Call of the Clan Page 8

  "About what?"

  Evan glanced around. There was no one else in the dining hall but the two of us. “That he might have had something to do with it."

  I remembered Trish's comments from the day before. “With Melissa's death, you mean?"

  "And your father's. They did drown together, you'll recall.” He lowered his voice, peeking towards the kitchen. “Nobody even knew Jamie and Melissa were seeing each other. The theory is that Spalding found out about the affair, and rigged up the boat so it would sink. The storm was just a piece of good luck.” He must have noticed the look on my face. He amended, “Or bad luck, in your father's case. At any rate, with him being from an old family, when the investigators from Arrochar came to look about, things were solved rather quickly, if you get my meaning."

  I stared at him. “I get it,” I said slowly. As we made our way to the dining hall, I decided I would find Cayden Spalding again in the morning. After all, as mistress of Kilgraeme, I was certainly entitled to visit any of its tenants.

  * * * *

  Dugald and Will crept silently along the beach. The island of Dunloghaire was deserted but for a few owls, and the two men waited patiently for the whiskey boat to arrive.

  In the eight years since Culloden, they had been working for William Wycombe, a wealthy merchant from Greenock. It was a simple matter to smuggle whiskey from Scotland to England, as long as they were careful, and Wycombe paid them well enough.

  The small boat appeared in the moonlit water, and Will and Dugald sat in silence until it slid up on the sand.

  "Who goes?” Will called softly.

  "Tis a shipment for Wycombe,” said a gruff voice, muffled by a cloak.

  "Well met, then,” Dugald said, climbing from the shadows.

  The man in the cloak turned, and it was to Dugald's good fortune that the moonlight hit the barrel of the pistol in the instant before it fired. Will pounced, quick as a cat, slamming the man to the ground, forcing his face into the rocky sand. “Dugald,” he cried, “are you hit?"

  There was no reply.

  Chapter Eight

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  I detected the soft smell of burning peat as I approached the long croft on Beinn a'Choin. I carried a backpack with a picnic lunch, courtesy of Mrs. Much, including extra sandwiches in case I had to feed Cayden Spalding as well. The hike made me feel good, and my muscles tightened as I climbed the hillside, breathing in the moist Highland air. A fine layer of mist hung over the green hillsides.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  Just beyond the croft was a smaller stone building I hadn't noticed on my first encounter with Cayden Spalding. It was a round, fat cylinder of sorts. Only one story high and somewhat lopsided, it had a thick roof of thatch like the croft and the manor house. In the center of the roof a hole emanated an occasional puff of smoke. I trudged over towards the clanging sound. There was no door in the tower to speak of, just an opening on the opposite side, so I set my pack on the ground and peered into the darkness. Now that I was closer, in addition to the hammering, I could hear the haunting sounds of a woman singing about lovestruck highwaymen from somewhere within.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  I held my breath for a moment. Cayden Spalding stood, his head down, before a fire. In front of him was a large anvil, and his leather-gloved hands held a pair of tongs and a hammer, although I couldn't see what he was pounding on. With his red hair swept back, and the sheen of perspiration on his bare arms and chest, he glimmered in the firelight like some Norse blacksmith of long ago. He was so absorbed in his work that he hadn't yet noticed me. Trying to be polite, I cleared my throat and rapped on the frame of the doorway.

  Cayden looked up, and for a brief moment I felt like he was looking right through me. He shook his head. “Sorry, I couldn't tell who it was right off. It happens when I stare into the flames too long.” He held up the tongs. “What do you think o’ this one, then, Brynne Murray Marlette?"

  I was actually surprised he remembered my name, especially the Marlette part. No one else seemed to. He was displaying something for me to view, and I squinted into the darkness. “I'm sorry, I can't quite see.” I moved closer to the fire.

  Gripped in the tongs, he held a glowing candelabrum, the iron bent and twisted into a dragon. One of the five candles would rest at the snout, to give the appearance that the beast was breathing fire, while the rest were spaced evenly along the spine and tail. It was elegant in its simplicity.

  "Wow,” I whistled appreciatively. “That's amazing. How long did it take you to do that?"

