The Chieftain's Yule Bride - a Highland Christmas novella (Clan MacKrannan's Secret Traditions #10) (5 page)

Seeing Callum MacKrannan again was a jolt Freya hadn't expected.  And that was a big fib for a start.  Planning a wedding with one man while her mind was full of another was a betrayal of the dirtiest sort.  She'd tossed and turned so much during the night that Zavier had gone off in a strop to sleep on the chaise-longue.  She might have felt the guilt of it more keenly if she hadn't so recently left him in the four-poster eating room-service breakfast and ogling some tarty diva in a magazine, and one hand sneaking under the sheets as she waved from the door.

Well, maybe a bit of guilt for her there, because it was her fault they'd done nothing in that line since they got here.  She just
couldn't,
and she wasn't about to tell him the true reason.  She'd left Scotland and immersed herself in the modern world to get away from her heritage.  This place made it bubble nearer the surface with every passing hour.  Maybe she should have gone for that venue in Oxford?  Impossible... it had to be a Scottish castle.  Choosing this one was her mistake.

Callum MacKrannan's hands were clean and his gaze startlingly direct.  All of him was clean, and without any overpowering aftershave.  Six and a half feet of decency with shoulders like a weightlifter and that lock of hair dipping onto his forehead.  She itched to touch it just once.  She
had
touched it before.  The feeling that she knew him was very real.

In her mind she'd been through every possible place they could have met and drawn a blank.  Her phone wasn't working at all, even after an overnight charge, and she certainly couldn't use Zavier's beyond messaging everyone important to tell them to use his to reach her or leave a message at the castle.

"Call me Callum, please.  Come – we'll sit at the highboard.  Let you try out the historical equivalent of a top table."

"I'd like that, thank you.  I'm Freya."

"Freya..."
he said with an incline of his head, as if he hadn't known, and he had... no, the smile that went with it told her he just liked the name... or more likely she trying to read far too much into the way he said it.

His manners were impeccable as he walked beside her through the hall, obviously slowing down for her benefit, for she'd seen the length of his normal strides.  He extended his hand for her to steady herself as she climbed the three stairs onto the dais where a long table was laid with fresh linen.  Again the jolt at his touch, like a fright running up her arm and making her heartbeat jump.

He pulled out a chair for her, a high-backed antique upholstered in the finest damask and with carvings that spoke of the long ago.  She felt quite out of place wearing her Fifth Avenue trousers with a matching plain cashmere sweater under the coat she'd put on for the walk to the Spa after this.  This place begged for full-length gowns and rich elegance, a femininity lacking in her current clothing.

"A problem with my staff, I hear.  Tell me what's been happening."

He sat far enough away from her to be polite, yet not nearly far enough away for her to avoid drinking in the manly scent of a clan chieftain.  He leaned forward a bit with his hands between his knees in the habit of Highlanders to keep people from seeing up their kilts.  This man was the real thing.  True Scotsmen never crossed their legs.

If it hadn't been for the electric lighting and the sound of a car revving in the distance, she could have been in a timewarp.  Except she was the one wearing trousers, and it was his legs that were on show.  Solid muscle.  She would bet anything he played rugby or shinty and rode horses like a pro.

Oh god!  He'd caught her looking!

"Your staff... well, so many stared for no reason."  As if she hadn't been doing exactly that.  "Zavier noticed it first, and then at dinner last night there was a waiter..."  She couldn't go on.  The blush must have reached her ears by now and there was never any hiding it with such a pale skin.  "Never mind.  It's too silly."

"It's no' silly at all.  The answer is this.  There's a portrait used to hang in the castle of a lassie that looks like you.  She's your double, Freya.  We're a superstitious clan, especially the older folks.  You know the way of that, aye?"

"Oh... right."

Stunned, she was, as much by his easy use of her name as by the news he delivered.  She hadn't imagined it at all the first time.  He really did say the word
Freya
like a command from the sky and she was absolutely melted.

"They could no' help looking and wondering.  It also explains why I thought we'd already met.  Are they forgiven?  Am I?"

His grin was infectious.  With anyone else she'd think this was a weasel charming his way out of trouble.  Not Callum MacKrannan.  There was an honesty beamed out of this man, a directness in his gaze that told her he was telling the truth.  Some of it, anyway.  There had to be more to the portrait story and she would very much like to know what it was – or see it for herself, which she had every intention of doing.

"You're all forgiven if I get to see the portrait.  Only fair, isn't it?  When so many others have?"

"I thought you would.  It's been brought out of storage for you this morning.  There's a condition, though.  If you'll agree to it, we can go and see the painting right away."

"A condition
. 
I see... and what is that, Callum?"

She couldn't resist voicing his name while he was there in front of her. 
Callum...  
The way her mouth had to move to say it felt like taking a lick and savoring the taste.  She blushed all over again as her imagination ran wild.  A glint in his eye told her that he'd noticed.  There was a bit of mild flirting going on here and she was worse than him.

