Men of Midnight Complete Collection

by Emilie Richards

  “She lives by Mrs. Gunn, at the end of her road. Jessie took me there to get milk. Don’t be mad, please?”

  “Mad?” He finished flipping through the book. There was nothing like it in April’s sizable library. She had books that carefully explained the world around her, books about nature and science, and several about divorce and children with feelings just like hers. But there were no fairy stories.

  That was no accident.

  He rose and set the book on her shelf. “April, there aren’t any fairies. And there aren’t any ghosts or leprechauns or witches. It’s all make believe.”

  “But Mara says she’s heard the fairies singing!” She sat up. “They live under the ground near her house, and she’s heard their music late at night. Mara looks like a fairy, like the prettiest one in the book, except she’s prettier and—”

  “This Mara, whoever she is, is just making that up. Fairies, elves and gnomes are all pretend.” He found the book he was looking for. “And people who pretend they’re real, shouldn’t.”

  “Mommy read me fairy tales.”

  He didn’t know what to say. There were plenty of other things Mommy had done that couldn’t be talked about.

  “I think Mommy believes in fairies, too. Like Mara,” April said.

  “She might believe in fairies, but that doesn’t make them real.” He took his place at her bedside again. “Have you ever seen a fairy yourself?” He waited for the reluctant shake of her head. “A witch? An elf? Don’t believe in anything, Springtime, not unless you can see it with your own eyes. And then question what you see, because even your eyes can lie.”

  “I like that book.” Her bottom lip sank an inch. “Mara gave it to me, and I like Mara.”

  “How often have you been to see this Mara?”

  April shrugged.

  More than once. That was obvious. Duncan wondered why Frances Gunn hadn’t told him about the visits, and why April had never mentioned them before this. Displeasure curled inside him. April didn’t need another unstable, fanciful woman in her life. As it was, the damage inflicted by her mother might never be repaired.

  He smiled at his daughter, making sure that no sign of his feelings showed on his face. This was something he could take care of. His hands had been tied before, but this time no court would stand in his way. April was his now; he could protect her. And that was exactly what he planned to do.

  He opened the book about life in a beaver pond and began to read out loud. When she was sound asleep, he tucked the covers around her and checked to be sure the intercom was on. The clerk at the front desk would hear any noise in the room and alert him if April awoke.

  Then he headed downstairs to find Frances.

  * * *

  An hour later Duncan watched Iain Ross sip a dram of the hotel’s finest whiskey. His back was to the hotel bar, and his white hand-knit sweater gleamed like a beacon in the smoky haze.

  “What is it you’re wanting to know about Mara, Dunc?”

  “What do you know?” Duncan signaled Brian, the barman, and Brian obligingly brought him a pint of the pub’s bitterest ale.

  “You don’t have that much time.” Iain sipped, watching his friend as he did. He was perfectly capable of downing half a dozen shots without flinching, but Duncan knew he preferred to take his time and savor his liquor.

  “You’re jerking me around, Iain.”

  Iain lifted one dark elegant brow. He looked every inch the laird of Druidheachd.

  “She gave April a book,” Duncan said. “And Frances Gunn says that no one knows much about her background or why she’s chosen to live in Druidheachd.”

  “And those are punishable offenses in America?”

  “I just want to know who she is.”

  “She came here from Perthshire. About two years ago. Actually, I sold her a parcel of land. I take it you haven’t met our Mara yet?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I think the look in your eye might be a wee bit different.” Iain stared at him as he finished his drink. Then he set his glass on the counter. “Mara’s a good woman, bonny and courageous and far too lovely a person for me to get involved with.”

  Duncan knew that said quite a bit. Iain navigated through romances like a sailor on a round-the-world cruise. He enjoyed his times in port, but he never looked back when the ship put out to sea again.

  “What else do you know?” Duncan asked.

  “That you’re worrying about nothing. Mara would never do a thing to hurt April.”