  He shrugged. “A few weeks, off and on. It's a pair, you see, and the other one's already done with. Had a woman from Glassary order them as a wedding gift for her husband.” He surveyed his work critically in the dim light of the flames, then plunged the dragon into a tub of water, where it let off a vicious hissing sound. Steam rose around him, and I studied him through the mist.

  Cayden Spalding could have existed at any time, any time at all, in the last thousand years. The workshop was primitive, as was the craft itself, but I could easily imagine him forging blades of deadly steel for some rebellious Highland lord hundreds of years ago.

  I shook my head, blinking myself back to reality. Even though the summer had been a balmy and mild one, with a good deal of rain, I felt overpowered by the heat in the close space. I stifled the urge to fan myself and make some asinine comment about the weather.

  "What is this place, anyway?” I asked, to break the ice a little bit.

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. “It's a workshop, lass. What did you think it was?"

  "No, no,” I smiled. “I mean this building. It's the only one I've seen that's round and fat, instead of long and square like the crofts."

  He nodded. “Aye, ‘tis a broch,” he replied, as if that should answer my question well enough. Silly me. Of course it was a broch.

  "I'm sorry, a brock?"

  "Broch,” he enunciated, making the ch sound deep in his throat.

  "Oh, I get it. Rhymes with locchh, right?” I imitated his pronunciation, and he looked surprised.

  "You've been practicing, aye? Not bad for a Yank who's only been here a few weeks,” he admitted begrudgingly. He pulled the dragon from the bucket and tossed it on a wooden table, wiping his hands on his leather apron. “A broch is a defense tower. Usually you only see them on the coast, but for some reason there's one here at Kilgraeme. Been here a thousand years or so. Broch Caidil, the sleeping tower. Probably because it's all lopsided, aye? It was taller once, maybe forty or fifty feet high. It's been falling apart for centuries, but I've shored it up a wee bit on the sides with stones and added some thatch up top. ‘Tis perfectly safe,” he added, noting my look of concern.

  "Did you make the candelabra in the dining hall? At Kilgraeme, I mean?” I asked politely.

  He nodded. “Aye. They were a gift for your father when he came here."

  I was surprised. “I didn't realize you two were friends. All things considered, you know?” Oops. I kept forgetting that his wife had been found dead with my father.

  He laughed. “I wouldn't say we were friends, but ‘twas my job to watch over Jamie. You know about the Spaldings, do you?” he asked, wiping his forehead.

  "Evan said something about that, yeah."

  "Aye, well, in most cases Evan doesn't know shit. ‘Tis the eldest Spalding who remains at Kilgraeme, to protect the Murray. I rather had my hands full, what with Ranald being near as old as the manor itself, and your Da always ripping about on the loch in his wee sailboat,” he grumbled. I noticed, though, he was smiling a bit when he said it. “Jamie was a decent man, though. Died too soon."

  I found it strangely touching that he would refer to Jamie Murray as decent. I wondered, not for the first time, what my biological father had been like.

  Cayden emerged from behind the forge, and I realized what he was wearing beneath the apron. “Is that a kilt?” I gaped.

  "Aye,” he nodded. “Mack Piper m
ade it for me. Have you never seen a man in a kilt before?"

  "Only in movies,” I admitted. “I didn't really think anyone wore them anymore."

  "Sure,” he grinned. “It's a lot more comfortable than jeans or shorts. I don't wear it all the time, of course, but in here,” he indicated the fire with his hand, “in here it keeps me from, er, perspiring over much."

  I fleetingly thought of Mark and Gil dancing around the living room, singing a bawdy song about Scotsmen and their kilts the morning I left Charleston, and closed my eyes to push the image away. When I opened them, he was staring at me.

  "So what brings you back here again, Brynne Murray Marlette? Not storming today, to be sure."

  Suddenly I was uncomfortable under his steady gaze. “I, well, I came to make peace."

  "Peace?” He arched a rust-colored eyebrow at me. “I didn't know we were at war, you and I."

  I decided to try a different approach. “The last time I was here, we kind of got off to a weird start. I just wanted to apologize for invading your home like that. And then the other day, at the White Rose, I felt like our conversation was kind of strained. A truce, if you will."

