Men of Midnight Complete Collection

by Emilie Richards

  Peter Gordon had stories to tell about the burn, stories of logs rushing past him as he clung to a root in the frigid water, stories of prayers prayed and promises made. Somehow his life had been spared. His brother, Jamie, had trudged the long road home to discover that Peter hadn’t arrived yet. A rescue party of villagers had retraced Peter’s path through a field where Jamie insisted his brother had last been seen. They had arrived at the burn just in time to save Peter from the waters.

  There had been other damage during the flood, a cottage washed from its foundations, a car submerged nearly to its roof, sheep and cows stranded on rocky knolls and lambs drowned.

  But the gossips of Druidheachd spared little conversation for the flood. High waters would come and go, and it was a pity that some people weren’t canny enough to stay out of them. What was more interesting was the vision that Jamie Gordon swore he had seen, the ghost who had warned him away from the burn.

  “They’ve come up with a name for her now,” Andrew told Duncan one afternoon just outside Andrew’s house. “There’s a solicitor from Perthshire with a summer cottage on the loch who heard Jamie tell his story. It seems there’s a legend in Perthshire about a ghost like ours, a braw lassie with flowing hair and a green satin gown who warns people of impending danger. They call her My Lady Greensleeves. Now some people in the village say she’s just changed her place of residence.”

  Duncan watched April romp with Primrose and Poppy. Never had dogs been less deserving of their names, or more ridiculous because of them. All three of the puppies were mouse brown and shaped like a baker’s first loaf of bread. April had chosen names for them after a great deal of thought—christening Iain’s puppy Hollyhock in the process. Andrew, with great forbearance, had accepted his fate, but Duncan was afraid that some day Hollyhock was going to conveniently disappear into the loch. Even Primrose, April’s puppy, had the grace to appear chagrined whenever his name was called.

  April sprawled on the narrow shore of Loch Ceo to be tackled by the hellhounds, shrieking happily all the while, and Duncan turned his attention back to Andrew. “No one is serious about this ghost thing, are they? Jamie Gordon had too much to drink that night, and so did his brother. They both admit it freely. Surely no one is taking a drunken man’s word for something so ridiculous.”

  “There’ve been other stories. They started about two years ago, you know, long before you came back. And Jamie’s story is a bit like the lights you saw the night the lorry nearly smashed into you,” Andrew said. “You saw a woman, too, or something that looked like one.”

  “Something that looked like a woman is a very different thing from seeing a ghost.” Duncan looked past April and the puppies to the loch. “But a man who believes in loch monsters might be hard to convince.”

  “I have no’ closed my mind, it’s true. I have no’ made the mistake of thinking I understand everything.”

  “And neither have I. Just some things. Like the fact that there are no ghosts and no monsters.”

  “Some people are saying that the ghost began to appear just after Mara bought her land from Iain. And Mara’s from Perthshire herself.”

  Duncan had only seen Mara briefly in the past weeks. She had asked him for time, and he hadn’t rushed her. But he had missed her more than he’d bargained for. Yesterday he’d glimpsed her going inside Cameron’s, so he’d invented his own grocery list just to be with her for a few minutes. She had refused his invitation for a drink at the hotel, but she had invited him to bring April and visit today. They would be heading up the mountain after April tired of playing with Poppy.

  “They’re not saying Mara has anything to do with the ghost, are they?” he asked. “Don’t they know a coincidence when one hits them on the head?”

  “Some are saying Mara is the ghost.”

  “I’m going back to the hotel and pack my bags.”

  “It’s said with good humor, Dunc, but it does no’ help that Mara hides away in her croft and refuses to socialize with people in the clachan. They’re suspicious of her. Good humor can quickly turn to bad.”

  “Do you know why Mara stays away from people?”

  “Aye. But should I tell that to the good folk of Druidheachd? That’s she’s no’ a ghost, merely a seer?”

  “No. As far as I’m concerned, she’s neither.”

