Beloved Secrets, Book 3

by Marti Talbott

  Beloved Secrets

  Book 3

  (The Lost MacGreagor Books)

  By

  Marti Talbott

  © All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  Beloved Vows

  Book 4

  CHAPTER 1

  More Books

  Charles MacGreagor was hired to rebuild Glenartair Castle after it burned four years earlier. His men were hard working, supplies were coming in on time finally, and he was well satisfied with the progress. He was satisfied, that is, until the floor of the old castle gave up another of its secrets.

  CHAPTER 1

  MACGREAGOR GLEN

  Autumn, 1912

  Fortunate were the times when the MacGreagors had no scandals laid at their doorstep. This, however, was not one of those times.

  For generations, the MacGreagor clan lived in a glen that offered good hunting, grew sufficient crops, and had ample rolling hills upon which the livestock could graze. Eagles graced the land with an occasional flight from one end of the glen to the other. Red deer, long-eared rabbits, and red foxes were often seen in the forests. The Scotch pine trees filled the air with a sweet smell, and a multitude of cottages surrounded first a Keep, and later a castle.

  As well, a large loch and a river provided more than enough water, and for the most part, they were happy, peace-loving people. Yet, they were not immune to hard times. They suffered illnesses such as the Black Death, wars with the English, and battles with other clans the same as every Scottish clan did. In the 1300s, and because they lacked sufficient shelter from such attacks, they built a castle large enough to house the entire clan and keep them safe. Years later, it caught fire, or so the story went, and a second castle was built to replace it.

  Little by little, the people traded the hard work of growing crops for other endeavors and moved across the highway into Glenartair Village. After that, the cottages surrounding the castle were no more.

  In 1903, Glenartair Castle burned for a second time.

  All the inhabitants escaped unharmed, but the intense fire gutted the entire inside, crumbled some of the walls, and left little more than a hideous black ruin. Therefore, the Duke of Glenartair hired Charles MacGreagor to rebuild it and after some frustrating delays, everything was at last running smoothly. The outside walls were up, the new roof kept Scotland’s abundant rain out, the floors on the second and third floor were laid, and the front and back staircases were finished save for the railing.

  Fortunately, Charles had a wealthy employer who spared no expense when it came to equipment and materials. Outside, the site looked much like any other construction site with tables, supplies, ladders, and equipment scattered about. There was even a telephone, although it had to be housed in a locked box to keep someone from stealing it. What remained of the wood flooring was piled on two-by-fours, and covered with tarps to keep it from getting wet. Inside, the men worked a hand powered circular rip saw, cut the wood to measure and already the Great Hall, the foyer, the downstairs sitting room and the dining hall had new floors waiting to be waxed and polished as soon as the interior walls were up.

  What worried Charles most was the possibility of a major storm that might ruin the hardwood floors before they got the windows in and the doors hung. Often, he took off the white and blue striped train conductor’s cap he liked to wear and looked up. This day the sky was clear so he put his cap back on and decided it probably would not rain any time soon. Considering the lateness of the day, he sent most the workers home to enjoy the coming weekend. He was looking forward to his Saturday night poker game and a quiet weekend himself.

  As well-built as a man in his profession was required to be, Charles was standing behind his work table in front of the castle, when he just happened to spot something that looked amiss. The dogs were kept on the property to scare away scavengers, thieves, and mischief-makers. That they occasionally dug something up was not unusual, but this time, both of the Scottish terriers were furiously digging in the same place – which just happened to be near an outside wall where the men were about to lay the last of the hardwood floor.

  Annoyed, Charles whistled for the dogs, and when they did not obey, he yelled, “Sparky, Riley, come!” When that did not work, he yelled at both of them using a more demanding tone of voice. The white and black Scottish terriers paid him no mind, so he went to see what had them so preoccupied. He entered through the empty space where the huge double door would soon be hung, walked the length of the unwalled interior, and then abruptly stopped.

  The sight of human bones made Charles draw in a sharp breath.

