Men of Midnight Complete Collection

by Emilie Richards

  “I like that story better.”

  Mara stood and began to wander. The attic was huge. They had barely skimmed the surface today. “There’s something of you here, Fiona.”

  “Something of me?” Fiona followed her.

  “Aye.”

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  Mara turned. “Most of the time I’m frustrated that I can see so much. Just occasionally I’m frustrated that I can see so little.”

  “There’s something of me here, but you don’t know what?”

  “I’m afraid that’s so.”

  “Maybe some of my childhood mementos are stored here.”

  “Perhaps.” Mara shook her head. “No, that’s no’ it. Although that may be true, as well. But I sense something….” She shook her head again in frustration. “Now, if I were no’ so close to you, if I did no’ love you so well…”

  Fiona was filled with a warm glow. “I prefer the love to the clairvoyance.”

  Mara’s smile was equally as warm. “And so do I.”

  They ended up in a corner piled high with boxes that looked newer than most of the others. Fiona dug at the tape binding the top one until she had loosened a corner, then she pulled it free. She unfolded the flap to look inside. “Look at this.” She lifted out a pipe and handed it to Mara. A quick inspection showed that there was an entire collection of them, each wrapped in soft flannel.

  “Some of these look to be quite old,” Mara said. “But no’ all of them, though I’m no expert.”

  “My father had a collection of pipes. I remember Duncan telling me about them when he came back from a trip here one summer. He and Andrew borrowed a pipe to smoke some old tobacco that they’d found, and my father was furious.”

  “Perhaps these were his.”

  Fiona cradled the pipe against her chest, although she wasn’t aware of doing so. “I’m sure they must be. And these other boxes must be his things, too. After he died, did Duncan pack all this and carry it up here?”

  “I would doubt it. Perhaps it was done for him, before he came back to stay. But he must know that it’s all here.”

  “He and my father weren’t close. Maybe Duncan just didn’t have any interest in going through his things.”

  “Then you should,” Mara said.

  Fiona looked up. She was torn by emotions and memories. She remembered the young father who had doted on her, as well as the absent father who had cut her from his life. “Do you think so?”

  “Aye. You wanted to help. This would be the place to begin.” Mara turned away before Fiona could read her expression or respond. “It’s late. Perhaps I should see if I can get Duncan or someone to start carrying down the furniture.”

  Fiona glanced at her watch. “You’re right. But I think I’ll stay here a little longer. Just to see what I’ve got ahead of me.”

  “Will we see you downstairs for supper?”

  “I think I’ll eat in tonight. But I’ll come say good-night to April later, if that’s all right.”

  “When has it no’ been all right?” Mara paused at the stairwell. “I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

  Fiona went through the pipes, one by one. They were beautiful examples of craftsmanship, each unusual and unique. She wondered if her father had inherited a collection, then added to it through the years. She knew almost nothing about Donald Sinclair, except that after the fire he had ceased to be a father to her at all.

  And she knew the reason why.

  On impulse she decided to take the box downstairs. She suspected that eventually she would find a display cabinet or shelf among her father’s belongings, because she couldn’t imagine that he had kept the pipes out of sight. She was too much the artist to allow such finely wrought objects to stay packed away. If Duncan didn’t want them, she would find them a home elsewhere.

  Halfway to the stairwell she heard the door open below. Obviously Mara had been successful in finding someone to haul down the furniture. At the top of the stairwell, she discovered whom.

  With one foot on the attic floor and the other on the top step, Andrew crossed his arms and blocked her path. “Do you need help with that?”

  Her hands had been perfectly steady. Now they weren’t. She shook her head. “Thanks, but it’s not heavy.”

  He didn’t move to let her pass. “You’re looking bonny, Fiona.”

