The MacGregor (11 page)

Megan was furious. Below the belt! He was just being mean. How she longed to tell him to stick the ceremony into his pipe and smoke it. But she didn't. For her kind, the ceremony marked her coming of age. It was a rite of passage passed down through the ages. Without it she would be viewed as a child forever. She could not be joined with a partner, nor inherit the family home. Her arm would be bare of its totem for all her life. A shameful thing. And she would never be invited to the hunts or be privy to any matter of import. Possibly worst of all, without it she would always see herself as a child. Humiliation rolled over her.

The croft was silent. The atmosphere thicker than pea soup. The three men watched her, their expressions expectant. Douglas looked anxious, his father curious and Grandad implacable. Like a bare bit of rock on the mountain. Megan's brain hurt as she tried to find some explanation that was not a lie. And failed miserably.

Finally she hissed softly, forced to accept she was beaten.

Grandad grinned at her in an infuriating manner. ‘So?' he said.

Utterly wretched, Megan forced her lips to form the words. ‘I've been seeing Sean.'

Grandad grunted softly and tapped his big white teeth with the stem of his pipe. ‘And who is
Sean
?'

She eyeballed her grandfather defiantly. ‘He's the man I'm going to marry,' she said. And, although surprised at her own daring, Megan knew the words she spoke were true.

The three men stared at her like a catch of mackerel. All glassy eyes and gaping mouths. Megan grinned to herself. It seemed she may have gained the upper hand. At least, for the moment.

The three men in the croft kitchen took a wee while to rally. Megan took full advantage of the fact and put the kettle on to boil. The mere act seemed to dissolve some of the tension that hung like invisible webs around the snug room.

‘Tea?' she said sweetly.

They all nodded silently. Megan hid a smile. Things were turning out better than she'd anticipated. Her announcement regarding her forthcoming nuptials seemed to have taken the wind out of their collective sails. Appropriate for fishermen, she decided.

She felt a faint twinge of worry as it occurred to her that Sean's sentiments may not reflect her own. But as the whistle screamed at her and she filled the pot, she decided that it was a minor matter. After all, what man could possibly resist her charms? She wasn't just werewolf, she was magic. Bagging a mere mortal shouldn't be too much of a challenge.

Behind her she heard Grandad shifting in his chair. ‘Well then, Megan,' he said, ‘when do we get to meet the lucky man?'

Megan froze. ‘Sorry?'

There was no response and she reluctantly turned to face him. Grandad looked quite relaxed, a fact backed up by his fingers that were busy rolling tobacco to refill his pipe. The old horror strung her out as he tamped and tapped his tobacco. Then he lit a match and sucked vigorously at the stem. Tobacco crackled and blue smoke billowed in the air. He paused and Megan readied herself for the next assault. But the pipe was not cooperative and the whole performance had to be repeated.

Megan turned away and busied herself with pouring mugs of tea and adding a dash of milk and sugar.

When she picked up the mugs and placed them on the table Grandad was puffing away like a smug steam engine. Douglas and his father sat quite still, obviously riveted.

Grandad put down his pipe and took a loud slurp of tea. And then picked his pipe up once more. ‘So, Megan, how about we set a date?'

‘A date?'

‘For the lucky man to pay his respects and to formally ask for your hand?'

Megan nearly dropped her cup. ‘Grandad, don't be silly. It's not the Dark Ages!'

Grandad's green eyes flashed. ‘Maybe not. But if I haven't had the pleasure of making his acquaintance within the fortnight, your ceremony will be null and void.'

A strange gurgling sound caught at her nerves. She shot a look across the table and found both Douglas junior and senior stifling their amusement. When she got Douglas junior on his own she was going to slow-cook him in oil.

But her irritation soon gave way to panic. There was absolutely no doubt that Grandad meant what he said. It was so unfair! Others of her kind had all the freedom in the world. No parents or grandparents to spoil their fun. Why, even Douglas got to go to the city and party on. Why was Grandad making such a big deal out of it?

She opened her mouth to tell him so. Then paused as she looked into his ancient face and realised, in a great gush of awareness, how much she loved him. And, how much he loved her. Where would she be without him? She'd be on the streets with the rest of the lost souls. And, in the end, she had to acknowledge a grudging respect for his guile. Grandad had outsmarted her.

