The Secret Gift (34 page)

After they’d roused themselves from the laird’s bed, they’d shared a bath in that great claw-foot tub. Libby had been right. It really had been big enough for the two of them, and as she sat cradled in Graeme’s arms, he softly slid soapy hands over her still-tingling skin. They’d kissed, lingering in the warmth of the water that surrounded them, and Libby wondered at how her life had changed in the past weeks. How could it be that just a month earlier she had convinced herself she would never find anyone, that she would never be able to trust anyone again? She’d envisioned herself growing old, alone, with no husband and no children to comfort her.

Until she’d met Graeme.

She smiled to herself as she remembered their first encounter over the sight of his shotgun. Would it be a story they would tell their children, even their grandchildren someday? Libby reined the thought back, afraid to move too quickly, remembering the whirlwind romance with Jeff that had turned so quickly into a hurricane. It was a mistake she didn’t intend to repeat.

As they walked the pathway that led to the hall, they could see some of the villagers milling about outside, chatting together and sharing a laugh over a pint. They waved to Libby and called to her in greeting, some nodding to Graeme, others giving him curious looks, for a good many in the village had never seen the mysterious caretaker of their castle other than perhaps a vague silhouette through the tinted windows of his Land Rover as he’d rolled past their cottage gardens.

Inside, the hall was fairly bursting, and the
ceilidh
was in full swing. Children were playing, chasing each other around the sea of grown-ups, and the ale kegs and whiskey bottles were thoroughly tapped. For those not old enough, or not interested in the stronger spirits, there was a punch bowl and pitchers of lemonade, and tables were lined against one wall, heaped with platters of sandwiches and meat pies, potatoes, cabbage, bannocks, oatcakes, and of course the ubiquitous haggis.

The floorboards thrummed with the footsteps of the dancers, who were turning and spinning about the room to the fiddles, pipes, and drums resounding from the makeshift bandstand at the far end of the hall.

Flora was one of the first to see Libby and Graeme come into the hall and came over to greet them.

“Good e’en to you both. You’re lookin’ lovely t’night, Libby. The dress suits you.”

The soft cottony floral had arrived at the castle earlier that evening, brought by one of Flora’s little ones, a red-haired darling named Rose who’d curtseyed after handing the dress over to Libby at the door. With it a short note: “Saw this in Effie MacNeil’s shop window and thought of you.”

Since she hadn’t known about the
ceilidh,
Libby hadn’t had the time to shop for something suitable to wear. But even if she had, the dress Flora had sent to her wasn’t of the sort Libby would have ever considered for herself. When she wore dresses, which wasn’t often with her working lifestyle, they were usually tailored, suitlike, and starkly professional. This dress could never be called any of those things.

It was unquestionably feminine, made from a simple cottony print with cap sleeves that skimmed her shoulders and a bodice that buttoned up the front, hugging her torso and ending in a sweeping hem that fell to just above her ankles. She’d worn her skimmer shoes and a pale blue cardigan to guard against the chill of the night. Her hair was down, hanging in a soft flip around her shoulders, with the narrow ribbon she’d threaded through it to hold it back from her face.

Libby had stared at her reflection and had been dumbfounded. She’d never thought of herself as very pretty, hidden as she usually was behind her working trousers and baggy sweaters. Passably attractive, perhaps, but wearing this dress made her feel unfamiliarly alluring.

“I have you to thank for it.” Libby smiled. “And you likewise. You look lovely.”

Indeed, Flora was a vision in a pale green frock that showed her slender dancer’s figure to advantage. It was the first time Libby had ever seen her hair down and not wound back beneath a kerchief or in its usual knot. It was a riot of vivid red curls that fell nearly to her waist and shone in the low light inside the hall. She looked stunning, standing with her youngest tucked against the crook of one hip, an eighteen-month-old named Seamus for the father he’d lost while he’d still been in the womb.

Seamus had his thumb stuck fast in his mouth, and his eyes were the same brilliant green as his mother’s, but his hair was dark and his lashes long and full. She could already see he’d grow up to be quite handsome, and she wondered if he had inherited those dark lashes from the father he’d never been given the chance to know.

“I don’t see that brother of yours anywhere,” Libby said to her. “Where is Angus? Is he on duty tonight?”

