Sweet Christmas Kisses (126 page)

Aileen tugged Lucy out onto the broad stone steps outside and pointed to the portico above. "Isn't this grand?   The carriages used to drive through here to drop off passengers.  The doors are too drafty to use through the winter, so Maura kept the vestibule sealed during the chilly months.  But it's a lovely bit of history. And there's a bit a magic as well."

Sorcha rolled her eyes, and Aileen's smile faded.  She leaned closer to Lucy and clutched at her arm, resting her other fingertips on a weather-worn bronze plaque by the door. "Sorcha's far too practical for such things, but for the rest of us, it canna hurt to believe in a bit of the fairy dust, right?"

Lucy peered at the plaque trying to make out the incomprehensible Gaelic words.  "So what does it say?"

"Sàr gràdh is gu bràth."  Aileen smiled softly. "True love is forever.  Maura said that the plaque was found on a wall in the crumbling fortress of a laird from centuries ago, back when many folks believed in magic.  One of her ancestors--and yours--had it installed here and blessed by the local priest when this house was built."

Lucy thought back over her own failures at romance. "What a lovely thought it is--and how rare."

"Not so rare.  Legend says that for the daughters of the household who believe, who come to touch the words on the wishing plaque every day and say them in their heart, it will indeed come true."  Aileen gave a little tip of her head. "Along with prayers to our Almighty, of course. If you've yet to meet your own true love, maybe you can be wishing on this bit of history while you're here."

"Did Maura ever marry?"

"Ach, no.  Sad to say.  She gave her heart to someone when she was young, but it never came to be.  She said he was her once in a lifetime love, and she'd never again love another."  Aileen gave Lucy's arm a quick squeeze.  "I guess the magic can guide a heart to true happiness, but it canna guarantee the outcome, aye?"

Sorcha cleared her throat. "Would you like to see the rest of the house?"

"I'd like that." Lucy followed her into the adjoining dining room, where a long, cherry wood table with chairs for twelve and an ornate sideboard gleamed under a glittering chandelier.

A complete silver tea and coffee service was placed at one end of the sideboard.  Old portraits and rural scenes in gilt frames filled every available space on the walls, while a scattering of chairs and side tables in the corners were covered with lacy doilies and knickknacks.

Sorcha adjusted the arrangement of several small porcelain West Highland terriers on a table in front of the large plate glass window facing the loch.  "The three of us who live here choose to eat together in the kitchen and we make our own meals.  You are welcome to join us.  The other guests are served breakfast in here between seven and nine o'clock.  Most stay one night and then go off to their next destination."

Aileen had trailed into the dining room behind them.  "Maura was a grand cook. Offered quite a menu that the guests chose from the night before.  But now, our Catriona comes in and does her best, the poor dear. She has a bit to learn."

"It's off-season now, though, and there's not many who come this time of year.  Starting in late May, the rooms were always full through September.  So ye'll find it's a good business if ye choose to keep it."

Aileen nodded vigorously. "Very good, indeed."

"And here's the lounge," Sorcha said as she led the way through a broad archway into a much larger room wallpapered in deep green and burgundy plaid, where another large window offered an expansive view of the loch, and a massive fireplace flanked with bookshelves dominated the far wall.   A number of forest green upholstered chairs and sofas were scattered through the room.  "Guests are welcome in here any time--and in the sunroom, as well. The library was Maura's personal space, though we were welcome to the books anytime we wished."

As they passed an open staircase leading up to the second floor, Lucy could see a bright room lined with windows that looked out on what was probably a flower garden in the summer. 

At a pair of the double doors Sorcha stopped to open them, then she flipped on a switch that turned on yet another sparkling crystal chandelier and stepped aside.  "Brodie could tell you much more about the library than we can.  He grew up coming here with his mother for long visits every summer, and Maura said it was his favorite place to be.  He built blanket forts in the corner and hid with his dog and stacks of books."

Lucy tried to imagine Brodie as a solitary child in this massive old house, entertaining himself with adventurous tales. He'd probably been quite a cutie, with that thick, dark wavy hair and those silvery eyes.