"The condition is that we go alone.  The clan historian's official order, no' mine.  That portrait was never for outsiders and remains so.  Again, a superstitious thing.  Will you trust me on that, as I trust him?"

Freya didn't need asked twice to leave Zavier out of this.

"Of course I understand superstition.  I'm from Monlachan!"  Did she just see him flinch?  "You'll have heard of our famous Clootie Well?  Okay, I trust you.  Where is this portrait?"

"Leave your coat in my office if you want.  We're no' going to the dungeons."

"Ah!  So you
have
dungeons, do you?"

"What castle doesn't?  Best wine cellars you'll get."

Callum took her the complicated way round for two reasons.  He didn't want her to remember where the Turret of the East was, and he'd be bringing her back to the public part of the castle by a different route as well.  The main reason was the simple fact that he wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.  His Assistant was under instruction to treat him as absent from the estate except for dire emergency.

He'd reacted none to Robbie's
'alone'
condition beyond making sure the man was no' inventing it on the Wisewomen's orders for the purposes of matchmaking.  They were never off his case about providing an heir or six for the MacKrannan dynasty.

He should have known better than to question any of it, including why the portrait had to be brought to this particular room.  The Elders had their ways and the Bard the strangest of all four.

It took more than half an hour to make the journey, stopping as they did when she asked about other artworks, suits of armor, antiques and the like.  Freya Harper was surprisingly knowledgeable about history.  Knew next to nothing of his own clan but could put dates to important battles and monarchs' reigns.  Could even name a few of the Scottish artists whose unsigned works adorned the corridors beyond the secure doors.

Never in all his days had he enjoyed a lassie's company this much outside of a bed.  There was a way she had of looking up at him that made him grin like a lad, and he seemed to have the same effect on her.  She must be in somewhere in her twenties and she laughed like a schoolgirl.  By the time they reached the fourth storey he was sorry the journey was coming to an end.

He struggled to stay professional and remember that she was a paying guest.  One wrong word or move on his part and he could face a hellish lawsuit and publicity.  Every instinct told him she'd never do that to him, but Zavier Campbell would no' think twice.

Callum had put himself in a position here that was wide open to trouble and he'd be daft to forget it.

Up here all the rooms were empty, used only by his parents when they were home and for family gatherings... and by himself.  They walked by his own bedchamber without her knowing, though he noticed she glanced back at the door after they'd passed it.  No nameplate.  Nothing to identify it as his.  Someday they'd no' be passing it by.  Someday it would be the end purpose of their walk.

A few more turns and they were there.

"It's in the corner room up ahead."  Did she slow her pace at that, or did he?  "Are you ready for this?"

"Getting a bit edgy now.  Just how much of a likeness is it?"

"I've actually no' seen it myself since I was a young lad.  It's a memory for me like it was for the clansfolk."

He opened the door for her to go in but she held back.

"You go first, Callum."

"Feartie!  See, it's still wrapped up."

All the chairs had been removed and lined up along the walls.  The picture lay flat on the circular oak table, and with nothing between it and the door save another long stretch of destiny's path.  They walked to the table to find there was no catalogue number, no title, dates, artist's name nor even a photograph of what was inside the acid-free paper.  If there had been the usual label, it had been removed for the time being.  One old tag only, with the word
Minstrel.

The powers that had been summoned in the room had no' abated much.  He blinked hard, for the oak was singing its energies as if his hands were still upon it and the Elders chanting.  He would swear that the ancients were still to the fore in here, their voices at the edges of his mind.  What were the Wisewomen playing at, insisting he bring her to
this
room?  He was pretty sure it would be their idea.

He reached into the side of his sock and fetched out his skean-dhu.  "Use this.  I'll let you do the honors."

"Wait... are these Celtic deities?"

She was looking round the wall carvings in amazement.

"Aye, but they don't bite."

"Oh I know that.  I used to collect figurines when I was younger."

"Did you now..."  He ran a hand over his jaw, intrigued to hear more but needing to get this over with and get out this room.  After all the blushing she'd been doing this morning, it was odd to see her so pale again.  More so than her usual, was clear, the way she was rubbing at her forehead.

Maybe he was no' the only one here feeling the sizzle in the air.  Now he was convinced this place was the Wisewomen's choice.

She took the sharp knife and sliced the strings upwards, then carefully ripped aside several layers of paper until only the underlying tissue remained.  His heart hammered the worse as she turned to give him back his skean-dhu and lifted her brows in question.  Her glance darted to the open door as if she'd heard something, then around the carved panels which seemed to have her as spellbound as the painting.

Needed some encouragement here, did she?  "Go on, then.  See if she looks like you."

She parted the tissue with a flourish and there it was.  There
she
was, exactly as he'd remembered her and even more of a likeness to the living lass beside him than he could ever have imagined.  Uncanny, he'd called it.  Bloody
bizarre.
 

"Freya?"

She leaned her hands on the table.  "I need to sit down..."