The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (23 page)

His face fell a fraction, but he kept his hopeful smile in place.

“It’s not you, it’s me, huh? Universal code for ‘I’m not into you, I’m into someone else.’”

“That’s not it. I’m not seeing anyone else.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. “And I swear, at any other time of my life, I’d totally be into you. I’m serious,” she insisted when he made a playfully dismissive gesture. “If I were on the market, I would jump at the chance to go out with you in a heartbeat.”

He looked at her for a moment, considering her sincerity.

“All right,” he allowed. “I’ll believe you. You’re not trying to soothe my ego, and you don’t really think I’m a gargoyle.”

Emmie released a surprised laugh. “Gargoyle?”

Her stomach flipped nervously when his expression grew serious.

“So I won’t ever bring up the subject again, I promise,” he said, his voice low and sensuous. “Just… please don’t be mad at me.”

“For what?” Her own voice was a whisper.

“For this,” he whispered back.

Dean leaned forward, slowly, hovering a moment.

Emmie knew he was giving her the opportunity to back away. To say no.

She didn’t. She remained still, and let Dean kiss her.

There were so many reasons why. Guilt, pity, curiosity. Even annoyance with herself. After all, there was no logical reason why she should turn him down. His lips, when they touched hers, were warm and soft. Real. His kiss was gentle, respectful.

Amid the turmoil her mind was in, one thought surfaced above all the others:

This is nice.

Or it was almost nice,
could
be nice if she would just let herself enjoy it. But she couldn’t. Emmie was already starting to think of what she’d say or do when the kiss ended. And it angered her that she couldn’t just enjoy what was right in front of her, when it wasn’t Cael.

If it were Cael…

Suddenly, Dean pulled away from her. A sharp hiss escaped through his teeth.

“Ah! What the—”

He reached his right hand over his left shoulder and rubbed at it. Then he turned a circle to look behind him.

“What?” Emmie asked, somewhere between alarmed and dazed.

“Something just… Jeez, that frickin’ hurt.” He turned another circle. “Something just scratched me.”

“Scratched you? What, like an animal?”

“Bat, maybe?”

They looked at each other, neither of them convinced by the possibility.

Emmie inclined her head towards the house. “Here, come inside so I can look at it in the light.”

She pushed opened the heavy front door and led Dean into the foyer, where she flipped the light switch on the wall.

“Turn around.” She put her hands lightly on his shoulders, and when his back was to her, she pulled aside the neck of his shirt. The start of three distinct scratches marked his skin at the base of his neck, and there was a smudge of blood on his shirt.

“You’re bleeding. Come on. We’ll get some Polysporin on that.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said half-heartedly. Predictably, he made no objection when she led him up the stairs.

“Sorry for the climb, but my first aid stuff is all on the third floor,” she apologized as they entered the servants’ staircase.

“So this is where you live,” Dean observed. As they headed to the bathroom, he took in the surroundings with interest. “Man, it’s like stepping back through time, isn’t it?”

“This whole house is like stepping back through time.”

“Lamb up here too?”

“He’s on the men’s side.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he said wryly. “A proper British butler. That man belongs in another time, too.”

When they reached the bathroom, Dean took a seat on the closed lid of the toilet, and turned away from Emmie so she could attend to his injury.

Delicately, she pulled at the hem of his shirt, lifting it up. He followed her lead, pulling the garment the rest of the way over his head. She made an appreciative note of the fact that he kept his arms in his sleeves, instead of eagerly shedding the whole thing as some amorous would-be suitors might do.

She also couldn’t help but note his back. It was smooth and muscled. An elaborate tattoo of a fierce-looking American bald eagle covered his right shoulder, and spread down to the bottom of his ribs.

“Nice ink,” she offered. “Very Americana.”

“When in Texas,” he quipped. “What would be the Canadiana version, I wonder?”

“A ninja beaver.”

Dean laughed, and so did Emmie. She was glad of it. The moment of joviality helped to dissolve some of the tension that had flared up at that kiss.

She examined the scratches closely. They were long and harsh, and like his tattoo, they extended from his left shoulder down to the base of his ribs. The blood that had smudged his shirt was superficial, but it could still use a disinfecting. One never knew—it might have been a bat after all. Though Emmie didn’t believe that for one minute.

