Call of the Clan Read online

  "No, I'm Raven,” she grinned. “You're the Murray, aye?"

  "Yeah, er, yes. I've heard about you,” I smiled. She looked a lot like her brother, but considerably more feminine. She even had the same little gap between her teeth.

  "Good things I hope,” she laughed. “Much sent me up to fetch her a new pair of stockings. Is she still in the room on the end?"

  "She is,” I said. “Nice to meet you."

  Raven Spalding scampered up the stairs with a boundless amount of energy. Funny, other than her wardrobe, which was straight out a closet circa 1978, she didn't quite strike me as the lunatic everyone made her out to be.

  I found Emily Much perched on the front steps. “Emily? Are you okay?” I asked, concerned. She looked like she hadn't slept.

  She nodded. “I'll be alright.” She lit a cigarette, took a puff, and then stubbed it out. “Yuck. Sometimes they make me gag."

  I stared at her. She'd had no appetite lately, and now her cigarettes were making her queasy. I remembered her mother telling me she needed to talk to me, and I had a pretty good idea what it was about. “Let's go for a stroll, Emily. Me and you, before more people arrive."

  She followed me, and we wandered down to the shore of Loch Lomond. Once down here, away from the hillside, it seemed considerably quiet.

  I sat on a log, and patted it. “Sit,” I commanded, and she did so. I looked at her quizzically. “You're pregnant?"

  Her eyes went wide. “How did you know? I didn't know for certain myself until just a few days ago, and even me Mam doesn't know!"

  Obviously, then, this wasn't what Mary Much thought her daughter needed to tell me. “You haven't told your mother yet?"

  "She'd toss me out!” the girl sobbed. Feeling rather badly about the whole thing, I leaned over and put my arm around her.

  "Now, it's okay, Emily. Your mother's a reasonable woman. I'll talk to her, if you like."

  "No,” she gasped, horrified. “You can't!"

  "Well,” I said, pointing out the obvious, “she'll figure it out eventually."

  "She won't. I'll go off to Glasgow, and have it there, and when I come back no one will ever know,” she whimpered.

  She was just a child herself. “Emily,” I asked softly, “who is your baby's father?"

  Emily looked up, eyes red-rimmed. “That's what I needed to tell you about, miss. Danny couldn't have killed Sandie. He was with me that night, right up until the Council meeting the next morning."

  "He spent the night with you?” I hoped I wasn't sounding too horrified.

  "Yes'm,” she wailed. “I snuck ‘im into my room and he stayed all night."

  And now you're pregnant, I thought, somewhat uncharitably. “Weren't Sandie and Danny ... an item? I mean, recently?"

  I could hear the music beginning up the hill behind me. It was approaching eleven in the morning, and the festivities would be kicking off soon. Mrs. Much had made it very clear that I was to put in an appearance.

  Emily shook her head. “Sandie ditched Danny after that sluttin’ Trish arrived for the summer."

  I thought about something Evan had said. “I heard Danny was just a diversion for Trish after Jamie died."

  She snorted. “He only was with her a couple of times, and that was before he noticed me. Trish is a whore.” I didn't mention that Danny Beaton had a pretty busy sexual track record himself. “I been knowin’ Danny all me life. When he got together with Sandie last year, it bloody near broke my heart, but I could live with it, y'know? After all, me an’ him didn't really have anything then."

  "Emily, you need to tell your mother what you told me,” I said gently.

  "I can't. She'll give me the boot, like she did Melissa."

  "Melissa?” I asked sharply. What did Melissa have to do with any of this?

  She nodded. “Melissa thought she was pregnant before she married Cayden. Ma put her out, and so she moved in wi’ him. Turned out she never was with child after all, it was a mistake, but by then she'd been livin’ with him and he had to marry her, or Ma would've killed ‘em both,” she said matter-of-factly way.

  "Oh,” I nodded. “Emily, we need to let the police know you have an alibi for Danny. He's been sitting in jail for weeks. Why on earth didn't you say anything?"

  She stared at her feet and sniveled some more. God, this was hard. I was thankful I didn't have children of my own.

  "How about I tell Evan instead?” I offered. “He's Danny's attorney, so he should know about it. He can pass it along to the police."

