Chapter 5
Blinking against the lamplight, Forbes looked up from the faded ink. “These Highland immigrant accounts are fascinating—remarkably detailed about daily life.”
“Aye.” Alan’s voice was thoughtful. “The old Highland traditions survive with remarkable clarity.”
Forbes turned another page, his fingers tracing the precise handwriting that had recorded births, deaths, marriages across generations. This was exactly what he needed—documented family histories, verifiable connections between Scottish clans and their New England descendants.
The kind of work he understood. The kind that didn’t make his pulse do unexpected things.
“Ye mentioned earlier that ye learned swordsmanship,” Forbes said, glancing up. “Highland techniques specifically?”
“Ancient methods preserved through time.” A faint smile crossed Alan’s face. “My grandfather taught me. Said a man should ken how tae defend what matters—his family, his home.”
Forbes nodded. He recognized the language of another warrior, even if Alan’s wars were wrapped in deliberate vagueness. “Military service as well? I noticed earlier—ye have that bearing.”
“Something like that.” Alan’s tone suggested the conversation was closed on that particular topic.
He pulled another leather-bound volume from the shelf instead.
“But if ye’re interested in Highland martial traditions, there’s documentation here.
The MacDonalds who settled in Salem kept detailed records of everything—including training regimens for their sons.
Wanted tae make sure the old skills didnae die out. ”
“That’s unusual.” Forbes leaned forward with genuine interest. “Most immigrant families were trying to assimilate, not preserve military traditions.”
“The MacDonalds were... particular about certain things.” Alan set the volume on the desk between them.
“They started a successful trading business, respected in the community. But in private, they held onto the old ways. Taught their children Gaelic. Trained them in swordwork. Preserved the stories.”
Forbes opened the volume carefully. Neat rows of entries. Precise handwriting. Verifiable data. This was what he understood. “This is remarkable. Do ye have more like this?”
“Several volumes.” Alan gestured to the shelf.
“The MacDonalds werenae the only family. The MacLeods, the Frasers, even some MacKenzies—they all kept records. Not just genealogies but daily life. Business dealings. Community connections.” He paused.
“Cultural practices that didnae make it into official town records.”
Something in his tone made Forbes look up sharply. “What kind of practices?”
“Highland customs. Seasonal celebrations. Ways of... seeing the world that didnae quite align with Puritan sensibilities.” Alan’s face gave nothing away.
“Ye’ll find references scattered through the documents.
Nothing explicit—they were careful about what they wrote down.
But if ye know what tae look for, the patterns emerge. ”
That odd hum stirred at the base of Forbes’s skull—the same sensation he’d felt at the gate, at the graveyard, whenever Salem seemed to be paying attention to him. He thought, unbidden, of Gwen’s voice in the lamplight: The line between medicine and magic was often blurrier than we might think.
He resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck.
Just fatigue, he told himself. Old house, musty documents, overactive imagination.
But his writer’s instincts tucked it away regardless. They’d been storing a lot of moments lately. Most of them involved honey-blonde hair and gold-flecked eyes.
Forbes considered Alan’s words. His editor would want him to stick to documented facts. But Alan was right—you couldn’t understand immigrant communities without understanding what they believed.
“I’ll keep an open mind,” Forbes said.
“That’s all I ask.” Alan pulled another folder from the shelf.
“Though sometimes the line between fact and folklore is blurrier than ye might expect. These families believed certain things—that belief shaped their decisions, their relationships, their descendants. Ye cannae understand their history without grasping what they believed, even if ye don’t believe it yerself. ”
“Ye sound like my old advisor,” Forbes said. “He believed the same.”
“Smart man.” Alan’s voice warmed. Then, more carefully: “Speaking of what people believe... I heard ye attended the ghost tour last night.”
Forbes felt his shoulders tense. Of course Alan had heard. In the space of a week, he’d learned that Salem operated like a village—everyone knew everyone’s business. It had irritated him at first, the casual assumption that his movements were public knowledge.
Now it just made him feel exposed.
“Lilith mentioned ye were quite vocal in Ms. Bishop’s defense,” Alan continued.
“The tourist was being dismissive.” Forbes met Alan’s gaze directly. “I recognized the tone. I’d used it myself when I first arrived.”
“And ye felt the need tae correct that.”
It wasn’t a question, but Forbes answered anyway. “Aye.”
Alan studied him with uncomfortable intensity. “Interesting. Because from what Lilith tells me, ye could have apologized with a phone call. Could have sent a polite email. Instead, ye showed up at her tour. Publicly supported her work. Asked her tae coffee before ye’d even left the graveyard.”
Forbes kept his expression neutral, but something in his chest tightened. Hearing it laid out like that—the sequence of choices he’d made without fully examining them—felt like watching someone trace a pattern he hadn’t realized he was drawing.
Back in Edinburgh, this kind of scrutiny would have annoyed him—strangers discussing his personal life, forming opinions about his motivations.
But watching Alan’s face, Forbes saw something he hadn’t expected: protectiveness. The man wasn’t gossiping. He was looking out for someone he cared about.
That changed things.