She took out the plastic Rubbermaid container with her first aid supplies that she kept under the sink, and fished out a box of gauze pads. Running one pad under the tap, she dabbed away the blood, following the scratches from top to bottom.

“What does it look like?”

“Like… claw marks,” she answered begrudgingly.

Dean was silent for a moment.

“I think there’s definitely something to the theory that this place is haunted,” he said uneasily.

“I said there was. I wasn’t making it up when I told you about what I’d experienced. Remember, at The Grigg?”

“Yeah, I remember. But didn’t you say you thought it was, like, a benevolent spirit? A comforting one?”

“I did.”

“Well?”

She huffed. “I’m not a ghost expert, am I? No one’s ever scratched
me
before. Maybe they’re anti-American.”

He twisted back to look at her, humour quirking the edge of his lips. “Wouldn’t they have tried to scratch
through
Hubert then?”

“You named your bald eagle tattoo Hubert?”

“It was either that or Agamemnon.”

Emmie snorted. “I’m not even going to ask.”

She finished dabbing Dean’s back, and attached the gauze pads with surgical tape. When she was done, she stepped back and let him put his shirt back on. Clothed, he stood up, smiled warily, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I should probably go.”

“Yeah. Thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

“Me too. Thanks for letting me take you out.”

He leaned in again, but this time he kissed her on the cheek.

“I’ll walk you out,” she offered.

He nodded, smiling wryly. “I’d say no need, but hell, I’m not sure I want to be walking through this house alone right now. I’m not sure I like the idea of leaving you alone here, either.”

“I’m not alone. I’ve got Lamb.”

“Yeah, right.” He rolled his eyes. “If you scream, it would take him a year just to make it to you from the other side of the floor.”

“Aw, leave the poor man alone. He’s spry enough… for his age.”

They left the third floor in silence, and made their way through the darkened house to the front door. Dean got into his car, and with a final wave, drove back out to the main road. When she could no longer see his tail lights, Emmie shut and locked the door.

It was two in the morning, but she had no intention of going to sleep. She had a Highlander to find. Cael had crossed a line, and whether he liked it or not, she was going to have it out with him.

“CAEL? CAEL, WHERE
are you?”

Emmie climbed the grand staircase, feet hammering into each carpeted step.

“Cael. Stop hiding, we need to talk.” She stopped, shook her head, and muttered to herself, “Well, not ‘talk,’ per se—you know what I mean.
Cael
!”

There was no sign of him. No tingle, no inkling, nothing. Still, she charged through the darkened corridor on the second floor, hoping to pick up on where he was hiding, and knowing it was probably a futile exercise. After all, how did one uncover a ghost if that ghost did not want to be found? It wasn’t hide-and-seek. She couldn’t just look in a closet or under a bed and,
Aha!—There you are!
Nope, in that respect, Cael definitely had the upper hand.

After much stomping, Emmie was fairly certain the second floor was empty. So was the third floor. There was still the ground level and below stairs, but she had little hope those areas of the house would prove any more successful.

Frustrated, she wandered back to the grand staircase, her ire markedly deflated. She paused in front of the enameled Rococo mirror mounted above the upper landing.

“C’mon Cael,” she implored in a whisper. “I don’t know what you want from me, but you’ve got to help me figure it out here.”

A small, almost imperceptible movement to her right caught her attention. Emmie stared ahead, eyes wide, tracking the movement in her peripheral vision. She did not want to turn her head, to look on the source directly.

Because, on her right… there was nothing but the mirror.

Someone was in the corridor behind her. Coming towards her. Inch by inch, Emmie turned around, breath suspended, to confront whomever was there.

The corridor was empty.

Yet, when she turned back to the mirror, there most definitely was someone there. Cael. He was standing about ten feet behind her, directly beneath the plaster arch that separated the corridor from the landing.

The sight of him took Emmie’s breath away, and she forgot all about being upset with him. She stared, in awe of the figure before her, reflected in the mirror.

He looked apologetic. He knew he’d done wrong to Dean, and he was sorry for having displeased her. Funny thing was, Emmie couldn’t recall the reason
why
she was displeased with him. She was like an animal caught in headlights, blinded, and powerless to turn away even though the consequences might prove disastrous.

