Like thieves, the pair stole away, leaving Sophie to devour the cream cheese salsa dip singlehandedly. Adam was busy chatting up a stylish zoomer-aged woman, but Dean noticed them sneaking off, and shook his head playfully.
The house was stunning, expertly decorated as one might expect for a well-off bachelor and scholar. White pine fixtures and floors, along with archaeological show pieces, were accented by strategic lighting. Original canvas paintings in bold reds, oranges and blues were hung on the clean, white walls. Despite the number of bodies radiating heat, the atmosphere was comfortably cool and remarkably fresh.
“Upstairs?” Famke suggested when they’d seen all of the first floor.
“You devil,” Emmie teased.
“What? Other people are doing it. Let’s go.”
Indeed, the entire house was occupied by party-goers. There was an upstairs study in which a number of people were mingling, examining books and more artefacts. Famke ran into a few of her former colleagues from her undergrad days at the University of Groningen in the Netherlands, and was pulled into a round of catching up. She made a concerted attempt to include Emmie, who smiled along with the conversation, but let her go when Emmie excused herself on the pretext of needing to use the washroom.
After running into Sophie, then Dean, then Ewan, and engaging in conversation with each of their groups of acquaintances, Emmie felt confident that she’d done enough socializing. Fetching a paper plate of food for herself and another glass of wine, she retreated to the conservatory, which ran off of the kitchen. It was surprisingly empty, as was the back garden beyond. Grateful for the opportunity to be alone, she opened the glass door, and moved out into the night air. At the far end of the small yard was a black cast iron bench. She sank onto the chilly metal and exhaled a delicate puff of vapour into the cold.
“I am not a party girl,” she told the rose-coloured fall mums that occupied the planter across from her.
Taking a leisured sip of her wine, she rolled the tart, rich liquid around on her tongue, and savoured the pleasant burn as it slid down her throat. Her thoughts drifted back to the skeletons at the university, and she considered their significance to the students that would examine them. She considered their significance to academics like Dean. To herself, even, and historians like her. Those skeletons were irrefutable proof of the inevitability of death. And weren’t they all preoccupied with death in their different ways?
She wondered if Arnold ever savoured wine as she had. If Mary Vincent felt the sting of cold air on her arms as Emmie did now. Those bones were so much a part of why she loved history. Like the artefacts she catalogued and researched and preserved, they, too, were the evidence of lives lived long ago.
It was romantic. In an achingly sad way.
The Highlander, too, made her heart ache. Her thoughts had never been far from him since leaving Tullybrae. The tangible absence of him, the lack of awareness of his presence. He’d been on her mind all this time. She wondered if he knew she was gone. If he missed her the way she missed him—
The thought brought her up short. Missed him? She did not miss him. This was not some silly crush, and the Highlander was not a person. He had no form, no face, no physicality whatsoever.
And yet, there it was: She missed him.
The realization was unsettling. This was not like her.
Caught up in her fretting, Emmie was startled by the sound of the conservatory door opening.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said a male voice.
She turned to find Dr. Northcott standing on the threshold with a bottle of beer in one hand.
“I didn’t realize anyone was out here.”
“It’s not your place to apologize in your own home,” Emmie pointed out genially. “I’m probably not supposed to be out here, Dr. Northcott. I’m sorry.”
“No, no. By all means. I’ll leave the door open for you if you’d like. And please, call me Iain.”
“Iain, then. Don’t worry about the door, I’m coming back inside. I’ve been hiding out here for too long.”
She rose from the bench and crossed the lawn, but stopped when he crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.
“I hope you’re having a pleasant time. You’re not hiding because the party’s lame, are you?” He flashed his famous charming grin, but there was genuine warmth behind it.
“I promise, it’s nothing like that.”
“Not much of a party girl?” he guessed.
“You know, I was just telling your flower pot that.”
He laughed, refreshed by her wit. “I’ve had many a conversation with those mums, myself.”
