The Secret Gift (10 page)

She had no other choice.

Libby pulled her coat up over her head and made a dash for it, splashing across the courtyard to the door once again. With a fist, she pounded on the wood, then used the door knocker for added measure.

He wasn’t answering. She could feel the rain soaking through her light jacket, saturating the sweater she wore underneath it, weighing the wool of it down. A puddle had formed around her feet, soaking her shoes. She tried to press in as closely as she could to the castle wall, looking for some small bit of shelter. After another round of unanswered pounding, she tossed politeness to the wind and tried the latch.

It was locked.

“Please!” she shouted against the roar of the storm. “It’s an emergency!”

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, she heard the latch click, and the door opened, allowing just a sliver of light from inside. It was enough to afford her a glimpse of one very disapproving eye.

“I know you have made your feelings about outside company abundantly clear, but my car will not start. I cannot leave. Please, I just need to use your phone.”

He just stared at her while the rain continued to drown her.

“Please,” she said, desperate now, “here are the keys. You can go and try it yourself if you don’t believe me. Please!”

Frowning deeply, he pulled the door open only wide enough for her to squeeze inside.

Libby found herself standing in a shadowed entrance hall whose only light was a small lamp set on a table against the wall. It threw tall shadows all the way up the bare stone walls to a beamed ceiling, which echoed with the sound of the closing door. She stood dripping on the flagstoned floor, staring up at him, wishing she were anywhere—anywhere—but there.

“I just need to call the rental car agency so they can bring me another car.”

Outside, a clap of thunder gave a sudden, jarring boom, rattling the castle windows.

And then, as if to seal her wretched fate, the lights went out. Everything went black.

Libby froze, waiting in the silence.

A moment later she heard a drawer open, a match struck, and she watched as he lit a candle. He looked at her in the flickering, ghostly light. “Leave your coat to dry on the hook there and your shoes on the mat.”

Libby shucked off the saturated jacket. Her shoes sloshed when she yanked them off her feet, and her socks were soaked to the toes.

“Follow me.”

He was so tall, and his expression was so austere, he made her think of the eerie butler from
The Addams Family.
What was his name?

Lurch.

Perfect.

He led her through the hall and up a short flight of stairs, crossing first one room and then another as they moved further into the house. Libby couldn’t see anything except the flickering of his candle and his frowning profile illuminated in its hazy light. They turned a corner, and Libby spotted firelight spilling from an open doorway ahead. He stopped there, showing her into a den of sorts with overstuffed sofas and armchairs set before a stone hearth with a roaring fire.

The room was rather medieval-looking, with a low, beamed ceiling and narrow windows cut into the thickness of the castle walls. Libby crossed to the hearth, but even the warmth of the fire couldn’t penetrate her drenched clothes. She felt her teeth begin to chatter.

“You should remove your socks and set them to dry by the fire. I’ll go and see if I can find something for you to wear.”

“No, really. That isn’t necessary. If you’ll just show me where your phone is ...”

He picked up a cordless from a table. “No electricity.”

“Is that the only phone?”

“Other than the fax machine, yes.”

“I knew I should have gotten a mobile ...”

“Wouldn’t do you any good. We’re too remote for any services.”

She nodded. “Well, surely the power will be restored momentarily.”

He looked at her with as much incredulity as if she had just stated she still believed in Santa Claus. “Likely not before the morning, I’m afraid.”

“The morning?”

“If it’s an area outage, yes. If it’s a problem just here at the house, it could take longer. In any case, I can’t even notify them of the problem till tomorrow when I drive into the village.”

That’s right, Libby remembered. He had a Land Rover.

“Perhaps you could just give me a lift back to the village now? I know the weather is dreadful, but you could use the phone at the B and B where I’m staying to call the power company and—”

“I gave my vehicle to the housekeeper. She has gone down to Inverness for shopping. She won’t be back till tomorrow.”

Libby had run out of suggestions. She didn’t know what else she could say. So she just stared at him, her hair dripping onto her nose.

“I’ll just go and find you something to wear, then.”