  His gray eyes blinked. “Why?"

  "Why?” The question surprised me.

  "Why d'you want to make peace? You could live here an entire year and never see me,” he said casually. “I keep to myself, and Kilgraeme's a large estate."

  I sighed. No wonder Evan disliked the man. He was being intentionally difficult, and I couldn't help but think he was having a jolly good time doing so. “I brought lunch,” I offered.

  He was pulling a black t-shirt over his head, and paused, peeking out through the neck. “Lunch? What sort o’ lunch, dare I ask?"

  "Sandwiches,” I said helpfully. Noting his look of disdain, I added, “and some soup from Mrs. Much."

  He grinned widely. “Much sent a pot o’ stew?"

  "Well, a thermos. She said you might like some,” I admitted. In fact, when I had told Mrs. Much of my destination, the plump cook had practically begged me to take a supply of soup along.

  "Is it the barley stew she makes, with the rosemary in it, and green onions?"

  "I think so. It smelled good."

  Cayden Spalding sighed. “I'm never one to pass up a meal, lass, especially when Much provides the stew. Let me go wash up, and we'll walk down to the loch for a wee bit."

  I was pleasantly surprised. As soon as Mrs. Much's soup came into the conversation, the man had a change of heart. I would have to remember that in the future. Stew was a priceless commodity to Cayden Spalding.

  Gil had once said that the way to get a man's attention was to feed him. As always, my brother was right.

  * * * *

  A light summer breeze wafted across Loch Failte. After finishing my sandwich, I sat back in the soft grass and kicked off my boots, peeking sideways at Cayden Spalding as he devoured the chicken and barley soup. He had bopped into the croft and exchanged the kilt for a pair of faded jeans, and his damp hair hung loose around his face.

  "So, now that I've fed you, do you have time to talk to me a bit?"

  "Aye,” he nodded, peering into the empty Thermos. “Are you sure you didn't want any of this?"

  "No, I'm good, thanks.” I hesitated for a moment, not sure how to approach the subject.

  "What did you need to speak with me about, then?"

  "My father."

  He was silent for a while, and I thought I saw a shadow cross briefly over his face. “Ah. More about Jamie. I thought that might be it."

  I waited, and when he said nothing, I said, “Mrs. Much told me about Melissa. I'm sorry.” I meant it.

  "Aye, well, so was I, for a bit. What was it you want to know?"

  I shrugged. “I didn't know any of them,” I said, and suddenly I was filled with a wave of regret. “The Murrays. My mother never told me anything about Jamie, other than they'd had a brief fling while she was in college, and he was traveling around America on a motorcycle."

  He laughed. “That sounds like Jamie. He liked to have fun, and he liked women who liked to have fun.” His face sobered up. “Probably how he ended up with Melissa, despite her being twenty years younger than he was. She liked a good party, you know?"

  I thought of my mother, coming home reeking of vodka. “Yeah, I know."

  "And when Much called to tell me Melissa had gone missing, I didn't think anything of it, really.” He stared out over the loch. “We'd been separated for a few years already."

  "You weren't divorced?"

  He shook his head. “Her mother would have killed us both. Good Catholic stock, you know. Anyway, Melissa was never one for telling a body where she'd be."

  I shifted uncomfortably. I wanted information, but this was awkward, and I wondered just how much to bring up about his late wife. “And she was on the boat with my father?"

  "Aye, so they say. We never found Jamie after the storm. Just the wee boat they'd been off in."

  "Did you find Melissa's.... I mean, did you find her?"

  He nodded, and I thought I noticed a hint of dampness in his gray eyes. “Muncaster was the one who found her, if that's what you're asking.” He looked at the ground. “She'd been in the water a while."

  "I'm so very sorry,” I said softly. It was all I could say, and it was the truth. For a moment we sat, two strangers united by tragedy.

  He shook his head, and stared at the gentle swells of the lake, lapping upon the rocky shore. “Ah, well,” he sighed. “To tell you honestly, I didn't know it was your father she was in love with. I had no idea."

  "Really?"