  “Do you know, that’s exactly what Lisa said to me the first time I confronted her?” He then mimicked his ex-wife, “Duncan, how can you say those things? You know I’d never do a thing to hurt my baby.”

  “Mara’s not Lisa, Dunc. And this isn’t California. You’ve been so far away and for such a long time, you’ve forgotten how we take care of each other in Druidheachd.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. That’s one of the reasons I stayed away so long.”

  “Ask Andrew what he thinks about Mara.” Iain nodded toward the door. Andrew MacDougall was just striding in. Rain clung to his dark macintosh and shaggy red hair. It took him a while to cross the room, because the other pub guests all had to have a word with him first. But when the three men stood together at the bar, the other patrons kept a respectful distance. Duncan remembered that it had always been that way. Ordinary men when they were alone, the three friends were considered extraordinary together.

  Duncan experienced the irritation that was the sum total of his feelings about the village of his birth. He nodded to Andrew. “Watch. No one will come near us now. What do you suppose they’re afraid will happen? That as a body we’ll put a curse on them? Turn them into frogs or seals?”

  “Nowt quite so dramatic,” Andrew said. He pointed to Duncan’s glass, and Brian brought Andrew the same, sliding it toward him from six feet away.

  “Look at that. Even Brian doesn’t want to disturb us,” Duncan said.

  “Be glad,” Iain said. “If we’d been ordinary weans, born where and when we were supposed to be, we never would have been raised on top of each other.”

  “We would no’ have taken our first steps right here in this hotel together,” Andrew said. “Or said our first words at the laird’s fine table.”

  “Or had our first ride on the loch in MacDougall’s boat,” Iain said.

  Duncan shook his head, and Andrew grinned. He slung his arm around Duncan’s shoulder. “There’s nowt to be gained by fighting your feelings for Druidheachd quite so hard, Dunc. Or your feelings for us, for that matter. There’s nowt womanly about loving your friends.”

  Duncan shook Andrew off, but a reluctant smile formed. “What do you know about a woman named Mara MacTavish?”

  Andrew winked and whistled.

  “If you want to meet her for yourself, you’ve only to cross the road.” Iain gestured lazily toward the window. “She’s over at Cameron’s now. I saw her go inside.”

  Duncan set his glass on the bar. If he wanted to know more about the MacTavish woman, he was going to have to get his facts straight from her. His friends weren’t going to be any help. “That’s what I’ll do, then. Just tell me how to recognize her.”

  The other men exchanged a look that told Duncan what he needed to know. He left without another word.

  Outside he pulled his jacket tightly around him and crossed his arms to hold it in place. Cameron’s was the grocery store, the liquor store, the post office and the unofficial center of gossip. No Cameron had owned it in a hundred years, and for a hundred years a series of new owners had hung new signs. But Cameron’s it was to the people of Druidheachd, and Cameron’s it would always be. The building was one story, with stone painted white and woodwork black. Boxes adorned the windows and pale sprouts promised that someday, if the sun ever shone, there might be flowers in them.

  Inside it wasn’t any warmer than outside, but at least it was dry. He stamped his feet, and water droplets flew. He used the tim
e to survey the neatly arranged aisles.

  “Is it help you’re needing, Duncan?” the proprietor, a man in his fifties, asked.

  “Thanks, but no.”

  “We’ve a new shipment of videos.”

  Duncan shook his head. His gaze traveled from aisle to aisle, past an old woman holding tightly to the hand of a rosy-cheeked cherub, past a thin young man choosing a bunch of carrots. As he was about to admit his friends had played a trick on him, a length of green unfolded from the farthest aisle, and a woman appeared in the midst of it.

  She was tall and slender, or at least that was his guess, because most of her body was shrouded in a forest green cloak. Straight, pale blond hair hung over the hood, which was pushed back over her shoulders. As if she knew he was watching her, she turned, and her eyes met his. She didn’t smile, and neither did he.

  Now Duncan understood April’s description and Iain’s comments. Even a heart as jaded as his could still respond to beauty. And Mara MacTavish was more than beautiful.

