Chapter 6
Cameron
The Scottish Version of an Inquisition
In Glenfield, there’s no courthouse. There’s The Grumpy Sheep.
And when three regulars are already settled in the middle of the day with full cups and intensely focused expressions, it’s never a good sign.
I step through the door.
The trial may now begin.
Moira MacTavish, seated at her usual table by the window, sets down her teacup with a smile that promises absolutely nothing good.
Old Angus straightens on his barstool. And Mrs. MacLeish—who has no business being here because she undoubtedly has guests to look after at the B&B—looks up from her scone with the expression of someone starving for information.
I make my way toward the bar, carefully avoiding eye contact with all three of them.
Behind the counter, Ewan is polishing a glass, looking perfectly innocent.
I settle onto a stool.
“You look exhausted,” he observes.
“You have no idea. I basically ended up running an errand for my grandmother.”
“And? Did you succeed with my cousin?”
I look up at him, startled.
“Who told you?”
A crooked smile appears.
“I can’t reveal my sources.”
I think out loud.
“It can’t be Connor. He’s not even here right now...”
I glance at Ewan, trying to catch a reaction at the mention of my twin brother’s name, but his expression remains completely neutral.
“Don’t tell me it was Callum. He’s traveling with Jane and their son. He couldn’t possibly—”
The look Ewan gives me confirms it.
It was my cousin.
And incidentally, Ewan’s best friend.
“Apparently, he heard it from Keira, who got it from—”
“Mary,” we say simultaneously.
I shake my head and sigh.
The disease of gossip is widespread around here.
The entire McGregor clan is infected.
“All I want is one moment alone,” I mutter.
“You may have to postpone that plan,” Ewan replies, subtly nodding toward Moira MacTavish.
She rises from her table and approaches the bar with the determined stride of a woman carrying information and fully intending to profit from it.
“Good afternoon, Cameron,” she says warmly. “I heard you went to see the young Fraser woman this morning.”
Straight to the point.
There’s no point asking how she knows.
She’d never tell me anyway.
I turn toward her with my most neutral smile—the one usually reserved for overly curious clients who have no intention of buying a property.
“Hello, Moira. Yes, I paid her a courtesy visit.”
“A courtesy visit,” she repeats as though I just informed her the moon is made of cheese. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Without my ordering one, Ewan places a beer in front of me.
I thank him with a nod and take a sip, hoping it will buy me time.
It doesn’t.
Moira never lets anything go.
“So? What’s she like?”
I frown.
“Who?”
“The Fraser girl. They say she’s French. Parisian, even.”
I take another drink, privately amused by the way the word Parisian sounds coming from Moira.
“She’s... French, yes,” I confirm.
I think about her faint accent, which, admittedly, adds a certain charm.
Along with her hair.
Her freckles.
Her perfectly shaped mouth and—
“And?” Moira presses, dragging me out of my thoughts.
“And what?”
Moira sighs as though speaking to a particularly slow child.
“What is she like? Nice? Snobbish? Cold? People say Parisian women are cold.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“She’s normal. Polite. A little overwhelmed by the situation, I’d say.”
Old Angus speaks up from his stool.
“I saw lights at the manor last night. Very late.”
I turn toward him.
“So? The manor belongs to her family, Angus. It’s perfectly normal for there to be lights after dark.”
He slowly shakes his head.
“Not upstairs. Upstairs isn’t normal. No, no.”
Moira leans closer, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“They say the manor’s haunted. Does she know that?”
“Everyone says it. And she doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
Mrs. MacLeish joins the conversation from her table.
“She told me the same thing this morning. But she looked nervous when she left for the manor. Very nervous. I can sense these things, believe me.”
I refrain from pointing out that she “senses” things all the time.
And they’re never true.
Like the time she swore it would snow in July because she felt a “cosmic chill.”
The temperature stayed above eighty degrees for three straight weeks.
I sigh inwardly.
This village is a breeding ground for busybodies.
Ewan sets down his towel and looks at me with an amused smile.
“So. Maggie’s mission?”
I shoot him a dark look.
“Thank you for bringing that up.”
“You’re welcome.”