  He laughed hoarsely. “Aye. I knew Melissa was seeing someone. All the signs were there, but as I said, we'd been separated a while. She was living in the main house, with her mother and Emily. Melissa went about her business and I went about mine. I didn't hate her, though. I didn't feel anything towards her at all."

  This was interesting. “Much told me Melissa had died with the man she loved. Who did you think it was, if not my father?"

  He glared at me then, a cold gray stare. “The truth?"

  I nodded.

  "I thought she was sleeping with Evan Muncaster. And if she did love him, I expect it was one-sided."

  I digested this silently for a while. His suspicion certainly explained the tension between the two men, even if Evan hadn't been the one.

  "Look,” I said. “This has all been very weird. Everyone here seems to have these little secrets, and you all expect me to putter around Kilgraeme minding my own business.” I stretched and helped myself to a slice of pie that Mrs. Much had thoughtfully placed in the backpack. “Want one?"

  He took the other slice. It was some kind of berry, and it was heavenly. I couldn't think of anything else to say to Cayden Spalding, so we just sat and ate pie and enjoyed the silence. Finally, he spoke.

  "Will you be holding Council on Friday, then?"

  I groaned. “I guess so. Sandie MacFarlane seems to think she has something important to say in front of everyone, and Mrs. Much has already planned a big breakfast for all of us. I suppose I'd better do it. Everyone seems to expect it of me, don't they?"

  He smiled, and I noticed his teeth were perfectly straight, except for a small gap between the two top ones. It was rather charming to see that someone so ruggedly handsome was just a little flawed. “Aye, well, the Murrays have always held Council. Goes back to old Colin, back in the seventeen hundreds."

  I perked up at the mention of Colin's name. “How much do you know about Colin and his family?"

  He looked over at me cautiously. “What is it you're after knowing?"

  I told him about my day in the library and the deed of sasine, in which Colin had given his lands over to an English person named Ludlow. I even mentioned my theory that it was Susannah, Dugald's wife, who had been the recipient of the deed. Unlike Evan, he didn't entirely disregard my idea.

  "It was witnessed by a Thomas Spalding, too,” I added. “Was that some rela
tive of yours?"

  "Aye, a great-great-something ancestor. My father was descended from one of his sons. As far as the deed of sasine, I don't know why Colin would turn his lands over to Susannah Ludlow, except perhaps because she was English, rather than a Scot. Maybe he wanted to keep the Crown from getting their hands on Kilgraeme. Dig around in those papers of yours a wee bit longer. If it's a mystery you're after solving, I'm sure the answer is in there somewhere."

  "Maybe I'll ask Trish if she knows anything about it,” I mused, half to myself.

  He suddenly grabbed my arm. “Don't trust that woman, Brynne. She's a calculating one, and she's only here because she's on Evan Muncaster's payroll."

  "Why does everyone feel compelled to warn me about all the other people here? It's better than any soap opera on television, that's for sure.” He was holding my wrist tightly, and I squirmed a little. “Ow,” I said politely.

  "Sorry.” He let go, and brushed a stray lock of red hair out of his face. “It's just that she's a wee bit sneaky, that's all. Always skulking around on the moors, peering about into other people's business."

  "Skulking?” It was hard to imagine Trish and her boundless amounts of energy skulking anywhere, let alone peering. “I can't quite see it,” I admitted.

  "Aye? Where does she go off to during the day, then?” he asked.

  I rolled my eyes. “She says she's doing genealogy research. How do I know?"

  "Ah.” He nodded triumphantly. “Out prodding about, she is."

  "What's she prodding about for, then?” I asked. I was a little skeptical.

  "I don't know for sure,” he admitted. “But she's up to something. She's been comin’ here every other summer for years, and always wanders about the countryside lookin’ at things."

  "Maybe she likes the scenery,” I said, although I didn't really mean it.

  He popped his last bite of pie into his mouth and looked at me thoughtfully. “You have a little clump of berry, right here,” he said, motioning to the side of his lip.

  Embarrassed, I wiped it off. We talked at length then about the upcoming Council, and no more mention was made of Trish. But I had to admit, Cayden had given me something to think about. Where exactly did Trish MacGregor go all day?