  It was one more strike against her.

  He started toward her, and she waited, as if she knew that she was the reason he was here.

  “And fresh young kail,” the proprietor called after him. “Frances Gunn told me to let her know if we got good kail.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  The proprietor muttered something behind him, but Duncan didn’t take his eyes off Mara. He stopped just a few yards from her and crossed his arms. “I’m Duncan Sinclair. You’ve met my daughter, April?”

  She held out her hand. “Mara MacTavish. Your daughter’s a bonny wee girlie.”

  He didn’t want to touch her, but he knew the whole village would hear about it if he didn’t take Mara’s hand. He stretched out his own. Hers wasn’t soft, as he’d expected, but callused. He looked down and saw short nails and sun-blotched skin. He dropped it quickly.

  “She was fair taken with my dog,” Mara said in a soft, musical voice. “He’s no’ used to children, but he was taken with her, too. I was afraid he might try to herd her and Jessie’s Lolly into one of my pens, but he worshiped at their feet.”

  Mara’s voice seemed familiar, but Duncan couldn’t place it. Nothing else was familiar, though. Despite April’s description, he had visualized a rosy-cheeked, sturdy-boned crofter. Instead, Mara was as delicate, as ethereal, as the fairy in April’s new book. “Mrs. Gunn tells me you have a farm near her house.”

  “Nothing so grand. It’s a wee croft. No one would call it a farm.”

  “But you raise cattle? April says Jessie buys her milk from you.”

  “Jessie does, and a few others, but I only have two cows. I raise sheep.”

  He really had no interest in what Mara MacTavish did or had, except when it concerned his daughter. He went straight to the point. “Would you mind telling me how many times April’s been to see you?”

  She seemed puzzled. “I’m sorry, but I have no’ been counting.”

  “I didn’t know anything about her visits until tonight.”

  “I suppose there was no’ much to tell. She enjoys my animals.”

  “You gave her a book.”

  “Oh, I see.” Her face had been lovely in repose. Adorned with a smile, it was breathtaking. “You’re worried that she took a gift from a stranger. I’m sorry. I never thought. She was just so interested in my stories about the fairies. The book was mine as a child, and I thought she’d enjoy it. You dinna have to worry. She said a proper thank you.”

  He was growing more irritated. He thought he was making himself clear, but she seemed purposely to misunderstand. “It’s not that you gave her a gift. It’s the gift you gave her.”

  The smile faded. “Oh?”

  There were things he couldn’t tell her, not without a lengthy explanation, which he wasn’t inclined to offer. He couldn’t tell her that despite a hundred differences she reminded him of his ex-wife, with her delicate bones, translucent skin and sweet feminine smile. He couldn’t tell her that he was desperately afraid that she would remind April of Lisa, too, and make it harder for April to forget her mother.

  But he could tell her part of the truth. “April doesn’t need stories about fairies in her life. Not fairies or witches, ghosts or leprechauns. She’s a little girl, and little girls can’t always tell the difference between the truth and a lie.”

  “A lie?”

  “I’ve met a few adults who can’t tell the difference, either.”

  “Mr. Sinclair, I have no’ told your daughter any lies.”

  He shrugged. “April’s still young. She doesn’t understand that not everything a grown-up tells her is a fact. I want her to understand that the world’s a certain way. No ghosts and goblins, just good people and bad. No magic, just a world that works on certain fixed principles.”

  “And you understand everything about the way the world works?”

  “I don’t make up stories to explain the things I don’t understand.”

  “I see.”

  She seemed to see quite a lot. Her eyes were a pale green and perfectly steady. They didn’t flicker from his. “I’m not trying to be harsh or ungrateful,” he said. “It’s just that April is my responsibility, and I take that responsibility seriously.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I’ve asked Frances not to let her visit you again. April’s still getting used to living here, and I want to be sure she’s…adjusted before she starts meeting people. I’d appreciate it if you’d send her back to the Gunn’s if she and Lolly slip over to visit without permission.”