  “And what accounts for her visions, then?”

  Since Duncan didn’t know, he couldn’t answer. “I’ll talk to her today. I’ll tell her what’s being said. And I’ll think of something to turn the tide of suspicion.”

  Duncan considered Andrew’s warning—for that was exactly what it had been—as he drove the winding road to Mara’s. This was the twentieth century, and even Druidheachd couldn’t completely ignore the march of time. But pry off the thin veneer of contemporary attitudes and beneath it there was a deep foundation of Celtic superstition and primal mysticism. If an immediate answer couldn’t be found using rational, scientific methods, an answer from the pagan past would suffice.

  He silently berated the villagers until he turned onto Mara’s road. But during the last mile he’d given up his own magical thinking. Druidheachd might be more in touch with its past than most places. Legends might be more freely bandied about here, stories passed down, the mystical cherished, but Druidheachd was like any corner of the universe and the people here like any other. They wanted and needed answers. They were willing to settle for old ones if new ones didn’t suffice.

  Primrose scampered up the path to Mara’s cottage, and April skipped after him. Guiser came down to greet them, and after sniffing and approving of Primrose, trotted off with the puppy at his heels. Duncan crested the hill and saw Mara beside her house piling wood under a black iron kettle.

  He thought of every fairy tale he’d ever been read as a child, every Saturday morning cartoon with black cats and witches. She wore a loose smock to cover her dress, and her hair was pulled back in a long, pale braid. Had she been wearing a pointed hat, he might have turned tail to run—except that she was so incredibly beautiful.

  “What on earth are you doing?” He watched April break into a jog. Mara turned and dropped an armful of wood to open her arms to his daughter.

  She lifted April and swung her around. “Och, look at you,” she said. “All pink-cheeked and bonny from the sunshine.”

  Duncan lifted his gaze to the sky. If there was sun today, it was the Scottish variety, hiding behind clouds and peeking out just often enough to tease them.

  He joined them. “If I were a stranger, I’d think I was about to be turned into a frog. Or added to eye of newt and wing of bat to complete one of your secret potions.”

  “If you were a stranger?” She lifted a brow. “Dinna you half think that now?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m about to make dye. I thought April would enjoy helping.”

  His gaze strayed to the ground by the kettle where suspicious bundles of dried plants were assembled. “You dye with those?”

  “Aye. I grow or collect much of it myself. Would you like to see my garden?”

  Duncan could see that this was a true source of pride for her. He had no doubt that she had a green thumb. Even though the weather hadn’t truly warmed, the rock-lined beds outside the cottage were filled with interesting foliage and occasional bright splashes of color. “I’m renowned for how quickly I can kill a plant,” he warned. “My father despaired of me.”

  “Will you kill my herbs by just walking through?”

  “I give no guarantees.”

  “Do you want to see, too?” Mara asked April.

  “I want to find Guiser.”

  “Then you shall.” Mara set her on the ground. “Off with you. And bring him back when you find him.”

  “She’ll be all right?” Duncan asked.

  “Guiser will no’ have gone far. He’s just giving Primrose a tour.” She didn’t look at him. She watched April until she had disappeared behind the byre.

  Duncan
put his hand on her shoulder. She turned then and raised her eyes to his. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “I dinna know what to do about you, Duncan.”

  The way she said his name did strange things to him. To Mara, he was Doon-kin, a fluid, musical sound that was almost an endearment. “You dinna have to do anything,” he said. “Can we no’ just see where things lead?”

  She smiled at his accent. “I can almost hear the kilt and the bagpipe.”

  “I come by it honestly, you know. I lived here for the first eight years of my life.”

  “There’s no hint of your Scots blood now except when you feel passion. Usually anger.”

  “I’ve been angry too often with you.” He touched her braid. It slid through his fingers, fine and soft.

  “It’s no’ your anger that frightens me.”

  “There’s no reason to be frightened.”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “You’re just finding yourself. I know. I’m wary of women who need to find themselves. I know that, too. But that’s out in the open. We understand each other. We can be careful with each other.”

