The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (21 page)

“I hope so.” She stood and stretched the kinks out of her back. “You should remember to make sure the batteries are fully charged.”

“We do. This one had a full battery when we got here. It happens a lot in paranormal investigations.”

Emmie came up behind him as he began dismantling the tripod.

“Why is that?”

He shrugged. “No one knows for sure. One theory is that ghosts don’t have energy of their own, so they draw on energy surrounding them. Did you know that apparitions are most often seen just before a thunderstorm? Parapsychologists believe they’re able to draw from the electric charge in the atmosphere.”

“Interesting,” she said vaguely, staring at the camera in the man’s hand.

She wasn’t looking at the camera, she was testing out the atmosphere. Cael was here, hovering at the door. She could feel him. It must mean the old woman and the countess were gone, if he was no longer respecting the boundaries they’d set.

She wondered if he knew what the countess had shown her. Somehow, she thought not. In fact, she didn’t want him to know. Not yet at least. There was a puzzle she had to tease out. The man with the ginger hair had said he would not defy his laird. It was possible that he had gone back on his word, but Emmie doubted it. The conversation she’d witnessed hadn’t been an answer. It had only been another clue.

Half the men of the clan wanted to withstand the MacIntoshes, and half wanted to kill Cael. To what end, though?

That’s when she remembered the Campbells. The MacDonalds of Keppoch had appealed to the MacDonalds of Clanranald for help. The Campbells had seen this as a threat and joined with the MacIntoshes to wipe them out and steal their lands.

That must be it. Cael was advocating that the MacDonalds of Keppoch fight the MacIntoshes themselves. If they did that, the Campbells would not have been persuaded by the MacIntoshes to stand against them. Would that mean they would not have been wiped out?

She knew why Cael had been betrayed, but the question was…

Who
had betrayed him?

A VICIOUS MIGRAINE
was the first thing to greet Emmie on the morning of her date with Dean. The instant her eyes opened to the dishwater-grey light, a wave of nausea-inducing pain dug into the base of her skull. Emmie pitched forward, despite the pain of sudden movement, and groped blindly in the drawer of her bedside table for the half-full bottle of acetaminophen tablets she’d brought with her from Corner Brook. Locating the bottle, her fingers fumbled madly at the red plastic child-proof lid. It popped off with a satisfying
poomph
, and small, blue liqui-gel pills scattered onto the blankets like tiny marbles.

With two of the precious pills squeezed tightly in her fist (the others abandoned on the covers where they’d fallen) Emmie stumbled to the bathroom. Each footstep sent a fresh jolt of torture along her optic nerves, but she made it without being sick. She yanked open the stained brass taps, releasing a geyser-forced blast of ice cold water, from which she drank by snaking her head over the lip of the enameled, cast iron sink. Once she’d managed to slurp in a mouthful, she tossed the liqui-gels in and swallowed heavily.

Zombie-like, she padded back to her bedroom and eased herself under the covers, careful not to cause any more jarring of her brain than necessary. She clenched her eyelids tightly together, as much to block the residual morning light as to contain the rolling anguish that was still attacking her head with relentless triumph. She envisioned an anthropomorphized war between a great, hulking beast and an army of blue, jelly-like infantry taking place on the battlefield of her grey matter.

You’re going down, dude!
she thought to the imagined beast as she prayed for blessed relief.

Cael was with her. Next to her. Unfailingly loyal, he’d known how much discomfort she would wake up to, and had been there since she opened her eyes. On the one hand, Emmie wished he’d go away. His dogged presence triggered thoughts, and those thoughts triggered pain. On the other hand, one of those thoughts was that she wanted nothing more than to forget everything, forget herself, and dissolve into nothingness with him. To know of nothing but his presence, his comfort…

And then that desire would perpetuate the blasted thoughts, and the thoughts would aggravate her aching head. Damn him!

Damn her.

Come to think of it (since she was doing so much migraine-inducing thinking anyway) damn Dean. Damn his charming, handsome, eager Texan self. She was dreading their impending date worse than a root canal, or some equally distasteful necessity. But the question was: How much of that was because Emmie herself truly dreaded it, and how much was coming from Cael? Was she being affected by his jealousy the way she’d previously been affected by his rage?

