Duet (17 page)

Meg shrugged. “Me mam say the laird is s’pose to return when his lover is reborn. Ah say we leave ’im to it.”

The culprit left them no other choice. They’d followed the music to this room, and then the music stopped. What else could they possibly do? Niall made his way back down the stairs, cursing under his breath and trying to decide what to tell his wife. The cook trailed at his heels.

“Niall, is that you? Did you find anything?” Judith called from beyond the door that led to the spacious hall.

“Tell her the wind was whistling through a loose shutter,” Laird Callaghan instructed his accomplice.

He put on a reassuring smile and entered the hall. “Just the wind, Judith,” he lied, wishing it was that simple. “Nothing at all to fear.” No need to upset his wife. He and Meg could worry enough without her help.

Judith gave a nervous giggle. “Meg insists it’s the old laird, come back for his love. She’s told me all the stories.”

“Nah.” Niall shot a dirty look at the cook, who turned away, taking great interest in the floor. “That’s only a legend. There’s never any truth in those.”

“Still,” his wife said, “what if it did happen? Meg says the moment his reborn love sets foot on Scottish soil that the old laird will come back and they’ll be reunited. It’s so romantic.” Judith sighed, a dreamy smile on her face.

Yes, he’d heard similar accounts from his grandmother, too, before coming to believe The Lost Laird a tall tale. “They’re fairy stories, dear, folk tales Highland grannies tell on a winter’s eve. If I didn’t know better, I might be tempted to think you married me for this pile of rocks and the ghosts rumored to haunt it.”

Judith led him to their chambers and spent the next hour proving him wrong. He almost forgave the phantom musician.

The next evening, the household waited up late into the night, but no music floated from the top of the stone tower, and the unearthly violin never again disturbed Niall’s sleep. Relieved not to have to go ghost hunting, he still felt a profound sense of loss, like the death of a close friend.

When winter gave way to spring, he hired workmen to restore the tower, using the excuse of historical preservation. Years later, when his grandchildren gathered around his chair in the evening, he entertained them with stories of the Lost Laird.

W
HILE
Laird Callaghan chased spectral musicians, in a small fishing village on the coast, a doctor pulled a sheet over the face of a handsome sailor he’d tried futilely to save.

Three nights before, the man had washed ashore, suffering from a severe blow to the head and prolonged exposure to frigid water. Since arriving, he’d tossed and turned, calling in delirium for his violin and someone named Lil. A sister, wife, or sweetheart? None would ever know, for the young redhead, English by his accent, succumbed to his injuries, leaving the world without revealing a name.

The weary doctor swayed on his feet, shaking his head at the shrouded figure lying motionless upon the bed. “Rest in peace,” he said, leaning over to snuff the bedside lantern.

1915

T
HE
sun hadn’t long set when a nurse strode between the beds lining the former great hall of Callaghan Castle, footsteps slowing when she neared the last cot. She smoothed away her worried frown when she approached the English pilot who’d captured her imagination. The doctors declared him unaware of his surroundings and unlikely to survive, but she summoned up a pleasant face and prayed for miracles anyway. The poor souls in the critical ward needed all the help they could get—especially this one, who tugged heavily at her heartstrings.

Scarcely older than her own son, the injured lieutenant bore a striking resemblance to another Englishman who’d lived in the area long ago, one her gran told her stories of when she was a wee lass.

“And how are we feeling this evening?” she asked, running her fingers lightly over the bit of close-cropped hair peeking from the bandages above the patient’s ear. In her mind, his crystal-clear green eyes shimmered with laughter, instead of staring unseeing at the ceiling. A pity he’d suffered so grievous an injury; he truly was a handsome man.

She dismissed her flight of fancy, maintaining a professional demeanor while checking the gauze around his head, relieved to find the wrappings free of fresh blood. Outwardly composed, inside she cringed, aware of the horrifying wound hidden beneath layers of cotton. How she hated this damned war, the damage done to brave lads like this pilot, now destined to live life as a mindless shell—if he lived.

