by Lora Andrews
“You would not be the first knocking on my door anxious to learn of your family’s ancestry. Please, sit.” She gestured to the sofa and called out, “Stuart.”
“Here.” A gray-haired man entered the room carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate of biscuits.
Caitlin’s stomach rumbled. Marissa’s bag of pastries sat unopened in the car. She’d forgotten to eat. She’d been doing a lot of that lately.
The man placed the tray on a table in front of a blue velvet sofa and shoved back a pair of thick, black eyeglasses sitting too far forward on his nose. “Stuart Murray,” he said extending his hand.
The sight of the man’s hand sent panic coursing through Caitlin. How could she bypass shaking the man’s hand without insulting their hosts? But the fear of prying into the man’s mind outweighed common courtesy.
“I’m Caitlin,” she pressed a hand to her chest, smiled a brilliant smile, and gestured to the magnificent man standing beside her with her other hand. “This is Ewen MacLean.” She waited for the men to shake hands. “And this”—Daniel’s gaze caught hers, a warning in their path—“is our friend Daniel.” The lie fell from her mouth with a thump.
Stuart Murray shook Daniel’s hand, then stood back to join his wife.
“Sit, now, the lot of you. Stuart, dear,” Iona Murray placed a weathered hand on her husband’s arm. “Fetch a few more chairs from the kitchen.”
Ewen and Daniel immediately offered their seats, but Iona would have none of it, shooting each man a stern, reprimanding look. Ewen chuckled and followed Mr. Murray through the archway separating the kitchen from the living room. Both men reached for wooden chairs by the small kitchen table and reappeared moments later speaking Gaelic, kitchen chairs in hand, laughing over some secret male joke.
The deep, rich rumble of Ewen’s laughter filled the room. The corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth, and when their eyes caught, her heart knocked against her ribcage. He smiled a devilish smile that turned everything inside her into one big puddle of mush.
Admitting she’d felt the energy between them had been a mistake.
A huge mistake.
One that almost led to a kiss. A near kiss she couldn’t stop thinking about. But she had no business thinking about kissing Ewen MacLean, not when her focus should be on finding the stone and saving their lives. What chance would she have with a fifteenth-century warrior stranded in the twenty-first century, anyway? There could be no future between them. Absolutely none. And she didn’t do one-night stands. Or flings. No matter the circumstances.
Still, it didn’t stop her from wondering. From imagining…
He slid in front of her, teasingly close. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, cloaking her in his tantalizing scent.
The man was evil, pure evil.
Caitlin sank into the plush fabric, careful not to let her knee bang into his, and focused on the smooth feel of the velvet beneath her fingers. Fabric, not rough and calloused male hands that had felt glorious on her body.
Ugh. Focus.
She redirected her thoughts away from the I’m-too-sexy-for-my-pants warrior breathing beside her and avoided looking at his long, muscular legs stretched out before the coffee table–no matter how tempting. Instead, she scanned the room. The sofa had been lovingly maintained despite being nearly threadbare at the armrests. Her seanmhair had a similar couch with a dense floral pattern in hues of rust and brown with splotches of orange. A god-awful ugly couch, but it had the bounciest cushions—perfect for a daring child attempting to touch the sky, or the popcorn ceiling—much to her grandmother’s dismay. The giggles that followed were priceless.
Her heart hurt. She sat in Iona Murray’s living room trying to piece together her grandmother’s past, all the while fearing what she would learn today would destroy every treasured memory she held deep in her heart.
Ewen reached for two biscuits and handed her one. “Eat.”
Caitlin bit into the cookie. The rich buttery flavor settled onto her tongue and melted in her mouth. “These are delicious.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Ewen scarfed his cookie and reached for a second.
“Iona makes the best shortbread. You won’t find better than what you’ve got here,” Stuart Murray said with pride.
His wife smiled and patted him on the knee. “Stuart is a wee bit partial, don’t you think?” Steam rose from the amber liquid Iona had poured into dainty china teacups sitting on dainty china tea plates. She raised the hot brew to her lips, sipped, and pointed wise eyes to Caitlin. “Reverend Mitchell tells me you’re a MacEwen.”