Cael didn’t want her to go on this date. Didn’t want to share her with another man.

“I don’t have a reason not to go,” she whispered. “He’s alive. You’re not.”

The dread flattened, limped into sorrow. What she’d said made him sad because it was true. It made her sad, too.

Finally, Emmie’s migraine began to ease. It chugged laboriously along, losing momentum like a steam engine that had run out of steam. When the last few throbbing whimpers died, she reluctantly sat up. Half the morning was gone already—it was time to shower and dress.

The pounding of the shower head was pleasantly invigorating. She stood beneath the stream, surrounded by the three mismatched shower curtains, and let the hot water loosen her back and neck muscles. As the steam swirled around her, plasticky-smelling from the vinyl curtains and mingled with the fragrance of her watermelon bath gel, she thought back on the events of last night.

When Carol Bowman confirmed Cael’s feelings for Emmie, the woman had unwittingly given her a gift. It was the gift of release. Now that she’d slept on it, Emmie no longer felt a need to pretend, to ignore, to stifle. She could acknowledge Cael’s feelings, acknowledge that she’d known all along.

More than that, though, now that she’d slept on it, it wasn’t so frightening for Emmie anymore to acknowledge her own feelings for Cael. However wrong, however unnatural it may or may not be, there it was. At the very least, it cast her obsession to solve Cael’s mystery into a new light, illuminating facets and edges which had previously been obscured by the shadow of her unwillingness to see them. Laid bare, Emmie knew that it was not just Cael’s influence that was driving her to seek a resolution. It truly was because
she
wanted to know, too. Had to know. The obsession was as much hers as it was his.

Carol had called Emmie an old soul.
People like to use that expression far too often, but they’re rarer than you’d think, those old souls
, she’d said. When asked what that meant, she’d simply responded,
Oh, nothing. Most of the time.

Most of the time. But not this time. Yet another illuminated facet that Emmie had not allowed herself to see. Whatever was between her and Cael, it went back farther than the span of her short life. Like the hum of an electric current that one didn’t hear until someone pointed it out, Emmie was now aware of the vibration of a connection that transcended all known theories of time.

In that context, the little old woman’s contribution to last night’s monumental revelation held more weight.
We’re led to places, my dear,
she’d told Emmie.
No one ever ends up anywhere by accident.

Emmie hadn’t ended up at Tullybrae by accident. She’d been led here. She was meant to find Cael, to learn of his murder and, just maybe, to solve it.

As little as a week ago, she would have thought herself tipped over the edge. Having well and truly gone mad. But Emmie wasn’t going mad. The little, grey-haired lady had insisted on that. She was of sound mind. Whatever strain Cael’s presence and his demands had put upon her, it had more to do with her perception of her mother’s decline and eventual death than anything that might have been a physiological trait, or an inherent shortcoming of personal strength.

And then there was what she’d learned of her mother’s shortcomings—which, the woman had revealed, were not shortcomings at all. Emmie’s mother had suffered from mental illness. Her drug addiction was not an indicator of a weak character, but instead was symptomatic of an undiagnosed health condition.

Still, Emmie was angry with her mother. She was angry with her grandmother. She knew it was unfair, but that’s how she felt. Oddly, though, there was a certain peace that came with allowing herself to admit that she was angry, and had been all this time.

Perhaps what the old woman had told her was true—her mother’s weakness had made Emmie strong. She wasn’t necessarily convinced of such an explanation, but it made her feel somewhat better to think that it might be true.

This time, when Emmie stood in front of the armoire to dress for the day, she aimed for a look that fell somewhere between the two extremes she’d recently known: The careful, fastidious, professional woman, and the frump who had given up on herself. This morning—though to be fair, it was getting on closer to noon by now—she chose a simple long-sleeve V-neck knit in a crisp white, and her dark, slim-leg jeans. On her feet, she laced up a pair of clean, white Keds she hadn’t worn in five years, but which she had brought with her to Scotland for one reason or another.

With Cael close behind, she left the servants’ quarters, and joined Lamb in the kitchen for breakfast.

The old man gave a start when he saw her in her clean, simple attire, with her hair twisted into a butterfly clip and face adorned with just a touch of mascara and tinted lip gloss.