"There's an amazing collection of books in here. Maura said most of the library has come down through the generations of her family," Aileen added with a twinkle in her eye.  "Though you'll find the most current fiction on the shelves behind the wingback chair in the corner."

"In case you didn't guess, Aileen was a teacher back in the day.  You can always find her in here tucked up with a book."  Sorcha gave her friend a fond glance, then looked at her watch.  "We'll leave you to explore a bit on your own, then.  The guest rooms are on the second floor, the old servant's quarters on the third floor are mostly storage.  Old furniture, and what not.  You'll need a key to get up there, but the door to the staircase is hard to open. Ye'll have to ask Brodie to give ye a hand."

The wonderful scent of old books, furniture polish and history assailed her as Lucy stepped into the library. 

Old portraits and scenes of Scottish life, probably going back several hundred years, hung from the walls, while dozens of framed photographs crowded most of the tables and shelves not filled with books. Who were these people?

A feeling of awe settled over her as she wandered from one display to the next, then spied shelves of photo albums, many of them with crumbling spines.

She'd felt so alone just yesterday--knowing she had no relatives left to call at Christmas or visit at Thanksgiving. No one left to share rollicking family stories or re-tell shared adventures.   But now she began to understand just how much Maura had given her by insisting that she come to Scotland.  Why had she hesitated for even a minute, over staying here for the next month?

This was a gift of her family history, and she'd almost thrown it away. 

Thank you, Lord, she whispered.  And then she pulled a photo album from the shelf and opened the first page.

****

An hour later, Aileen quietly stepped into the library doorway to check on Lucy, then she returned to the lounge where Sorcha sat with a newspaper in her lap and a faraway look in her eyes.

"She's still in there, enjoying the albums," Aileen whispered, unable to hold back a broad smile.  "I think she's going to fall in love with Rosethorn.  How can she not?"

"Because she's American, dear.  She'll want to go home to her friends, her old life."

"But what if she does fall in love? Our Brodie and Lucy would be perfect together.  I can feel it."

Sorcha turned a page, shaking the newspaper to settle the center crease. "About that...why did ye tell her that old story about true love?  She's an adult, not a starry-eyed little bairn.  If you're not careful, she'll be thinking we're two old eejits who belong in a care home."

"It canna hurt for her to dream, can it? To just start thinking?"

"And that'll happen because ye told her one of Maura's tales?"

 "It was just a wee nudge."  Aileen dropped onto the sofa facing Sorcha's and began sifting through the supplies in her knitting bag.  "Our four weeks will be gone in a blink, and then Lucy could leave. Neither one of them will see what's right before their eyes if we don't help."

Sorcha snorted. "Like fairy godmothers."

"Exactly!"  Aileen felt her heart start to flutter with excitement.  "So now, we need to plan..."

A rap on the library doorframe shook Lucy out of her reverie and she sat up abruptly, surprised at the lengthening shadows that now lay across the faded Oriental rug.

"I hear you need some help," Brodie said as he sauntered into the room.  "Something about the third floor staircase?

Raindrops on his hair and black turtleneck sparkled under the glittering chandelier, and the fragrance of wood smoke and pine wafted in with him, the scents bringing to life the album of Christmas photos she'd just gone through.

"I'm sorry the ladies bothered you," she said with a rueful smile as she closed the album and rose.  "I'm sure you have far more productive things to do."

"Productive would be the operative word," he said dryly.  "Since it rarely seems to apply anymore, I'm at your service."

The shadows cast by the light overhead sculpted the strong, masculine lines of his cheekbones and jaw, making her think of a young Sean Connery...or maybe it was his hypnotic Scottish burr.  "Sorcha told me that you're writing a book.  A textbook of some kind?"

"It hasn't been going according to plan, but that's why I'm here."

"So even professorial types get writer's block?" She teased. 

"Aye. Wasn't the case with my first two, but...things changed."

Warmth crept into Lucy's face as she remembered Aileen's words. Of course the poor man would be troubled by his wife walking out the door.  He was probably pining for her, wishing every day that she'd show up and walk right back into his arms.  No wonder he couldn't write.

