No one, least of all the Imrie Clan, ever called the massive building they’d constructed a castle. Instead, it had been called Gairloch from the first stone laid on the foundation by its warlike laird.
As the final stone was set into place, a piper played a pìobaireachd in honor of the men who’d died in the construction of Gairloch, and for those who would die in the future for the sake of the clan.
Die they did. As the generations continued, they each gave their blood sacrifice to Scotland, to the Highlands, to the very land on which Gairloch had been raised. The earth itself seemed to demand it, and these hardy Scots resolutely and with great respect surrendered their husbands, sons, and brothers first to clan warfare, then to the endless battles with the English.
A hundred years ago, the last battle had been fought, and with it came a sigh of relief throughout Scotland and Invergaire Glen. The time had come for a respite, for a period to nurse her wounds, breed sons in decimated clans, and plan for the future.
Gairloch had weathered the years well. When people passed, many miles away, they viewed a bit of magic. The deep green of Scottish pines gave way to the sight of the huge building of yellow stone with Ben Lymond at its back.
Even from a distance, Gairloch looked proud, as if it knew its own history.
Tales were told of the ferocious lairds who’d guarded Gairloch for generations. In this place in the Highlands, the members of the Imrie Clan had earned their reputations.
Now, only two were left heirs of Gairloch: Fergus and his sister, Shona.
H
elen was gawking.
“It’s a good hour until we reach Gairloch,” Shona said. “I know it looks closer, but that’s because of Gairloch’s size.”
“You didn’t tell me it was so . . . huge,” Helen said, her voice filled with awe.
Gairloch had five towers and from a distance looked like a massive round structure. Instead, four wings had been built around the original square keep. The castle was a labyrinth of corridors and hallways, some connecting, but most managing to confound a visitor.
As a child, she’d wondered if Gairloch had been built with confusion in mind. Her father had verified her guess. “In case they were ever invaded, the original Imries had wanted to ensure their clan didn’t perish.”
“One could get lost,” Helen said now.
She smiled. “I did when I was little. Fergus and I learned, quick enough, to remain in the public rooms. Gairloch is cold most of the time. It’s best to stay near a fireplace.”
Loch Mor glittered in the distance, a mirror for the sun. The hills of Invergaire Glen were purple with heather. Both sights were a greeting, as well as a reminder of how long since she’d been home. Seven years, to be exact, ever since her marriage, but it seemed as if nothing had changed.
“What’s that?”
She knew what Helen had seen before she looked. On the other side of the glen sat another house, not nearly so grand, but proud in its way. Built a hundred years ago, of the same yellow stone as Gairloch, the house looked like a smaller, plainer brother.
“That’s where Colonel Sir Gordon MacDermond lives,” she said. “His father, the general, named it Rathmhor.” She smiled, remembering the barely veiled derision in the village when the plaque had been affixed to the outer gate. “He liked the sound of it.”
She looked toward Gordon’s home. “It’s said that after the Forty-five, the Laird of Gairloch befriended a man, a Lowlander, named MacDermond. He convinced the man to come north and live within the shadow of Gairloch. MacDermond was a piper, and a very accomplished man.” A tale she’d offer up to the Americans. “So MacDermond came north, with his family and the remnants of his clan, and settled in Invergaire Glen.”
“The story doesn’t end well, does it?”
She shook her head. “The piper fell in love with Invergaire Glen and made his home here. But he fell in love with the laird’s wife as well.”
She and Gordon had wondered once, in the little crofter’s hut they’d made their own, if the tale was true. Perhaps the MacDermonds had been lured to Imrie land for just such a time, for Shona Imrie and Gordon MacDermond to fall in love. Back then, it had been easy to believe in fairy tales.
“What happened to them?”
She turned to Helen. “They disappeared,” she said.
When Helen didn’t comment, she continued. “The laird let it be known that his wife had been unfaithful and refused to allow anyone to speak of her from that day until his death.”
“Perhaps he died of a broken heart,” Helen said. “Can you die of a broken heart?”
No, it wasn’t possible. The heart only ached unbearably for years and years, a comment she wasn’t about to make.