She dared not breathe as he walked forward. His eyes were trained on her, watching her through the glass. And at some point, though she couldn’t quite determine when, the glass was no longer there. It had sort of melted away along with her reflection, and Emmie hadn’t even noticed until Cael stopped directly in front of her. He held out his hand, solid and three-dimensional, inviting her to take it.

He was inviting her to step through the mirror—or, through where the mirror had been. He was asking her to come with him into that other world, the one of memory, illusions and half-truths. Incomplete truths which prevented a man from understanding his own death.

This wasn’t like last time. It wasn’t a dream, nor was it being forced upon her. She was being given a choice. She could take his hand and follow him, or she could turn around and walk away and remain at Tullybrae. Instinctively, Emmie sensed that her choice, whichever one she made, would be significant. It was the answer to an ultimatum he’d given her the first time he’d brought her into his world. Either she belonged to him, or she did not.

There was no deciding for Emmie. She already knew that she would let him take her wherever he wanted. She knew even before her arm lifted and her hand slipped comfortably into his.

When his fingers tightened over hers, the hope, the expectation and the fear that had written themselves on his rather expressive face blossomed into an aura of joy.

She stepped forward, her own heart joyful, and as she passed through the invisible boundary that separated her reality from his, the world as she knew it fell away. In its place, the walls of a castle took shape. The close, creaking interior of Tullybrae morphed into the drafty passageways and flagstone floors that she’d seen before. Around them, echoes of the past rippled on the currents of air that made the lit torches dance and undulate.

Cael led them. Though Emmie did not know where he was taking her, or what he meant for her to see, she trusted him. Through the narrow passageways, down steep stone steps and along smoke-filled corridors she let herself be led. Farther and farther down they went until she thought they must be descending into the bowels of the earth, and then back up again, into a large, cave-like space. It had high, wide, uncovered windows, and it was very clearly the kitchens.

If only she knew what castle this was. Did it still exist, or was Cael’s memory all that was left of this place?

The chambers—several open spaces that were linked together by thick stone columns like honeycomb—bustled with life. The kitchen staff, mostly men, were engaged in preparing all manner of food. They darted between tables and countertops, punching pastry dough, preparing meats, chopping root vegetables and greens, onions and herbs. A spit boy sat by the large open hearth, looking thoroughly miserable as he cranked an iron handle slowly and mechanically.

Though the chatter of the inhabitants was exclusively Gaelic, Emmie understood it, just as she had before. This was Cael’s memory, after all, and her command of a language she didn’t speak was due to him. It was an odd kind of understanding, the harsh, garbled syllables blending with a grasp of meaning that was as melodious as if she spoke it fluently.

Through the honeycomb kitchens Cael brought her, not bothering to step aside for moving bodies. Emmie and he were the ghosts here, not these busy people. Faces passed, but the eyes did not see, the senses did not detect. She looked at these people, each one, and saw the contentment of every-day monotony in their countenances. They were as blissful as she when cataloguing. Emmie smiled, feeling somewhat of a kinship with these long-dead beings.

They stopped when Cael decided they’d reached their destination. In a remote corner, a bread oven was being tended by a stout, grey-haired woman and a dark-haired boy about seven or eight years of age. Daylight from a nearby window, a vent for the oven, projected a shaft of light onto the boy’s dirty, gamin face.

“That’s it,” she instructed him in a grandmotherly way. “There ye go. Put the faggots in through the door. Aye, just like that.”

The boy struggled to lift a lit bundle of twigs, as wide around as he was and almost as long. He held the bundle at an awkward angle, careful to keep the burning ends away from flesh, clothing and hair. His small face was scrunched with effort, but not a sound escaped his lips. This was a boy who was bent on proving his manhood.

Once the bundle had been shoved into the oven, the woman picked up a door of fired clay that had been leaning against the base, and covered the opening with exaggerated finality.

“Grand. Just grand, wee Cael. And that’s that. We’ll let the oven heat for an hour or so, and then it shall be time to bake our bread.”

“Cael, that’s you,” Emmie whispered. Her heart melted as the sweet little urchin looked up at his teacher with pride.

Cael, who was still holding her hand, straightened with his own pride at the boy he’d once been. He gave her arm a gentle pull, moving her so that she was standing in front of him. When his arms encircled her middle and his chin rested on her shoulder, she tilted her head slightly to accommodate him. Her hands grasped the smooth sinew of his bare forearms, fingers pressing into the warm flesh.