  She brightened a little. “That'd be fine. Just please don't tell him about, you know. The other.” She glanced down at her still-flat abdomen. “I don't know what to do about it yet."

  "Does Danny know?"

  "No. I haven't talked to him since he got arrested."

  "You should tell him. He has a right to be involved in your decision."

  "Aye,” she said morosely.

  I stood up from the log and stretched. “I need to get back, your mom is expecting me. You coming?"

  "I think I'll just set a while. Take some time an’ think."

  "Okay.” I began climbing back up the hill, through the trees, when something else occurred to me. “Emily? Who was Sandie seeing, if it wasn't Danny Beaton?"

  She shrugged. “She wouldn't tell any of us. Could've been anyone, though, aye? Sandie wasn't real choosy. It was a secret, she said."

  A secret, indeed. No one had come forth to admit being Sandie's mystery lover, and it was a secret she had taken with her to her grave. Someone had been, as Cayden put it, intimate with her in the hours before her death. Evan had told me that the DNA match was still pending, to see if there was a match between the young gardener and the samples removed from Sandie's body. The results should be in soon, as it apparently took a few weeks to get anything conclusive. But if the tests showed that it wasn't Danny, then who?

  As I approached the house, the Gathering was in full swing. Approximately nine hundred people were scattered about the lawn. Mack Piper had set up a booth at which he was selling his hand-woven tartans, and was doing a booming business. Beside him, Mrs. Much and another woman were hawking some absolutely heavenly smelling food. I pushed my way through the throngs of people.

  "What are those?” I asked curiously.

  "Meat pasties, missus,” she winked. “Try one?"

  I happily took the small pie and took a tentative bite. I could feel my eyes widen as I chewed happily. It was shaped like a Hot Pocket, but way better, and stuffed with meat and vegetables and little potatoes. It was divine.

  "Ohhhhh,” I murmured, rolling my eyes in ecstasy. Mrs. Much beamed at me. I waved goodbye through my mouthful of food, and wandered around some more.

  A good many guests had arrived in costume. There were plenty of men in kilts, and I found myself not at all minding the view of a couple hundred or so hairy knees. I planned to buy kilts for Gil and Mark before I went home in the summer. Women strolled the grounds in long linen dresses with plaid shawls wrapped around them. Children raced around in the chilly November air, and fortunately it looked as though rain was not on the forecast for the day. That, of course, could all change within a moment's notice, but for now I was just going to hope that the sunshine held out.

  Despite the brightness of the day, I was starting to get cold, and my teeth were chattering between bites of food. I peeked up over the last chunk of my meat pie and saw Evan headed towards me, something in his hands.

  "Put this on, would you? You look like you're about to turn blue."

  It was a cloak. A long, hooded, hunter-green velvet cloak with a satin lining. I finished my pastie. “It's gorgeous,” I exclaimed. “Where on earth did you get it?” It had come from a shop in Glasgow, and I allowed him to fasten it around my neck. I was instantly warmer. “Mmm. Thank you,” I sighed.

  "You're quite welcome,” he smiled, kissing my hand.

  "How come you're not dressed up?” Evan was wearing his usual clothes, khakis and a sweater.
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  He shrugged. “It's not really my thing. Just strikes me as a wee bit pretentious, if you want the truth."

  I frowned. “How so?"

  Evan waved his arm expansively. “Look at these people, ads dressed in kilts, some of them even carrying swords. I understand wishing to honor one's heritage, but you'd think eventually they'd realize it's the twenty-first century."

  I laughed. “You'd look dashing in a kilt."

  "No, thank you. It's time these folks let the past get behind them. This whole kin-and-clan thing gets grating after a while."

  I wasn't sure I agreed with him. I certainly saw his point; after all, the Scots did seem to have unusually long memories. But what was wrong with dressing up in tartans and playing the bagpipes and just having a good time? He was taking it way too seriously.

  I snuggled myself into the soft warmth of the cloak as I felt Evan's shoulders stiffen. Above me, a voice growled, “I've come to collect the Murray."