“Don’t worry about getting lost,” she said. “We don’t use the east or west wings. Fergus and I closed off most of Gairloch and only lived in a small part of it. In addition, we have a caretaker there who knows Gairloch better than any of us.”
Old Ned had offered to act as caretaker for the castle when Fergus went away to war, and had done so in the intervening years.
What was she going to do with Old Ned?
“Will the Americans want to buy such a large place?” Helen asked.
“Evidently, he’s a very wealthy man,” she said, recalling the letter from her solicitor. “He’s made his money in a variety of ventures and now pines for the land of his ancestors.”
The words sounded bitter, so she modified her tone. “His grandmother was a Scot and he wants to buy a castle for his little girl.”
“Too bad Gairloch doesn’t come with a resident ghost,” Helen said. “No doubt it would add to the atmosphere.”
Gairloch had ghosts, both those of the spectral world and of memory. But she’d let Helen warm up to Gairloch first before learning all its secrets.
“We’ll have just enough time to clean Gairloch a little before they arrive,” she said, glancing over at Helen. “I’m sorry to ask for your help in this chore. I know it isn’t the duty of a companion.”
“I like a variety of duties,” Helen said with equanimity, tugging down her bodice and straightening her spine. “I’ve no objection to acting as a housemaid for a Highland castle.”
She felt a surge of affection for the other woman, and wished there was some way to thank her for her willingness to help.
Four years ago, Helen had arrived on their doorstep, dry-eyed but announcing to her second cousin that she had no other option.
“I’ve no other place to go, Bruce,” Helen had calmly announced. Her father had died, leaving her without funds, and her money had run out. She was, as she’d said, dependent upon her more affluent relations.
Bruce had turned to Shona with a helpless look.
“I could use a companion,” she’d said, stepping forward to greet Helen. From that day to this, she hadn’t regretted the decision. She wondered, now, if Helen did.
What a pity she didn’t have a relation of two to whom she could appeal. The three of them would be a sight standing on an uncle’s doorstep, pleading for shelter and a meal.
She shook her head to dispel that dour image.
From their earlier conversations, she knew Helen had never married. Nor, as she’d once said, had she any desire to care for a man.
“Not to say they’re obtuse, Shona,” she’d said. “But they do not hear much of what is said to them, and what they do hear, they willfully misconstrue.”
She’d wanted to ask, but never had, if a lost love had soured Helen to all men, or if it was a case of never having been courted.
Her face was unlined and her brown hair lustrous and thick, without a betraying strand of gray. But her hair invariably escaped the bun she carefully arranged each morning and frizzed around her face as if attempting to give some softness to her angular features and long nose. Her teeth were regrettably crooked, the front two longer than the others. She seemed painfully conscious of them, so when she smiled it was with closed lips. Although her appearance seemed stern, her brown eyes always seemed to be smiling.
Helen was possessed of a generous nature and a caring heart. How would she have managed without Helen’s companionship all these months? When she needed someone to listen, Helen did so without censure. On those rare occasions when Helen offered advice, her counsel was always practical and laced with compassion.
The carriage bounced and rattled down the approach to Gairloch, a reminder that it had been a very long time since the drive had been raked or refreshed with gravel. The sudden lurch of the carriage made her grab for the strap above the window.
Luminous sunlight filtered like rain through dark clouds, as if this brilliant September day fought a battle against the impending storm. For a while, she thought the storm might win, but a swift breeze pushed the clouds to the west as they approached Gairloch.
She found herself breathing deeply of the Highland air, as if she’d been holding her breath for seven years. Although Fergus had visited her several times, she’d never returned to Gairloch after her marriage.
But she was here now, for as long as Gairloch was home.
“Shona,” Helen said, nearly pasting her face to the window. “Isn’t that Colonel Sir Gordon’s carriage ahead?”
“What?”
She peered out the window to find that the carriage in front of them was remarkably similar to Gordon’s.
“It can’t be,” she said. “He’s supposed to be in Inverness.”
Helen didn’t say a word.
