Call of the Clan Read online

  That night, I woke in a cold sweat. I had heard the noise again. Footsteps on the stairs.

  I grabbed my ugly swan companion from the bedside table, but this time I stayed in bed. I was the only one on the third floor of the house, and if I yelled, there was a good chance nobody downstairs would hear me. Once again, the soft steps fell, and I suppressed the urge to scream like a first-grader.

  Part of me desperately wanted to run to the door, fling the lights on, and confront whoever was there. But the element of the unknown spooked me, and I was sure I hadn't imagined the book dropping to the floor the last time I heard noises. I didn't know what or who was lurking outside my open door, which loomed like a black cavern across the room. Sandie MacFarlane's tales of ghostly Catharine walking Kilgraeme's corridors at night had worked me into a cold sweat.

  Thump.

  A book hit the floor, and then there was silence. I waited a long time before I exhaled, and gradually my heartbeat began to slow down. I was thankful my room had a small bathroom, and tiptoed in to pee, not turning on the light. On my way back to bed, I stopped at the window to look out on Loch Lomond. In the moonlight, the water appeared black, and a layer of mist hung oppressively in the air. I squinted at something moving in the distance.

  It was Cayden Spalding, walking slowly toward the house, up from Loch Lomond. What on earth was he doing out there in the middle of the night in his kilt? Maybe he was just out for some nocturnal stroll. I decided to leave him be, and went back to bed.

  * * * *

  I didn't get a chance to apologize to Evan at breakfast. Trish MacGregor was waiting for me in the dining hall, nibbling a piece of toast.

  "He's gone, you know,” she said casually.

  "Huh?” I asked blankly.

  "Evan. He left early this morning. Said to tell you he was sorry for the way he acted, something about being a possessive dickmonkey, and he'll be back in a couple of weeks.” She dumped maple syrup on her toast.

  "A couple of weeks? Where is he?” I was amazed. I had never had such a bad personality that anyone had ever just up and left town on me.

  "Back to Glasgow. He does have a job, you know,” she winked. “Besides fawning all over you, that is."

  I rolled my eyes. I wasn't in the mood for Trish or her calculated little barbs. “Aren't you going back to Wisconsin some time soon?” I asked pleasantly.

  Her eyes narrowed. “It's Michigan, but you knew that. And as a matter of fact, I have decided to take an entire year's sabbatical and continue tracing my family's roots here in Scotland, remember?"

  I had conveniently forgotten. Or maybe I hadn't. Maybe I was just feeling catty.

  "Anyway,” she continued, “he said to tell you he'd have to miss Sandie's funeral, but he'll be back in time for the Gathering."

  I froze. Oh, yeah. The Gathering. Whatever the heck that was supposed to be.

  Apparently Trish could tell exactly what I was thinking. She giggled and twirled a lock of blonde hair around her finger. “Don't worry. Much is taking care of most of the arrangements, along with Mack Piper."

  "Good,” I breathed with relief. That was a load off my mind. With Evan gone, I could hole up in the third floor chamber and continue digging through the Murray family archives.

  Two days after Sandie MacFarlane's funeral in Arrochar, Danny Beaton was arrested on a charge of homicide.

  Chapter Twelve

  After Danny Beaton's arrest, life at Kilgraeme seemed to settle back into the normal routine, at least for a while. Evan called to say he would return from Glasgow after hearing about Danny, and announced that he would be defending him in court. It made me a little uneasy. Evan was tenacious, and if Danny was guilty of killing Sandie, I didn't want Evan getting him off the hook on some obscure technicality.

  The next council passed with no excitement at all, and I threw myself into preparations for the Gathering. It was to be held on what I normally would have viewed as Thanksgiving weekend, had I been at home. It was more than a little weird to realize that the United States is really the only place that celebrates Thanksgiving. After all, the Pilgrims didn't land in Borneo or China or Liverpool.

  Once I got into it, the whole idea of a Gathering seemed fun. It was a big costume party, celebrating the end of the harvest season. Mrs. Much and Mack Piper were treasure troves of information about local culture and history. We planned a menu fit for royalty and scheduled games and contests to be held throughout the weekend. Emily Much was assigned the task of sending invitations, and by the time I thought to ask how she was doing, she had a stack of nearly three hundred envelopes sealed and stamped.