“I was kinda dragged here by Sophie,” Emmie admitted. “She basically told me I’ve been a hermit for too long. Nose buried in historic junk and all that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be here. I hope it’s not an imposition.”
“I am always happy to meet the friends of my friends.”
“Oh good. ’Cause I was starting to feel like a party crasher.”
“You were not,” he teased.
“I was. So the crew are good friends, then? I wasn’t sure—I thought maybe they were just acquaintances.”
“Good friends, all of them. “Did you know that Sophie and Adam were both students of mine when I taught at York?”
“No, I didn’t,” she said, mildly surprised as much by the information as by Iain’s down-to-earth countenance. She wasn’t happy to admit it, but Emmie saw now that she’d formed an opinion of the archaeologist before she’d met him, and without even realizing. The genuine, friendly man that sought to make her comfortable at his party was far from the snobbish, full-of-himself television personality she’d imagined.
“Yeah, they were a lot of fun, even as undergrads. And I’ve gotten to know Famke and Ewan and Dean over the years, too—archaeology being the small world that it is. I asked for them specifically for the Tullybrae project.”
“Really? I didn’t know you got to pick your own team for the show. I thought it was just whoever looks good on camera.”
“Ewan? Looking good on camera?”
“He fits a type,” Emmie laughed. “Papa bear, maybe.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But no. I insisted on having them all. They’re not always available to drop everything and uproot to a dig site, but when I can get them, I jump at the chance. They’re only working out of the Edinburgh U campus temporarily.”
She nodded her head, understanding. “I thought their office looked a little transient. Huh—I never thought of that. I just assumed that digging is what they always do.”
“It’s what they’d always do if the university would let them. But alas, tuition is a powerful motivator. Eager young minds clamouring for knowledge, and the undergrad courses need to be taught. To say nothing of the delegate committees, research grants and other short- and long-term projects.” He paused and tilted his head. “Emmie—is that short for Emily?”
“Emmeline, actually.” She took another sip of her wine, growing self-conscious.
“Emmeline. That’s beautiful. Unusual. A family name?”
“My great-grandmother’s, or so I’m told.” When he raised a brow quizzically, she added vaguely, “I’ve never met her.”
“It’s always nice to see the past carried forward to the future. A nod to those who came before us. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. How is it that you came to be curator at such a young age, by the way? That’s impressive.”
“Not really,” she dismissed. “It was kind of a trade-off. Lady Rotherham couldn’t afford to pay for a full-fledged curator with the amount of work that needed to be done cataloguing and referencing and all that. So I’m doing all the grunt work in exchange for the title and the experience.”
“Sounds like a fair trade.”
“I think it is. And so did Professor McCall—he put me up for the job.”
“Professor McCall—as in Boomer McCall?” Iain belted a laugh.
“I take it you know hi
m.”
“As I said, archaeology’s a small world.” He shook his head, smiling inwardly. “Boomer McCall. Imagine. Ask him how he got his nickname, next time you see him.”
“I’ve already been given an overview by Lady Rotherham,” she answered dryly. “At least an overview of the livestock and … er … items that were involved.”
“And how do you find Lady Rotherham?”
“She’s…” Emmie paused, searching for the right way to express her impression of the lady. “She’s okay. Nice, if a little all over the place. But she’s great to work for. Doesn’t hover, or try to micromanage or anything. She trusts me to get on with my work, and do the job right. So I appreciate that.”
“Yeah, she’s… ah… she’s something else.” He chuckled, ruffling his shaggy hair. “Nah, she’s got a good heart underneath that high-energy exterior. I really think she cares about Tullybrae deep down. If I thought she were exploiting it for her own gain, or to get herself onto the telly, I wouldn’t have agreed to take on the project. Mind, I think there is some of that in there, wanting her five minutes of fame. But that’s not what’s at the heart of it.”
“I’d say that’s about right,” she agreed. “When she told me all about the supposed ghosts, she wasn’t trying to hype it up or make a big thing out of it. She simply told me about them like they were part of her family.”
