22. Piper
Chapter twenty-two
Piper
I’ve learned while living in Glenhaven Castle, it has opinions. And so does Tristan.
We’ve settled into a daily rhythm neither of us acknowledges out loud. Breakfast is practical. Lunch happens whenever one of us remembers.
Afternoon tea, however, that belongs to us. And I definitely look forward to it.
Every afternoon, just as the grandfather clock somewhere deep in the castle strikes four, Mrs. MacLeod appears in the library with a silver tray that could probably survive a direct cannon strike.
Tea. Scones or cakes or biscuits. Something involving far too much butter. Then she quietly disappears before either Tristan or I can protest.
"It's almost as though she's scheduling us."
Tristan glances over the rim of his teacup.
"She is."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes."
"I have learned not to interfere with Mrs. MacLeod when she believes she’s improving my life."
"Smart man."
Outside, mist curls lazily across the hills. Murphy sleeps beneath the window as though he has lived here forever. Perhaps he has decided he has.
Tristan has helped me discover more of Scotland. One afternoon he recommended I read The Highland Clans. He said, “the author is surprisingly unbiased ... for a Scotsman."
Another day, he pulls down a faded green volume and hands it to me. "If you're curious about Glenhaven's neighbors, begin here."
I glance at the title. "The Forgotten Castles of the Highlands."
"You make homework suspiciously enjoyable."
"Only because it is."
I read the books at night in my room, and sometimes in the gardens during the day. When I’m not questioning Tristan about the castle.
Today he places a book in front of me. The Western Highlands: A History of the Clans. “Dry in places ... but wonderfully accurate."
"You've read it?"
"Several times."
“Today I have more questions about Glenhaven Castle, Tristan. Are you ready?”
He leans closer as he takes a sip of tea.
"The east tower. Someone removed a staircase," I state.
"Aye."
"Why?"
"It led nowhere useful."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It led to a room my great-great-grandfather disliked. He claimed it was haunted."
"You don't believe in ghosts? I think you're teasing me again."
"I may be." He smiles into his tea.
"So..." I tap another page. "Who built the chapel?"
"My great-great-grandfather expanded it."
"I asked who built it."
"I realize. But I don’t know. The Sinclair family lived here long before I came along."
"You know which servant dropped a soup tureen in eighteen forty-three."
"It was Malcolm. He cried for nearly an hour."
"But you don't know who built the chapel. That is ... deeply annoying."
He watches me write a note in my journal. Investigate mysterious medieval chapel on the grounds no one remembers building. I close the notebook.
"I have another question. I asked it the first night I arrived … How many books are actually in this library?"
"I've never counted them, lass."
"Guess."
"A hundred thousand."
I choke on my tea.
"A hundred..."
"Approximately."
"You own approximately one hundred thousand books?"
"I've given several thousand away over the years."
"As one does."
"They accumulate."
"You've become a literary dragon."
He frowns and looks confused.
"A dragon?"
"Hoarding books instead of gold."
"Oh I see. A Tolkien reference. I prefer paper."
Silence settles comfortably between us. It's strange how quickly that has happened.
When I first arrived, I was wondering whether the man was secretly running an international crime syndicate, was a squatter in my new purchase or even a scam artist who stole my money.
Now I'm having tea every afternoon in his library discussing … everything. And watching the stars at night with him in the Observatory almost every night.
"May I ask you something, Piper?"
"Of course."
"I've realized something."
"That the west chimney desperately needs attention?"
"I already knew that," he says with a smile. “I've spent time answering your questions. And yet, I know remarkably little about you. I haven’t asked you questions."
"You know I accidentally bought your castle, which I may or may not own. I have a degree in business with a minor in history. I love dogs and am getting attached to Scotland."
"And you become distracted by maps. Beyond that..." He leans back in his chair, "I don't know where your home is."
The question catches me off guard. "I suppose ... nowhere and everywhere."
"That sounds lonely."
"It wasn't meant to."
I think about it for a moment. "I grew up outside Lexington, Kentucky. Perfectly normal childhood."
“With your parents? Brothers or sisters?”