  I had offered her unlimited use of my laptop, but Emily insisted on hand-lettering each envelope in her exquisite calligraphy. I watched in awe as she used an actual quill pen and a pot of black ink. “That's really cool,” I admitted. She traced a swirly style letter K.

  "Thank you,” she said shyly. “My sister taught me how to do this when I was little. I like making the letters, all fancy and fine, like they are. It's about all I'm good at, really."

  "Who are all those for?” I asked, staring at the neatly stacked piles on the great oak table in the kitchen.

  "Different families,” she explained. “Tis an honor to be invited to a Gathering. Lots of Flemings, Pipers, the Spaldings...."

  "More Spaldings? I thought Cayden was the only one around here."

  "Aye, but his brother an’ sisters may be coming, and his mother,” she grinned. “Maybe some cousins, even."

  Oddly enough, I had never pictured Cayden having a family. I figured he had just sprouted somewhere out of a thistle patch. “Where are they?” I asked, curious.

  Emily ticked off the names one by one and I recalled that she had been, for a time, related to the Spaldings through her sister's marriage. “His Da died years ago, but his mother is a professor of some sort, studies songs and language and the like, down at Oxford. She makes jewelry out of wee rocks she digs up. He's got a sister, Caitriona, who travels about singin’ with a band, and another one named Raven, that's—"

  "Excuse me? He has a sister named Raven?"

  "Aye, most of us call her Stark Raven, as she's quite mad. She's a medium,” Emily said, as if that would explain everything. “His brother Bruce is a photographer, and travels about filming rhinos snogging in Africa."

  I wasn't sure what snogging meant, but was pretty sure I didn't want to watch rhinos doing it. “So why is Cayden still here? At Kilgraeme, I mean?"

  Emily smiled. “Tis his duty. He's the eldest of the Spaldings. It's the call of the clan. ‘Tis up to him to stay here an’ protect the Murray."

  Oh yeah. That again. Cayden himself had said something about that to me the day I stumbled into the broch with my picnic basket. “But this isn't the seventeen hundreds, Emily! Shouldn't that old tradition have died out by now? I mean, you'd think the guy would want to go out and have a life somewhere else, wouldn't you?"

  Emily started to say something else, but then clamped her mouth shut. I turned to see what she was looking at. It was Trish.

  She slid onto a stool beside me. “Don't let me interrupt,” she said with a catlike smile. “Talking about our local hermit, are you?"

  "We were,” muttered Emily under her breath, looking away.

  "A fine-looking specimen, if you like them big and moody,” Trish mused. She poured herself a cup of coffee, and glanced at me. “Have you had a chance to spend much time with him?"

  "Not really,” I replied. I wasn't sure what she was after, but I decided not to play her game. “He's been holed up in the Museum From Hell."

  It was true. Cayden Spalding had a degree in archeology, and his specialty was weaponry and medieval warfare, so I had decided to take advantage of his knowledge. Apparently the blacksmithing business wasn't paying much these days, because he immediately agreed when I had Mrs. Much offer him the job of cataloguing and appraising the junk in the display cases. When he wasn't barricaded in there, I assumed he was keeping himself
busy making ... well, whatever it was that blacksmiths made in this day and age, back in his floppy old tower on the other side of Beinn a'Choinn. Occasionally he stopped in to chat with Mrs. Much, but beyond that, I hadn't really seen him.

  "He'll emerge eventually,” she smiled. “Now that Evan's on his way back from Glasgow."

  Emily grabbed her invitations and ink pen, slinking off without another word to either of us.

  "Why is that, Trish?"

  She shrugged. “Think about it. It should be obvious. Evan's the competition, of course."

  "And I suppose now you're going to tell me that I'm the prize?"

  Trish burst into peals of laughter. “Oh, don't flatter yourself. It's Kilgraeme they're both after. You're just a means to the end."

  I had heard enough. “Trish, this is quite possibly the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say. Evan Muncaster has no interest in Kilgraeme, and Cayden Spalding has no interest in me.” I tried not to think about the night he kissed me in the barn, and felt my skin flush a little.