“We’ll make sure to tell yer father, aye?” the woman was telling Cael the child indulgently. “Himself will be so pleased wi’ how well ye’re learning the running of his castle.”

The boy nodded solemnly, the weight of the responsibility taken in earnest. It reminded Emmie of that earlier memory of Cael and his father, the one where the clan chieftain publicly recognized him as his son, and bestowed upon him the gift of the ornate kilt pin to mark the occasion. Emmie knew now, thanks to Paul Rotenfeld at the University of Glasgow, that the clan chieftain was Angus MacDonald, second of Keppoch. There was no way this little boy could know it yet, but he would grow into a man that would please his father greatly. The future of Cael the child was mapped out already.

In the midst of misty-eyed affection, the vision changed. The images of the kitchens, of the woman and of Cael as a child ran together like watercolour paint under a running tap. The light brightened, and when her vision sharpened again, Emmie blinked at the sudden materialization of a new memory.

They were outside. The air was crisp, the sky bestowed with a gentle sun. Fresh dew dappled the blades of grass and dense scrub, making the hills look like a carpet of emeralds. Birdsong, high and tittering, indicated that it was morning, and judging by the fresh scent of delicate new growth, it was likely spring.

From somewhere further out, the clang of metal on metal interrupted the birds. A chorus of cheering, rowdy voices rose up into the air.

Cael released Emmie and straightened. She was disappointed at losing the intimacy, but was mollified when he took back her hand. Inclining his head towards the noise, he gave her a heart-stopping grin, and led her onward.

Her first thought was that there was a duel, or a skirmish. She hoped he was not about to show her bloodshed. Injury and death did not belong to such a glorious morning as this. As they drew closer, the voices became clearer. They were male, and the telltale cracking of newly-deepening vocal chords suggested that they were boys on the cusp of their teen years. They, too, were speaking Gaelic.

Cael halted when they reached the crest of a shallow ridge. Below, the land opened up into a flat plain where a number of boys, perhaps twelve or thirteen of them, were playing at swords. Beyond was the castle that was their home, and the outbuildings and dwellings that surrounded it.

In the centre of the group were two boys. One was large and powerful, destined to be a fighter. He had long, messy hair which was braided, and which stuck out in odd spots. It made him look markedly frightening, though he couldn’t have been more than fourteen. He moved with the confidence born of his sheer size, all force and no strategy.

The dark haired boy, his opponent, was everything this large young man was not. He was smaller by a head, and fine-featured, the gamin face of the kitchens developed into something that promised a quiet handsomeness. Lithe and graceful, he was outmaneuvering his opponent with every lunge and thrust of his blunt practice sword.

He was winning, and he knew it.

Cael’s hand tightened on hers, and his grin grew wider.

“I see you.” Emmie nodded, smiling herself. “I’ve got it, you’re a superstar.”

When a particularly brilliant feint, and then a swift upward thrust brought his larger, and very surprised opponent down, she nearly cheered.

Cael the twelve-year-old laughed, and turned to another boy standing in the crowd that circled them. The other boy, short and solid, and with sandy-coloured hair, stepped into the ring. The pair hugged and clapped each other on the back, sharing the victory.

The boy who had just lost sprang up from where he’d fallen unceremoniously on his backside. Thrusting a thick arm between the two boys, he shoved young Cael in the shoulder.

“Ye bloody cheated, ye
toll-toine
.”

“I did no’,” insisted young Cael. “Ye’re just sore ye lost, ye
luinnseach mhor
.”

“Ye tricked me. Ye didna fight fair.”

“Ballocks. Ye mind what Master MacBevan says: Chivalry is for the English. When ye’re fighting for yer life, there is only winning and dying.”

“Aye, Tom. Ye’re no’
English
, are ye?” Cael’s sandy-haired friend jeered.

The boy called Tom looked like he wanted to hit one of them, but by the way the boys in the circle were starting to form groups around whichever opponent they were backing, he thought better about his odds. Instead, he picked up his practice sword and spat at Cael’s feet.

“Tcha. It doesna matter ye won anyway, Cael. It doesna count when ye’re fighting a bastard.”

Cael’s youthful face grew dark, and he took a single, menacing step forward.

“What did ye call me?”