  Afraid the dogs would disturb the burial site even more; he leaned down, picked up one of the small dogs, tucked it under his arm, and then scooped up the other one. He hauled them out of the castle, set them both down beside his work table, and harshly yelled, “STAY.” Both dogs immediately sat and when he was assured they would mind him this time, he dug in his pocket, pulled out a whistle, and blew it long and hard.

  That was a first. Never before had Charles completely halted the work.

  Grady stopped the wheel that turned the saw blade, Sam set down the boards he was about to carry to the kitchen, Erskine quickly took a sip, and set the water dipper back in the bucket. Soon, all three of them stood beside Charles staring at the skull.

  Erskine drew in a deep breath, crossed himself in the Catholic tradition, and whispered, “Never did see one of those before.”

  “Neither did I,” Sam breathed.

  Charles was too sick at heart to say anything at all. Another delay was exactly what he hoped to avoid, and this looked like it might turn into a very big deal.

  Still wearing his gloves, Grady knelt down and began to brush away the loose dirt until all of it, including what remained of a leather belt and the foot bones were uncovered. “’Twas buried long ago.”

  “How do you know?” Sam asked.

  “Instead of white, the bones have taken on the color of the dirt,” Grady answered. He wore a long sleeve shirt and denim bib overalls the same as the others, although his flannel shirt was more colorful.

  “’Twas buried in a great hurry,” said Erskine. “Look how ‘twas positioned alongside the outer wall.”

  “Aye,” said Grady as he brushed off his hands and stood up.

  “’Twas a lad,” Erskine muttered.

  “Nay, too small to be a lad. ‘Twas a lass,” said Sam.

  “Not all lads are as tall as you,” Grady pointed out. “Leastwise, ‘twas not a child.”

  Charles saw something interesting, knelt down, and picked up a colorless, rotted piece of cloth. There was very little of it and no way to tell if it had been part of a man’s kilt or a woman’s skirt. “Feels like wool.” He dropped the cloth, and then wiped his thumb and forefinger off on his pant leg.

  “We best call the constable,” said Grady.

  Charles shook his head. “I...”

  “’Twas a murder,” Grady argued.

  “A murder? Why do you say that?” Erskine asked.

  Grady frowned. “Why else bury a MacGreagor here instead of in the graveyard?”

  “Perhaps ‘twas not a MacGreagor,” said Sam.

  “I wonder who killed her,” Erskine wanted to know.

  “Or him,” Grady corrected.

  Sam wrinkled his brow. “I wonder how they got the body under the kitchen floor.”

  “The kitchen was added long after the second castle was built,
” said Charles.

  “Then it could have been buried long before the first castle burned.”

  Charles squinted, saw something else and concentrated on the rib bones. As carefully as he could, he brushed dirt off a metal object until he could take hold and lift it out. To his surprise, it was the blade of a dagger that had long since lost its shine.

  Sam’s eyes widened. “’Tis a Viking blade.”

  Charles scoffed, “Someone is always diggin’ somethin’ up sayin’ ‘twas from the Vikings. The Romans were here before the Vikings.”

  “And the Irish before that,” said Erskine.

  “Irish?” Sam scoffed. “I never heard that afore.”

  “Slept through the history lessons, did you?” Grady teased. He turned to look once more at the bones and then at Charles. “What do you mean to do with it?”

  “I say we bury him in the graveyard where he belongs,” said Sam.

  “Or her,” Erskine corrected.

  “And how do we explain a freshly dug grave to McKenna and the others?” Charles argued. “There is always someone coming to see the grave of a loved one and they would surely notice.”

  Erskine nodded. “Or someone who just lately read the stories we found last spring and come to see Lindsey’s bridge and her grave.”

  Grady stroked the new beard he was trying to grow. “We have to tell McKenna. The property belongs to her brothers.”

  “Aye,” said Charles.

  “I still say we should call the constable,” Grady said.

