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 p
lagued 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.
Before leaving, Dean stopped by the library. He opened the door, knocking on the frame as he popped his head inside.
“Hey. So I’ll pick you up at seven?” The casual tone failed to mask the eagerness that was evident in his countenance.
“I’ll be ready,” she answered, affecting enthusiasm.
“Great, see you then.”
She watched him go. There was a visible bounce in his step, and when he reached the van outside, his jovial banter with Adam and Sophie sounded a little too jovial. It was as she suspected—Dean clearly was hoping for more than the “just friends” outing they’d agreed to.
The awkward feeling he’d dredged up with his quick visit stayed with her the rest of the evening. Her repeated self-reassurances did little to assuage her discomfort.
“You like Dean. He’s a good guy. Stop being paranoid.”
Nor did her reassurances assuage Cael. The peaceful, quiet intimacy they’d shared in the library vanished. Now, he sulked in the background, reluctantly giving her time and space to enjoy her life.
When Dean returned to the manor, Cael disappeared entirely.
“Looking good,” she said playfully when she opened the door.
“I changed my outfit, like, five times,” he answered with a comical eye-roll. “You look great, too.”
“Thanks.”
Outside on the gravel drive was parked a shiny, metallic grey Audi A3 Cabriolet. Emmie balked at the sleek, sophisticated machine.
“Woah! Is that your car?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged.
“You sure you didn’t go out and rent a set of flashy wheels just to impress me?”
Dean clucked his tongue. “You caught me. Even borrowed my old man’s Sunday tie.”
“It’s funny—I always assumed you guys just drove around in those big white vans all the time.”
“Oh, we do. Totally. Stannisfield pays for the gas on those babies, so we’d be stupid not to. But we all have our own cars, too. They’re just parked at the hotel most of the time.”
He opened the passenger side door for her. Thanking him, Emmie slid into the low, scoop-back seat. Inside, the car was upholstered in butter-soft, charcoal grey leather, and the dash was chrome and black with neon blue gauges.
“So where are we going?” she asked as he climbed into the driver’s side and turned on the ignition. The engine purred to life with a seductive sigh.
“How does Aviemore sound? There’s this small pub I heard about. It’s called the Avie—”
“The Aviemore Arms,” she finished. “I’ve been. It’s a great little place.”
Dean tipped his head back and grinned ruefully. “You’ve been. Ah, and here I was hoping to take you someplace new, get you out of that dusty old manor house.”
“Even better—you’re taking me to one of my favourite places around.”
“We both know this is one of the only places around.”
Her lips quirked, eyes sparkling with humour. “The sentiment still stands.”
The driving, as well as the actual time spent with Dean rather than the time spent dreading it, lent a great deal to helping Emmie relax. Her earlier trepidation about his private hopes and expectations for the evening waned. Now that the actual date had arrived, he proved himself to be remarkably easy to be around. She had gotten a sense of it in the time the crew had been at Tullybrae, notably at The Grigg and again at the university when he was introducing her to his skeletal friends. On- on-one, in the close confines of his luxury vehicle, he was even more so. Gone was the cocky lady-killer persona that competed with Adam to flirt with her. That Dean was replaced with a man who was effortlessly charming, with a distinctly Texan flavour. He was witty, self-deprecating and a born conversationalist.
Being with him was natural. Fun. Emmie’s earlier burdens, brought on by the slightly oppressive atmosphere of Tullybrae and its ghostly inhabitants, and by her incomprehensible connection to Cael and his mystery, melted away.
“Good to see you again, lass,” said the handsome, salt-and-pepper-haired barman when they arrived and found a seat at the Aviemore Arms. “Pint of stout, is it?
“I’d love one,” she answered, somewhere between flirty and friendly.
“And what’ll yer young man here have?”
“Tenents. Thanks, bud.”
“Sure.” The barman winked at Emmie before leaving to fill their orders.
Dean raised an eyebrow at her. “You come here often?”
“No, just the once. He must have a good memory.”
“He’d have to be brain dead not to remember a looker like you.”
“Come on, now, Deano. Put the Alpha Male act away,” she chastised teasingly.
He didn’t miss a beat. “No can do. It’s a natural male instinct. I’ll be peeing on you to mark my territory next.” He drew an imaginary square around the perimeter of their table. “Just give me a half hour to get my first pint down.”
“Charming.”
The evening stretched on, as pleasant as it had promised to be at the start. At times, Dean had Emmie in stitches, and when she wasn’t laughing, she was engrossed in the stories he told. He painted a picture of his life in Texas, of the parents that were still there and the high school football friends who had all taken jobs in factories right after graduation. He told her about late-night forays to the old Four Boulders Bridge off Ridley’s ranch, and of the test of manhood he and his friends had all taken by jumping into the river below without a scrap of clothing on.
With considerable coaxing, Emmie relayed the details of her childhood in Corner Brook, Newfoundland without delving into any of the particulars. She described for him the smell of saltwater on a rainy morning, and of the sound of the cargo ships when they docked in St. John’s. He seemed especially interested in
her explanation of the buildings in a seaside town, tall and narrow, clapboard siding painted bright blues, yellows and rust reds.
“I thought Newfoundlanders had accents,” he noted when she said as much as she wanted to.
“I can do one.”
“Yeah? Let’s hear.”
Emmie sat back in her chair, eyeing Dean speculatively as she thought of what she would say.
“She’s some lop on the pond, buddy what?” she said in a perfect Newfoundlander lilt.
He stared at her, incredulous. “What?”
“I said, ‘The water’s rough today, isn’t it?’”
“That’s crazy.” He shook his head, in awe of this side of Emmie he’d never seen before. “So why don’t you talk that way all the time? Were you born somewhere else, or have you learned how to hide your accent, like me?”
“The former,” she evaded.
“Don’t know why you don’t pull that out to charm the men-folk more often. I find the Texas drawl works wonders on the ladies.” He winked.
“I bet you do,” she answered dryly, and took a pull of her pint.
It was after midnight by the time the night life at the Aviemore Arms began to wind down. Emmie was surprised by how easily the time and conversation passed—as did three full pints of local stout. She rarely drank that much (her night of copious wine at the one roast beef dinner with Lamb notwithstanding), but was enjoying the slight blur it added to the edges of everything. Dean, who was driving, only had two pints of Tenents, and filled in the gaps with ginger beer and a sizeable selection of appetizers.
“You’re going to lose that girlish figure of yours one day if you’re not careful,” she teased as he shovelled a deep-fried curried spring roll into his mouth.
“Nah, I’m solid. This is what race horses eat just before the Belmont Stakes. Look it up, it’s a fact.”
He chomped goofily through another spring roll.
The Ghosts of Tullybrae House Page 19