The Secret Gift (12 page)

“I had no idea the castle was quite that old.”

“I would have thought your real estate agent would have told you that when you bought the place.”

Graeme looked at her. “Actually, I’m the caretaker here. The castle was purchased by another party.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie.

The castle had been purchased and put into a trust for the earldom of Abermuir, a title currently held by his mother, the Countess of Abermuir, to be inherited by Graeme.

A tall case clock standing by the door struck ten as they finished the last of their breakfast.

Libby stood, started to clear the table; Graeme got up to help her. In the kitchen, she flipped on the tap, filling the sink to wash. She tossed a dry towel to him. “I’ll wash. You dry.”

And he did. Graeme had never dreamed that he could find pleasure in such a thoroughly domestic enterprise. More than once their hands brushed as she handed him the dishes to dry. Each time they did, the kitchen seemed to grow that much warmer.

When they were finished, she turned toward him, standing at the sink with the sun playing on her dark hair, her eyes bright, her mouth so very near.

“I probably should call the rental car company,” she said.

Graeme tore his eyes from her mouth. “Right. The phone is in the front hall.”

Libby nodded, started for the hall, passing the den where she’d slept the night before. She took up the phone to dial, then realized she had left the rental agreement with all the information she would need in the car. She headed for the front door to retrieve it—

—and froze.

High on the wall above the main stairwell stood a portrait, a huge, full-length image of a woman. She wore an antique-looking gown with wide, elegantly draped skirts and full, lacy sleeves. She was standing on the very staircase she graced, and she was beautiful, her dark hair strung with pearls as pale as her milky skin. But it wasn’t the rich satin of her gown, or the brilliant blue of her eyes that captured Libby’s attention.

It was the stone hanging around her slender neck.

The same stone Libby had found hidden away in her mother’s secret chest.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Libby was so overwhelmed by the portrait, she hadn’t heard Graeme come up behind her. She turned to look at him, speechless.

“Is something wrong? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Who is she?”

He shrugged. “I’m afraid I do not know. The portrait was hanging there when I arrived. The sale of the castle must have included all the furnishings.” He looked at her. “Why do you ask?”

Libby reached toward her neck, to show him the chain and the stone that she wore beneath his borrowed sweater.

But down the hall there came a sudden knocking on the front door.

Libby stilled as Graeme turned and headed for the door.

She heard PC Angus MacLeith’s voice a moment later.

“Good morning, Mr. Mackenzie. I, ehm, noticed Miss Hutchinson’s vehicle in your drive. I assume she is here?”

Graeme stepped back and allowed the constable inside.

“Hello, Angus,” Libby said, waving beneath a sweater that was so obviously not hers. She could only imagine how this must look.

“Good morning to you. We were worried in the village that you’d run into a bit of trouble last night.”

She nodded. “The rental car. It has apparently decided to go on a vacation of its own. It wouldn’t start. Mr. Mackenzie was kind enough to offer me shelter for the night.” She looked down at the oversized sweater and pants. “And clothing, after I got drenched in the storm.”

Angus looked at her, weighing her words, then nodded. “The sisters o’er at the Crofter’s Cottage have been calling me every hour since nightfall last night. They’re worried sick over you.”

“I knew they would be. I couldn’t call. The castle lost power in the storm.”

He nodded. “Have you phoned the car hire this morning?”

“I was actually just about to when you arrived.”

“Why don’t I have a look at it first? Perhaps it’s something I can tend to. Might save you the trouble.”

She nodded. “I’ll just get the key.”

Libby met Angus and Graeme out on the drive after quickly shoving her feet into her still-damp shoes. Angus had the hood of the car open and was bent over it, doing whatever it was that men did beneath the hood of a car.

Libby got in, tried the key when Angus called for her to. The engine clicked, then nothing more. Angus fiddled with it some more, called to her to try it again. Nothing. On the third try, the engine turned easily.

“Thank you,” she said. She left the engine to idle and got out of the car.

“It’s got a loose spark plug fitting. I was able to tighten it enough for now, but you’d better take it by MacNeish’s garage in the village and have it looked at it.”

“Thanks. I will.”

They stood there a moment, all three of them, saying nothing.

“If you’d like,” Angus finally said, “I can follow you back to town, just to make sure that plug doesn’t come loose again.”