Her patient’s silence didn’t stop her from chatting to him. “You remind me of a story my mother told me,” she said, perching on a chair by the bed. Taking the pilot’s cool hand in hers, she stroked his still fingers with her thumb. “A ma… er, teacher, came from England, with red hair and green eyes like yours.”

She settled more comfortably into the chair, smiling at the memory of her ten-year-old self avidly listening to Mum’s tales. Initially, Mum referred to the teacher as a woman. It wasn’t until she’d grown that her mother confessed he’d been a man. After the shock wore off in the face of Mum’s casual acceptance, she’d begged for her mother to tell her the accurate version of the tale.

“A young laird fell in love with the teacher, who soon died, breaking the laird’s heart. No one knows what happened to him. The laird simply disappeared. Legend says his spirit is still here in the castle. One day the teacher is supposed to return and the Lost Laird will play his violin to lead his lover home.”

Fast becoming accustomed to inexplicable occurrences at Castle Callaghan, she didn’t bat an eye at the length of shadow hovering beside the bed, used to its presence. Shadows gathered there every night. While her mind told her ghosts didn’t exist, she’d seen enough in her years to understand not everything could be easily explained. Plus, her mother swore the stories were true, and who was she to call her mother a liar?

“I loved the tale of The Lost Laird and the Teacher,” she continued, “and I’ve shed many a tear for the two lovers. The romantic in me hoped the stories were somehow true and one day they’d be reunited.”

She stared down into unseeing green eyes, recalling the mournful melodies she’d heard for the past two weeks. The staff conducted thorough searches, and they’d never located the source. No one currently at the castle owned a violin. Those who’d grown up locally whispered about the legends, carefully avoiding the tower stairs after nightfall, from where the music seemed to come.

Wait! Red hair, green eyes! Could this poor, unfortunate soul be more than a reminder of the legends? Could he be the one the stories foretold? Was that why the music played every night? If he died, as appeared more likely with each passing day, would he become a ghost, too, joining the spirit in the tower? She darted a quick glance around the room, ensuring no one loitered close enough to overhear, then leaned in and whispered, “Aillil Callaghan truly loved his Englishman. Could you be the one he waits for?”

The sharp gasp caught her by surprise, and a hand that had lain lifeless on the cot for days grabbed her arm. Frightened by the unexpected reaction, she tried to pull away, but the grip on her wrist held firm. “Violin!” the lieutenant rasped in a voice long unused. “Aillil! Aillil!”

Breaking free, the nurse jumped from her chair and stood beside the bed, one hand pressed to her mouth, to stare in horror at the agitated man babbling inanely. As suddenly as the fit started, it ended. The pilot took one last labored breath, exhaled, and breathed no more. He lay motionless again on the bed, eyes open and unfocused. Though that’s how he’d looked since arriving, the nurse knew without checking that he was dead. Did the tears in her eyes make the shadows appear to envelop his still form?

Professional to the end, she pushed aside a deep sense of loss and carried out her duties, avoiding the draped cot for the rest of her rounds. Devastated by the senseless demise of a young man in the prime of his life, she didn’t sleep well that night. Instead, she lay awake, waiting for the melody she’d heard every night since Lieutenant Byerly’s arrival. Night gave way to morning, and she wept for two ill-fated men, one who’d died the previous day and one who’d died long ago.

Toward evening, a hearse arrived to take the body away. She never again awakened to the sound of a phantom violin in the night.

Eleven

Present Times

T
HE
first time Neil Richards set foot on his great-grandparents’ estate as an adult, he knew he’d truly come home.

The ancestral dwelling of the Callaghans lived up to his childhood imaginings of everything a Scottish castle should be, from the tall stone tower, with its thick walls and illustrious history, to the great hall, the meeting place of generations of his mother’s family. With each step through the expansive architecture he felt a decided sense of belonging, his youthful memories combining with his mother’s tales of summers spent there. The owners weren’t currently in residence, but graciously opened the home in their absence to their great-grandchild and heir.