“He can’t be here,” she said in the face of Helen’s silence.
Please God, don’t let him be here.
She had a feeling God was a Scot, however, and an unforgiving one at that, because she was certain that Gordon MacDermond, Colonel Sir Gordon, was ahead of them now.
The very worst thing that could happen.
T
hey’d taken two days to make a journey that would normally take only one, in deference to Fergus’s leg. Stopping the carriage periodically to allow him to exercise helped alleviate some of the stiffness. Otherwise, the pain increased until he was nearly gasping.
“Is there nothing they can do?” Gordon asked as he’d helped Fergus back into the carriage on the first day.
“I’m lucky to have the leg is all they’ll tell me. There’ve been times when I was ready to saw it off myself.”
The journey had been a difficult one on Fergus, but not once had he complained. Instead, he remained stoic, a man who seemed several decades older than he’d been a mere six months ago.
Gordon disliked feeling helpless. MacDermonds always succeeded—one of the general’s sayings.
Three years had passed since Gordon had last been home. Rathmhor would be there, as it always was. Not as large as Gairloch, or as imposing a presence. History was lacking in the house his ancestor had built a hundred years ago. No ghosts roamed the corridors. Unless, of course, it was the shade of his boyhood self, thin to the point of emaciation and terrified of his father.
He’d been an only child, although his mother had died trying to give the general another son. Perhaps one day, he’d be able to think of his father without the veil of the past obscuring his view. Perhaps, one day, he’d be able to do the same with Shona. He’d be able to see her as a woman he’d once loved. Simply that and nothing more.
He was going home. Home to Invergaire Glen. Home of his childhood, his misery, his greatest failure. Yet, in a strange and incomprehensible way, Invergaire Glen was also a place of endless enchantment.
He’d dreamed of being a hero as he’d played on the slopes of Ben Lymond. He’d tossed stones into Loch Mor with Fergus and learned of his own competitiveness. He’d gone to war from Invergaire Glen, looking around him with the studied ease of a soldier, wondering if he’d ever see Shona or Gairloch again.
Against innumerable odds, he’d survived. He’d emerged unscathed from both the Crimean War and his battles in India. Small scars marked inconsequential wounds, but he could walk without assistance and suffered no pain.
Gairloch greeted them, held sway over the glen, announcing its presence to all who drew near.
As they pulled off the main road to make the approach to Rathmhor, Fergus began to laugh.
Before he could ask the source of his merriment, he saw the approaching carriage himself.
“Do you know them?” he asked. Just as the words left his mouth, he saw Shona’s face in the window. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” he asked as the carriage began to overtake them.
Fergus didn’t answer, only waved at his sister as they passed.
Gordon pounded on the roof, getting the attention of the driver. Once the carriage had stopped, he gave him a new destination: Gairloch.
The front, or Upper Courtyard, was narrow, designed to trap the clan’s enemies. The Lower Courtyard was approachable through an iron gate in a back wall, and as they traveled through it, he readied himself for battle.
Shona was standing at the top of the steps when they reached the courtyard.
The breathy sigh of the wind was a precursor to a storm still on the horizon. An apt welcome home. But this wasn’t home, regardless of the time he’d spent staring at Gairloch or thinking of the castle and its female inhabitant.
Miss Paterson stood behind Shona, her prim mouth pursed. About whose actions was she more disapproving—his or Shona’s?
“What are you doing here?” Shona asked, as he exited the carriage. He was turned to help Fergus, but the other man waved him away, the anticipatory smile on his face more than a little reminiscent of Fergus as a boy.
He turned back, began to mount the steps, but halted halfway to the women. He was not about to attack a formidable opponent without reinforcements.
“What are you doing here?” he countered. “I thought you’d be in Inverness, welcoming your nephew.”
“My husband’s great-nephew,” she said. “I never said I was remaining in the city.”
“Nor did you tell me you were coming home.”
“Nor did you, Gordon MacDermond.”
Miss Paterson whispered something to her, but she waved the comment away. Perhaps her companion was reminding her of his title. As if Shona would give a flying farthing about that.