Chapter 11 #2
“He’s a good lad. He’s had a rough few years.” He slid her a sideways glance. “He could do with a woman who appreciated him.”
She just bet he could. She looked out the window as they made their way along a one-lane road that wound through forests and little meadows.
What would it be like to have this as your backyard?
She couldn’t understand how Bentley could look around him and not be moved by what he saw.
Probably because he wasn’t seeing the inside of a five-star resort. His loss.
Roddy turned up a gravel road and wound through a bit of forest. It opened up quickly into a fairly large meadow. In the middle of that little meadow was a house that greatly resembled a small castle. A little hill rose up behind it. The scenery was breathtaking.
The house was a wreck.
Madelyn gulped. “This is it?”
“Aye,” Roddy said. “It wants for a bit of repair.”
“I’ll say,” Madelyn said, taking a deep breath. “I can see why he lives here, though. I’d put up with crumbling walls for the view alone.”
“Stay there,” Roddy said, getting out. He hurried around and opened her door. He held it open for her to get out. “Smell,” he said with a smile.
She held on to the door and did. It smelled of earth and sky with a hint of greenery and heather. She smiled at Roddy. “Heavenly.”
“I thought you’d like it. Now, shall I wait or do you want to poke around on your own?”
“He won’t mind?”
“He won’t. The car keys are in the car in the garage. The house isn’t locked.”
“Isn’t he afraid someone will steal something?”
“What’s to steal? We all know each other, so there is no market for goods in the area. And,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “no one would dare face Patrick’s wrath.”
Madelyn reserved judgment on that. She had yet to see Patrick’s wrath.
“Besides, young Pat isn’t much for accumulating things besides horses and cars.”
“And those are a little hard to steal.”
“Aye.” He closed the door. “I’ll be off then and leave you to your pleasures. You can wander back up the hill, but I’d stay out of the forest.”
“Why?”
He looked as if he wanted to say something, then shook his head. “The tale is too long. You’re safe in the little meadow here.”
“Sure,” she said. “Whatever.” Then she stopped dead. “What’s in the forest?”
He started to speak, stopped, then started again. He shut his mouth, looked around him furtively, then leaned in close. “The trees are full of Highland magic,” he whispered.
“I’ll be sure to stay away from that.”
Roddy nodded in satisfaction, hopped in his car, and drove away with an encouraging smile.
Madelyn waited until the sound of his car disappeared before she turned and looked at Patrick’s house.
Silence descended except for the whisper of the wind in the trees.
A peace like she’d never felt before came over her, softly, like a mist, stilling her thoughts.
Was this what he had each day?
It was no wonder he was able to ignore Bentley. She might have been able to as well if this was what she had to come home to each night.
The breeze lifted her hair away from her face, gently swirling around her in some kind of Highlandish dance. Madelyn closed her eyes. If she hadn’t known better, she could have sworn she heard the sound of bagpipes, faint in the distance.
Her eyes flew open. That wasn’t her imagination. She set her bag on the crumbling courtyard wall, then walked around to the back of Patrick’s house. The sound was coming from up the hill. She stared at the silhouette of trees and rocks, trying to make out the figure of a musician.
She saw nothing.
Or did she? She could hardly decide.
That could have been the silhouette of a man.
She was tempted to go up and have a closer look, but decided against it for a couple of reasons. One, she wasn’t up to any hiking, and Patrick’s hill required a good hike. Two, whatever she was listening to was magic, and she just didn’t want to spoil it.
So she walked to the front of the house. The pipes were still audible, even there. The front door was unlocked, as advertised. She opened it, then peered inside.
It was empty—and not just devoid of people. There was no real furniture in his living room. Just one enormous fireplace and a stool or two.
She walked in and closed the door behind her. Normally prowling through an unlocked empty house would have given her the willies. Here, for some inexplicable reason, she felt safe. Patrick’s presence was there somehow. She stood in his front room and felt peace descend.