“Oh.” Libby looked at Graeme, who was looking down at the driveway. “Yes, that would be great. Thank you, Angus. I’ll just ...” She caught Graeme’s eyes as she turned. His face had changed from earlier that morning at breakfast when he’d been chatting with her. Then he’d been easy, relaxed in her company. Now he looked withdrawn, even guarded. “I’ll just get my things from inside.”

He nodded silently.

Libby ran inside the castle, grabbing her jeans and socks and sweater from the rack where they’d dried overnight. She paused a moment, thinking she would change into them, but thought better of it. She would wash the sweater and pants she’d borrowed and return them in a day or two. It would give her an excuse to come back and look more closely at that portrait.

“Thank you so much for—everything, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said to Graeme out on the drive. “I’ll ...” She looked at him. “I’ll be sure to wash your things and bring them back as soon as I can. I appreciate the loan.”

“My pleasure, Miss Hutchinson,” he replied. Even in his voice there was a noticeable aloofness.

Libby tossed her things into the backseat, then got into the still-idling Vauxhall Astra. She saw Angus nod in parting to Graeme, then head for his patrol car. She gave Graeme one last look before easing the car into reverse.

The two spinster sisters descended upon Libby the moment she stepped through the door of the B and B.

“Oh, thank goodness you are safe!”

“Whatever happened to you?”

“We were worried half to death!”

Libby allowed them to lead her—as if she had any other choice—into the kitchen, where she spent the next forty minutes relating the events of the previous night over a hastily brewed pot of tea.

“Well, it certainly was a lucky thing that you were at the castle when the car quit like that.”

Lucky, Libby agreed. Perhaps, having discovered the things she had—the thistle emblem on the gate, her mother’s name etched in the window, the portrait and the woman wearing the stone—perhaps just a little fated, too?

“So tell us,” Aggie said, topping off Libby’s tea, “what of this Mr. Graeme Mackenzie? He’s quite the village mystery, you know. Rarely comes to town or talks to anyone. Stays up there all alone, except for Flora, the police constable’s sister, who works as his housekeeper. But she won’t tell us a thing about him, and we’ve yet to even see the man ourselves.”

“He’s ...” Libby paused to choose her words carefully. “He’s cordial.”

“And handsome, too, they say.”

Libby avoided their eyes, adding cream to her tea. “Hmm? Yes, I guess you could say he’s handsome.”

He certainly had done that pair of Levi’s justice.

“And no one knows who he is or where he comes from.”

They were staring at her, obviously hoping she would reveal some juicy tidbit they could then repeat throughout the village.

But there was nothing to reveal.

Libby realized then that while they had chatted together over breakfast that morning, he had told her virtually nothing of himself.

Libby made to rise from the table.

“You’re leaving?” they asked in nearly perfect unison. “But you’ve just gotten back.”

“I think I’ll have a quick bath, change, and then I’ve a stop to make at M’Cuick’s store. Need to ask about a gadget for my computer. Can I get anything for either of you while I’m in the village?”

An hour later Libby was walking down the high street, the sisters’ market list tucked in her jacket pocket.

The day had held fair, brushed with a soft, salty breeze that whispered in off the sea. As she walked, she noticed that many of the villagers were out, giving her curious glances. Undeterred by their unwillingness to talk to her the days before, Libby waved and smiled, calling out pleasant greetings to them. They returned the greetings, all the while keeping a safe distance from her, the village’s newest “incomer.”

Ian M’Cuick poked his head up from behind the counter, where he was sorting through boxes of screws as Libby entered the store.

“Ah, Miss Hutchinson,” he said, genuinely happy to see her. “ ’Tis relieved I am to see you came to no harm in the storm yestreen. ’Twas quite a fierce one, it was.”

Libby smiled, nodded. “No, no harm, just a thorough soaking from the rain—and a loose spark plug fitting. I left the car at MacNeish and Sons’ garage.”

“Ah, Sean MacNeish will take care of that for you straightaway.” Ian looked at her over the top of his inventory sheet. “I understand you spent the night at the castle.”

“Well, news certainly travels quickly.”

“Och, ’tis a small village, lass. The setting of the sun is newsworthy here.”