  Charles disagreed. “If we call the constable, there’ll be a dozen Bobbies out here and we cannae work with all of them millin’ around. Then the lookers shall come, and afore we know it, we’ll have a circus on our hands.”

  Sam chuckled. “We best alert the town. There is nothin’ Glenartair villagers love more than a circus, and plenty of people with the money to buy their sandwiches and drinks.”

  Erskine sighed. “At least we know who haunts the place a night,”

  “Haunts the place?” an incredulous Grady asked. “Who says the place is haunted?”

  Sam rolled his eyes, “Everyone says it.”

  Charles shrugged that thought away, turned, walked out of the castle, and laid the dagger blade on his work table. “We best call it a day, lads.” he said as soon as the others joined him. “I’ll go see what McKenna wants us to do.” He pointed at the wood pile. “Put that old tarpaulin over the bones, and weight the corners down with rocks. Lads, keep quiet about the bones. McKenna shall not want the world to know about this any more than I do.”

  The dogs, Charles noticed, were waiting, so when he opened the automobile door, he called and they happily leapt inside. He got in his new automobile, closed the door, and started the engine.

  “He’s right,” said Sam as he watched his boss drive down the lane in the middle of the long, wide glen. “Once this gets out, the MacGreagors will be accused of hidin’ bodies all over the place.”

  “I’ll not be the one to move the bones, that’s for sure. ‘Twould be like grave robbin’,” Erskine muttered.

  “Me either,” said Grady. “It gives me the shivers just lookin’ at it.”

  “I wonder who it was,” said Sam.

  Grady grabbed the tarp off the woodpile and headed back inside. “I wonder who killed him.”

  “Or her?” Sam insisted, as he grabbed two rocks off the ground. “I’ve got a bad feelin’ about this. Best we just cover it back up with dirt, lay the floor, and say nary a word of it to anyone.”

  “Too late,” Erskine chuckled. “McKenna will tell her husband, Alistair, Sarah, and of course, Cook Jessie. I wager ‘twill be but half a day before the whole town knows every detail of what we found.”

  KENTIGERN MANOR

  Glenartair castle had a rich history indeed. The Castle’s recent inhabitants included three children, whom an uncle adopted after their parents were tragically killed in a head-on train crash. At his uncle’s passing, the eldest, Hannish MacGreagor, inherited the title of Duke and became the clan’s laird, but once he learned there was little in the way of an inheritance, he sailed to America to make his fortune in silver. Make his fortune he did for when he sold his silver mine, he was worth over three million dollars. Still, he liked living in America, built Marblestone Mansion, and soon his little sister McKenna, Cameron, and his younger brother joined him in the pleasant town of Colorado Springs.

  They were happy in America. Even so, Scotland was their true home. Therefore when the castle tragically burned, the brothers sent McKenna, her husband, Nicholas, their two sons and three employees back to oversee the rebuilding. It was also decided that McKenna would take up residence once the castle was finished.

  While they waited to move to the castle the family lived in Kentigern Manor. A large residence, the rented manor came with a drawing room, a modern kitchen, nine bedrooms, three bathrooms and a pantry large enough for Butler Alistair’s desk and chair. It also had a library, a study, a sitting room, and a convenient breakfast room. Outside, a spacious flower garden flowed from the front to the back where it surrounded a pleasant pond.

  Besides the butler and his wife, Sarah, their two sons, and Cook Jessie, the manor was also the temporary home of Blair MacGreagor, McKenna’s niece.

  The beautiful Blair MacGreagor had a birth mother the family called “the duchess” for the woman used so many names no one knew quite what to call her. Blair’s birth father was Lord Edward Bayington of London, England, and her adopted father was Cameron, the Scottish Duke of Glenartair. Therefore, she could match her pedigree against all but the King of England and his family. The only trouble was – her birth mother was a notorious bigamist. Someone had even written a novel about the duchess, making her famous for all the wrong reasons, and sadly Blair looked exactly like her mother.