Neil hadn’t told his fiancée or his best friend back home in the states about his inheritance, not wanting to flaunt such wealth in front of two less financially blessed companions any more than necessary. His future title remained a secret—for now. Privately, he deemed the castle an excellent location for his wedding. Somewhere out back a lovely stand of ancient yews nestled in the glen. Wouldn’t it be nice to marry in a centuries-old ring of trees, a former meeting place for Scots of old?

He’d settled in to begin vacation, intent on absorbing the culture of his mother’s people. On the first day he found a heavy, leather-bound tome in the library, entitled
Legends of Clan Callaghan.
He settled in to read and soon lost track of time, each handwritten page holding his complete attention. An antique grandfather clock bonged 3:00 a.m. before he finally put the book down.

If the stories contained within were true, somewhere in this hulking behemoth of mortar and stone lurked the ghost of a former laird. Yesterday, such a tale would have seemed preposterous; today, after reading firsthand accounts of paranormal phenomena, imparted by educated and respected people, Neil began to entertain doubts.

According to letters written by Niall Callaghan, the “Lost Laird’s” brother and heir, the specter waited for the return of a lost love. Shockingly, for a book of such antiquity, Neil’s ancestors spoke highly of a homosexual pair, for even in modern times, his best friend, an openly gay man, occasionally suffered ridicule.

Billy, ever the romantic, would be delighted by the tragic tale of the star-crossed lovers; especially since he shared a name with the poor unfortunate Englishman who’d died long ago. Talk about a coincidence.

Seeking out a favorite passage, Neil skimmed a fingertip over a page until he found an attention-grabbing description: “
Long red curls, eyes the green of spring grass.
” The image of a handsome young man dressed in eighteenth-century apparel filled his mind.

He continued reading, pushing a pair of glasses up his nose when they slipped, wondering how they could possibly fail to stay on such an ample perch. “
Pale skin, slender build,
” he read. His mental creation lost fifteen pounds and a bit of the tan he’d initially imagined.

“
He stood by the fire, eyes closed, playing the violin for the villagers….
”

He turned the page to find a skillfully rendered drawing.

Neil’s heart skipped a beat. The book fell to the floor with a thud. It couldn’t be! It simply couldn’t! He rubbed his tired eyes and checked again. The page still showed the very startling likeness of his best friend, the gifted violinist whom he represented as manager, Billy Byerly.

He reread the paragraph many times, seeking additional references to the legend in other of his great-grandfather’s books. Various family journals mentioned a teacher named Byerly, and a brief synopsis appeared in a small paperback book entitled,
Legends of the Highlands.

Did he dare believe in a castle-dwelling ghost awaiting the rebirth of a lover? A lover who fit the description of Billy? Neil questioned his sanity, downed a shot of scotch, then reread the accounts again. Surely fatigue toyed with his over-active imagination. There were no such things as ghosts—were there?

Well, there was an easy enough way to prove or disprove the notion, and if he happened to be wrong, no one would be the wiser. He’d simply invite Billy to Scotland and see what happened.

Hmmm… Now, how could he lure Billy to the castle, without revealing that he’d one day be the owner, or hinting at a possible loss of sanity? If his family’s letters were true, he needed to act fast or risk waiting another year for his answers. Samhain, a necessary factor in the reunion, was a few weeks away.

Like a man possessed, proving or disproving the legend plagued Neil’s every waking moment, and kilted Highlanders haunted his dreams. After an intensive Internet search, he made a few calls, and in the end crafted what he deemed a reasonable plan. Throughout his planning and scheming, the likeness of the alleged ghost watched from within a gilt frame in the great hall. “You could have kept the nose,” he told it, “although I wouldn’t have minded the dark hair and eyes.” He tugged at his dirty-blond locks, squinting tired gray eyes over the frame of his glasses for a better look.