Sarah Gabriel (4 page)

With a murmur, she glided away, then glanced back, her eyes haunting somehow. He would not forget their beautiful color and depth, or their provocative owner. A moment later, she vanished into the glittering sea of people.

J
ames heard the shriek as he stepped over the threshold. Unexpected, unnerving, the sound seemed to come from vaguely overhead in the foyer where he stood. Somewhere in the large, drafty old house, a dog howled as if in answer. James set down his leather satchel, straightened, and looked upward. A creaking door or old floorboards, he thought, or hinges in need of repair—

The eldritch moan sounded again, ending on a shrill note that sent shivers down his neck. Once more the dog howled, and a second one barked. James looked around the dim, quiet foyer. “What in blazes,” he muttered.

His introduction as Struan’s sole owner and viscount was not particularly promising: ghostly shrieks, dogs baying, and here he stood, drenched by a chill September rain with no staff greeting him. If the work awaiting him proceeded smoothly, he promised himself, he need stay only a few weeks.

Once again, as he had done too often lately, he wondered if he would see Elspeth MacArthur while he was at Struan. She had said that her family home was
in this glen, and try as he might, he had not forgotten her. She lingered in his thoughts, his dreams.

He was haunted by the memory of a few simple kisses, of sparkling, seductive eyes. He could almost taste her lips under his, could almost feel her in his arms—not enough to satisfy, and thankfully not enough to fall in love like a damn fool. Yet inexplicably, enough to drive him mad with wanting to see her again.

Sir Walter had not helped the matter any. “Miss MacArthur is an intriguing young lady. When you go to Struan House, be sure to seek her out. Find that one, James.”

Well, James told himself, he had come to Struan House for other things, and would have no time to locate or visit Kilcrennan. Pulling off his gloves, he crammed them into a pocket, brushed the rain from the shoulders of his coat, took off his hat and shook it a little. Far too much damned rain lately, he thought.

Eyes gray as rain—there, his mind did it again, made that little leap when his thoughts were nowhere near the matter of the girl. He was obsessed, and disliked it.

Perhaps he would seek her out, he told himself, to ask what mad spell she had put on him, and why she had pulled a despicable ruse on his friend Scott. The poet was the one obsessed with finding her—not James. There. Though seeing her in ordinary circumstances, when she was not all got up like a fairy princess, would certainly dissolve this damnable distraction.

“Halloo!” He glanced around the foyer, a spacious area floored in slate and lined in dark wood paneling. A wide stairway against one wall was balanced by a huge marble fireplace on the other. Above the mantel,
the heads of stags and hares contrasted with the angels carved in the fireplace surround. The foyer walls were hung with antique weapons as well, and some small paintings of landscapes and dog portraits.

He thought of the beasts who had howled as he entered, and remembered the stories of ghosts and eldritch creatures he had enjoyed when he had visited here as a boy. He had forgotten how spooky Struan House could seem. But he was an adult now, a thorough skeptic, a calm and unruffled soul who allowed nothing to make him anxious. Not even this place.

“Halloo!” he called again, his voice echoing. When he moved forward, the shrieking came again, a distant, bloodcurdling sound that lifted the fine hairs along his neck. He glanced up, turned around, and wondered what the hell was going on.

Days earlier, he had traveled to Stirling and beyond by landau, entering the foothills of the Highlands to stop at an inn at Callander, where the roads were still good. After a night’s rest, he dispatched his driver back to Edinburgh. Then he spent a solitary day walking the countryside, finding some interesting formations of mica-schist which answered to the bite of the small hammer he had carried with him. He made notes on the finds that night and had a quiet dinner, enjoying more than he would admit to anyone the Highland atmosphere. Next morning the ghillie from Struan House had arrived to fetch him in an old but ser viceable carriage pulled by a pair of sturdy bays.

Angus MacKimmie was a grizzled, bearded fellow in an ancient and rumpled red kilt and a threadbare brown jacket and bonnet. He had offered to carry James’s satchel into the house, but James had released him to the task of tending the horses. When no butler
appeared, James had let himself in the front door to stand in the echoing foyer.

That large, dim space was made even gloomier by the silvery sheen of rain through tall windows. “Where the devil is everyone,” he muttered.

Somewhere in the shadows past the staircase, a door creaked, and a large gray wolfhound approached on rangy legs. Pausing to give a throaty woof, he then sniffed at the new viscount. James patted the dog’s head. “Not only fairies and eerie screeches, but now fairy hounds, hey?”