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was Cayden Spalding, and I doubted that anyone in history had ever looked better than he did at that particular moment. He wore a simple white linen shirt, open at the collar, and was draped in a kilt. This was not the garden variety parade-dress skirt kilt. It was, as I later learned, called a great kilt, eight or so yards of woolen plaid, in the green Murray tartan pattern. Pleated around the waist, it was tucked up with a belt and tossed over the shoulder, then held in place with a kilt pin. He wore a large sword at his waist, and his blazing hair hung loose in a mane at his shoulders.

  He looked like a barbarian invader, and I let out an “Eep!” I wanted very much to wrap my hands in that hair and let him pillage anything he found.

  "Collect the Murray?” asked Evan.

  "Aye,” Cayden said, as if I wasn't even there. “Mrs. Much says ‘tis time for the greeting."

  "Huh?” I blurted. I peeked down at his muscular legs, and wondered once again if it was really true about what Scotsmen wore beneath their kilts.

  They both looked at me like I was an idiot. “The greeting,” said Evan. “Where you get up on the stage and give a wee speech to welcome everyone to Kilgraeme."

  Ten minutes later I found myself being pushed by Mrs. Much onto the small stage that had been constructed for the dancers and musicians. I stared out at the sea of faces, and there was some polite applause. I mumbled something inconsequential about how nice it was for all of them to come, and I hoped they all had a wonderful time, and I'd be seeing them at the ceilidh tomorrow night, and so forth. When it was over, I tripped on the folds of my cloak and toppled ungracefully down the steps to the muddy ground below.

  Evan caught me as I landed, and maneuvered me so he could plant a kiss on my lips. I deftly turned my face just a bit, and he ended up grazing my cheek. “The speech wasn't so difficult, now, was it?” he murmured, stroking my hair absently. I wished he would stop. We needed to talk about this whole engagement ring thing. These sudden public displays of affection were awkward, because I was completely unable to reciprocate.

  When he released me, I saw Cayden a few feet away, glowering. He raised an eyebrow at me and stalked off.

  * * * *

  The Gathering continued throughout the day, so after lunch I went upstairs for a quick nap. The nice thing about my rooms on the third floor was that I could hear outside activities only faintly, and certainly not enough to keep me awake. I drifted off to the far-off sounds of pipes and bodhrans. I slept restlessly, dreaming of men in plaids battling to their death on a misty hillside.

  "Brynne,” said a gentle voice.

  "Mmph?"

  "Wake up, lass,” Evan whispered.

  I cracked an eye open. He was perched on the edge of my big four-poster bed. I stretched, catlike, and yawned. Still beneath the covers, I wriggled over to him. “What are you doing way over there?” I asked sleepily.

  "It's five-thirty,” he smiled. “Dinner will be served soon. I didn't think you'd want to miss it."

  "There you go, sounding all Scottish again.” I burrowed back into the cloak, which I'd draped across myself, and sighed. “I'm pooped, and I know I have to go downstairs eventually. Stay here with me a while. We can talk."

  He looked surprised. “What would Mrs. Much think?"

  "Who cares?” Waking up in the cool and quiet darkness of the room, and suddenly finding him there with me, it occurred to me that Evan Muncaster was a decent guy. He was stable and secure, and predictable. This was a man who had asked me to consider marrying him, and had never even made any sort of sexual advance towards me.

  I wondered if there was something wrong with him. Or me.

  Evan shifted slightly, and I curled up beside him. “Mm. This is nice,” I said. “Look, Evan, about this ring.” I grabbed the black velvet box from my nightstand and popped it open, the diamond sparkling in the dim twilight. It was time to nip things in the bud. “Evan, I do care about you, I do. But I don't think we're in love with each other,” I said honestly. “We're friends, yes. Good ones. But that's it."

  His eyes widened. “Brynne, you don't think I'm in love with you?"

  "I'm sorry,” I said gently. “I don't, and it's okay because I'm not in love with you either. I think you feel obligated to me, and maybe that's why you proposed."

  Evan frowned. “Why on earth should I be obligated to you? That's an incredibly offensive thing to say."

  "Oh,” I said, slightly confused. “I just thought, well, I thought maybe you still felt bad about my father's death, and you were trying to...” my voice faltered, as the frown turned into a downright scowl. “Trying to make amends,” I finished lamely.