She smiled. ‘Of course,' she said steadily. ‘I'm sure Sean would be delighted to make a visit.' Inwardly she cringed.

Grandad smiled, his pointed teeth still breathtakingly white. ‘Excellent! I'll look forward to it.'

Megan drank her tea and refused to be drawn into further conversation. She had a lot to think about. For the first time in her young life, two weeks seemed a short space of time. It looked like she was going to be busy. Failure was not an option. Megan was a woman with her mind made up.

It was light when Sean woke at the table from a deep and dreamless sleep. He lifted his head as someone thumped on the door. Then looked around the room. But she wasn't there. The banging started again and he stood up.

‘I'm coming,' he yelled and opened the door. It was one of the lads. ‘'S'up, Paul?'

Paul smiled nervously. ‘Sorry Sean, but Ginny's not come in and we were wondering if we should start turning the horses out?'

Sean looked at his wrist, but his watch wasn't there. ‘What time is it?'

‘Six thirty.'

Shit. ‘Sorry, I must have overslept.' He stepped out of the door, banged it behind him and set off for the yard. His fuzzy mind cleared a little as he went. Two things were clear. Ginny was pissed and hadn't turned up. And Megan was gone. Double whammy. Thank God it was Sunday. Official day off for both staff and horses. They'd manage without Ginny. Still, he'd have to find a replacement, quick sticks.

Soon he fell into the familiar routine, leading rugged horses out to the turnout paddocks. The Count plunged and danced at the end of his rope, keen for a run and a roll. For a while Sean paused to watch the black horse drop to the ground with a groan and stretch out on the green grass. The sun was out and a clear sky promised a rare fine day.

Back in the yard he started mucking out, his body working independently of his brain. There was a lot to think about. But mainly Sean found himself preoccupied with Megan. He found himself looking out the open stable door half expecting her to walk across the concrete. Still, it was early yet. He made a mental note to phone her at breakfast, but then realised he didn't have her number. And, if he recalled correctly, he still didn't know where she lived.

As if on cue his mobile vibrated and rang stridently in his back pocket. His heart leapt, suddenly sure it would be Megan. On examination his hopes were crushed at the sight of Callum Campbell's number. ‘Hi, Callum,' he said.

‘Morning, Sean. Just wanted to see how The Count was shaping up.'

Sean smiled, pleased to be the bearer of good tidings. ‘Actually Callum, I was going to call you. I had a great workout on him yesterday. I think we can seriously think about entering him in his maiden race.'

‘That's great! Can I come watch him tomorrow morning?'

‘Sure, six o'clock suit?'

‘Sure. Thanks Sean, bye.'

‘Bye.' Sean closed the phone thoughtfully and wondered if Ginny was related to Callum. They had the same surname. Still, Campbell was a pretty popular name in these parts. No point in worrying.

It was nearly nine by the time he headed back to the house. The lads would all go home until the afternoon. Sean looked forward to a quiet day. He might go completely mental and do some bookwork.

It was only as he sat down to a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea that he remembered his other uninvited guests, Lydia and Nancy. He grimaced. What the hell had that been all about? Nuttier than squirrel poo, the pair of them.

He looked at the bare patch on his wrist where his watch should have been. Perhaps he should go down to the river meadow and see if he could find it. Then he recalled their threat to pay him a morning visit. Thank God they hadn't kept that particular promise. He wasn't sure how he'd handle them.

Still, he consoled himself, forewarned was forearmed. He felt confident they'd pose no threat in the bright light of the day. And, they were friends of Sarah's. Or so they professed. The cat Salem certainly seemed familiar with them. Which was a bit odd.

He finished his food and drink and put the dirty dishes in the sink. Through the open window the scent of basil and lavender drifted in.

Restless, he went up the stairs and opened Sarah's bedroom door. His eyes roved around the room and finally rested on the quilt. At the rows of leafless trees painstakingly sewn onto the green background.

His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer and sank to his knees as vertigo swept through him. And he realised that the trees weren't trees at all.