“That’s what Shelagh said—she’s one of the producers over at Stannisfield. She told me Camille mentioned a murder, or murders, but didn’t much hype up the story other than to pitch it as a point of archaeological interest.”
“It’s a shame they don’t know anything about who it was—or who they were, if it’s more than one. I looked online and in the manor library, but there’s nothing concrete in the written records to substantiate anything.”
“One of the frustrating things about history, huh? If it’s not in the written record, then there’s nothing to carry it forward. It as good as never happened.”
Emmie tilted her head. “Not necessarily. I mean, isn’t that what you do? Dig up the forgotten past, bring it back to life?”
He nodded once, conceding. “I have hope for you yet, young grasshopper. I like the way your mind works. So many of the old fuddy-duddies in our extended field don’t make those kind of leaps. Those that do are the ones that end up making a mark on the historical record. The ones that don’t find their careers stalled at regurgitating research papers and teaching undergrad classes until retirement.” He paused, a thought coming to his mind. “You know, if you’re actually interested in trying to breathe life into the legend, I have a mate down at Glasgow U that has access to a lot of records and documents that no one thought important enough to write about. Lots from your neck of the woods up at Tullybrae. There may be nothing in there, but there could just as easily be something that can give you a bit of a jumpstart. If you want, I can put you in touch with him.”
“Really?” Emmie beamed. “I’d love that!”
“Don’t get your hopes up. It may be a dead end, but at least it’s something.”
“That’s the thing about history,” she replied. “You hit dead end after dead end, but you keep going until one day a dead end turns out to be a hidden door.”
Iain laughed, a charming, heartfelt laugh. “Well said.” He raised his bottle. “A toast, then. To dead ends.”
“To dead ends,” Emmie echoed, and clinked her glass against his.
IAIN’S BUSINESS CARD lent a satisfying weight to the pocket of Emmie’s corduroy skirt as Ewan drove them back to Tullybrae along the dark Highland roads. It was after midnight by the time they turned through the gates and came up to the house.
Ewan pulled the Kangoo to a stop in front of the main entrance, and turned the engine off.
“I’ve left my notebook in the tent. Be right back.”
Dean unlatched his seatbelt. “Might as well stretch our legs while we’re waiting.” Adam followed suit.
Famke, who had been asleep until then, jolted awake as Sophie crawled sloppily over her lap. After indulging in one too many Smirnoff Ices, the young Londoner was more than a little worse for the wear.
“Yep, stretch’s what I need too, mate,” she slurred.
She yanked open the door, stumbling a little when her feet hit the gravel drive, and sauntered off around the side of the house.
“Man, not again,” Adam groaned.
“Someone make sure she doesn’t go too far,” Ewan called to them, half-way into the field. “I’m leaving as soon as I’ve got my book. She can walk back if she’s not ready to go when I am.”
“I’ll get her,” Emmie relented, exiting the van. The offer was received with a grateful smile from a bleary-eyed Famke.
“You want me to go with?” Dean offered.
“No, that’s okay—Oh, Adam!” No less worse for the wear than Sophie, Adam was relieving himself against one of the tires.
“Sorry, love. Call of nature,” he answered.
“Do you have any shame, dude?” Dean admonished.
“Occasionally.”
Shaking her head, Emmie trotted off in the direction Sophie had gone.
“Soph?” she called into the empty night. “So-oph.”
From somewhere at the back of the house, towards where the gardens were laid out in a maze of beds and high shrubbery, she thought she heard quick, light footsteps on the gravel walkways. Picking up her pace, she followed the sound. When she lost the trail, she stopped.
“Soph?” she called again.
A giggle came from her left.
“Soph, where are you?”
She took off again, following the laughter.
“This isn’t funny.”
Breaking through the rear hedge where the grounds of the manor ended, Emmie slowed. In front of her was a view more breathtaking than the daylight had ever shown. The moon shone brightly, gilding the hills in ribbons of silver. The view was endless. Empty. Yet sublimely beautiful, like Earth when seen from space.
