My Heart's in the Highlands (33 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“Showtime,” Kris whispered with a yawn into his coffee cup early the next morning as they sat side by side in the last row of folding chairs that had been set up for the auction in the Round Drawing Room.  The winter sun beamed weakly through the French doors, reminding Mikah that she still hadn’t gotten a look at the firth.  Neither had she had the courage to walk out on the ramparts.

But it had been hard enough just to recover from her upset of the previous afternoon.
  Kris had been forced to literally drag her down to dinner.  The big circular room beneath the Round Drawing Room that had once housed the billiards room had been converted into a small restaurant.  Kris had bravely sampled the local favorites while Mikah had, in essence, drank her dinner, downing pint after pint until Kris had practically had to drag her back up to their room. 

Mikah had woken that morning
in the bed, dazed with the impression of a male body next to her.  Though she and Kris had shared a bed dozens of times, Mikah had been devastated that he was the one there, and in the hours since had determined that this whole trip was adding up to be the worst move of her entire life.

“Pay attention,” her friend hissed as the first items were brought out.
  And Mikah did, watching the contents of Cuilean being sold off to the highest bidder.  One by one, they were brought through a side door that connected to the long hallway of the nursery, where Mikah guessed the items had been collected before the sale today.  Most of them she recognized, but there were some she did not from the years following Hero’s death.

Unwittingly, she sighed and moaned over every item until Kris nudged her painfully in the side.
  “You sound like a sick cow.  If you’re going to throw up, please go somewhere else.”

She scowled at him but managed to keep her grief to herself
after that as the items continued to go by.  Smaller items would be sold that day and the following.  The furnishings and larger items were to be sold the following day with a walking group that would go to the items rather than moving them here.

When the music box she and Ian had danced to
came up on the auction block, Mikah bid fervently.  The price went up and up until Mikah fell in defeat to a persistent buyer in the front row.   Dozens of lots were sold off while Mikah stewed with resentment.  She could have gone higher, but there were other things she wanted more.   The morning dragged on.  Lot after lot was presented and sold.  Mikah bid on small items but never seemed to win them.  In years of attending auctions, she had never seen buyers so persistent. 

From the pleased look on the owner’s face, the bidding went much higher than was anticipated.
  Reggie Smith, the owner, had introduced himself the night before.  He was a very likeable man, and Mikah was glad that he was making money hand over fist, but part of her wanted to climb over the crowd and pummel the people outbidding her. 

Then her painting
Mongin’s
Vue de Marly
was brought in.  Again she bid furiously, determined to win it, pushing the bid upward until almost all of Mikah’s years of savings were obligated.  She thought that perhaps the other bidders finally just let her have it.  Mikah wryly thought she might have had a bit of a crazed look about her, scaring them off.

Other items came and went
, but Mikah had little left to bid with, so watched them go on to others.  Jewelry, dresses from the 1850s through to the 1960s.  Furniture, silver, art. 

They
stopped for lunch and a short break before it all began again.  Mikah bid on other items as well, losing when the price exceeded the amount she had remaining.  The rest of the afternoon would see all but the barest bones of the castle sold away.  But for the three bedchambers and public rooms that would remain as part of the historical tour once the hotel closed its doors, all the décor—more than a thousand items over three days—was going to go, taking with it the essence of Cuilean.

That realization found Mikah’s enthusiasm waning
into depression.  It was so sad to see it torn apart, but barring a sudden Powerball windfall, there was no chance of meeting the tens of millions of dollars the castle was worth to keep it whole.  It would come apart as easily as Ian and Hero’s dreams of a life together.

“Item
279.  A cavalry sword belonging to the Third Marquis of Ayr.”

Mikah, whose attention had been drifting for the last fifty items, pulled out the catalog with a frown.
  She flipped through the pages until she found it as the auctioneer continued.  “The marquis was a major in Her Majesty’s army, serving during the Crimean War.  It is believed that he used this saber during the infamous Charge of the Light Brigade.”

Mikah snorted at that
, only to be shushed by a couple in front of them.  She frowned fiercely back.  “He wasn’t even there for that!”

“What is it, Mikes?”

“It’s his,” she whispered.  “That’s his sword.”

“Do you want it?” Kris asked.

“I don’t have any money left.”

“I could get it for you,” he said.
  “A Christmas present.”

Mikah looked back up at the sword, that little part of Ian Conagham.
  “No, Kris.  Thanks anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

Suddenly, Mikah was almost glad she hadn’t won all of the items she had bid on.  What was she thinking?  Things couldn’t replace what she had lost.  Her hand curled around the ring in her coat pocket.  They would forever remind, not soothe. 

“I’m sure.”