  “Is it just care that’s needed, then? Is it as simple as that?”

  “Give it a chance and see.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.” She took his hand and linked her fingers with his. “And I was glad to see you at Cameron’s yesterday. Were you really so desperately in need of butter that you braved the rain for it?”

  “There’s twenty pounds in the hotel refrigerator.”

  She laughed. “Shall I show you my herbs now?”

  He leaned forward, hands still linked, and kissed her. She didn’t move away, and she didn’t move closer. Her eyelids drifted shut, and she sighed against his lips. Sensation spiraled through him. He felt as if he’d been holding his breath for most of a month, waiting for this. But he felt more than relief. Much, much more.

  “My herbs?” she said at last.

  He heard April’s laughter somewhere just behind the byre. He stepped back. “Your herbs.”

  Her garden was fenced against the animals, a rectangle carved from the rocky soil. “In two years’ time, how did you manage all this?” he asked.

  “Remember, there was a settlement on this spot once. The garden plot was here. The rocks had been cleared away for a larger garden than this, the soil cared for and replenished. When I moved here there were weeds aplenty, weeds I’d never even seen before. But beneath them, the land was as rich as any in the Highlands. Each year I’ll reclaim a bit more.” She opened the gate, a modern-looking affair with sturdy hardware. “Now, be careful where you step. I’ll no’ have you trampling my seedlings to death.”

  “I’ll be drawn to them like magnets.”

  “Step where I step.”

  “My feet are twice the size of yours.”

  She was ahead of him, and she didn’t turn. “They are no’. You take a respectable boot and no more.”

  “And how do you know so much about my feet?”

  “I know all about you, Duncan. There’s little I have no’ noticed.”

  He wished he could see her face. “All? Nothing left to the imagination?”

  “Nowt that my imagination could no’ provide.”

  He laughed softly. “My imagination probably works as well as yours, but apparently I find it less satisfying.”

  “I did no’ say it was satisfying.”

  He laughed again.

  She bent and brushed soil away from a mound. “I grow some plants for sachets to ward off moths. This is camphor. And in the row beyond is sweet woodruff.”

  He was growing more interested in spite of himself. But in Mara, not her herbs. “How did you learn all this?”

  “When I was a wee girlie I had an auntie, a great-auntie, really, who took me to stay with her whenever she could. She taught me to spin and to collect plants for dyeing.”

  He was relieved to find that someone in her life had wanted her. “Did she teach you to grow things?”

  She straightened. “The MacTavish women were always known for their gardens. As well as other things.”

  “Their great beauty?”

  She smiled. “No.” She hesitated, as if weighing her answer. Then she shrugged. “For having the sight, Duncan. It’s been passed down for as long as anyone remembers. Sometimes it skips a generation or two, but it always reappears. My granny had it, but she died before I was born. My mum tried to hide the truth from me, but my auntie told me before she died. I was no’ the first MacTavish woman to see the future. But perhaps I’ll be the last.”

  “Why would you be the last?”

  “There are no more in my line. My mum was an only child, and her auntie had no children. And I have no brothers or sisters.”

  “You could have children.”

  “But first I’d have to find a man who wanted them with me, would I no’?”

  “A man who didn’t want your children would be a fool.”

  “I’ve married one fool already. It’s possible I’d marry another. It’s not a risk I’d take lightly, or even willingly.”

  “You would be a superior mother.”

  “Did you think Lisa would be a superior mother, too?”

  “No. I’m not sure I ever thought about it.”

  “A superior mother takes a superior marriage. A woman needs support to weather the storms of childhood. A man does, too.”

  “I’m doing all right alone.”

  “It takes its toll though, does it no’?”

  He almost protested; then he grimaced. “I almost forgot. I’d better go find April.”

  “She’s over there.” She pointed to the sheep pen. “I saw her a moment ago.”

  “Then lead on, MacTavish.”