  He was looking bonny, too. He wore an ivory sweater with zigzagging cables that emphasized the breadth of his chest. His jeans were faded, his shoes shined. His hair, always a bit shaggy, was boyishly rumpled by the same wind that had whipped color into his cheeks. But in the midst of that picture of good health and cheer, his hazel eyes were unutterably sad.

  She wished she had changed into something more flattering than leggings and an oversize man’s shirt. She tried to smile. “I think I’m just looking dusty.”

  “Then it becomes you.”

  There were a thousand things to say, and none of them could find their way past her lips. She settled for gossip over silence. “Did you hear about the newest sighting of your darling?”

  “Aye. I heard. The Honourable David Gow, alone in Jamie Gordon’s wee boat.”

  “There’s been quite a stir. Druidheachd is the newest mecca for reporters and fans of the supernatural. Every room in the hotel is taken. The Wongs over at the chips shop doubled their prices, but they’re still busy until midnight.”

  “I stopped by my house to get Poppy before I came here. There were three families from Edinburgh camping in my garden.”

  “Then you just got home?”

  “Aye.”

  Her voice fell. “And you came here first thing?”

  “Aye.”

  He had come to see her. Two weeks of doubts and fears rose up to greet Fiona, but regret was loudest of all. “Andrew…”

  “You dinna have to say a thing.”

  “I think I do.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’m not worth your trouble, Andrew. I’m insecure, and I haven’t lived enough to know how to make good decisions. But the one thing I’m not is stupid. And I know that throwing away our friendship because of one night when we were both unhinged is stupid.”

  “Our friendship is stronger than that.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “I told you, Fiona, you’ve done nowt that merits forgiveness.”

  “I may be unsophisticated, but I do know what a tease is.”

  “And I knew your fears. Perhaps we’re both guilty. You for issuing an invitation you did no’ mean. Me for drinking too much and listening too little.”

  If he had scoffed it off, she knew that their friendship would not have survived. “I did mean it,” she said softly. “I wanted you. I still do. But I’m not woman enough for you, Andrew.”

  His reply came after a telling pause. “Aye. So you think.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles and held them against his cheek for a moment. Then he let her hand drop. “The games are over, Fiona. I’ll no’ ask you for anything again. But if you come asking, be absolutely certain you intend to take yes for an answer.”

  She didn’t know what to say, and then it didn’t matter anyway, because Duncan was standing on the bottom step looking up at them. Fiona wondered how much he had heard.

  He spoke, and from the tone of his voice she knew he had heard it all. “Kaye Gerston called the desk, looking for you, Andrew. She wants to see you tonight, at her place.”

  Andrew didn’t look at him. His gaze was still on Fiona. “I half expected Kaye to be gone by now. Did she say what it’s about?”

  “Nancy at the front desk took the call. That’s all she said.”

  “Here’s the furniture that has to go down.” Fiona gestured toward the grouping to her right. “It’s a good start toward getting this place cleaned up.”

  Andrew reached for two chairs. She stepped out of his way, and Duncan did the same when Andrew reached the bottom of the steps. In a moment he was gone.

>   “Are you going to help, too, Duncan, or are you going to stand there?” She started down the stairs toward him.

  “Don’t take out your anger at Andrew on me.”

  “I’m not angry at Andrew or you.” She stopped on the step just above him.

  “Then what was that about, or maybe I shouldn’t ask.”

  “You shouldn’t,” she said firmly. There was nothing his imagination could conjure that was worse than the truth.

  “Then just tell me this much. Are you okay?”

  She hadn’t been. She realized that now. For two weeks she definitely had not been okay. But now she was, because Andrew was back, and that revelation was frightening enough to erupt as anger. “If you really want to know, none of this is easy! I feel like Sleeping Beauty. I’ve been asleep for years while the rest of the world went on with its business.”

  “You weren’t as isolated as all that.”

  “I might as well have been asleep for all I learned.”

  He didn’t answer directly, but his stern mouth relaxed. “I talked to Mother this morning.”

