Page 28

December 2008

Claire handed the last of the weighty paint cans to Victor. “Are you sure about this color? I mean Urban Putty? Looks more like German Mustard to me.” The last thing she wanted was for her soon-to-be refurbished rental apartment—what would soon be her father’s new home—to look like a damn bratwurst.

It had taken nine months of sporadic, then ever more frequent visits, lots of tears and teeth gnashing, for Claire and her father to come to a peaceful understanding. For that, she’d be forever grateful to Cam.

When the newlywed couple she’d rented the apartment to immediately after Mrs. Grouse had moved to California bought a home, she’d stood in the apartment and thought why not? She had nothing to lose. She hoped.

Victor shoved the cans behind the front seat of the truck. “Claire, who’s the designer here? You or me?”

“Okay, okay.” Shoulders hunched against the wind, she climbed into the passenger seat and picked up her list. “Can we swing by the window place and pick up the shades?”

“Sure.”

Halfway there, Victor pulled up to a stop light next to an antique shop. Curious about the competition, she studied the window display. Catching sight of a broadsword leaning against a chair, her heart stuttered. “Pullover!”

“Claire, we’re in the middle of traffic.”

She didn’t bother arguing, but bolted out of the truck and ran for the shop.

Inside, the proprietor, a jeweler’s lighted magnifying glass on his head, asked, “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to see the broadsword in the window, please.”

“Certainly.” He stepped out from behind his work station and headed for the counter where he picked up a set of keys. “It’s a lovely piece.”

Didn’t she know it. But then again, maybe her eyes had deceived her. She’d been so lonely for Cam she could barely think straight.

The man held the broadsword out across his palms. “Seventeenth century, hand-forged steel. The stones in the hilt are amethyst and Connemara marble. As you can see, it’s been well cared for. I have the provenance if you’d like to see it.”

Claire held out her hands. She knew what she’d find engraved on the hilt but still she had to look. “May I borrow a loupe?” He handed her one. And there it was, Sir Cameron MacLeod.

Oh, Cam, you sold the sword to pay for the locket, didn’t you? Damn it. “How much?” If she couldn’t have Cam, then she could at least have his sword. The poor teddy bear was taking a beating.

“Forty-five hundred.”

“No way.” That was twice what she had in her emergency account.

“Miss, it’s a masterpiece of period craftsmanship. Forty-five hundred and that’s firm.”

As Claire placed the sword on the counter, the door chimed behind her and Victor strode in, short of breath and looking fit to be tied. “What’s going on?”

“I’m trying to buy a sword.”

He looked at it and rolled his eyes. After heaving a sigh, he asked, “Is it his?”

Her throat raw, clutching her locket, Claire nodded. Victor asked the price, and hearing it, groaned. Looking at her he muttered, “I’ll take the French armoire and the Windsor chair in trade.”

He’d just stolen the chair and they both knew it, but Claire threw her arms about his neck anyway. “I love you, Victor Delucci.”

“Ya, ya.” He pried her arms from his neck and reached for his checkbook. “I’m just grateful it isn’t a friggin’ reindeer.”

Squatting on his haunches, Cam again stared at the breakers thudding against the headland he’d played on as a bairn. At his back was all that was left of Castle Rubha—two listing walls and a pile of rubble—with only a sign where once a busy bailey stood to tell the tale of his loss. It was still true. All that Claire’s history books had said. His gaze shifted left to the deep depression in the cliff where on this visit he’d found a few bits of charred timber, all that was left of Tall Thomas’s shelter. The last place he could recall being.

Sandra Power had been right. There was no returning.

He stood, took a steadying breath, and brushed the tears from his cheeks. He needed a wee dram.

At the first pub he came to, he asked for a whiskey. When the barkeep handed it to him, he asked, “Are there any MacLeods left here about?” He’d been too upset on his last visit to ask. Surely there had to be a few.

The barkeep scratched his jaw. “I canna think of any off the top of my head. If any would ken ’twill be Peter MacGraw at the Rubha Museum.”

Having passed it on his way in, Cam murmured, “Thank ye,” drained his glass and tossed three coins on the bar.

The museum, a small whitewashed cottage wedged between a gift and a woolen shop at the center of the village, was well lit. Inside, a few tourists milled about the waist-high glass cases and bookshelves. Cam studied one of the open ledgers in the glass case at the back while an auld man in a modern kilt told visitors where they might find a good meal.

After they left, the thin man with tufts of sandy hair made his way to him, and Cam pointed to the ledger. “This isna right. Here ye list only three bairns. Malcolm had four. Kelsey Mary died of fever when she was but a month auld.” Or so Minnie had told him.

The man looked where Cam pointed. “Ye’re sure about this?”

“Positive.”

The man frowned. “But how? All the records were destroyed when the castle and kirk were razed.”

When another couple, cameras about their necks, came in, Cam switched to Gael. “I just do. Are there any family descendants left here about?”

“Nay, the line was wiped out. All died between 1746 and 1748. And before you question that, you should know I’m one of the few left with blood of the original sept and that I’ve made these records my life’s work.”

“I’m most pleased to hear it. But all didna die. Cameron MacLeod survived.”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he shook his head. “Nay, he rode with his clan and died at Culloden.”

“Nay, he was drugged and left behind.”

The man huffed, quite sure of himself. “I seriously beg to differ. If what you say were true, then I would have found some trace of him by now. I’ve been at this for forty years. And why do you speak Gael in the auld way? Most men yer age can barely speak the new.”

Cam held out his hand. “I’m sorry. I need introduce myself. Sir Cameron MacLeod at your service, and I speak as I learned at my foster mother’s knee.”

The man’s alarm was almost palpable as the furrows on his high brow deepened and his eyebrows rose. “And who might that be?”

Cam waited for the couple who were headed for the door to exit. “Was … Mhairie Elizabeth Stewart of Rubha, formally of Newark, eldest daughter of Shamus and Mary Stewart.”

The man blinked and looking fair peaked murmured, “Yer a ghost then?”

Cam sighed. “Ye could say that.”

The man’s knees faltered. As his right hand grasped for the oak case, his left clutched at his heart. “Ack, before ye take me, I could really do with a wee dram.”

Grinning, kenning precisely how the man felt, Cam waved to the door. “After ye.”

Four hours, a hearty meal and a pint of whiskey later, Cam had related his tale and answered a barrage of questions regarding births, deaths, stores, accounts, and armaments—the hours he’d spent slaving over Rubha’s ledgers finally being of some use—all while Mr. MacGraw made frantic notes on the pad he’d borrowed from the barkeep.

“So there you have it. I’ve a British driving license but without real documents I’m a man without a country.” Cam propped an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. “Not that anyone would believe I was still alive had the records not been destroyed. Ack.”

Mr. MacGraw raised his glass to the light. Studying the amber flashes playing off the whiskey, he murmured, “I’m not only the local historian but also the registrar. I could recreate—with a little shifting of facts—the documents ye need.”

Cam jerked upright. “Are ye serious? If ye would, I’ll gladly pay ye well for the service.”

Mr. MacGraw tasted his whiskey, then tapped the papers before him. “This information is more than payment enough.”