  She showed him more of the herbs that she dried for sachets, lavender and pennyroyal, tansy and, in an isolated corner of the garden, wormwood, a herb so powerful its very fragrance was said to inhibit the growth of neighboring plants.

  They moved down the rows, and she pointed out plants she grew for dyeing. April joined them, and Mara drew her into the tour. “This is weld, which gives a clear yellow dye, and this is woad, which gives a blue. These…” she pointed to a lacy-leafed row “…are cosmos, flowers bonny enough to pick for bouquets, but I grow them for dyeing. This is ribwort, this is coreopsis, a lovely golden blossom.” She pointed to a quarter of the garden on the edge opposite them. “And that’s my dinner for months to come, though I’ll be using the skins of the onions for dyeing, as well, and the stalks of the tomatoes.”

  “Can we dye with onions today?” April asked.

  Mara ruffled her hair. “No, today we’ll dye with crottal. Do you know what that is?” April shook her head. “It’s lichen. It grows on rocks. We’ll go for a walk later, and I’ll show you a bit I saw yesterday. It’s a wonderful dye, April. It’s used for Harris tweed, and it turns the wool a russet color. Did you know that fishermen will no’ wear a russet jersey? The people of the Highlands say that crottal always tries to find its way back to the rocks it came from. And fishermen are afraid that the crottal will make them sink like a stone if they fall overboard.”

  April was wide-eyed. “Do they really sink?”

  “Hardly,” Duncan assured her.

  Mara showed April how to hill dirt over the potato plants in the vegetable portion of the garden and supervised as April carefully covered the emerging shoots with dirt. “You’ve got the touch. You’ll be a gardener, unlike your father, who looks as if a rock’s fallen on his head.”

  Safely outside the confines of the garden, Duncan walked with Mara back toward the house, while April, with the dogs at her heels, took a handful of fresh comfrey leaves to feed a trio of baby lambs in a stone pen. “You wouldn’t know to look at the garden that you can make dye from any of those plants,” he said.

  “Are you intrigued?”

  With Mara, definitely. Duncan made a sound that could have meant anything and hoped it sufficed.

  “You
can make dye from so many things. Roadside weeds and the bark of trees. In the next months I’ll be picking everything I see. Broom and thistle, goldenrod and dandelions.”

  “Then you’ll be very busy this summer?”

  “Aye. Very. But no’ too busy, Duncan.”

  “Not too busy?”

  “For you.”

  He pulled her to a halt beside him. He knew how to press an advantage. “Then come with me to the fair in the village next weekend.” She frowned. He could tell she had expected something more intimate. “Come be with me there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t let anyone in the village know you. You’ve kept yourself a stranger to almost everybody in Druidheachd. It’s time you got to know the villagers.”

  “And why would you care when you hardly know them yourself? There’s more to this than you’re saying.”

  She might not read minds, but she was a hard woman to fool. “There’s talk, Mara. Some people claim to have seen a ghost, a ghost who unfortunately resembles you.”

  “A ghost, is it?”

  “Fortunately a good one. They’re calling her My Lady Greensleeves after some ghost in Perthshire.”

  “I know the story.”

  “She’s warned several people of impending danger, most recently a young man who was almost caught in the flood.” He remembered Mara’s warning that night. There’ll be flooding, Duncan. Tonight when they come to ask you for help with it, remember that I told you so.

  Andrew had come to ask his help that night. Duncan hadn’t been called on to search for Peter Gordon, but he and the hotel’s minibus had helped a family evacuate their home.

  Mara shook her head. “And now you want me to come to the fair so the village will see I’m no’ a ghost at all, but a woman of flesh and blood?”

  “They’ve seen that much before. Now let them get to know you a little. Let them see you laugh and smile and flirt with me.”

  “You know why I avoid crowds.” She searched his face. “At least you know why I say I do. Everyone from the village and beyond will be there. How can I come? Can I pretend I’m just like them when I’m no’?”