"I--I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to make light of...uh..."

Startled, he looked up sharply then laughed.  "If the dear auld ladies have been talking, you've likely got the wrong picture altogether.  They imagine broken hearts all 'round. But my ex-wife despised Scotland and was happy to leave...and it ended up for the best."

He wandered through the room, looking at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, then leaned a hip against the desk and crossed his arms. "So what do ye know about how your kin were here, yet you ended up in America?"

"Nothing, really.  My mother refused to talk about it, and as far as I know, she cut all ties when she left.  After she died, I had to deal with her house and everything in it.  There wasn't a single letter or card from Scotland.  If there was ever any correspondence, she threw it all away."

"Sad state of affairs for you, then."

"What about you?  Are you close to your family?"

"We're all busy, but we keep in touch.  E-mail, and at holidays and such. My brother and his wife still live on the property where we grew up."

"You're lucky."

He laughed at that.  "Until they start meddling a little too much.  To paraphrase Jane Austen, 'a newly single man must surely be in want of a wife.' Or so my family thinks."

She looked up at him in surprise, and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.  "I'm sure that's the first time a man has ever quoted Austen to me."

He shrugged. "I teach 18 and 19 century British literature, among other things. So have ye discovered any interesting family history yet in all of this?"

"Honestly, I feel like an interloper," she admitted.  "I don't feel I have a right to pry."

"Who else would?  If Maura hadn't wanted ye to have at it, ye wouldn't have heard from her solicitor and ye even wouldn't be here."

"Simpson did say that she left information on the family for me."

He tapped the desktop. "Maybe this would be a good place to start looking.  Or in that file cabinet by the window."

"I'd still feel like a snoop, looking through her things," Lucy said slowly, her curiosity growing as she eyed the desk.

"Have at it.  You can ship the photo albums home to look at later.  But if you find anything you want to follow up on, now's the time while you're still here."

"I guess you're right."  She slipped behind the desk and tentatively settled into a creaky swivel chair with cracked leather upholstery.  "I hear you spent a lot of time here as a child."

"A couple weeks every summer, because my mother and Maura were lifelong friends after college.  Great fishing in the loch, different places to explore." He winked at her.  "This was once a convent, and my brother and I found secret passageways and hidden cubbyholes. Ye can imagine the ghost stories we dreamed up."

His voice entranced her, and at this close range, she now realized his silvery eyes, shaded by long, thick black lashes, were mesmerizing. "I'd love to hear some of those stories, if you remember any of them."

"All too well.  When my real writin' goes slow, I find myself spinning those tales instead."  He laughed.  "They're far more intriguing, I'm afraid."

"Maybe that's what you should be doing then.  Follow your heart and become the next Stephen King."

 "I'm not that much of a dreamer, lass."  He stood.  "I'll leave ye to your own adventures here, then, unless you'd like to go up to the third floor.  Aileen claims it's not safe up there and you shouldn't go alone."

"She told me that the door was too hard to pry open."

Their eyes met, and then they both laughed, and she felt the beginnings of a real friendship.  "I'm sorry about this, really. I swear I haven't encouraged them to think I'm looking for a little romance while I'm here."

"I don't think it's just a wee romance they're hoping to start.  They've probably put their heads together and decided that if they can marry you off, you'll never leave Scotland and they can keep their happy home."

"Marry me off!"  She closed her eyes briefly, embarrassed at her naiveté when Aileen had spun her tale about the old plaque on the door and how to find true love.  The old woman had probably been delighted to find her so perfectly gullible.  "I'm afraid they won't meet with much success.  I'm definitely not planning on any whirlwind romances now--or ever.  Absolutely none."

"Ye have to admit they're crafty--even if they're a bit short-sighted. But at the least, we can be friends, aye?"

He extended his hand and she accepted it for a brief shake.  "Friends."

Just friends.  Just as it should be.

Though long afterward, she could still feel the warmth of his firm grip, and the way it had sent tingles of awareness straight to her heart.