“Oh, Angus had a call from the chief constable just as I was leaving. He said he’d be along shortly.” She scanned the assembly, looking for him in the throng. “I don’t quite see him yet. I wonder what is keeping him. It’s been a while ...”

“Flora, lass!”

It was Ian M’Cuick who’d called out, and from the skewed angle of his necktie, the muss in his hair, and the look in his eyes, he’d apparently been sampling at the whiskey table for some time.

“Come now, lass. My wife isna looking. How about givin’ us a wee turn about the dance floor, aye?” He looked at Libby, squinting at her from behind his eyeglasses. “Oh, hallo, Libby ...” He made to tip his hat in greeting, a hat that he apparently didn’t realize wasn’t even there.

Flora laughed. “I’ll take a turn wit’ you, Ian, if you can convince Libby ’ere to take my wee one while we dance.”

Libby needed no convincing. She didn’t even need asking. She took Seamus into her arms and watched as Flora and Ian joined the other dancers on the floor. Despite his inebriation, Ian was a most coherent dancer as they turned and stepped in perfect unison around the crowded floor. When Sean MacNeish came up to cut in, Flora threw back her head and laughed, enjoying being the object of two men’s admiration. It was a nice change from her usual role of housekeeper and frazzled single mother.

“See your mama, Seamus? Isn’t she a pretty dancer?” Seamus just stared at Libby, sucking furiously on his thumb.

Libby tucked his head beneath her cheek and swayed softly with him to the rhythm of the music, humming and breathing in the soft child’s scent of his hair. She closed her eyes, losing herself in the warmth and closeness of him against her breast. She could feel Seamus’s small body begin to grow heavier as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

“Oh, but she’s a natural, isn’t she?”

Graeme looked to where one of the twin spinster sisters from the B and B had suddenly appeared beside him. She was wearing a yellow dress, and he searched his brain, trying to remember which of the two, Miss Aggie or Miss Maggie, she might be.

Unable to recall, he simply smiled and nodded.

“You can always tell what sort of mother a lass will be when you see how she is with another woman’s children. Our Libby there looks to have been born to it, she does.”

The woman’s hint was quite clear, even without the added wink she gave him. Graeme, however, had already been thinking the same thing. In fact he couldn’t take his eyes off Libby as she rocked Flora’s child gently to the music. She was beautiful, and the sight of her had him imagining her standing, holding and rocking another child—their child—and the feeling it gave him was more poignant than the swell of the sea, piercing him deeply inside.

It was a feeling that he now realized was love.

Libby was standing beside old Gil, and as soon as Flora returned from dancing with Ian to claim her child, Gil swung a protesting Libby onto the floor.

“But I don’t know any of the steps!”

Gil, however, would hear none of it.

“Come, lass. You’ve nothing to worry over. ’Tis in your Scottish blood, it is.”

Libby took his hand and tried to follow his lead. She stumbled almost immediately and made to leave the floor, but Gil wouldn’t let her quit that easily. He took her to the far side of the dancing floor and showed her the steps, walking her through them little by little. Soon she was performing the dance’s measure, and tentatively they eased into the swirl of other dancers while the onlookers called out encouragement from the sidelines.

“There, you’ve got it, lass!”

Gil had Libby by the waist and was leading her through the fast-paced turns and skips so quickly, she doubted her feet even touched the floor.

“My mother used to dance like this in our parlor with me when I was a little girl. Funny, I didn’t remember it until just now.”

“Och, Matilde was a fine dancer, she was. The village lads would all line up for a chance just to take a turn with her. You’ve inherited her natural step for it, I see.

They became separated by the steps of the dance, turning a circle around another team of dancers. Libby found herself with a new partner, Jamie Mackay, whose face was flushed and eyes wide with enthusiasm. His hands, as they locked with hers, were damp with a teenage boy’s nervousness. Libby smiled and skipped through the next measure of the dance with him. She managed not to wince when Jamie accidentally trod on her toes.

They separated after another turn, and Libby danced with two more partners before joining up with Gil once again.

“So,” she said as the music suddenly changed to a slower pace, “I’m told you’re the one to ask about the old Mackay stories and legends.”

