The Chieftain's Yule Bride - a Highland Christmas novella (Clan MacKrannan's Secret Traditions #10) (15 page)

"Good enough.  Come with me."

Freya followed Auntie to her room and helped her pull the cast-iron bed away from the wall and opened a little door.  Nobody except one plumber ages ago was ever in the narrow eaves-spaces running round the house because there was nothing in them except pipes and insulation.

Auntie lifted her emergency flashlight from her bedside table and said, "You'll need to help me with it."

They crawled on their knees along the planking and round corners far beyond anywhere Freya knew existed.  Was this the labyrinth of passageways she'd seen?  No, they'd been stone.  Auntie told her to stop and went ahead with the flashlight, leaving her in the dark.

A nerve she would have to be spooked if Auntie was fine with this at her age, but she felt something near.  Same vibes as the portrait so maybe they were directly above it... but there were two ceilings and a bedroom between here and the hallway... and then the floor shifted under her knees and she let out a scream.

"Ach, move yourself, Freya!  I'm trying to get this planking up!  Take an end and move it to the left – no, to
my
left or we'll be through the shingles!"

The two of them could do little for laughing then, and it took a bit of time to get at what Auntie was digging up here.  Then Freya saw the oilskin covering.

"Symond's clarsach!  Oh
wow!"

"Patience, my girl."

But it wasn't heavy enough to be any sort of harp.  The vibes it gave off clanged like cathedral bells behind her when she held an end of it and made her way back.  Auntie insisted on taking it downstairs for unwrapping, so it was on the kitchen table again that another Symond Harper portrait was revealed... the one that matched hers, and had been a great distance from it.

Freya didn't faint this time, just burst into tears along with Auntie.  There it was, that lock of hair on his forehead that she'd touched so many times, the way he stood like a lord, his height... everything she'd recognized.

"How old was I when this was put away?"

"Hung up when you were born and put away on your second birthday, same as for every Harper lass descended from Symond in the direct line, and you know there's few of us.  That was in the instructions handed down through the generations – see for yourself in that letter there.  It used to hang in your parents' room and you clambered on the armchair to touch it.  Look there, I put a photo of you in with the letter.  The number of times your mother had to clean this glass!  See your stubby wee fingers reaching out for him?"

"How could I possibly remember this?"

"I near fainted myself when he got out his car.  See how the kilt in the portrait is in MacKrannan hunting tartan, same as he wears?  And when you told me the name of the one from the castle... well, I'm thinking we've all let the family gift slip.  Monlachan was a right braw piece of prophecy, my girl.  Symond was a master and no mistake.  You'll be taking both of these with you in the morning?"

"Oooh yes, and I think you should come with me too, Auntie."

"Maybe in a few days.  You'll have things to be sorting out for yourself there first."

Didn't she just... Zavier's last message here said he was on his way back from Dubai and where the hell was she?  She hadn't returned his call.

"Okay, so if mine is the Fair Lass of Monlachan, what's this one called?"

"Ah, but I didn't know the name of yours, just that it would have one, because the letter says this one is the Dark Lad of Argyll."

"Sounds about right."

She fetched the Fair Lass through, her arms ringing with its energies, and put it beside the Dark Lad.  The vibes calmed into rightness like a musical chord resolving.  It explained why Callum had withheld whatever truths he knew.  She had to see all this for herself, and become her true self again to see it.

No matter what happened with him or didn't now, she'd be coming home to Scotland.  London didn't fit with her, and she'd been fooling herself that Zavier ever did.  The scenes in that farmhouse had shown her the woman she might become.  Zavier needed her for what she did for him, not for who she was – and he didn't even know her after two years.

How could she ever have thought it possible to settle for less than a Callum...

She gave Auntie another hug and sent up a kiss to her ancestors.  Family were everything, alive or otherwise. 

"Miss Harper!  Nice to see you back.  Let me park the chieftain's car for you and I'll have your bag sent up to your suite.  Any more luggage to go?"

"None for the moment, thank you.  The chieftain will get the rest."

"FREYA!
 
Where the hell have you
been,
sweetie?  I've left messages everywhere – why didn't you get another phone?  And what's this with the boss's four-by-four when I left you the rental car?"

"Zavier, let's go into the castle.  I have things to tell you."

"Bloody right you do!  Four days I've been gone and you haven't done a thing about the wedding yet except for ordering barrels of beer!  Christ, nobody's even got an invitation yet!"

A Security Guard moved towards them.  "Mr Campbell, I have to ask you to quieten down for the sake of the other guests, sir."

"Piss off!  I'm talking to my fiancée!"

Callum watched it all from the foyer.  When the Guard got involved he walked outside.

"Please, Zavier, let's go up to the suite..."

"I've already sat all bloody day in the suite!  Where have you
been?"

She snapped then.  "Zavier, we're not getting married.  I'm sorry, but it wouldn't be right."