  "You don't think so?” she purred. “Evan has been coming and going for years now, always being the diligent solicitor.” She perched on the oak table and examined her fingernails. “He hoped to be left a little something when Ranald died, you know, as an expression of gratitude for all his dutiful years of service. But then,” she sighed, “Ranald died and didn't leave anyone anything. Evan was buddy-buddy with Jamie, too, and what did that get him? Not diddly-shit. It was all part of Kilgraeme, and you were the only one entitled to any of it."

  I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke nearby, and assumed Emily was on the other side of the back door, eavesdropping. “And Cayden Spalding?"

  Trish shrugged. “The Spaldings have always played second fiddle, as it were, to the Murrays. Cayden was stuck here, to keep an eye on things, after his Da died. Caitriona and Raven got to go off and do whatever they chose, and Bruce, his younger brother, travels the world, making wildlife movies and such for educational television channels. But not Cayden,” she mused. “Nope. Stuck here, keeping an eye on you, all in the name of family duty.” She suddenly looked up at me. “Maybe he feels it's time the Spaldings had something to show for centuries of dedication."

  "He could have left,” I pointed out, and not for the first time.

  "Nah. He couldn't have. It's what they do, the Spaldings,” she finished.

  I looked at her, her fluffy blonde hair glinting in the morning sun. “You know what, Trish?” I said abruptly.

  "What?"

  "I think you're a perfectly hateful bitch,” I said casually. I was livid, but I had no intention of letting her know that. “I'm not sure what you're really doing here, but as far as people wanting to get their hands on Kilgraeme, the same could be said of you. After all, you were the one banging my father when he inconveniently died."

  Her face went white. “That's not the same,” she whispered.

  "Oh, but it is.” I'd obviously hit a nerve. “After all, Kilgraeme once belonged to the MacGregors, didn't it? Until old what's his name gave it over to the Murrays as a wedding gift ... maybe you think it's time it went back to them.” Actually, that hadn't occurred to me until the second before it came out of my mouth, but Trish's face went from pale to angry scarlet.

  "Don't you say that,” she hissed. For a moment, I really believed she was going to smack me. I wasn't too worried, being a head taller and having a good twenty pounds on Trish, but I was a little concerned about the knives hanging nearby on the kitchen walls. “Don't you say that at all. I loved Jamie. All that about him being involved with Melissa wasn't true, because he loved me, and I loved him more than you can imagine. It had nothing to do with Kilgraeme. In fact, I wanted him to give up his claim to this old dump, but he wouldn't do it.” She slid down from her spot on the table and I noticed her eyes were wet. I wasn't sure if it was genuine sadness or simple rage that was causing the dampness.

  "Trish, all I'm saying is that before you go making accusations about Evan or Cayden, you should...."

  She left before I could finish, stomping off down the hall to the stairs. There was a loud bang as she slammed a door somewhere. I waited a moment, took a few deep breaths, and strode to the back door, flinging it open abruptly. Sure enough, Emily was there, puffing on her cigarette. She grinned at me, and offered me one.

  With a sigh, I sat beside her and enjoyed my smoke.

  * * * *

  The day before the Gathering was to take place, I sequestered myself in the library, digging through more volumes of Murray family information. I had a problem.

  There were anomalies in the records, things that were just a bit off. However, someone had made a point of keeping extensive and detailed records, so the existence of discrepancies didn't really seem to make sense.

  Evan was, as far as I knew, still in Glasgow and wouldn't be back until late evening and Trish wasn't speaking to me at all, after the altercation in the kitchen. Apparently Emily had filled her mother in on that little episode, because now Mrs. Much was being extra nice to me, giving me second helpings of dessert at nearly every meal. I was either going to have to get some exercise or buy bigger clothes at the rate things were going.

  Reluctantly, I called Cayden Spalding.

  "Can you help me?” I asked politely.

  "With what?"

  I sighed. I had barely seen him since the day in the barn. Kilgraeme was large enough that we could avoid each other even though he was in my house cataloging the crap in the Museum From Hell. “Look, I really am sorry if I've been a jerk. I just need some help deciphering some of this genealogical information, and I thought you might know enough about the Murrays and Spaldings that you could help me."