  Fiona had studiously avoided conversations with their mother since her arrival. She had studiously avoided conversations about their mother. “I hope she’s well,” she said stiffly.

  “She is, but she’s convinced you aren’t. She’s threatening to come and see for herself.”

  “Mother on Scottish soil again? I don’t think so.”

  “Talk to her, Fiona. Reassure her.” He smiled sadly. “Keep her away.”

  They were eye to eye now. Equals, thanks to the steps. She saw the concern in his eyes and sighed. “I’ll call her.”

  He didn’t move aside. “Just tell me one more thing, will you? If you’re Sleeping Beauty, who is Andrew, exactly?”

  Fiona knew this could no longer be avoided. There was no room for secrets among the three of them. “I’m afraid that Andrew’s the prince who’s convinced he’s not up to his role. And I’m the princess who isn’t sure whether she should sleep another hundred years or awake from her spell.”

  He put his hand on her shoulder. One gentle hand. “You always took fairy tales too seriously.”

  “I have a feeling that until I take this one seriously, Duncan, the words happily ever after are never going to have any meaning for me again.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Now that Midsummer Day was just around the corner, sunlight was a friend to be counted on. There were still hours of it remaining when Andrew readied MacDougall’s Darling for the journey to Kaye Gerston’s. He’d made himself an early supper and eaten it on his pier, where he could watch the shabby parade of boats on Loch Ceo. Rubbish floated toward him on the gentle waves, discarded soft drink cans and food wrappers. The air was perfumed with exhaust, and a stone’s throw from the pier’s end, a rainbow-hued film of petrol from someone’s poorly maintained motor glazed the water. In the rush to profit from the sightings, the villagers fortunate enough to have boats had pressed them into service, and weekend sailors from nearby towns had busied themselves at the public launch.

  Andrew climbed onto the bow and slid to the edge to check a mooring rope. It seemed sound when he tugged, but he untied it anyway, then knotted it once more to be certain, checking for defects as he did.

  “I dinna know what they think they’ll see,” he said, gazing out at the water. “You’re no’ going to show yourself again, are you, darling? I suppose this means I will no’ have my chance at you, either. But I’d as soon you stayed hidden now, even from me. Who knows what this mob will do if you show yourself again?”

  “Hello!”

  Andrew looked up but couldn’t immediately locate the pleasant baritone.

  “I say, over here.”

  Andrew spotted the man, tall and fine-boned, on the pier just behind the stern. “Just a moment. I’ll be with you directly.” Andrew tightened the knot to his satisfaction, tugged it three times to test it, then slid back across the bow to the deck. He vaulted over the side to the pier and faced his visitor.

  “I’m surprised my dog did no’ announce you.” Andrew held out his hand as he introduced himself.

  The man took it in a firm handshake. He was dark-haired with a particularly winning smile. “I made friends with him, I’m afraid. He won’t do as a watchdog, will he? Not if prowlers know to scratch his ears. I’m David Gow.”

  “So you’re the one who claims to have seen my darling.”

  “I did see her. Quite a sight, your darling.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Then you’ve never seen her yourself?”

  “Just in my dreams.”

  David’s expression didn’t change, but Andrew had the feeling that he was being examined thoroughly. “I’ve a favor to ask you, Mr. MacDougall.”

  “Andrew.”

  “Andrew, then. I’d like a tour of the loch in your boat.”

  “Have you no’ already seen what you came for?”

  “I suppose it might seem so. But it was a bit like putting the cart before the horse. I saw the creature before I’d had a chance to hear all the stories about her. And I’m told you tell all the best stories.”

  Andrew didn’t respond to the flattery. “And what will you do with whatever I tell you?”

  “I’m writing a series about my experiences here. I hope to include whatever I learn from you.”

  “And if I dinna agree?”

  David Gow seemed taken aback. “I’ll pay handsomely. I only want a few hours of your time.”

  “It’s no’ the money, Mr. Gow. No’ all of us are willing to sell ourselves.”