“I am.” Caitlin wiped clammy hands against her jeans and reached into her back pocket. She pulled out the pages the reverend had given her. Was she ready for the truth?
Iona Murray lowered her cup, sympathy beading in the woman’s eyes. “It’s all right, dear. Take your time.” She exchanged a look with her husband. The older man smiled and squeezed his wife’s hand, a lifetime of love reflected in his warm brown eyes.
Caitlin wanted that connection someday. Someone she could trust to grow old with and share a life built on love and mutual respect. Not a perfect life, but a real life filled with joy and tears. How lucky they were to have found one another. They were so like her parents.
Her chest tugged. Please let them be okay.
Caitlin opened the sheets and smoothed out the creases. “These are copies of the registries Reverend Mitchell provided.” She placed the sheets on the table. Rain battered the small kitchen window, drawing Caitlin’s eye to the adjoining room. The dark walnut cabinets in the U-shaped kitchen were dated but in great shape from what Caitlin could see. Cabinets filled with years of use. Holidays, birthdays, graduations—
Wait…
Was that a cell phone sitting on the yellow countertop by the refrigerator?
Her pulse skipped. She glanced away quickly. How could she get her hands on the phone without rousing Daniel’s suspicion? All she needed was an excuse to get into the kitchen.
The tea. That’s it!
She raised the cup to her lips and sipped, her insides shaking with what she was about to do. Then she spilled the hot fluid onto her legs.
“Oh shoot.” God, that’s hot. “I’m such a klutz.”
She set the cup carefully on the coffee table, and stood, grabbing the few napkins on the tray to wipe the spill. Some of the tea hit the floor, and she felt a twinge of guilt for soiling the poor woman’s sparkling floors. “I’m so sorry about the mess.”
“Forget the floor and worry about yourself.” Iona rose from her chair. “Here, let me help you.”
“No, it’s okay. Nothing a few paper towels can’t fix.” Caitlin’s heart raced. If Iona fetched the roll herself, she’d have to find another way to get into the room, and she wasn’t sure how she’d steal the phone with the woman trailing behind her. “Please sit. I’m more embarrassed than anything else.”
“The roll is right by the sink, dear. Help yourself.” Relief washed through Caitlin when Iona sat and dabbed tea from the table’s surface.
“The sink. Okay, thanks.” Caitlin couldn’t act desperate, not with Daniel watching her like a hawk. She entered the kitchen walking close to the counter, and swiped the phone with her left hand as she made her way to the sink. Thank god it hadn’t been plugged into the charger. She shoved the phone into her front pocket, praying Daniel hadn’t witnessed her sleight of hand, and tugged her jacket over her hips. Turning, she spotted the waste bin by the oven, threw out the soiled napkins, and grabbed several paper towels. She cleared her expression and returned to the sofa, avoiding eye contact with Ewen and the ever watchful Daniel.
“Would you care for more tea?” Iona asked.
Oh God, no.
“Please, thank you.” Caitlin blotted the wet spots on her jeans and smiled as Iona filled her cup. Daniel hadn’t yanked her by the arm or dragged her outside to search her, and except for the suspicious arch of Ewen’s brow, she
was in the clear with a cellphone in her pocket.
One point for the good guys!
“What do you know of Mary Walker?” Ewen asked. “We believe she may have been a resident of Kilfinan, but we’ve no proof.”
“Reverend Mitchell told us she married Douglas Walker in 1968 at the Kilfinan Church.” Caitlin finished wiping her pants and dropped the soiled paper towel on the tray.
A wrinkle sprung along the woman’s brow at the mention of her grandmother’s name. She lifted the page from the table. “Strange, I don’t know your Mary Walker, but I do know the witnesses, John and Jean Currie.”
Iona pointed to the second sheet of paper with the asterisk highlighting Mariota MacEwen and Duncan Lamont’s marriage. She scanned the entry with interest. “Is Mariota MacEwen your relative?” she asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine. Do you know her?” Caitlin asked.
Iona’s expression fell, sadness clouding her kind eyes. “I did. I knew both her and her husband, Duncan.” She gently lowered the pages to the table.