“You look very well, my dear,” he said in his unshakably formal way. His eyes, though, warmed, betraying his soft heart. “How do you feel?”

“I feel…” Emmie thought, her bottom teeth catching the edge of her upper lip. “Tired. Like bodily tired. You know when you’ve been sick with the flu, and when it’s over you’re left weak and drained, but you know that things can only get better from here? I’m not sure that’s quite it, but it’s as close as I can get.”

“Yes? Oh, good. I am pleased. Well, I hope you have an appetite this morning. The butcher had back bacon on special, so I picked up two pounds of it.”

As Lamb shuffled to the counter, Emmie stared at his back, brows drawn together. There was something about his demeanour—it was anxious. Like he’d been expecting something, some change in her.

How much did the old man know?

“I’m not sure I’m two-pounds-of-back-bacon hungry, but I could eat,” she answered carefully, deciding not to press the matter.

“It’s good to see you happy again, love.”

“You sweet man, now I feel guilty. I wouldn’t say ‘happy’ is quite the right word. But I’m not unhappy. Let’s leave it at that.”

After filling her belly to a level that was an inch above comfortable, Emmie retreated to the library to pick up where she left off with her cataloguing. A feeling of optimism stole over her when she closed the door, and heard the firm, metallic click of the latch bolt catching the faceplate. Back to work.

She’d been holed up in her nursery-slash-office so much of late, searching for anything and everything there was to be had in cyberspace and digital archives about the MacDonalds of Keppoch, that she’d completely abandoned the project she’d been hired to do. Her manila tags, her string, her pencils and pad of paper were still there. Haunted Britain’s crew had moved them behind the sofa during filming—manila tags, string, pencils and notepads being decidedly out of place in a setting that was supposed to be riddled with spooks and spectres—but otherwise everything was just as she’d left it. Lowering herself to the floor, she sat cross-legged behind the sofa, and took a few minutes to review what she’d already done. Then she picked up where she’d left off with the late Lord Cranbury’s collection of books as if she’d been at it only yesterday.

It felt good to be cataloguing again. To be engrossed in the simple, almost meditative task of recording facts and figures. Her mind was pleasantly blank in some respects, and comfortably aware in others. Cael was still there, of course. She could feel his presence and was glad of it. But in the blank part of her mind, she was content to let the knowledge of his presence be separate from the gut-wrenching thoughts and fears that had plagued her for weeks.

For his part, Cael seemed content to let her relegate him to the background. She worked and he watched, in the same type of companionable silence she and Lamb often found together.

Sometime around mid-afternoon, Lamb came into the library. He was carrying an armload of split logs so large that the poor withered man looked ready to snap in two. Taking advantage of the open door, Clunie scurried in on the old butler’s heels, fat orange belly swaying between his hindquarters, and settled himself on top of Emmie’s notepad and pen.

“You silly old man, what are you doing?” Emmie accused, hopping up from the floor. “Those are far too heavy for you. Here, let me.”

“You’ll ruin your nice white shirt,” he argued. But he let her take them.

“Why are you doing this? You’ve got to stop with these useless chores. Old Cranberry’s dead.”

“It’s no’ useless. It gets cold in here. I thought you could use a nice wee fire.”

Emmie softened, regretting her exasperation. “A fire would be lovely,” she relented. “But you could have suggested it, and I would have gotten the logs myself.”

“Nonsense. Work keeps my joints limber.”

“Limber?” She raised one brow.

“You mock me, but imagine how stiff and slow I’d be if I didn’t keep active. The local children might begin calling me the Tinman of Tullybrae.”

“Thank you, Lamb. That was very kind of you. You’re the grandfather I never had.”

The colour that tinged his pale cheeks betrayed his pleasure, despite his awkward nod and wordless departure.

“He’s a big old softie under that stoic exterior,” she told Clunie. He looked at her expectantly, purring madly. Emmie scratched behind his ears, and he raised his head in sheer bliss.

She added, “That can’t be comfortable, sitting on my pen.”

She spent the rest of the day enjoying the soft crackle of the flames, the gentle purring of Clunie’s warm body against her thigh, and the simple fact of Cael’s nearness. At five, the dig crew packed up for the day. Their casual chatter filtered into the library through the glass windowpanes as they trooped out of the field and packed up their van.