The dog pushed his head under James’s hand to ask for more petting. The eerie sound echoed again, miserable and faint, and the hound whimpered. Was it a creaking floor, or a madwoman trapped somewhere? James could not fathom it.

“‘Kirk-Alloway is drawing nigh…where ghaists and houlets nightly cry,’” James murmured, quoting Burns as he rubbed the dog’s ears. Though he enjoyed poetry and ballads as well, he never recited verses or sang in company; but the dog would not think him of a sentimental bent.

He was about to take his case upstairs and go in search of his rooms when the front door opened behind him, and Angus MacKimmie stepped inside. “Still here, sir?” He picked up James’s leather case. “Upstairs I’ll be taking this, then. You must make yourself heard here. My wife is a bit deaf.
Mrs. MacKimmie!
” he thundered as he went up the stairs, booted feet pounding. “
MacKimmie!
”

The door beyond the stairs opened again, and a woman came down the hall followed by two terriers, one black and one white. Stocky and middle-aged, the
woman wore a plain dark dress, her gray hair wisping beneath a translucent white cap. “Oh, sir! Lord Struan, is it! I’m Mary MacKimmie,” she said, dropping a slight curtsy. “Welcome to Struan House. I hope you did not wait long. I was in the kitchen. I’m that surprised to find you here so early in the day—”

“MacKimmie!
” thundered the ghillie, above stairs.

“I’m here, ye loon!” she called, and turned back to James. “So you’ve met my husband, and these are the dogs. Osgar,” she said, patting the wolfhound, “is a big lad but very gentle. The terriers are Taran—that’s the black one—and Nellie. They’re good wee pups, though do they see a fox or a rabbit, they’ll be gone on the chase.”

As she spoke, the shriek came yet again, and a sharp chill with it, as if an outside door blew open, but the front entrance was shut against the cool autumn breeze. Osgar howled plaintively, and the terriers made low, gruff barks. Mrs. MacKimmie glanced calmly upward, as did James, and smiled as if nothing was amiss.

“We expected you later today, with the roads so muddy from the rains. Though Mr. MacKimmie drives like the de’il sometimes, to be sure.”

“An interesting ride indeed. Mrs. MacKimmie, I must ask—what is that sound?”

“Oh, that’s our banshee. Strange, that. She’s glad to see the new laird, I suppose.”

“I came to Struan as a boy,” he said, “and never heard that sound.”

“You weren’t the new laird then, were you. I’ll take you to your rooms.” She led the way up the stairs, while James looked around, bewildered.

At the top landing, Angus MacKimmie met them, having left the satchel. “So you’ve brought out our
ban-sìth
, then.”

“An entertaining idea, though it sounds like hinges or floorboards in need of repair,” James said. The upper corridor, a wide hallway, turned a corner at the far end, with several closed doors along its cream-colored walls, hung with a few paintings. A worn Oriental carpet ran the length of the hall, with a few items of furniture—a table here, a bench there. He had visited his grandparents here only occasionally for his guardian, Lady Rankin, felt that children should be schooled and kept busy, and not running about like Highland savages. “It’s a very nice house,” he ventured.

“And without squeaking hinges,” Angus said. “Naught needs repair here, sir. I am your factor, caretaker, head groomsman and coachman, and your ghillie, too, do you want to go hunting or fishing. Come find me for all of it.”

“I will, thank you. Struan House is quite impressive,” James said. “A banshee is an old ghostly hag that prophesies death and disaster, is it not?”

“Aye, some are,” Mary MacKimmie replied this time. “The Struan banshee is the sort that belongs to a house and a family. A fairy spirit who makes herself known over deaths, births, anything of importance for the estate or family. Now that she’s marked the arrival of the laird, she will be silent.” She smiled. “Unless something else of importance happens, for instance, should you marry, sir.”

“I see. A sort of weather glass for the family,” James said. “I thought fairies were pleasant, harmless little sorts. Small wings, sitting on flowers, and so on.”

“There are many different kinds of fairies in the
Highlands, and elsewhere. You will learn more when you read Lady Struan’s pages, I expect,” she answered.

Angus departed down the stairs, and the housekeeper led James to the laird’s rooms, which included bedroom, sitting room, dressing room, and bathing room. He walked past the large, carved bed with its embroidered hangings to look at the view from the windows of mountain crests against a vast, rainy sky.

“Excellent,” he pronounced, turning around.

