Beloved Ruins
Book 1
(The Lost MacGreagor Stories)
By
Marti Talbott
© 2015 All Rights Reserved
An ancient MacGreagor edict held that the clan give sanctuary to any lass who believed herself in danger, when Grizel Allardice claimed her father meant to kill her, she too was granted safety. However, Grizel was not who she claimed to be. Instead, she was the spoiled and rebellious daughter of a much feared northern laird, who offered a very tempting reward to anyone who could find her and bring her home.
Table of Contents
Part 1
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
PART 2
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
Beloved Lies
CHAPTER 1
MORE MARTI TALBOTT BOOKS
Part 1
CHAPTER 1
GLENARTAIR CASTLE, 1911
At the end of the long, wide Scottish glen, the blackened remains of Glenartair Castle ominously stood out against the backdrop of a yellow and orange sunrise. For generations, the MacGreagors lived on this very land, and a castle that once opened its huge double doors to friends and strangers alike, was now little more than a jagged skeleton. The ornate hand-carved oak doors were gone, leaving an enormous hole through which the forest on the other side of the river could be seen. Square holes in the stone wall of the second floor were void of windowpanes that once glistened in the sunlight, and all but a few toothed stones remained to mark where the two watchtowers and the third floor once stood. Inside, the scorched statue of a Highlander remained on the first landing of a staircase that was no more. The kitchen and the carriage house were completely gone.
The 1903 fire was blamed on the carelessness of a child, and while they suffered no loss of life, the damage to a castle that signified the clan’s place in the world was devastating. It was not the first time the castle had burned, but that was centuries ago and no one knew when or why it was destroyed the first time. The most recent fire took ancient paintings and tapestries, along with Victorian style furniture, electric lamps, chandeliers, vases, a collection of antique weapons, and a shield depicting the MacGreagor family crest.
Everyone agreed – it was a total loss.
For a time, the ruins were open to visitors and the MacGreagors who lived in Glenartair Village made a good living selling trinkets and food, but recently the Duke of Glenartair and his brother decided to rebuild it. With good paying jobs on the horizon, most of the villagers were elated while others were disappointed that the tourist trade ended.
The first hired was the forceful yet pleasing Charles MacGreagor, the finest builder in all of Scotland, most said, and it was he who rode his horse up the lane in the middle of a glen that once held cottages, corrals and an enormous whale bone long since discarded. Now, tall green grass and wild flowers waved in the breeze as if to welcome Charles and the two horse drawn wagons filled with men home.
On the edge of the glen, the well-kept MacGreagor graveyard, where many of the clan’s ancestors rested, lay in the shade of oak and pine trees. Both large and small stones set in uneven rows marked the various graves, with those of the lairds being most prominent. Some grave markers displayed crosses and some were so old, the chiseling in the stones were nearly worn completely away. In years past, trees on either side of the graveyard had been cut down, therefore making the cemetery more prominent. To keep tourists out of the graveyard, a short wooden fence was put around it, but Charles took that down the same day he posted the ‘no visitors’ signs.
As he always did, Charles slowed to show his respect. A new bouquet of roses lay on one of the more recent graves, but that was not unusual. However, something else was. He turned his horse that direction, walked it across the grassy glen, and then dismounted. Although it was made of wood, the shape of the marker was unmistakably that of a gravestone. Shocked, he walked to the marker, stared at the handwritten name scrawled across the top, and then in a fury, pulled it out of the ground. Enraged, he got back on his horse and galloped the rest of the way to the castle. As soon as he arrived, he put the board face down on the ground, stood on it and waited for the men and a third wagon filled with equipment to arrive.
“What does it say?” one of the men asked as he climbed out of the first wagon.
“Never you mind,” Charles barked. “Say not a word of this to anyone, lads, for no good shall ever come of it.” With a plan already in mind and as soon as the men were assembled, he started assigning demolition duties. He did his best to keep his mind occupied, but all day long he fretted over the mysterious board in the graveyard. He hoped not, but he feared rebuilding Glenartair Castle had just become dangerous.
That evening, he left before his men and took the board home with him.
A WEEK LATER, AN EVER increasing pile of charred wood sat at the end of the castle skeleton, waiting to be hauled away. Nearby, an equally large pile of scorched bricks and stones waited to be cleaned and used in the reconstruction. Although Charles and his men carefully sifted through the burned castle contents, a long table held disappointingly few recovered valuables. A bent and tortured silver goblet and a nearly unrecognizable gold cross was all they could find on the stone floor of the Great Hall – that is, until the accident happened.
At the sound of a startled shout and then a thud, Charles looked around and then shouted, “What was that?”
One of the men yelled, “Grady fell through the floor of the Great Hall!”
“A stone floor?” Charles muttered. He raced around the outside of the crumbling wall, and gawked at the square hole in the middle of the floor now void of a large stone. Cautiously, he took slow steps, testing the floor as he went, until he could see the top of Grady’s head in the hole. “Are you hurt, lad?”
“I might’ve broke an arm, is all.” In the scant light from above, Grady paused, moved his arm up and down, rubbed his forearm for a moment, and then added, “Nay, ‘tis not broke after all.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Charles?”