“Really?” This was the break they’d been waiting for. Caitlin shoved her unruly hair off her face. “What can you tell us about her?”
“It’s a sad tale. I was a girl of fifteen, innocent to life’s harsh realities. Duncan’s death changed me.” Iona exchanged a look with her husband. “It changed us all.”
The registry recorded Duncan Lamont’s funeral in 1967, two years after his marriage to Mariota. What happened to him? Caitlin dug her fingers into her thigh.
Ewen squeezed Caitlin’s hand. “Iona,” he said softly, “tell us what you know of Mariota and Duncan.”
“Come with me. I’ve a spare bedroom in the back we’ve converted to an office, and you can see for yourselves.”
Caitlin retrieved the parchment, folded the sheets quickly, and stuffed them in her back pocket as Iona led them to a small room. Shelves filled with binders of various colors lined one part of the wall. Bundles of oversize legal envelopes crammed full with paper sat beside packages of folders on dust-free shelves. Several cardboard file boxes were stacked in one corner of the small room.
“There was quite a bit of gossip surrounding Mariota’s arrival in Kilfinan. Back in those days, a single woman arriving with her handsome fiancé was unheard of. She was said to be a cousin of Jean Currie’s, or at least that is the story we were all told. Mariota and Duncan moved in with Jean and her husband John, who served as witnesses when they married later that same year.”
“So Jean was her cousin.” Huh. That would explain their close relationship but not why Mariota had written her about the stone.
“I can’t say for sure.” Iona rounded the desk centered in front of the shelves and lowered her body into a cushioned chair with wheels. “Please sit.” She paused until Caitlin and Ewen had taken their seats across from her before continuing her explanation. Daniel stood just inside the door near Stuart Murray.
“Jean was born in Kilfinan, and after her parent’s death, she sold the family home and moved to Dunoon where she worked as a nurse. She married John, had a child, and spent the first few years of their marriage in Dunoon until Mariota’s arrival here.”
“Wait a minute. Jean relocated to Kilfinan when Mariota arrived? That’s odd, don’t you think?”
Iona shrugged. “Becoming a mother changes your perspective. Perhaps she wished to raise her son closer to family. I don’t know. What I can tell you is that they jointly purchased the Patrick family home on a plot of land not too far from here.”
Caitlin’s eyes widened. “Patrick as in Reverend Patrick?”
She was kidding, right?
“Yes.”
Old, ruddy-checked Reverend Patrick had personal connections to Mariota MacEwen and now Jean Currie. And if that didn’t freak her out, his nasty fall shortly after his meeting with Caitlin last year certainly did.
Stuart laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. In a village the size of ours, we’re all in each other’s hair.” He adjusted his glasses and leaned against the doorframe. Dressed in a white oxford shirt and tan slacks with wavy gray hair neatly styled, Stuart Murray reminded her of her English professor, minus the Scottish accent. He returned his attention to Iona, and Caitlin got the impression the man never tired of listening to his wife’s tales.
Ewen leaned forward. “Duncan Lamont was killed, was he not?”
The humor faded from Iona’s warm brown eyes. “Yes, he was. Duncan was a handsome man, kind and gregarious with an infectious laugh that secretly captivated half the town’s female population, myself included. Dashed our hopes to see how the man adored his wife, for I’d never seen a man so in love with a woman until the day I married my own Stuart.”
Iona winked at her husband, then turned and rummaged through the binders on the shelf, tipping one book after the other until she found the one she sought. She laid the album closed on the desk. “He died in a terrible fire. A fire that nearly claimed the life of their daughter. And poor, Mariota…”
Iona shook her head. “We were all devastated, but Reverend Patrick was hit especially hard. He’d grown close to Duncan over the years. That fire destroyed the lives of six dear friends, and the five that survived its horrific flames were forever altered. I never did learn what happened to the lot of them, and the Reverend, well, he never did speak of them again. All so very, very sad.”
“I don’t understand.” Caitlin glanced at Ewen who sat with his hands folded between his knees, watching Iona Murray with hawkeyed intensity. “What happened to them?”