  During a disastrous ocean voyage from America to England, Blair was stared at, ostracized, and thoroughly embarrassed after she mistakenly admitted to being the daughter of the scandalous duchess. Consequently, Blair was determined not to have anything to do with London’s high society ever again. That was before her new best friend, Robin, otherwise known as Harriet Louise Robinson, announced she was soon to be married to a wonderful man, who just happened to be a prominent member of the very society Blair desperately wanted to avoid.

  It was only proper, therefore, that Blair be her maid-of-honor. It meant fittings for an appropriate gown, attending a ball, a formal wedding and – the possibility of being exposed to cruelty once more. Yet, Robin’s happiness was worth it, Blair constantly reminded herself.

  “Have you told him?” Blair asked Robin over the telephone. Not expecting visitors or to go anywhere that day, she wore a casual pinafore and had her dark hair hastily piled on top of her head. There was a telephone in several of the rooms at Kentigern Manor, and one just happened to be in the guest bedroom, where she sat in a chair near a window that overlooked the backyard.

  “I see no reason to mention it,” said Robin on the other end of the telephone.

  “I do. Suppose someone recognizes me...or rather how much I look like my mother, as surely someone will? How I dread the thought of ruinin’ your weddin’.”

  In her London bedroom, Robin lay fully dressed on her bed. “You shall only ruin it if you do not come. The rest, we shall think of a way to manage.”

  “And your mother? Will she not tell them?”

  “Mother has promised not to say a word until after you have gone back to America.”

  “I am relieved to hear that. Robin, I insist you tell him. He has a right to know.”

  “Perhaps you are right, and if I tell my darling Johnathan and he is tormented by my association with you, then I shall not marry him. There, you see, it shall be a good test of his true character.”

  “A very harsh test. He’s every right to protect his good standin’ in society.”

  “Mother says there is not one single member of society without a secret or two to hide.”

&nb
sp; “Aye, but I shall not be a secret for very long if your mother mentions the duchess.”

  Robin sat up and swung her long legs over the side of her bed. “Blair, you must not fret so. You are my friend and either they accept you or they shall have to deal with me. There, let that be an end to it.” Robin quickly drew in a forgotten breath. “Now, tell me again precisely when you shall arrive.”

  “I shall arrive on the noon train, day after tomorrow.”

  “Perfect. Look for me. I shall be the one drowning in delirious happiness.”

  AFTER SHE HUNG UP, Blair decided to take a walk in the gardens. It was up to Judge Nicholas Mitchel to keep the grounds of Kentigern Manor presentable and as far as she could tell, he enjoyed the work immensely. The family and most of Colorado Springs simply called him ‘Judge,’ but he left his post in Colorado to accompany his wife to Scotland, so now he was called either Nicholas or Mr. Mitchel. He did not seem to miss his courtroom, at least not that Blair could tell.

  Yellow roses had become her favorite, and with autumn in the air, the last of them would soon wilt and die away. Thus, she decided to cut the last of them and take them inside. That is exactly what she was busy doing when an automobile pulled around the circular drive and parked in front of the house. Blair paused to see who it was, and when a well-dressed gentleman got out of a butler-driven Benz, she gawked at him.

  “David?” she whispered. She almost did not recognize him now that he had grown sideburns and wore a neatly trimmed beard with a mustache that matched the color of his hair. He had not yet spotted her, which was a good thing for in her opinion she looked a fright. However, when she tried to slip out of sight, she heard him call her name. There was nothing to be done, but to turn back around and put her free hand on her hip. She waited until he reached her and then asked, “Has the ship sailed without you.”

  His smile had not changed, but his character certainly had. He lifted his tall black hat, swung it wide, and bowed to her. “Miss MacGreagor.”

  The young waiter who served her meals and rescued her more than once from the clutches of high society on the RMS Mauretania, seemed considerably older and she was caught completely off guard. Even so, she playfully half-curtseyed in return, and then put her hand back on her hip. “Well, what have you to say for yourself?”