“Aye.”
“Looks like part of the old castle down here and I think I see something. Did we bring a torch light?”
Charles got down on his hands and knees and peered into the dark hole. Even then, he couldn’t see much more than Grady’s head. “‘Tis doubtful. You sure you are not hurt?”
“I’m sure. ‘Tis a walkway of some sort down here, though lookin’ up, appears the rest of the floor is sound.”
“Which way does the walkway run?” Charles asked. “I’d not want anyone else falling in.”
“North to...wait, I think I see something.”
“Be careful.”
“Well, I’ll be. There’s an old box down here.” Grady bent down and picked it up. “‘Tis a bit heavy.”
Charles glanced at the men standing outside the wall watching him. “Bring a ladder, lads.” As soon as one of them left, he turned his attention back to the man in the hole. “What sort of box?”
“Here, I’ll hand it up.” Grady lifted it high over his head and then waited for Charles to grab hold of it.
Charles pulled it up, set it on the floor beside him, and then scooted it toward the men. “Take it to the table.” Next, he stood up and as soon as two of the men scooted the ladder across the floor t
o him, he carefully lowered it into the hole, and held it steady while Grady climbed up. The rest of the floor felt solid enough, but just in case, he hung on to Grady’s arm until both of them were outside the wall. “Roll up your sleeve.”
“Did you know there was a hole under there?” Grady asked.
“Nay, ‘tis the first I’ve heard of it.” Charles felt the bones in Grady’s forearm, decided they were not broken and nodded.
“Me either. There might be more boxes down there,” Grady said as he began to roll his sleeve back down. “Shall I go back down and look?
“We best get a torchlight first.”
“Very well. I cannae wait to see what’s in the box. Could be gold coins,” said Grady as they walked to the table.
“Buried treasure?” Charles chuckled. “Would that we would live that long.”
By the time they got to the table, one of the men had already removed the lid and held it up while Charles looked inside.
“Books?” Charles asked.
“Ancient books, looks like to me. Might be worth a fortune,” the man said.
Charles gently lifted the first of three leather-bound books out, set it on the table, and very, very carefully opened it. “Tis in English, old English to be exact.” He turned one page, then another and another before he began to read aloud... ‘‘Tis Michael’s story I tell you henceforth, as was told to me partly by Kester’s grandson, and partly by my grandfather, the first MacGreagor scribe.” Abruptly, Charles turned back to read the date on the light brown leather cover. “In the year of our Lord, Thirteen Hundred and Seventy One.”
“Michael MacGreagor,” Grady muttered. “Never heard of a Laird Michael MacGreagor.”
“Nor have I,” Charles confessed. He started to read again...”‘ From his father, Michael learned to be guarded in matters of the heart, wisely held dear the ancient edict, and did his best to keep the clan out of war. Yet, no lad could have prevented the kind of war that was yet to come.”
Charles reluctantly closed the book and returned it to the box. “Miss McKenna and her husband will be here tomorrow and I cannae wait to show her. The duke has some of the old writing, but they are the early stories that stop with only a mention of the War of Independence. We thought the rest lost to us forever.”
“Can you not read it to us now?” one of the younger men asked.
“Last I heard, we dinna get paid to read stories. Back to work all of you, and take extra care walkin’ on the floors.” As soon as they were gone, Charles took a rag and began to polish the outside of the well-preserved box. It too was made of leather with a wooden interior that still smelled of pine. The watertight seams were expertly sewn together, in the same manner as the Scots once bound their jars and pouches. “Imagine that,” he muttered. “Writin’ five hundred years ago... hidden under the castle all this time without a soul knowin’. Welcome home, Miss McKenna. Have I a surprise for you!”
BORN IN SCOTLAND AND raised in Glenartair Castle, McKenna MacGreagor Mitchel had the same dark hair and blue eyes as her two older brothers, both of whom lived with their families in America. For the better part of ten years, she lived in America too, but when her brothers, Hannish and Cameron, decided to rebuild the castle, it seemed only right that one of the siblings went back to Scotland to oversee the project. Hannish and Cameron had a construction company to run, so sending a willing McKenna and her husband was the perfect solution.
In their red, enclosed, 1909 Benz 20/35 automobile, she and her American husband, Judge Nicholas Mitchel, slowly drove down the middle of the glen toward what remained of the castle. Having not yet hired a chauffeur, Nicholas did the driving and McKenna sat in the footman’s seat next to him.
Her first sight of the beloved castle ruins in the distance caused McKenna to catch her breath and put a gloved hand over her mouth. Unable to take her eyes off the ruins, she ignored the graveyard as they drove past. As soon as they were close enough to the castle, Nicholas parked the automobile on the circular drive, walked around, and opened the door for his wife.
Married for the better part of nine years, McKenna did not like Nickolas Mitchel when she lived in Colorado’s Marblestone Mansion. She artfully kept Nicholas’ advances at bay until a terrible day in Colorado Springs, when he saved her from the clutches of a tornado. Already an American judge at the time, he broke both his hands in the process, but to him it was worth it. His gallantry served to soften her heart and by the time they sailed to Scotland, she had given him two fine sons. Even though Judge Nicholas Mitchel had no law credentials in Scotland, he was as excited as his wife when presented with the opportunity to oversee the rebuilding of the castle. As soon as they stepped off the ship, he could tell by the gleam in her eye that McKenna missed Scotland more than even she realized.