  He sat up on the edge of the bed, and ruffled his hands through his sandy hair. “I can't believe you think so poorly of me, Brynne.” There was a catch in his voice.

  "Evan, I.... “I paused for a moment. I wanted to apologize for doubting him, and make things better, but I couldn't. I sat up, pushing the blankets aside. “I'm sorry, Evan,” I said softly, holding out the box, which he ignored. “I can't ... I can't wear this. It's not right. Can we just...."

  "Be friends? Is that what you're about to say?"

  "No, it's not,” I snapped. This wasn't going at all the way I had thought it would. “I just want things to be the way they were before you gave me this in front of a gazillion people."

  He paused, and I thought I saw his eyes brighten a little. “So, you're not ruling out the possibility of us being together?"

  I shook my head. “I don't know, Evan. Listen, I have nine months before I go home. If stuff ... happens between us, then we'll take things as they come. But I can't do you the honor of wearing this.” I held out the ring again, offering it to him.

  Evan sighed. “So you want to just go on about business at Kilgraeme, as before, is that it?"

  "Well,” I grinned, “yeah, I do. Actually, I'd like to go to a movie, or go for a long walk on the moors, or have a picnic under a tree or something. Do stuff together, you know? I mean, so far, all we've done is eat dinner together with a dozen other people, and argue with each other about where I've been and who I'm with."

  It was the wrong thing to say. A shadow flitted across his handsome face, and then it was gone. “I don't like you running about with Cayden Spalding."

  I rolled my eyes. “I haven't been running around with anyone, let alone Cayden Spalding. He's been cataloguing the stuff in the Museum From Hell, and occasionally I've asked for some assistance with the history of the Murray family, that's all."

  "Aye, well, you couldn't get help from Trish MacGregor?"

  I snorted. “Trish and I don't get along. It's a personality conflict. As in, I have a personality and she doesn't."

  He patted my hand. “I'll speak to her. She should be giving you a hand in whatever genealogical research you're doing."

  "No,” I protested. “I don't.... “I stopped for a moment. I couldn't really tell Evan I didn't trust Trish, but the fact of the matter was that she was the absolute last person I wanted to b
e cooped up in the library with. “I'd rather you didn't,” I admitted cautiously. “I'll take care of it."

  "There's another option,” he suggested, “if you really can't stand Trish. You could talk to Raven."

  "Stark Raven? I thought everyone said she was nuts."

  "Aye, well, she may be that, she thinks she talks to spirits, after all, but she knows quite a bit about the history of Kilgraeme,” he smiled, “and she could probably help you out some, if you can catch her between psychic readings."

  I snickered. “Maybe she'll tell my fortune."

  "Just stay away from her brother, aye?” Evan kissed my fingers lightly.

  This was ridiculous. Every time we tried to discuss anything, Cayden Spalding ended up between us, placed there by Evan. I pulled my hand back. “Evan, this is foolish. I'm a grownup, or so rumor has it. I can take care of myself."

  Exasperated, he stood and headed for the door. “You know what, Brynne? Maybe we can't have a relationship at all, aye? Maybe we should just leave each other be."

  "Evan, that's not what I meant."

  It was too late. He walked out, and slammed the door behind him. Annoyed, I picked up the ugly brass swan and hurled it at the wall, cursing under my breath.

  * * * *

  As it happened, Raven came to find me the next morning, before I had a chance to seek her out. I had been so busy wandering about the Gathering, putting in face time, that I had become rather absorbed in the goings-on. I perched on a makeshift bleacher between Emily Much, who wasn't saying a whole lot, and old Mack Piper. I chatted casually with Mack, trying with some degree of success to understand his accent, as the younger men geared up for the caber toss.

  This was an event I had occasionally seen on late-night television but never experienced first-hand, and the whole thing was awe-inspiring. The caber is a log the size of a telephone pole, and the object of the contest is to pick the thing up, alone, hoist it up vertically, and then hurl it end over end. The man who throws it the farthest wins. Nobody said anything about what the guy with the worst hernia gets, but I was certain the Glasgow doctors’ offices would be packed to the brim on Monday.