“Oh, aye.” Gil turned her in a wide, sweeping circle. “I’ve heard them all my life, I have. ’Tis an ancient clan, the Mackay. Made up of warriors, chieftains ...”

“And pirates, too, I’m told.”

Gil grinned. “You’ve heard of Laird Calum.”

“I found his portrait in one of the castle garrets.”

“Lady Venetia, she wasn’t much fond of Scottish art. Called it antiquated. Preferred the style of her Dutch background, it seemed.” He shook his head. “She moved most of the family portraits up to the garrets, except for Lady Isabella’s in the hall.” Gil grinned. “The old chief wouldna let her touch that one.”

“I saw Lady Isabella’s portrait the first day I visited the castle. It’s mesmerizing.”

“Well, from all accounts she was quite a mesmerizing lady. She brought royal blood to the Mackays, she did. Her father was an English duke, and his great-grandfather was the son of King Henry the Eighth himself.”

Libby looked at him. “As in Anne Boleyn’s Henry the Eighth?”

“Aye, one and the same. Wrong side of the royal blanket, o’course, back when Henry was a young man before his muddle of messy marriages. Pity that, considering he ended up the only surviving male child of the king.”

“I found a book in the castle library written by Lady Isabella.”

“Aye.
The Book of the Mackay,”
Gil said. “ ’Tis quite a special book, that.”

“It is an incredible family record, but it only tells the clan history up until the time of Lady Isabella and Laird Calum. That seems like telling only half a story.”

Gil nodded. “Aye, ’tis true.”

“I thought perhaps I could try to finish telling it by writing down the rest of the clan history, from then until now. Might even see if it could be published, as a subsequent volume of Lady Isabella’s original edition.”

“Well, now, that’s a grand thought, lass. I’d be happy to help you wit’ it.”

“I’ve a feeling I’ll be making a nuisance of myself asking you about the stories.”

“You could ne’er be a nuisance to me, lass. But why listen to the vague memories of an old man when you can hear it from Lady Isabella herself?”

“Lady Isabella ... how?”

“In her journals. She wrote about everything in her life, from the time she was a wee lass, when she met Laird Calum, up until shortly afore she passed away. There’s a whole collection of her journals up there at the castle.”

“But I’ve gone through Lady Isabella’s suite, and I haven’t found anything that looks like any journals.”

“That’s because they aren’t in Lady Isabella’s suite.”

Gil looked at her, his eyes sparkling as if he had something more to say, but he didn’t. Instead the music ended, bringing Libby and Gil to the end of their dance. He took her hand, bowed over it gallantly.

“I’ll come by on the morrow, lass, and show you where you can find them. Come now, let me tell you about how Laird Calum and Lady Isabella came to meet one another. It’s a tale that stretches all the way back to Paris, to the Palace of Versailles and King Louis XV and a mysterious comte. And it all started with that stone you wear about your neck ...”

Libby and Gil found two empty chairs in one corner of the hall where Gil could continue with the telling of his story. Within minutes, most of the children had gathered at their feet to listen, surrounded by a good many of the adults. It was what the
ceilidh
has always been for, the retelling of tales, the passing down of history, and Libby’s eyes were bright with interest as she sat perched on the very edge of her seat, hanging on Gil’s every word.

Across the room, Graeme stood watching Libby from afar. He’d made the decision that he was going to tell her everything, the truth about him and his inheritance, that night.

And he was going to ask her to be his wife.

He glanced aside and saw Flora approaching. With her children sitting amongst Gil’s rapt audience, she’d been given a few moments of quiet time.

“Old Gil has a way with the spoken word,” she said. “He’s the village’s
seanachie,
you know. Our storyteller and historian. He can certainly mesmerize the wee ones.”

“And the not-so-wee ones,” Graeme added, nodding toward Libby.

Flora smiled. “She’s a special lass, Libby is.”

Graeme merely nodded. He was preoccupied, trying to think of what he would say to Libby, and—

“She’s in love with you, you know.”

He looked at Flora, startled at her frankness. He didn’t know what he should say in response.

He didn’t have to say a thing.

“Just don’t hurt her. If you can’t return her feelings, then tell her. Libby needs a man who will be honest with her. She’s been hurt once before. It’s left quite a scar on her heart.”