  “No.”

  Duncan knew exactly how he’d sounded. Autocratic, unyielding, an undisguised bastard. But he didn’t really care. April was his responsibility, and the fact that Mara MacTavish couldn’t possibly understand his fears didn’t change a thing. “Would you mind telling me why not?”

  “Mr. Sinclair, I’ve no wish to hurt your daughter. If I thought I might, I’d send her home in a minute. But despite everything you’ve heard about me, I would no’ hurt a child, could no’ hurt a child, if my very life depended on it.”

  Something had changed. Duncan didn’t know what or why, but the balance between them had shifted. Now she was angry, and he was the one who was mystified. “Heard about you?”

  “Oh, I can guess what you’ve been told. I know what’s said about me in the village. Dinna pretend you dinna understand.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, try to understand this. I’m no’ in the habit of rejecting children, no’ for any reason in the world. Your daughter seems to want my friendship, and she’ll have it if she finds her way to my house. If you’re determined that she can no’ visit me, then you’ll have to supervise her more carefully. I will no’ discipline her for you, and I will no’ send her away.”

  Her voice hadn’t changed. It was still light and lyrically accented with the country of her birth, but the words were flawlessly aimed. Duncan felt their barb. He was the one at fault. He didn’t supervise his daughter closely enough. He was trying to protect April from an important friendship. He was asking a total stranger to reject her.

  Except that Mara wasn’t a total stranger. Duncan stared at her. Her voice had been familiar from the beginning. Now he understood why. “Wait a minute. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before. You’re the woman I met on the mountain last month.”

  “Am I?”

  “Look, I don’t want to play games. You helped me rescue Geordie Smith. There’s not much chance I’d be allowed to forget you. Since I came back to live in Druidheachd, I’ve seen Geordie every day at the hotel, and he reminds me of that night every time I see him.”

  She started past him, but he took her arm, catching folds of forest green wool. “Where did you go that night? You just disappeared.”

  “What does Geordie say?” She pulled her arm from his grip and faced him.

  “He babbles.”

  “And what does he babble?”

  “That he was saved
by a ghost. That the ghost of a lady dressed in green saved his life. I don’t get much of the credit.”

  “I’m sure that’s upsetting, feeling about ghosts as you do.”

  “Well, at least now I can tell him exactly who his ghost was.”

  “But I would no’, Mr. Sinclair. It will just worry him more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dinna you see? Half the people in Druidheachd already believe I’m a ghost or a witch or a fairy.” She smiled, but it didn’t warm her eyes. “If you tell Geordie it was Mara MacTavish he saw on the mountain that night, he’ll be absolutely certain his life has been touched by magic. And we both know you would never want to be responsible for that.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Daffodils blanketed the slopes leading away from Mara’s cottage, and new spring lambs frolicked in the afternoon sun. Mara sat on a stone bench under a tall copper beech and listened to the humming of the bees as they waltzed from flower to flower. From time to time she hummed, too, a ballad her auntie had taught her as a child about Highland glens and lost love. On the ground before her, spread out to take advantage of the sun, were a dozen fleeces of newly shorn sheep.

  She was so absorbed with the lock of wool in her hands that she wasn’t aware she had company until Guiser sprang to his feet beside her. She looked up and saw April Sinclair standing in the distance, on the knoll opposite the cottage. Mara couldn’t see the little girl’s face clearly, but she could tell that April was terrified to come closer. And she knew what was frightening her.

  “Stay, Guiser,” she warned. He whined, but he sat obediently. She stood and started toward the knoll, skirting the fleeces. As she passed the last one, she lifted and rolled it into a neat bundle, then started toward April again, holding it up for the little girl to see.

  “It’s just a sheep’s wool,” she called when she was close enough to be heard. “No’ a real sheep. Look.” She pointed in the distance, where the newly shorn sheep grazed contentedly. “They’ve given me their coats so I can spin them into wool.”