  “It’s David.”

  Andrew reluctantly admired the way Gow stood his ground. “What if I say no?”

  “Then I may get some of my facts wrong. I doubt either of us would like that.” There was no threat in Gow’s tone, but he was clearly a man who was used to getting his way.

  Andrew hadn’t intended to take anyone out in his boat for a few days. He was weary from too little sleep, and his throat was raw from long hours on a windswept oil platform in the North Sea. He had planned to rest and recover. “When?”

  “Tomorrow, if you’re willing. I’ve just been waiting for you to return.”

  “Then tomorrow it is. Shall we say noon?”

  “Splendid. Thank you.” David paused. “Oh, one more thing…Andrew. My housekeeper came up yesterday to visit her sister. Would it be too much trouble if they came, too? It would please Violet, I know.”

  Andrew wanted to dislike David Gow. He didn’t believe that Gow had seen his darling any more than he believed that Martin Carlton-Jones and Nigel Surrey had the best interests of Druidheachd in mind as they sought to destroy its way of life. But this man was not exactly what Andrew had expected. “Bring them,” he said gruffly.

  He stepped back, turned and whistled for Poppy. The dog appeared, slinking low to the ground, as if he knew that he’d failed a major watchdog examination. Andrew motioned him into the boat; then he walked toward the bow to untie the mooring rope. Without being asked, Gow untied the one at the stern. Andrew stepped on board, and Gow tossed him the rope. “Tomorrow,” he said.

  Andrew grudgingly lifted a hand in farewell.

  “If you see your darling, Andrew, tell her I send my greetings.”

  “I’ll tell her you hope to make her acquaintance one day.” Andrew started the motor. If David responded, the words were lost in the resulting roar.

  There were no workmen at Kaye’s when Andrew cut the motor and drifted the remainder of the way to the one pier still left standing. Little had been done since he had been here last, and that surprised him. He had steeled himself to see the cottages gone, the old hazel and beech trees toppled to the ground. Instead, everything was much as it had been, except that there was no sign of life, not even a light in Kaye’s house.

  He tied the boat and went in search of her. She wasn’t in her house, as he had guessed. He found her digging in the perennial border that snaked along the drive lea
ding to the cottages. He watched as she pounded a spade into the midst of a clump of greenery with her foot and pried her prize from the earth. She laid the contents of the spade on the grass at the border’s edge; then she lifted her hand and wiped her brow.

  She looked tired. For the first time Kaye Gerston truly looked old.

  Andrew cleared his throat, wishing as he did that he’d chosen another method to announce himself. His throat clenched painfully, and he coughed in protest.

  “Lord love us! What did ye plan to do next, Andrew? Jump up and down and skreich?” Kaye faced him.

  “I’m sorry. I suppose I’ve picked up something I should no’ have,” he said hoarsely.

  “Then stay away from me. I’ve enough problems without yours, too.” She sighed. “Come inside, lad, and I’ll make you something for the cough.”

  He followed her meekly. He’d had every intention of being forceful, and now he wanted only to sit and rest in her warm kitchen.

  Kaye had no more opened the door than he realized that something was amiss. There were still boxes in the foyer, but many fewer. In the sitting room, books were neatly in place on shelves once more, and the mantel was lined with mementos. Furniture stood in disciplined ranks against the walls as it had in the days before Kaye’s dainty daughters had arranged it in intimate groupings.

  “I expected to see the house empty,” he said.

  “Then you expected wrong, did you no’?”

  “I’ve been wrong a time or two before.” He followed her into the kitchen and took the chair that she designated with a wave.

  As he watched, she plugged in her kettle, then, as the water heated, she retrieved a bottle of Scotland’s finest and liberally baptized an oversize cup with the contents. When the water boiled, she topped the cup and added a squeeze of lemon and a spoon of honey. “Drink it. Every bit,” she commanded.