An acute desire to walk out, to become lost in that silver moonlight, pulled her forward, away from the known, safe grounds of Tullybrae. These luminescent hills called to her, promised her that this was where her heart truly lay. It was not in Corner Brook, never there. It has always been here.
She’d gone perhaps a hundred feet before the tingling washed over her right side. A tingling which had been lifted from her when the van left the estate earlier that evening.
He was here. The Highlander.
As if in a dream, Emmie turned to the right. Her eyes tracked across the horizon, taking in the panorama before coming to a halt at a figure in the distance. He was another hundred feet away, but still she knew him. Without ever having seen his face before, Emmie knew it was him.
Immense sadness permeated the space between them and sank deep into her core. He stared at her with an intensity that held her mesmerised. Dark, unruly hair tumbled to his shoulders, and framed a captivating face. Strong, yet graceful in its masculinity. A traditional feileadh mhor flapped gently around bare, muscled legs.
He was something she might have seen in a movie, something Hollywood might emulate with the help of makeup artists and costume departments and award-winning directors. Except that he was so much more, so much grander than anything makeup and costumes could ever effect.
He was real. Authentic.
He made no move, did not try to communicate or gesture in any way. He simply stood, looking at her. Waiting, it seemed, for her to come to him.
And she wanted to. Dear God, it terrified her to admit that she wanted to.
Without warning, a pair of arms grabbed her from behind. Emmie yelped, her voice echoing across the landscape.
“Whatcha doin’ out here, hmmm?” Sophie drawled into her ear.
“Soph, you almost gave me a heart attack!”
Sophie giggled—a very different giggle than what Emmie had heard only moments before. Her gaze snapped back to the Highlander. He was gone.
&nb
sp; Still reeling, she looked to Sophie, who was sloppy grinning at her like nothing had happened. The girl had no idea what she’d interrupted, no inkling of the connection she’d just severed so carelessly. An irrational streak of anger surged in Emmie’s chest; words bubbled up from some vile place deep within her, begging to be hurled at Sophie and her foolish, pie-eyed face.
Don’t do it. It wasn’t her fault, urged the rational part of her that was horrified by her own reaction. And she was horrified. Mortified. Emmie was not one to take her frustrations out on other people, even when they deserved it.
Sophie did not deserve it now. Emmie breathed. Breathed again. Smiled, and threw an arm around Sophie’s shoulder.
“Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you back to the van.”
She looked back one last time to the empty hills. There was no one there.
Once the van turned onto the road and drove out of sight, Emmie closed and bolted the manor’s front door. The darkened, oil-painted eyes of Tullybrae’s dead followed her up the main staircase.
She felt very strange as she changed into her pajamas and retreated to the washroom to prepare for bed. Rattled, more like. If she had any doubt before now of whom or what she’d been sensing, those doubts had been vanquished. He was a Highlander. He was the Highlander. And his interest in her went far beyond curiosity.
It had been no accident that she’d been led away from the group and into the open land. Neither had it been a coincidence that she’d come upon his apparition. He’d meant for her to see him.
He did not look like anyone she’d seen before. Despite this, Emmie had the inexplicable conviction that she knew him. Or maybe not that she knew him, exactly, but that he was important to her somehow. That he was, and always had been, an integral part of her existence.
How the hell did that make any sense? It didn’t. The fact that it didn’t, and the fact that she couldn’t shake herself of the conviction, frightened her. It was because she couldn’t control it. It had no place in her ordered, careful life.
The night passed restlessly. The child’s laughter that lured her away from the gardens plagued her dreams. Incessant laughter. And his face, the face of the Highlander, plagued her dreams, too. In sleep, he was closer than when she’d seen him awake. Close enough that she might reach out and touch him. But she couldn’t—her arms would not move.
The Ghosts of Tullybrae House Page 11