Libby stood in front of the fire and waited for him to return.

The room, she noticed, giving it a closer look, was well lived in, not pristine and perfect as one would expect of such a dramatic castle but quite homey, with pillows of varying sizes and colors scattered across the two sofas, and various books and odd bits littering the tabletops. The inner walls were warmly paneled in rich golden oak that glowed in the light of the fire. In the corner, a pair of shoes were drying by the hearth and Libby noticed a dog lying on the well-trodden carpet by the heating register.

“Hello there,” she said softly, hunkering down and extending a hand in greeting.

He was a black-and-white collie with floppy ears. When he lifted his head to give her fingers a sniff, she noticed he had one blue eye and one brown.

She was scratching the dog behind his ears when Graeme came back into the room. He handed her a gray cable-knit sweater and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Murphy.” He held out the clothes. “I’m afraid this is all I could find that would suffice. You’ll have to roll back the pant legs a bit.”

Libby stood there, staring at him.

He stood staring back.

Finally she asked, “Bathroom?”

“Oh. Of course. My apologies. It’s just down the corridor to the right. You can take the candle to help you find your way.”

Libby tucked the clothes under one arm, took up the candlestick, and headed down the hall. She found the bathroom moments later, little more than a closet really, with a sink and a toilet and nothing much more. She wondered if the room had previously been a broom closet, before the addition of modern indoor plumbing.

She closed the door behind her, looked in the mirror, and groaned. Dear God, she looked a fright. Her hair was plastered to her head like a soggy black mop, and her mascara had run where the rain had pelted her face. She looked like a sad, drowned raccoon.

She quickly peeled off her wet clothing, giving her socks a squeeze over the sink. She washed her face and fluffed her hair dry with the hand towel she found in the cupboard, then slid his sweater over her head. As he was a great deal taller than her, it fell nearly to her knees, completely enveloping her. The wool smelled pleasantly of detergent and cedar and was soft, not at all scratchy. She pulled the sweatpants over her legs, and pulled, and pulled some more until her feet finally poked out the bottoms. Tying the drawstring waist, she rolled the cuffs over four times so she wouldn’t trip on them. Then she headed back to the den.

She found him sitting on a sofa, staring into the fire. The lines of his face were pronounced in the firelight, his dark hair burnished a rich bronze. His eyes, she noticed, had long lashes.

Any thought of Lurch was immediately quashed.

He didn’t say a word as Libby carefully draped her jeans and sweater over a wooden drying stand near the hearth. She turned to face him.

The moment she turned, Graeme was struck by the sight of her standing there wearing his clothes. Though the sweater swam on her and the sweatpants looked as if they could easily accommodate two of her, somehow she still looked incredibly, undeniably feminine.

He blinked, and then quickly reined in his senses. “I took the liberty of pouring you a whiskey to help chase away the chill. Without any power, I’m afraid I couldn’t boil water for tea.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mackenzie.”

He frowned as she used his name, this a second time. He knew perfectly well he hadn’t revealed it to her. But what else should he expect? Of course she knew his name. Thanks to that rag of a tabloid and its bloody contest, everybody in bloody Britain knew his name.

He watched as she took up the whiskey glass and folded her legs into the soft cushions of the opposite sofa. Her hair curled wildly around her face, making her appear vulnerable somehow. She took a small sip of the whiskey, a drink she was apparently not much accustomed to if the telltale grimace that followed was any evidence.

“I feel at quite a disadvantage,” he said. “You seem to know my name, but I do not have any idea of yours.”

She looked at him. “Libby Hutchinson.”

“And judging by the accent, I’d warrant you’re from America. East Coast. New England. Not quite Boston, but close.”

She nodded. “Impressive, although for the past several years it’s been New York I’ve called home.”

They chatted on, and Graeme found her easy to talk to as well as being very easy to look at, sitting there in her bare feet, snuggled in his wool jumper, appearing so without any agenda, so charming that he had to keep reminding himself that she was just another one of
them.