“I was an only child. My parents are gone, buried in Lexington, next to my grandparents.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was a long time ago. My passion now is restoring properties. And taking care of Murphy … I'm beginning to think this house might be restoring me."
The words slip out before I can stop them. When I finally look up ... Tristan is watching me with a soft expression. Very gently, almost to himself, he says, "To thine own self be true."
"Shakespeare," I say with a smile. “Good quote at the right time.”
“You can’t have a library without quoting a few authors from time to time,” he murmurs.
Outside, the legal battle over Glenhaven continues. Duncan fights before judges. Documents are being examined and signatures questioned and funds traced. The world keeps trying to decide who owns Glenhaven Castle.
But for a quiet hour or two every afternoon, none of that matters. And many evenings after dinner, none of that matters either, as we watch the stars from the Observatory.
It's just the two of us.
--
That night, after dinner when he eats nothing as usual, we looked at planets and stars until the clouds rolled in.
"I understand now," I say softly. “Why people stayed in castles."
"For the view?"
"For the silence."
He smiles. "It grows on you."
A cool breeze stirs my hair across my face. This time, before I can brush it away, Tristan reaches over. Very gently ... He tucks the loose strand behind my ear. His fingertips barely graze my cheek. The touch lasts no more than a second. But long enough to steal my breath.
"So," I say, clearing my throat, "you've been avoiding something."
"I have?"
"The piano. On our little tour my first night here, you told me you play. Would you play something tonight?”
He sighs with exaggerated resignation.
"I suppose I have no choice."
"You really don't."
He offers me his arm. I hesitate only a heartbeat before slipping my hand through it. Neither of us comments on the tingling sensation that causes. We walk back through the quiet corridors together to the music room.
The grand piano gleams in the candlelight.
He pulls out the piano bench and studies me for a moment before sitting. His hands rest on the keys, still and relaxed.
"What would you like to hear, lassie?"
"I don't know."
"That gives me tremendous freedom."
"I trust your judgment."
Then he begins to play. The first notes are quiet. Simple. A melody that seems older than the castle itself.
I find myself wandering closer. The music fills the room with warmth and longing. With memories that somehow feel like mine even though I've never heard the piece before.
"What is it?" I ask softly.
"A Scottish air."
"It's beautiful."
"It always reminded me that even sad things can be beautiful."
I lean one shoulder against the piano. Close enough to watch his hands move across the ivory keys.
Long slender fingers. Confident and elegant with that large ring. The same hands that pour tea, turn pages, open impossibly old doors.
"You've gone very quiet, Piper."
"I'm listening," I say
"So am I." That catches me by surprise.
"To what?"
He smiles without looking away from the keyboard. "You."
"I'm not making any noise."
"You always do. When you're interested in something you tilt your head."
"I do not."
"You've just done it."
His smile widens.
"And when you're about to argue your left eyebrow rises first."
I reach up instinctively as he chuckles.
"You've been studying me."
"I've been observing you."
"And I’ve been observing you, Tristan. You frown when you're concentrating. You have an unfortunate tendency to pretend you aren't smiling even when you are."
"I deny the accusation."
“And when you frown, a small line appears here.” I reach out without thinking. Just enough to smooth the tiny line between his brows with the tip of one finger.
His hands stop moving and the room falls completely silent. Heat floods my face.
"I'm sorry. I..."
"You needn't apologize." His voice is almost a whisper.
Neither of us moves.
We're absurdly close now. Close enough to notice he smells faintly of cedar and rain. I can see the flecks of silver in his eyes.
Close enough that, for one impossible second, I wonder what it would be like if we kissed again.
Instead, he lifts my hand gently in both of his. Turns them over and studies the calluses across my palm.
"The hands of someone who actually works." He traces one rough spot with the pad of his thumb. "I like that. They’re honest hands.”
My heart forgets how to behave. Neither of us says anything after that. He simply lets my hand rest in his for another heartbeat...
Then releases it.
"Come," he says quietly. “Mrs. MacLeod has night caps for us tonight in the library.”
We leave the music room. Neither of us mention the music. Or the touch. Or the way something invisible seems to have changed between us.
But when our hands brush as we walk, neither of us moves away.