Libby picked up a small flashlight from the counter rack, the sort that attached to a keychain. Remembering the night before, she decided to buy it. “It is a beautiful place, the castle,” she said, as nonchalantly as if she were discussing the weather. “Have you ever been to it?”

“Oh, aye,” Ian answered. “When I was a lad, there was a ball held at the castle each winter. ’Twas tradition that the laird would host the ball and all the village would turn out. It was quite the event, looked forward to by everyone each year.” He sighed. “But when the last laird died, so did the tradition of the winter ball. He was a good man, the laird. Our last Mackay laird of Wrath.”

“Did you know the family, Ian?”

“Oh, aye. The Mackay and the M’Cuicks have a close tie that goes back to the eighteenth century when my ancestors worked at the castle.”

“Would they be Malcolm and Kettie M’Cuick?” Libby asked. “I saw their names etched into a pane of glass in the kitchen.”

Ian smiled. “My great-grandparents four times over. I’m told they met and fell in love at the castle, that he saved her life when she’d been left for dead. I remember when I was a wee laddie, I would always slip away from the laird’s ball and steal to the kitchen. I could sit there and stare at that window for hours, just reading every name.”

“So you must know quite a bit about the castle’s history.”

“Oh, aye. A bit.”

He seemed willing talk to her that morning, so Libby pressed on.

“There is a portrait in the castle, Ian, that hangs just above the hall. It’s of a lady”—Libby reached for the chain around her neck—“and she was wearing this.”

Libby slipped the chain from beneath the collar of her sweater, pulling until the crystal emerged.

Ian blinked as his eyes locked on the stone. The surprise in his expression was genuine.

“You know this stone,” she said.

“Aye, lass. I do. ’Tis Lady Isabella’s stone.”

“Lady Isabella Mackay?”

“Aye. She was the wife of a Mackay chieftain. ’Twas her you saw pictured in the portrait.”

“Isabella is my name, too. Libby is sort of a nickname.”

Ian simply looked at her. “Is it now? Hmm ... and you’re wearing Lady Isabella’s stone—”

“Ian M’Cuick!”

The sudden blast of a woman’s voice coming from behind her startled Libby. She turned and recognized the woman who had been at the store the first day she’d come, the same woman who’d denied knowing who her mother had been. Only this time the woman’s unfriendly smile was turned upon Ian.

“Miss Hutchinson,” Ian said, as if she’d just interrupted nothing more than a discussion of the weather, “have you met my dear wife of forty-seven years, Betty M’Cuick?”

The woman wore an expression that was anything but welcoming. “Hello,” she said somewhat gruffly.

“Mrs. M’Cuick, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

“I already told you, lass, we canna help you.”

“Now, Betty—”

“But, Ian, what about—”

“Wheesht,
woman! The lass has the stone. D’you ken what that means? It’s come back again. The stone is returned.” His voice dropped softly. “She has a right to know, Betty.”

Betty looked at her husband. Her face, severe to begin with, was pinched with worry as she beseeched her husband with her eyes.

“She has a right to know the truth,” he repeated.

Finally, slowly, Betty nodded.

Ian glanced quickly at his wristwatch. “ ’Tis nearly time to close up the shop for tea. Why don’t you take the lass upstairs whilst I hang the sign and lock the door. I’ll be up directly.”

Libby followed Betty up a narrow flight of back stairs to a small parlor that was decorated in tartan woolens and quaint little knickknacks. A fire burned sluggishly in the hearth, and Libby took a seat on the small sofa while Betty tossed a peat brick on the grate, poking at the embers to stoke a flame. Libby watched as she straightened, tucking a graying strand of hair behind her kerchief.

“I’ll just go and boil the water for tea.”

“Can I help you?” Libby asked, but was answered with a simple dismissive wave of Betty’s hand, leaving her to sit alone, staring at the modest walls.

Ian came into the room some five minutes later, at almost precisely the same moment that Betty returned with the tea tray.

“Now,” Ian said, his eyes lighting on the basket of scones Betty had brought, “first, I must apologize to you for the less-than-neighborly reception you’ve received from some of the villagers.” He eyed his wife. “We’re not at all an unfriendly sort. Quite the contrary. Under other circumstances, you would have been welcomed with open arms and the best of Scottish hospitality. Perhaps after I’ve said my piece, you’ll understand more the reasons why.”