It was blissful.
And it also smelled quite a bit like pipe smoke.
She frowned. Patrick didn’t smoke, did he?
She sniffed, but the smell was fading even as she did so.
She shrugged and continued on through the room to go explore the rest of his house.
It took quite a while, as there was certainly no lack of rooms, but they were all just as empty as the first she’d seen.
And then she walked into what had to be Patrick’s bedroom. It had a bed, a trunk, a rickety chair, and an armoire that had to be a very expensive antique. The armoire looked so out of place in comparison to everything else that she couldn’t stop herself from going over to touch it.
And once she touched, she knew she would have to open. Curiosity killed the cat, her common sense warned. Well, she wasn’t a cat. She put her hand on the wood.
The sound of bagpipes increased. A shiver went down her spine, the same kind of shiver she’d had at Culloden, and that was almost enough to make her rethink her nosiness.
Almost, but not quite. She took a deep breath and, to the accompaniment of some kind of battle dirge played by a bagpiper she couldn’t see, opened the armoire.
The light in the room was faint, but substantial enough for her purposes. The armoire wasn’t full. Indeed it only contained a handful of things.
A very rustic linen shirt that looked as if it had been hand sewn.
A plaid blanket, the colors muted, the cloth mended in many places.
And, heaven help her, a sword.
She reached out and touched the cold steel of the hilt. It fell over, out of the armoire, and against her as if it had been a live thing.
She screamed and jumped back. The sword clattered onto the stone floor. Madelyn looked around her, her hand to her throat. The room was still empty. She took several deep breaths, then reached down.
The sword was heavier than she’d expected and very rustic. But the blade was lethally sharp. She sucked on the finger she’d used to prove that to herself. She pulled the finger out of her mouth and looked at the slice she’d made. Good grief, she’d barely touched the edge.
Reenactment sword?
If so, she felt sorry for Patrick’s opponents.
She put the sword back, patted the hilt with a “good sword, good sword,” then shut the door, rested her hands on the wood, and contemplated what she’d just seen.
Antique clothes and a weapon.
Weird.
She’d have to ask Patrick later, if she dared. For now, she had things to do and wheels with which to do them. She paused in his kitchen only to find things covered with mold in his fridge and some stale bread in his bread box. Oh, well, she’d eat tomorrow.
She made her way outside, past his stables, and to the garage. She flicked on the light and shook her head. There was his Range Rover, two empty spaces, and a small but quite useful-looking something in burnt orange.
No wonder he chose black.
She opened the appropriate garage door so she could back out, then let herself into Burnt Orange and flipped the keys down from the visor.
“Halt!”
She almost wet her pants. She stared up into a powerful flashlight beam. “Um—”
“Out of the car. Now.”
She got out of the car to face one of Scotland’s finest. She smiled. “Officer, how are you?”
The officer, who briskly introduced himself as Fergusson, was not moved by her best smile. “Far better than you will be. Breaking and entering, attempted theft, drunk and disorderly,” he said, ticking the offenses on his fingertips.
She gaped at him. “What?”
“Breaking and enter—”
“I heard that part,” she interrupted. “Repeat that other part.”
He glared at her. “Lucky for me I got the tip. Now, come along peacefully.”
“You’re arresting me?”
“Even the worst crook can have a pretty face.”
She could hardly believe her ears. “I know the owner. He invited me to come borrow a car.”
The cop could not have looked more skeptical. “Not that there aren’t strange enough goings on up here with all these MacLeods, but I know Pat and I know his cars. And I don’t know you.”
And that, it seemed, was that. She put up a fight when she found that her purse wasn’t where she left it. Apparently Officer Fergusson didn’t take kindly to being accused of stealing. She soon found herself sitting in the back of his car, handcuffed and swearing.
“I will sue,” she threatened.
He ignored her and sped off.
Damn.
These sights were most definitely not on her list.