“You’ll want to explore the rest of the house, of course. Downstairs is a library and the study where Lady Struan worked. The parlor is on that level, too, along with the dining room. Kitchens are below stairs, and lead out to the back gardens. Normally supper is at half-five, unless you request otherwise.” Mrs. MacKimmie turned toward the door. “I’ll set tea in the parlor in twenty minutes, as it’s past luncheon now.”

“Thank you. Mrs. MacKimmie, I’m expecting guests from Edinburgh in a fortnight or so. They plan a Highland tour, and will stay at Struan for a few days.” And as soon as Lady Rankin and the others, including his siblings, were gone, he intended to finish Grandmother’s manuscript and return to Edinburgh to resume his teaching.

“I’ll ready the house for your guests.” She paused at the door. “Sir, there is something you should know. Just now, we’ve very little staff. Only myself and Angus, with a groom and two housemaids, local girls. Last week two girls arrived by post chaise from Edinburgh, sent here by Lady Rankin.” She stiffened a little.

“Ah. She means only to be helpful to me.” James had assured Lady Rankin that the Highland staff would
be capable, but his great-aunt did not trust Highland servants to keep a house the way she would prefer it kept, even if it was not her home. “I hope that is sufficient staff for Struan House.” He had no idea.

“Normally, aye, but…well, ’tis near time for the fairy riding. It’s a local tradition,” she explained. “The fairies go riding this time of year. They ride over the lands of Struan, because legend says these lands once belonged to them.”

“Why would the household staff be reduced because of this, uh, phenomenon?”

“We keep away at this time of year to allow for the fairy riding to take place. Your grandparents used to close up the house, and no hunting parties could hire the house then, either. It was true of the previous owners also. Already the locals say some fairies have been sighted, or so I’ve heard. ’Tis unlucky to be about when the Good Folk ride over Struan lands. The rest of the help will return after the fairies return to their own world. Each year, we repeat it. It’s how it is done, sir. I hope you understand.”

“Remarkable,” James said. He must make sure that the odd custom was recorded in his grandmother’s book. “My own needs are simple, so a large staff is unnecessary. Whatever you have done in the past for your local holiday, please continue.”

“It is no holiday, sir. No one will risk staying here during a fairy riding, with that sort about. I recommend we close the house for a few days. There is a good hotel in the next glen. You would be comfortable there for a bit.”

The housekeeper seemed too sensible a woman for all this nonsense, he thought. “I am happy to stay here alone for a few days, Mrs. MacKimmie. I have
a good deal of work to do, and the solitude would be useful.”

“Oh no, Lord Struan, not that sort of solitude. ’Tis best we all leave.”

“Nonsense. I’m a capable bachelor, so long as there is food in the larder and a few simple comforts. The staff may leave, of course. I do not want to disrupt local tradition.”

“Very well, sir, but do be warned. And you must always beware the fairy ilk when you walk about on Struan lands at any time of year.” Her glance flickered to the cane he had set against a chair.

“I keep a habit of long walks when I can,” he said quietly, aware of her interest, “and I will remember your advice.”

When the housekeeper left to make the tea, James turned toward the window again, with its spectacular view, even in poor weather. Mist drifted over the hills and draped the treetops like veils. He thought again of Elspeth MacArthur, who lived somewhere in this glen—and he wondered if she thought of Struan’s new laird.

When he left the room, he half expected to hear the shriek again. Apparently Mr. MacKimmie had found and silenced that madly squeaking door.

Elspeth rose from her chair and stepped away from the old shuttle loom, pausing to stretch, arching her back a little to ease the strain that sometimes collected there. With one length of weaving half done on the loom, she was already thinking about the next pattern. Preoccupied with that, she left the weaving cottage and strolled across the yard, past two other cottages that held looms as well. The third building was used
to store yarn and finished lengths of plaids, and so its walls were of thick stone regularly limewashed against molds and moisture.

Inside, Elspeth went toward the racks, shelves, and baskets where the skeins of yarns and thin woolen threads were kept, hanging in colorful loops on pegs, clustered in baskets on the floor, or spilling in rainbow arrays on a long worktable. The window at that end of the room was usually shuttered to prevent sunlight from fading the yarns and threads. She pulled her green plaid shawl, a favorite one woven years ago by her grandfather, closer about her shoulders, for the yarn room was chilly. Only a small brazier was kept in cold weather for basic comfort, for the smoke of hearth fire and candles could discolor the wool. Nor was Grandfather permitted to smoke his tobacco pipe here.