The branches of the trees were inscribed with words. Not in letters but in lines etched in the bare branches. Each row of lines depicting the letter of an ancient alphabet. The letter A from Alder. The letter B from Beech. Twenty letters all taken from the first letter of a tree. It was one of those moments when something hidden becomes clear and a person can't believe they haven't seen it before.

As Sean's eyes skipped over the old quilt cover he took in an involuntary breath. His brain felt like it would explode. His world went all wobbly.

For a moment he struggled to contain the overload of information set loose in his head. He closed his eyes, opened them and looked once more. And then he read the words out loud. ‘I lie at the feet of a foot.' Once more he read the script. The words dripped off his tongue like butter off a crumpet. They were both familiar and strange. And then a song popped into his head. Music and lyrics he had heard only recently. And he smiled. Well, well, he was going to have quite a conversation when he next encountered Megan MacGregor. She wasn't the only one who could speak Gaelic.

He frowned, suddenly unsure. Was it Gaelic? He didn't really know that. He'd heard snatches of Gaelic over the years. A smattering at school years ago, and then some from frosty old men in smoky bars. Occasionally, on the radio. Never had he felt even an inkling of recognition for the language. But then, if it wasn't Gaelic, what the hell was it? And how could he possibly know a new language all of a sudden. Just like that. It was mad.

For a long moment he stretched his brain. But came up with a big fat nothing. Mad still seemed the most likely possibility. Maybe he was hallucinating again. Or maybe it was the DTs. After all, he hadn't touched a drop for nearly twenty-four hours. Long enough to push any well-balanced man over the edge.

His eyes slid back to the leafless trees. Yes, a wee dram seemed like the best plan. A nip of whisky would sort him out. With a sound plan he jumped up and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He couldn't resist the eerie idea that the quilt may roll itself off the bed and slither down the stairs after him.

By contrast the kitchen seemed wonderfully sane. Everything in its rightful place. It was only twenty past nine.

Seconds later he had the cool smooth length of the whisky bottle in his hands. The lid unscrewed obligingly and the woody aroma filled his nostrils. He reached out for a clean glass. And cursed as a loud pounding on the front door interrupted him. For a moment he was motionless as he tried to decide whether or not to answer. Then he cursed softly and slammed the bottle and glass onto the table. Someone knocked again. Louder still.

‘Keep your wig on, I'm coming,' he yelled. The door wasn't locked and he pulled it impatiently open. His gaze fell on the smiling faces of two women. He groaned. ‘Saints preserve me!'

Nancy giggled. ‘Morning, Sean.'

‘Aren't you going to let us in?' said Lydia, peering over his shoulder into the house.

Sean glared at her. ‘You've got a bloody nerve!'

Nancy nodded. ‘We do,' she said cheerfully. Nancy tapped him gently on the arm. ‘There, there dear boy. Didn't we sleep well? A bit of a grump are we, this morning?'

Sean was almost speechless, but pulled his outrage to the fore. ‘Grump? Grump! I'm bloody irate. You drug me, molest me and probably rape me and turn up looking for a warm welcome. If you don't get off my property I'm going to call the police.'

Nancy tutted and exchanged a look with Lydia. She looked back at Sean. ‘Lydia said you'd probably be a bit out of sorts.'

Lydia stepped closer and peered into his eyes. ‘Tell me, Sean. What have you seen?'

His first instinct was to tell her to bog off. But something held his tongue. After all, it was a good question. What had he seen? There was no one he could think of that he could talk to about the quilt. And he really, really wanted to talk to someone. And, if he were nuts, these two weren't far behind. What the hell! He stepped back. ‘Please, come in ladies.'

For a long, uncomfortable moment Sean and his guests faced off around the table. No one seemed willing to speak. All three turned and looked as Salem jumped in through the window and leapt onto Sean's lap. Which was a first.

Sean stroked the black cat's smooth coat. Salem dug his claws into his legs and jumped over onto Lydia's knee.

‘Ingrate,' Sean muttered.

Nancy smiled. ‘He misses Sarah. He'll come around to you.'

Sean wanted to say that he really couldn't care less, but he bit back his rudeness. And besides, it wasn't quite the truth. Salem was a charismatic creature, in his offhand way. He wouldn't mind being better acquainted.