  "If it's genealogical help you're needing, ask Trish MacGregor.” I could practically hear him smirking through the phone.

  "I can't. We aren't speaking.” I didn't feel like explaining why, and thankfully he didn't ask.

  "All right, then. I need to come by anyway. I have a wee gift for you."

  "For me?” I asked, startled.

  "Aye. Much told me your birthday was last month.” It was true. My thirty-third birthday had come and gone with no fanfare whatsoever. I hadn't really wanted to celebrate it without Gil, so I didn't bother mentioning it to anyone. Somehow, though, the old cook had figured it out.

  "Um, yeah. October fifteenth."

  "I'll be there in an hour,” he said, and hung up without so much as a goodbye. Well, this was strange, I thought. Cayden Spalding was bringing me a birthday present? How nice. Maybe I would invite him to stay for dinner, just as a courtesy.

  I didn't hear him when he arrived, as I was ensconced in the relative silence of the third-floor chambers. I was sitting by the hearth, my back to the door, when I caught the scent of something pleasant, a faint smell of peat smoke. I looked up, and there he was, a large cloth-wrapped bundle under his arm.

  "Hello,” I said. This was awkward. I remembered the delicious shock of his lips on mine, the power of his mouth pressed against me.... I didn't want to think about it, or talk about it at all.

  Apparently Cayden was of the same opinion, because he never mentioned it. He sat on the floor beside me and placed the bundle between us.

  "For you,” he said gruffly.

  Wow, I thought. A big present! I bobbed my head and made thank-you noises, and wondered exactly what was in there. Cautiously, I untied the rope that bound the package. Unwrapping the soft cloth, I realized that my gift was fairly heavy, and wondered if it was one of his dragon creations.

  I unfolded the last piece of fabric, and gasped. It was a wrought-iron crest, about twenty-four inches across. In the center was a bearded demi-savage, holding a small sword in his right hand, and a key in his left. Around the edge in a fine, graceful script, it read Furth, Fortune and Fill the Fetters. I had seen this before, on some of the documents in the library.

  It was the crest of the clan Murray.

  Overwhelmed and deeply moved, I choked a little bit. I
had never expected anything so elaborate, or so meaningful.

  "Oh,” I said in a small voice. “Cayden, it's incredible. Whatever on earth inspired you to do something like this?"

  I peeked up and noticed he was blushing a little. “I actually started it a couple of years back,” he admitted, “but I didn't finish it until recently. It's been sitting in the corner of the broch ever since, and I thought you might like to have it."

  On a hunch, I asked, “Who did you make it for originally?"

  He folded his long legs up beneath him. “Old Ranald asked me to make it, as a gift for Jamie. Then your father died before it was finished. I was more than a wee bit angry with him, y'know? So I put it away, and never thought about it again. At least not until you came along.” He smiled, and I noticed the small gap between his teeth again. “I thought you might like to hang it around here somewhere. Or take it with you when you leave."

  On a sudden impulse, I leaned over and hugged him. “Thank you,” I whispered in his ear. “That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me since I got here."

  I felt him stiffen for a moment, then pat me on the back. “You're very welcome,” he said formally.

  Realizing that we had again made physical contact, I scooted back over to my position by the fireplace. Cayden wrapped the crest back up and tied the bundle together. “I'll put this in the bedroom for now,” he said, rising. “You can let me know if you want me to hang it up."

  "Thanks.” When he emerged from my room, I handed him a book. “Can you take a look at this?” I asked, all business now.

  "Aye, what is it?"

  "A family bible."

  He blinked owlishly. “And you can't read it?"

  "Of course I can read it. Look inside the front cover, though. The first few pages are lists of births and deaths in the family."

  "And?"

  "Some of it doesn't seem right. Read it, and tell me what jumps out at you."

  He sighed, and brushed a wayward curl of red hair behind his ear. “All right, then,” he intoned. “Colin Murray, born 1695, married Maggie MacGregor who was born in 1700. Am I doing well enough so far?"