No matter how much he hadn’t wanted to allow her in, he wasn’t so heartless as to leave her stranded in his driveway in the middle of such a terrible storm. He hadn’t seen any sign of a camera yet. In fact, she hadn’t come in with so much as a purse. Still, to be safe, he knew he’d better keep as much distance between them as possible and have her out of there at the earliest opportunity.

Graeme stood up.

“I’m afraid none of the bedrooms are in readiness for guests, so I hope you won’t mind doing with a blanket on the sofa. You’ll be warmer in here with the fire anyway.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly surprised at his abrupt leave-taking. It had barely gone seven o’clock, rather early yet for retiring. “Yes, the sofa will be more than fine. Thank you.”

He realized he probably should have offered her supper, even if only a cold sandwich.

“The kitchen is just down the hall, past the bathroom, if you’d like something to eat or drink. There’s sliced ham in the refrigerator.” He almost told her to make herself at home, but thought the better of it. “And if you look in the cupboard, you might even manage to find a package of Hob Nobs.”

“Thank you,” she said. Then after an awkward stretch of responding silence, “Good night, then.”

He gave a single nod. “Good night, Miss Hutchinson.”

An hour later, Libby couldn’t stand it anymore.

She simply had to know what a Hob Nob was.

Despite the warmth of the fire, the floor was cold beneath her feet when she stood up from the sofa. She checked her socks, but they were still quite damp. She happened to notice a pair of slippers set beside the hearth and slid her feet into them before she headed for the door. They were quite big, so she ended up scuffing her feet against the wooden floor as she shuffled, candle in hand, down the hall toward the kitchen.

In contrast to the bathroom, the kitchen was huge, and modernly appointed, with a high, raftered ceiling that echoed with her footsteps. She set the candle on the far countertop and took a look around, noting the stove, a small washing machine, and a stainless-steel wall oven. She spotted the fridge in the corner and went to it, removing the platter of ham, a bottle of mineral water, and in a last-minute change of heart, the pint of Häagen-Dazs Coffee Mocha Chip she found tucked in the freezer.

She found a spoon in a drawer and searched for a bowl. When she couldn’t find one, she stuck the spoon straight into the container. It was only half full anyway. Why bother to dirty a bowl?

The first spoonful of ice cream melted smoothly in her mouth, the perfect mixture of coffeehouse mocha and bittersweet chocolate chips. What was it about chocolate that made even the worst situation fade away? She eyed the ham platter, but decided against it and simply stood against the counter, ice cream carton in hand, watching the rain outside spilling down the window in sheets.

As she stood there, she thought about Miss Aggie and Miss Maggie, who were no doubt fretting over her absence. They would be keeping her plate of shepherd’s pie warm in the oven while they waited for her to arrive for their promised card game. She could only hope they wouldn’t spend the night watching the front window for her, even as she knew that they would.

In no time at all the ice cream had vanished. Libby tossed the empty carton into the trash bin and washed the spoon at the sink, setting it in the drying rack. She put the ham back in the fridge untouched, took up the water bottle as she turned to leave. She realized then she’d never found anything called Hob Nobs.

But as she reached for the candle to leave, she spotted something else, something that seemed to be scratched into the far corner window. It looked like some sort of writing.

Libby took up the candle, brought its light closer. There was an etching of some sort on the windowpane. As she looked closely, she saw that it read, “Malcolm and Kettie M’Cuick, 1753.”

There were etchings on other panes, too, all names and dates, spanning some two hundred years. Libby stood and read through them all, captivated by this remarkable piece of history. Some had etched just their names, others had etched lines of poetry. But it was one pane in particular, high above the others, that had her stopping and catching her breath.

Matilde Donn, 1959.

Libby touched a fingertip to the glass where her mother’s name had been scribbled as the swell of tears filled her eyes.

Matilde had been there after all.

Libby turned, seized with a feeling of gleeful validation. Other than that birth record, this was the first tangible proof that her mother had lived in the village, grown up there. Libby wanted to shout out loud—
Yes!
She wanted to high-five something. She wanted to tell someone this incredibly good news. Instead, all she found was an empty room.