A second Guard arrived and the ginger-headed temper fizzed.  "What are you talking about!  Christ, sweetie, what have you been
on!"

Campbell grabbed her arm roughly and shook her.

Callum had seen enough.  He signalled the Guards and Campbell was removed, but the man didn't stay away.

"Shit! 
It's Mister Clan Chieftain here, isn't it!  You've been with him!"  He scrambled up and lunged forward.  Not at Callum, but at Freya.  Sodding coward.  This time Callum didn't waste time with protocol.  His fist flew once and the Campbell stayed on the gravel holding his bleeding nose.

Self-discipline was everything.  Any of his early MacKrannan ancestors would have drawn his skean-dhu and castrated the man on the spot, and he was sorely tempted.

One of the Guards was already phoning for police and ambulance.

"Secure the surveillance footage," said Callum to the other one.  "And nobody touches him but me."

Freya didn't need telling that his order included herself.  He watched her go inside with the Guard and she didn't look back.

"It's called the Turret of the East.  Nothing fancy, but it has meaning for us."

Freya beamed.  "The rising sun.  Beautiful.  Thank you, Callum.  What you're unwrapping is called the Dark Lad of Argyll.  I've brought Symond Harper's letter with me which calls it that."

Difficult to tell if he got a fright at the name she gave because the close presence of the portrait had already disturbed him.  Now
he
knew what those vibes could do, and she was rather glad of the presence of the four Elders in here with them.  She also felt the presence of her ancestors, with Symond to the fore.  How they loved all these Celtic carvings!  The voices of Callum's ancestors were quite muted to her now, as if they'd done their part and were settling down to witness the rest of it like ethereal hosts.

Callum's face blanched as pale as her own when he saw his exact image in Symond's other portrait.  The Elders seemed to take it in their stride, much like Auntie.  She'd like these people, especially Tara.

And Gillian of the herbery and Kenzie of the spa?  It figured.  The Three Wisewomen, they were called.  Robbie the Events Manager was more than the senior Elder – he was the clan's Bard, a hereditary position with a Druid history.  Auntie would
really
like all that.

"Right, I think we should all sit down," said Callum, looking as if he needed to.  Six chairs were hurriedly fetched to the table and the portrait removed to stand beside her own.  Callum fetched a book out and opened it to a marked page.

"Freya, this ledger entry shows the visit of the Orkney minstrel.  You'll see it says that the Fair Lass of Monlachan was a gift to a MacKrannan chieftain – the one who knows her when he sees her."

As simple as that.  Dear, lovely Symond.  What a beautiful way to use the gift of prophecy.  So romantic.

"...That would be me and you, lass," Callum added, as if it needed confirmed.

He stared right at her and put his hands flat on the oak table.  The Elders followed suit so she did the same. 
Wow! 
She rocked in her seat at the energies surging through her and everybody nodded in approval.

"The wisdom of those gone before us be with us now," Callum chanted.  The Elders repeated it, so she did too, and was absolutely loaded with voices and cheering and happy wishes from the Harpers and MacKrannans of long ago.

"Freya Harper, you were sent to me by Harper prophecy and I claimed you by the honorable MacKrannan Tradition of bride-stealing..."

Bride-stealing? 
Well, yes, but... Actually just Yes.  He'd taken her from her fiancé, run off with her and bedded her.  All with her permission, of course, but some historical bride-stealing was also done with consent.  And he'd done his chivalry bit with his fist too by defending her from attack.  She could think of nothing more he could have added to make the description a better fit.

  "...I am the first chieftain in eight hundred years to revive the Tradition, but according to current law in Scotland I must still ask, will you wed me?"

As if she'd refuse.  "I will wed you, Callum MacKrannan."  Saying it formally seemed the right approach here, and it resonated rather well with her.  She hoped there was much more of this kind of thing.

Her hopes were immediately fulfilled.  Callum's reached under the table then and reappeared with his skean-dhu.  "Bard, perform the honors."

The two of them were cut on the palms to take a blood oath.  She was sworn in as a member of the clan and as the chieftain's betrothed, as serious a commitment as the real wedding to come.

"Done," said Callum, rising from his chair and taking her hand.  "You'll like the next bit, lass.  The library you saw is called the Vault, many floors below us."

"It's here?"

"It is.  You were spot on with the description too."

It took an immensely long time to get there and was worth the journey a million times over.  The books were all different colors as she'd seen, like being inside a rainbow, and no windows but plenty of doors.

"Do these lead to stone passageways and other rooms like I saw?"

"Aye, though each have alternate entrances so there's never traffic in here.  One was in use last night, called the Chamber of the Green Man."

"Oh!  A fertility dance, was it?"

"No dancing.  Just the fertility bit with three couples."

She smiled and turned to Tara.  "Do your bees enjoy providing for that?"

"They do, my dear, very much indeed."