“She’s a good historian,” Forbes said. “Better than most academics give her credit for.”
“She is that.” Alan’s voice was mild, but Forbes heard the steel underneath.
“She’s also been hurt before, aye? By an academic who treated her family’s traditions as research material without her permission.
Then decided dating someone from a ‘folklore-practicing family’ wasnae good for his reputation. ”
Forbes absorbed this with a stillness that belied the anger rising in his chest—hot and immediate, surprising him.
He barely knew Gwen Bishop. Had shared exactly one real conversation with her.
And yet the thought of someone using her knowledge, her trust, her family, and then discarding her because she was too inconvenient—
His hand curled on the desk.
No wonder she’d looked so guarded when he’d dismissed her work. No wonder she’d been surprised when he’d defended her. No wonder there’d been wariness beneath the warmth when she’d agreed to coffee.
“I see,” he said quietly.
“Do ye?” Alan weighed him with a long look. “Because from where I’m standing, ye’re a successful writer who came tae Salem for research. Gwen’s a local expert with access tae oral histories and community connections ye won’t find anywhere else. Easy tae see how that could be... useful.”
The accusation was politely worded but unmistakable.
Forbes’s first instinct was cold dismissal—the walls rising automatically, the way they always did when someone got too close to something true. But he forced that down. Alan wasn’t being unreasonable. He was being a good friend.
And he wasn’t entirely wrong.
“I asked her tae coffee tae discuss her research methodology,” Forbes said, each word precise. “I’m not planning tae exploit her knowledge.”
“Not consciously, perhaps.” Alan’s tone gentled. “But ye might want tae examine why ye’re so interested. A few days is a fast turnaround from dismissal tae defense.”
The words landed like a well-placed blow.
Forbes had been telling himself this was professional interest. Intellectual respect. A natural course-correction after an initial misjudgment. All of that was true.
But it wasn’t the whole truth, and Alan’s steady gaze made that impossible to ignore.
“Because I was wrong.” Forbes held his eyes steadily. “Her tour was well-researched and thoughtfully presented. I reconsidered my position.”
“In the space of one evening.”
“Aye.”
In the space of one smile, some traitorous part of him added. In the space of watching her defend the dead with fire in her voice and lamplight in her hair.
Alan held the look for a long moment. Forbes had the uncomfortable sensation of being weighed by someone who’d seen through better men than him.
Finally, Alan nodded. “All right then. Just... be careful with her. She puts on a good professional face, but she’s been hurt. She deserves someone who’ll respect what she knows, not just find it convenient.”
“Understood.” Forbes meant it more than he’d meant most things lately.
“Speaking of Highland traditions,” Alan said, smoothly changing the subject, “there’s a Gaelic study group that meets monthly at the community center. Mostly descendants of Highland families trying tae reconnect with their heritage. They’d probably be willing tae talk with ye.”
Forbes welcomed the shift to safer ground. They spent the next hour discussing contacts, records, and research strategies.
When Alan finally excused himself to check on the children, Forbes sat alone in the quiet library, surrounded by centuries of documented lives.
His element—dusty records, careful notation, the slow accumulation of verifiable facts. The kind of work that didn’t require him to feel anything. The kind that kept his walls intact.
He pulled the MacLeod genealogy folder toward him and began reading. Names, dates, occupations. Marriage connections between families. Business partnerships.
One entry caught his eye: Margaret MacLeod, b. 1743, known for her skill with herbs and healing. Married James Fraser, merchant. Three children survived to adulthood.
Known for her skill with herbs.
Forbes’s hand stilled on the page.
Gwen’s hands rose unbidden in his memory—stained green from her garden, soil beneath the nails, capable and sure. The lavender scent that had risen from her skin when he’d caught her. The way she’d frowned at the shimmering herbs as if they’d done something unexpected.
The way the air had gone thick and electric between them, just for a heartbeat, before he’d ruined everything with his careful walls.
He shook his head and forced his attention back to the document.
But the image lingered. It had been lingering for days now—green-stained fingers, honey-blonde hair escaping its braid, gold-flecked eyes watching him with wary hope in a lamplit graveyard. The exact pitch of her voice when she spoke to him, teasing and tentative all at once.
He was cataloging her. The way he cataloged anything important.
When did she become important?
Forbes set down his pen.
Someone had hurt her badly enough that she expected dismissal from academics. She’d learned to guard herself against exactly the kind of intellectual condescension he’d shown at their first meeting.
And now he was sitting here, surrounded by records of Highland women with herb-skills and “ways of seeing the world,” thinking about the particular shade of gold in her eyes and the way he’d just stood there, watching her smile at him across a circle of graves.
He’d asked her to coffee partly for her expertise—that was genuine. But also because he wanted to see her again. Wanted to hear more of her stories. Wanted to prove he wasn’t like the man who’d treated her traditions as research material and then walked away.
Both things were true.
The question was what he intended to do about it.
The lamp on the desk flickered once, then steadied.
He had come to Salem for documents and data. Now he was noting the hum in the walls, the flicker of the lamp, the way his chest tightened when he thought of green-gold eyes and lavender-scented skin.
Wednesday would tell.