“That I cannot tell you. About a year after the fire, they were gone. All but Reverend Patrick.”
“And no one questioned this?” Ewen asked, frowning.
“We were all grieving in our own way.” Iona flipped through the binder’s sleeve-protected pages, a sigh escaping her lips, and then stopped halfway through. She ran a hand across the plastic page then turned the album toward Caitlin. “This is Duncan Lamont’s obituary, and this”—she pointed to another newspaper clipping—“is a story about the fire.”
Caitlin froze. Her grandmother. “This is Duncan’s widow?”
“Yes. Mariota was a lovely woman. Here”—Iona flipped back several pages—“happier times. This picture was taken outside the church during one of our annual festivals and is the only one I have of the group together.” She pointed to the cluster of happy, youthful-looking individuals beaming at the camera. “Mariota and Duncan are in the back. Reverend Patrick and his brother Graham are in the middle, and over there, Jean and John Currie.”
“Graham?” Caitlin focused on the laughing man standing beside a young Reverend Patrick. “Are you sure?”
Mrs. Murray peered over the photo. “Oh yes, child, that is Graham Patrick, no mistaking that rascal for another.”
Her heart sped. “And this is Mariota?”
She pointed to the smiling face of the woman leaning into Duncan Lamont’s embrace, a woman who looked like a fifty-year-younger version of her grandmother.
“Yes. My…” Iona lifted her eyes from the page to examine Caitlin’s face. “You bear a striking resemblance to her. How uncanny. There can be no doubt you are related on your MacEwen side.”
Her stomach sank.
No doubt at all.
“And this man standing next to her...is her husband, Duncan,” Caitlin said.
“Indeed. Their child was severely burned in the fire. Poor dear. A daughter. Oh, I forget her name. It was an unusual name taken from a television program. Oh, what was it now?”
“Else,” Stuart Murray said from the doorway. “After Else Garnet from the television program, Til Death Us Do Part.”
“Aye, that’s right. Else. The girl was called Else.”
Else. Else Walker Reed.
Air whooshed from Caitlin’s lungs. She stood abruptly. The chair tumbled back and crashed to the floor. “Excuse me.”
She couldn’t breathe.
Caitlin darted out of the office and ran down the narr
ow hallway, through the kitchen, and out the sliding glass doors to the brick patio. Hunched over, hands on her knees, she sucked crisp wet air into her burning lungs.
Oh god. The fire.
“What’s wrong?” Ewen’s face swam before her.
Her vision blurred.
He cradled her against the warmth of his chest until her racing pulse slowed. Until her heart skipped back into its cavity. Until the air flowed in and out of her lungs.
“Aye, sweet, that’s it now. Breathe.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“My mother…” She couldn’t finish her sentence. The devastating image of her mother’s childhood home—the blackened skeleton jutting from the ground—flashed in her mind and threatened to smother what little oxygen entered her lungs.
Caitlin had never thought much of her mother’s scars beyond the fact they existed, and like the freckles on her own skin, they were a unique part of her mother’s character. But as a child, she’d gone through a phase where the mottled, leathery skin spanning most of her mother’s legs and upper body had fascinated and repulsed her. Now, after seeing Duncan Lamont’s obituary, those scars took on a new meaning.
MacInnes had been right all along.
Mariota MacEwen was Mary Walker.
She wrapped her arms tighter around Ewen’s waist and fought against the melancholy squeezing her ribcage. To find the stone, she’d have to uncover the root of her family’s lies. The prospect scared her more than MacInnes’s threats, because whatever sent her family scrambling from Scotland was grave enough to decimate the lives of six individuals.
Ewen’s scent mingled with the outdoor air and infiltrated her senses. She was safe. God, she could almost forget everything locked in his arms. Everything but the feel of his heart beating against her ear.
“You can speak, lass. It is just the two of us here now.”
Heat enfolded her despite the cold drizzle falling against their bodies. Her emotions flapped wildly against her mind, forming a blockade against the stream of questions invading her consciousness from Ewen’s touch. His energy surrounded her. Steady. Secure. Protected.