When she was happy – he was happy.
After hearing stories of constant rain in Scotland, Nicholas was surprised by the warm sunny day and found that he had dressed too warmly. Therefore, he took off his jacket, and laid it over the back of the front seat. A gold watch chain hung from the black vest pocket that matched his pants, and gold bicep garters held up the extra material of his white shirt sleeves. As most women did in America, McKenna preferred high-topped, button up shoes, a long black taffeta skirt, a white blouse and an unadorned, wide-brimmed white hat.
“McKenna,” Charles MacGreagor shouted as he left his worktable and started toward the young couple. “You have come home at last.” The workers were still bringing out wheelbarrows full of charred remains for Charles to sift through. In a pile several yards away, the larger items included a lopsided stove and a tall icebox with an unhinged door. Inside the icebox were the remains of burned butter and rotten eggs. Charles wiped the black soot off his hands on his trousers and was about to hug her when he thought better of it.
McKenna hugged him anyway, wiped a tear off her cheek and once more looked at the hole where the big double doors once stood. “We have seen the pictures, but...”
“I know,” said Charles. He shook hands with Nicholas, and then stood to the side to let them look at the crumbled walls and blackened interior. “‘Twill take a bit of gettin’ used to.”
“Quite a bit. My heart is truly broken,” she whispered as she felt the support of her husband’s arm around her. “‘Tis the saddest sight in all the world.”
“Aye,” Charles said, hoping to change the subject. “How was the voyage?”
“Splendid,” the judge answered. “I enjoyed it immensely.”
McKenna forgot her tears and giggled. “He means, he enjoyed the poker games immensely.”
“Did he now?” Charles asked. “I happen to know of a few lads in town who enjoy the sport now and again.”
“And you are one of them?” McKenna scoffed. “I have not forgotten how often you beat me, Charles MacGreagor, and I intend to fully inform my husband of your many uncommon talents.”
Charles wrinkled his brow. “I know not of what you speak.” He was pleased to see her smile instead of the gloom she had in her eyes a few minutes before. “I hear tell Alistair is comin’ home.”
“Aye, Sarah and the children with him. They shall arrive tomorrow and they are bringin’ cook Jessie. My brothers decided we should not take the same ship, for fear they should lose us all in one sinkin’. Not that many ships sink these days now that the construction is so much improved, but Leesil worries.”
“And the manor I rented for you? Is it sufficient?” Charles asked.
Nicholas removed the comforting arm his wife no longer needed and nodded. “It is more than sufficient.”
“And peaceful,” McKenna added. “We arrived quite exhausted, and already we have enjoyed two excellent nights of sleep.”
“Well, ‘tis not as magnificent as I heard Marblestone to be, but ‘tis the best this part of Scotland has to offer. By the way, Egan and Malveen should be here in a few days. She wishes to have her baby at home. They gave up their cottage when she went again on tour, so Egan is hopin’
they might stay with you while they find another.”
“Of course they may, and I cannae wait to see them,” said McKenna. She looked once more at the castle ruins and then at the bridge across the river. “I dread lettin’ Egan see this. He grew up here as well. At least the bridge is not damaged.”
“Dinna go all mournful on me, McKenna Mitchel. You’ll feel a mite better once you see what we have found.”
“What?”
With a twinkle in his eye, Charles playfully bowed and then threw out his arm in the direction of his worktable. “This way, Miss.”
The table held the items he had recovered and the first to draw her attention was a mangled mess with two small gold rings, each atop a gold base. A shard of glass still remained stuck to one of the rims. “Is this...”
Charles sighed. “Aye, ‘tis the hourglass. I suspect the glass exploded and the sand scattered to smithereens.”
“Did we ever know where it came from?” McKenna asked.
“Nay, tis one of those mysteries, but...”
“Oh look,” McKenna said as she picked up what was clearly an expensive brooch, even though it was covered in soot. “‘Twas my mother’s. I remember her wearin’ it.”
Charles put his hands on his hips, “Miss McKenna, pay attention.” He rolled his eyes and looked at Nicholas. “‘Tis always been a problem with her.”
Nicholas smiled, “How well I know.”
She set the brooch down and turned to look at him. “What?” When he pointed at the old wooden box sitting on the far end of the table, she went to it. Although it was clearly old, the cleaned, dark leather box seemed in remarkably good condition. The corners were still tightly sealed, and there was not a burn or a water mark on it and even now, it retained its highly polished state. McKenna carefully ran her fingers over the carved letters on the top. “What does it say?”
“We dinna know,” Charles answered. “None so far can read Gaelic, but Lachlan said ‘tis very old writin’.” Charles waited until McKenna moved her hand and then carefully took off the lid. As gently as he could, he lifted the ancient, leather-bound book out, and set it on the table. “1371,” he said. “Miss McKenna, ‘tis the family history.”
Beloved Ruins, Book 1 Page 1