Page 37 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

The last five years had been devoted to the restoration of the castle, the ancestral fortress of the MacRaes.

Only one solid wall of the ruin was left, now incorporated into what was the new clan hall.

The color of the bricks was different, enough that even a casual visitor would note the great age of the old stone, and wonder at the structure that had stood there for four hundred years.

The undertaking had been a difficult one, and there were times when he and Iseabal had grown weary of the sound of chisels and hammers, if not the incessant dust. Through it all, however, they’d comforted themselves with notions of what Gilmuir would be like when it was completed.

Two years ago, the exterior had been finished, but it had taken an army of masons and other craftsmen to finish the interior to Alisdair’s specifications.

“Your work is magnificent, of course,” he said now. “But must I be here? It’s all that anyone sees when entering Gilmuir.”

Iseabal laughed gently. “As well they should, Alisdair. If it were not for you, Gilmuir would not be rebuilt at all.”

He glanced over at her. “I think the stonemasons worked harder for you than they did for me.”

Tilting his head back, he stared up at the broad beamed ceilings.

The roof had been finished over two years ago, but he was still not used to the sight of it.

For decades, Gilmuir had sat abandoned and neglected, open to the elements.

Now, the inside walls were painted a pale yellow, the embrasures finished in blue with designs festooning the sides of the arches.

What he lacked was some of the treasures of the MacRaes, and he’d already sent word to Nova Scotia.

By return ship, he expected to receive the pipes from his great uncle, and a few broadswords and claymores that had not been lost to the centuries.

Whatever his clan could give up, he would gratefully mount on the new walls of Gilmuir.

A woman in the village was crafting a pennant based on a design he’d heard about in his childhood.

Iseabal had given some thought to their own flag that would fly above Gilmuir.

However, his wife’s greatest talent was in creating masterpieces from stone, and never more so than his own face staring back at him in ebony marble.

“I had hoped you would have forgotten about it,” he said honestly.

Again, she laughed. “You knew I would not. It’s my best work.”

“Perhaps I should be grateful you didn’t wish to carve me whole and naked.”

She smiled at him, and it seemed to him that it was a mischievous look she gave him.

A year ago, they’d traveled to England, to oversee some of the properties he’d inherited.

They’d remained, as they did when visiting England, at Sherbourne Hall, where there was an impressive statue of a near naked man.

He’d always thought his wife took too intense an interest in the techniques employed in its creation.

From time to time, he’d seen her glance at him as if wanting to replicate his body in stone.

“Don’t even be thinking it, Iseabal MacRae,” he said, shaking his head at her.

She only continued to smile at him, a look that summoned him to her side. He bent and kissed her lightly, then stared at the bust again.

“I look very imperious. Is that my normal expression?”

She tilted her head, surveying both the bust and him. “I think,” she said, after considering the matter, “that you are a very imperious looking man. But then, you’re an earl, and I suppose earls are.”

She was the only one who teased him about his rank. Other people were either in awe of it or contemptuous of the fact that in addition to being a MacRae, a laird, and lord of Gilmuir, he was an English earl.

Next week, they would have the ceremony blessing Gilmuir.

A priest was coming from France to do the honors in the old religion, and a few days later, a Presbyterian minister would perform his own blessing.

All they needed now was a Saracen, a Jew, and a Buddhist, and Gilmuir would be blessed from all four corners of the earth.

“Do you think Brendan and Hamish will be here in time for this ceremony?”

He shook his head. A few weeks ago Brendan had sailed into Loch Euliss, anchoring his ship and disappearing as quickly, giving them a disjointed explanation of Hamish’s illness.

Only by talking to Brendan’s crew had Alisdair learned of what had truly befallen his brother in the years since he’d seen him last. It wasn’t a pleasant tale, and what irritated him even more was the fact that Brendan hadn’t divulged a word of it.

“You could go after them,” Iseabal said.

“Perhaps at another time I would have,” Alisdair said. “Not now. They’re beyond my control, and I doubt they’d listen to my counsel. Besides, my place is here, at Gilmuir.”

“You’re still angry,” Iseabal said, extending an arm around his waist.

He placed his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. “I am, it’s true. I expected more, perhaps. I hadn’t seen either of them for three years.”

“At least Brendan left his ship here,” she said. “You know you’ll see him again.”

“But it’s Hamish I’m concerned about,” Alisdair said. “From what I’ve learned, the past years haven’t been easy for him.”

“Then we’ll simply have to wait for him to come to us. And if that doesn’t work,” Iseabal said, “we’ll go after him.”

Alisdair smiled down at his wife, thinking that she had truly become a MacRae in the years since they’d wed.

Sir John Pettigrew adjusted his stock in the mirror.

The last fold in place, he let his fingers rest on his chest, his thumbs hooked into his vest. His hair was thinning on the top, but full and curling on the sides.

His face was full, a crease forming from midpoint at his nose to travel down his cheek to burrow into a fleshy chin.

Another line led from the corner of his mouth to curve in a disapproving comma on his flesh.

They were marks of somberness, a serious demeanor of a man who wielded great influence and power.

He looked every inch the sheriff, Charles thought.

“I summoned you to learn of the truth of these rumors I’ve been hearing,” Sir John said, staring at himself in the mirror and appearing to approve of his image. “But the person I truly wished to examine was Mrs. Gilly herself.”

“She is out of Inverness at the moment,” Charles said.

Part of his plan had already succeeded. The citizens of Inverness were a garrulous lot, and rumors spread quickly from one interested person to another.

Adding to the fever pitch of the stories being spread was the fact that it involved a young, attractive woman and a great deal of money, twin inducements to gossip.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” the sheriff said, frowning. “What do you know of Gordon Gilly’s death?”

“I believe that Mrs. Gilly is troubled,” Charles said, lowering his voice as if he were reluctant to admit the truth.

“At night, when she believes herself alone, I’ve heard her talking to her dead husband as if he’s still in the room with her.

” The best lie was one made up of snippets of the truth.

He’d often heard Mary converse with Gordon as if he were sitting in the chair in the corner.

“What does she say to him?”

“She begs him not to haunt her.” He bent his head, staring at his interlaced fingers.

“The man has been dead more than a year. It concerns me that these stories are just now beginning to surface.” Sir John seated himself at his desk and peered at Charles.

Charles sat up straighter in his chair. “Doesn’t truth always have a way of surfacing, Sir John?”

“It would do no harm to investigate this matter,” Sir John stated.

“A woman cannot be allowed to get away with murder. Not even one whose conscience so obviously troubles her. More and more of the miscreants brought to my court are female. I’m not inclined to pity them for their sex.

Even if a woman claims her belly, asking for a reprieve because she’s pregnant, I ignore her plea and sentence her to the punishment befitting her crime. ”

He stood, surveying Charles. “How am I to keep Inverness safe otherwise?” Sir John reached behind him and jerked on a bell pull. “Where is she now? I’ll send my men to detain her.”

“Do you believe it important enough to seek her out?”

Sir John frowned at him. “If she’s committed murder, then she should be punished for it. Surely you agree?”

“Of course,” Charles said, standing and bowing slightly, and trying not to reveal how pleased he was at the sheriff’s decision. Mary would be returned to Inverness in disgrace.

Then he would allow her to choose her fate.