Perhaps, Mikah thought, she would just donate the painting to the museum instead of keeping it.  Why did she need a reminder if she was going to move on?

The sun was
starting its downward turn in the sky, the sun finally peeking from beneath a layer of clouds and spilling its light across the room, when the auctioneer held up another item, tiredly.  He looked as run down as Mikah felt.  Seeing her life—well, her past life, at least—being sold off had drained her.  Knowing that coming to Cuilean had been utterly futile filled her with melancholy. 

“Item 2
80.  A portrait of the Third Marchioness of Ayr, painted in 1847,” the auctioneer announced, drawing their attention to the large portrait being carried into the room. 

Unaware of the dozens of heads that turned incredulously in her direction and the whispers that followed, Mikah stared at the portrait and remembered how much Hero had disliked it
… and conversely, how much it had meant to Ian.  Enough was enough.  “Let’s go.”

She slipped out of the room with Kris in her wake as the auctioneer continued, “There is some conjecture that she is
the Lady of Ayr, one of our resident ghosts here at Dùn Cuilean.  She is said to haunt the ramparts looking for revenge on the man who killed her and her husband just a week after they married.”

“What’s going on, Mikes?” Kris asked worriedly, grasping her arm and pulling her to a halt before they reached their room.
  “Is it the painting?”

“I want to leave,” she said.
  “This was all a mistake.  A big mistake.”

Kris only shook his head.
  “I don’t think it was.  I think you needed to do this.”

“Need
ed to do what?” she hissed painfully.  “Needed to see my life passed off to strangers before my very eyes?  Needed to see things that once meant so much mean so little?”

“No,” he
said, pulling her into his arms,  “I think you needed to realize that all the things in the world aren’t going to give you what you want.  You needed to accept that nothing is going to bring him back to you.  And you did, didn’t you?”

“God, you’re such a bastard,” Mikah sniffed and buried her face in his shoulder, hugging him desperately.

“I know,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Can we go now?”

“Sure.  Just one last thing.”

“Oh, Lord, what now?”

Chapter Forty

“You’re kidding, right?” Mikah said as Kris led her out the doors of the library that led to the eastern terrace. 

“
Not even a little.”

“
Where are ye off to?”  Reggie Smith asked from behind them.  Apparently the hotel owner had been curious enough about their departure to follow them down.  His eyes studied Mikah seriously, giving the impression that he saw more than he let on.  “Ye’ll miss the rest of the auction.” 

“She’s making me take a walk,” Kris complained good-naturedly as he tightened his scarf around his neck
,  “even though it’s freezing out.”

Mikah snorted at that
before turning to Smith.  The hotel owner was a short, portly man with a balding head and a warm demeanor.  He’d never met a stranger, she would wager,  a good quality in a man who had made his living by dealing with them.  “I just thought we would take a little walk before we leave in the morning.”

“
Leave?” he asked.  “The auction’s just begun.”

“That’s all right.
  I got what I wanted.”

Smith still looked
concerned.  “There’s not much to see this time of year.”

“Isn’t there a cemetery south of the castle?”
Kris asked.  “A family plot?”

“Aye, there is,” he looked at
them dubiously.  “Ye think it’s worth freezing yer britches off for?”

“It’s not,”
Mikah answered agreeably.  “We should go back in.”

“Mikah
…” Kris warned in a low voice, and then nodded to Smith.  “We’ll be fine.  You can go back to the auction.  Don’t worry about us.”

He nodded while Kris dragged Mikah away.
  Within a few minutes, Mikah and Kris were hand in hand past the south end of the terrace and at the gate of the heavy wrought-iron fence that enclosed the plot that sat at the far corner of what had once been the pleasure gardens. 

“If I
had wanted to do this, I would have come alone.”

“There are many things I’ll let you do alone in this world, Mikes,” he said
, shaking his head.  “This is not one of them.”

Mikah sighed
, but not in exasperation.  Yes, it was one last thing to do before she set all of this behind her.  Well, and perhaps there was one other.

Looking around, she took in the lay of the land.
  Most of the plants she remembered were gone but the trees stood tall, shading the area and blocking some of the wind.  Mikah explained this all to her friend as they walked, the grey winter sun lighting the frosty ground that crunched beneath their shoes.  Years before the air would have been fragrant with the scent of azaleas, roses, wisteria, and snowdrops.  There would have been moss on the oldest stones.  Now, there was nothing to indicate that there had been anyone to care for the small monuments in more than a century.

Mikah
wove her way through the worn and weathered stones that represented dozens of generations of the Conagham family, leaving Kris to trail behind.  Many were so worn by wind and rain that nothing of their inscriptions remained.  All that was left was the wavy indentation were the words once were.  There were several larger mausoleums as well.  She found Robert Conagham’s easily enough, and a very ornate, if somewhat art deco, one erected to Daphne Kennedy, inscribed as the Fourth Marchioness of Ayr.

