Chapter 2
All afternoon, her mind returned to the box—the way the old woman’s eyes had seemed to see through her. By the time the sun dipped behind the Highlands, curiosity had settled into something closer to yearning.
Her grandmother used to tell her that Highland relics carried a piece of their maker’s soul. Maybe that was why the box pulsed faintly warm under her fingers. Or perhaps she’d just been drinking too much Merlot and let the old peddler’s words play around too long in her head.
Lainie basked in the sounds from the crackling fire and the warmth her glass of wine afforded her.
Now, in the early evening, the mood was set.
She had yet to open the box and instead she had spent the afternoon working on her article.
Her body still tingled from the bubbling bath she’d taken, and she felt wicked wearing nothing but her silky robe and slippers.
She was snuggled up on the comfy couch in the little den of the cottage.
Lainie was glad she’d declined the offers from her sisters to come with her.
She loved them dearly but needed the time away from her meddling family.
They’d been disappointed, but she’d been able to put them off with the amount of work she would be doing.
All work and no play had been her explanation.
Work had always been her anchor, the thing that kept her from drifting into dreams. But lately, the anchor felt heavy instead of safe. Maybe that was why she couldn’t stop staring at the Highlander’s eyes in that painting—because they promised everything her carefully ordered life refused her.
Taking a sip of the deep purple liquid, she clutched the antique key in her other hand. She would be sorely disappointed if she opened the box and there was nothing inside. Shaking her head, Lainie set down her glass of wine and reached for the box.
The wood was a cool relief against her burning fingers. Lainie slipped the key into the lock and turned. The clicking of the lock didn’t sound too mysterious. Slowly, she opened the box and waited.
Nothing happened. Not even a gentle breeze to allude to anything paranormal.
“Silly old woman,” Lainie murmured with a grin. The peddler was certainly good at her job. She bet the old lady sold a million boxes like this one every year with her stories.
Inside the box lay a plaid cloth; its pattern looked familiar to Lainie. Her eyes widened as she remembered seeing the same print when she’d toured MacRae Castle a few days before.
At least the woman had spent enough time to put an authentic plaid in the box, but why a MacRae plaid? She could have at least gotten her details right.
Lainie lifted the plaid out, feeling something hard wrapped within it.
She carefully unfolded the cloth. A brooch nestled in its folds.
She set the box down alongside the plaid and studied the piece.
Made of some sort of metal, its design featuring Celtic knots, was dirty. She wanted to see its beauty.
Lainie walked to the kitchen, grabbed a wet cloth, and then returned to her spot on the couch. She gently wiped away the dirt and grime. The shimmering of silver began to shine. She rubbed her thumb along the twisting smoothness, admiring the ancient design.
SWISH!
What the hell? A sharp breeze blew past her.
The brooch no longer rested in her hand. Where had it gone? Had she drunk so much wine that she didn’t remember dropping it?
She laughed at herself for believing in magic. But as she turned away, the candle flame flickered as though the air itself had taken a breath.