." Iain crossed to the table and straddled a chair, his arms resting on its back.
"Ah, but he seems to have known you." Ranald looked pointedly at Iain, then dropped his feet to the floor and reached to take the knife from Fergus.
Fergus looked puzzled. "I dinna ken."
"Well, the man obviously followed us after the battle, to get revenge for his clansmen, one would assume. But our lad pointedly ignores the opportunity to pick off Roger and me. We both went to the burn to wash up before Iain. Alone. And yet neither of us was attacked. Nay, the man waited until Iain was alone. And then went for him with a vengeance. I'd say 'tis no' a man with an interest only in general revenge. Add to that the fact that he carried Uncle Angus' dirk and I dinna think you can see it any other way." Ranald handed the dagger back to Iain, hilt-first.
Iain absently twirled the dirk in his hand, thinking about Ranald's conclusions. The stone on the hilt turned black as sunlight from the window passed over it.
Fergus watched them both, grim understanding illuminating his face. "You think that the reiver killed your father?"
Iain looked up, stilling the knife with one last twist. "Aye, 'tis likely. I'll never believe that he fell. So that leaves murder. And the man with the dirk seems a likely candidate. The only alternative I can see is that he stole the dagger from the body or that someone else gave it to him. And given the circumstances, those ideas seem to be wee bit far-fetched. What say you, Ranald?"
"I think 'tis possible that the man who killed Uncle Angus is dead."
Fergus sat stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Well, if what you say is true, lad, then I'd say you've avenged your father's death. He'll rest easier knowing the way of it."
Iain nodded. "Aye, but what of Andrew?"
Ranald spoke. "We left five of the reivers dead. Odds are that one of them was the man who killed Andrew. I'd say that we've avenged him as well."
"Have you had the chance to talk to Mari?" Fergus rose and walked to the fireplace to warm his backside.
"Aye." The knife in Iain's hand started to spin again.
"How did she take the news?"
Iain shrugged. "As well as can be expected. She's a strong lass. Did you know she carries Andrew's bairn?"
"Nay. But I imagine the babe will be a comfort to her. A little piece of Andrew, if you know what I mean. 'Tis a mon's duty to leave his seed to grow after he's gone."
"Is that a hint, Fergus?"
"Nay, nothing more than a bit of hindsight from an old mon."
"Fergus, surely you're no' calling yourself old." Ranald shot an amused glance at the burly man.
"Aye, lad, that I am. And if I was to be doing it o'er, I'd find myself a bonny wee lassie and set about making many fine sons."
"I presume you're trying, in your no' so subtle way, to convince me o' the importance of my choosing a bride. It seems to be on everyone's mind these days," Iain offered dryly, raising an eyebrow at Ranald.
Fergus looked across the table at Iain. "Aye, well, it's only right that the Laird have his Lady. Freedom may seem appealing, but there are many boons that come with taking a wife."
"The bedding being the best, o' course." Ranald arched his eyebrows mischievously while rubbing his hands together, his expression somehow simultaneously angelic and devilish.
"And am I to understand that you both see the Davidson lass as a suitable candidate?"
They grinned.
"Did someone mention Ailis?"
All three men turned at the sound of the voice. Alasdair leaned insolently against the doorframe, a sly smile leaving his handsome face cold.
"What is it you want, Alasdair?" Iain stopped spinning the dirk and with a fierce motion jabbed it into the table.
Alasdair sauntered into the chamber. "Surely you've time for a wee chat with a neighbor. In fact, 'tis providential that I find you discussing my sister. You see, 'tis Ailis I wish to talk about."
Fergus' lips twitched, but he held his laughter. "I'll be taking my leave then. Dinna see how I can be helping you with this, Iain."
"Wait, Fergus, I'll go with you." Ranald tossed a quick grin over his shoulder and hurried after him. Their laughter echoed in the great hall.
Iain groaned silently. Deserted. "Well, Alasdair, you seem to have my undivided attention. Have a seat."
Alasdair slid onto the bench Ranald had deserted, the long fingers of one hand cupped under his chin. "Your father was planning your marriage, you know."
Iain fought to control his surprise. "My father is dead." He was relieved that his voice sounded cool and reserved.
Alasdair lifted his other hand, inspecting his nails. "True enough. But I assume you would still want to honor his wishes."
"And how exactly would you come to be privy to those wishes, Alasdair?"
"Angus
and I were close, more like father and son really. 'Twas his greatest wish to see our families united. We had agreed that marriage between you and my sister would be the perfect way to accomplish such an alliance. 'Tis why he called you home."
Again, Iain felt a rush of emotion and strove hard to contain it. Alasdair and his father close? He found the idea repugnant.
"Even if those were my father's wishes, Alasdair, surely you understand that the decision is mine to make."
"Of course, of course. 'Tis just that with your puir father barely in the grave I thought you'd be wanting to know of his wishes." Alasdair reached out to stroke the handle of the dagger.
Iain fought against a powerful urge to snatch the dirk from Alasdair's grasp. "I'll take them into consideration, Alasdair, but I'll tell you now, I've no desire to wed Ailis."
Alasdair wrenched the knife from the table. "Are you implying that my sister isna good enough to become a Mackintosh?" His face was flushed with fury.
"Nay, calm yourself, Alasdair. There is nothing wrong with Ailis. You misunderstand me. I've no wish to marry at all. My feelings have nothing to do with your sister."
Alasdair slowly laid the dirk on the table, his features gradually relaxing into geniality again. "Forgive me. I have a great affection for my sister and canna stand the thought of any man rejecting her. All I ask, indeed all your father would have no doubt asked, is that you think about the proposition. Ailis would make you a good wife. She is pleasing to look at and well trained in the running of a household."
Iain picked up his father's knife and quietly put it in its sheath. "Alasdair, as I've said, I've no wish to marry at present, but I promise to consider your sister should I change my mind."
"I suppose that will have to do, for now." Alasdair pushed away from the table, straightening his plaid as he turned to go.
"Alasdair?"