Turning away with a shrug,
she discovered a small mausoleum nearly hidden behind the heavy branches of a weeping willow.  An intricately carved shepherd stood guard over the door of the elaborate Georgian tomb.  Engraved on the carved banner there were the words, "Until next we meet."

Intrigued, Mikah pushed open the heavy door and entered.
 

“Mikes, where are you going?” Kris called and hurried across the cemetery to enter the tomb behind Mikah.
  “You shouldn’t be in there.”

“Shhh,” Mikah whispered
, looking around the mausoleum.  The walls were a wonderful stone lattice that allowed the hazy light to filter into the tomb from all sides, lighting the lone sarcophagus at the center of the building.  Sconces for torches lined the walls, and the ceiling was a work of art in its detail.  The walls and ceiling were carved to look very much like the willow just beyond. It was a large crypt, raised to chest height, topped with a thick sheet of white marble.  Around the base of the crypt were carvings of tree trunks and flowers. 

It was a wonderful tomb, obviously built with love for whoever rested there.
  Curious, she moved to look down at the top of the carved marble lid.  It repeated the words "Until next we meet" in flowing script, beneath which were words that made her catch her breath.

Hero Margaret Ashburn Conagham

Marchioness of Ayr

Born 1828

Ian Alexander Conagham

3
rd
Marquis of Ayr

Born 1825

Both departed of this earth the 27th day of June in the year of our Lord 1856

Wicked fate took them from this earth

Until they meet again

May peace be
theirs

Mikah outlined Ian's name with her finger, reliving the anguish of his death, and rested her cheek against the cold marble.  The crypt was large because it held not one body but two.  They were entombed together so that they would never be apart, just as Ian had promised. 

Suddenly it was all too real, more real than the trip to Cuilean had made it for her.
  More real than the discovery of her wedding ring.

She had been a fool to think that a couple of things could offer recompense or comfort for what she had lost.
  The only purpose they would serve would be to serve as a constant reminder of what was, and Mikah knew that she couldn’t live that way.  She couldn’t live the next fifty years longing for what might have been.

“Mikes, what the
…”  Kris reached out to her, freezing uncertainly as he read the inscription.  “That’s just … I’ll leave you alone for a little while.”

He exited quietly
, and Mikah knew he was expecting her to bawl like a baby over the tomb, but Mikah just sat back on her haunches, resting a hand against the cold marble, and remembered.

Remembered it all
.

Tomorrow she would leave
Dùn Cuilean and leave the past where it belonged.

Still, it was some time before Mikah had collected herself enough to emerge from the tomb.  Blinking against the brighter light, she found Kris and Smith leaning against nearby headstones, waiting for her.

“Are you all right, lass?” Smith asked
, and Kris’s eyes echoed the question.  “I’m sorry to interrupt ye and yer young lad here, but ye were out here so long, I was starting to worry.”

“I’m fine.
  I was just looking at this … tomb for the Third Marquis.” Mikah gestured back to the small structure.  “It’s beautiful.  Who erected it for them?  I don’t believe they had any direct heirs.”

“You’re right,” he said
, scratching his head.  Mikah thought that it was more because of the nature of her query than because he didn’t know the answer.  “The marchioness’s father, the Duke of Beaumont, had that done.  Fine piece of workmanship.”

“The duke?” Mikah frowned at Kris, who just shrugged.
  “But I thought he was mad.”

“Ye know yer history, lass,” he said with a nod.
  “Yer right, there were rumors that the duke had gone mad after the death of his wife.  There are mentions of it in the estate manager’s diary and in some written by his family as well, but after his daughter’s death, other than some forgetfulness that most historians now chalk up to Alzheimer’s, the duke seemed to be a changed man.  He returned to London and took back the reins of his dukedom.”

“Good for him,” Mikah said, though she had to wonder if Harry Ashburn hadn’t been happier as he was.

“Are ye ready to come in then?” Smith asked, and Kris readily agreed, his cheeks already looking chapped by the cold winds.  “The missus will have tea ready.”

“I would love some,” Mikah said while Kris made a face.

“Are ye sure yer all right?  Ye look a wee bit sad.”

“Well, it was a very sad story
, wasn’t it?”

They followed Smith back to the castle hand in hand.
  “Are you all right?” Kris asked softly, urging Mikah’s head to his shoulder.

“I will be,” she said.
  “Can we go now?”

“First thing in the morning,” he promised.
  “I’ll need to call and see if I can change our flight.”