I take a long drink before answering.
“She refused the tea invitation. Politely, but firmly.”
Moira’s eyes widen.
“She refused an invitation from Maggie McGregor?”
“Yes.”
A stunned silence settles over the pub.
Even customers I don’t recognize seem shocked.
Old Angus shakes his head.
“That’s not done.”
Mrs. MacLeish adds, horrified:
“I explained to her this morning that nobody refuses an invitation from a McGregor. But she wouldn’t listen. She refused. Twice, no less! The audacity!”
I shrug.
“She just wants to handle her business quickly.”
Moira folds her arms.
“That’s a Parisian for you. Always in a hurry. Always too busy to be polite.”
A flicker of irritation rises inside me.
I’m not sure why, but hearing them judge Clementine without even knowing her bothers me.
“She’s not rude,” I say. “She’s just... overwhelmed.”
Ewan gives me a strange look but says nothing.
He could defend Clementine if he wanted.
After all, she’s his cousin.
Instead, he simply goes back to work as though she were a complete stranger.
Eventually, Moira returns to her table, satisfied with the information she’s gathered.
Mrs. MacLeish announces she has work to do and leaves the pub, though not before casting one final glance in my direction.
Old Angus remains at the bar but finally stops asking questions.
I sigh with relief.
Ewan leans forward, elbows resting on the counter.
“You defended her.”
I stare at him.
“What?”
“You defended her.”
“I wasn’t defending her. I was telling the truth.”
A crooked smile appears.
“If you keep doing that, the village is going to think you’re interested.”
I wave the comment away.
“Nonsense. Besides, you’re the one who should be defending her. Aren’t you family?”
He shrugs.
“I’m just saying you should be careful. People talk fast around here.”
Which, notably, is not an answer.
I take another sip of beer.
I know he’s right.
This village loves a story.
And if I’m not careful, Clementine and I are going to become the newest one.
I think about her sitting on the floor at the foot of the staircase, the candelabra three yards away, looking utterly stunned.
The way she refused my help getting up.
Proud despite her embarrassment.
The way she laughed uncontrollably when she realized the intruder was Hamish.
A smile slips onto my face before I can stop it.
Ewan immediately notices.
“You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“It’s just... Hamish was at the manor this morning. Upstairs.”
Ewan bursts out laughing.
“Are you sure? I heard he caused trouble at the castle this morning. At least according to what Callum told me. Maybe I misunderstood.”
“I’m positive he was at the manor. Clementine thought there was a burglar. She armed herself with a brass candelabra and was about to go confront him when I knocked on the door.”
Ewan laughs even harder.
“She was going to fight Hamish with a candelabra?”
“She didn’t know it was Hamish. She genuinely thought someone was inside.”
“And you showed up in the middle of all that?”
“Yes. I honestly thought she was going to hit me with the candelabra when I walked in.”
Ewan shakes his head, tears in his eyes.
“I would have paid good money to see that.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
“It was... surreal.”
“And Hamish?”
“He calmly walked out like nothing happened. As though he does it every day.”
Ewan wipes his eyes.
“Then Hamish chose her.”
I frown.
“What?”
“Hamish. He only settles in places where someone’s eventually going to stay.”
I stare at him.
“That’s ridiculous.”
He shrugs.
“That’s what people say.”
“People say a lot of things.”
“Maybe. But Hamish could’ve gone to the manor anytime. Instead, he chose now, while she’s there. You really think that’s a coincidence?”
I refuse to answer.
Because honestly?
I have no idea.
Ewan watches me with a knowing smile.
“And recently, he chose you too.”
I look up.
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because with me, he decided to be a nuisance.”
“That sheep always knows exactly where he belongs.”
I shake my head, refusing to get dragged into this absurd discussion.
I finish my beer in silence, trying not to think about Clementine.
Or Hamish.
Or the ridiculous notion that a sheep could possess any sort of prophetic ability.
Absentmindedly, I scroll through the photos and videos I took of the manor before and after my visit.
The property has so much potential...
Then the pub door opens.
The hum of conversation briefly falters.
I glance over my shoulder.
And see Clementine walk in.
She’s wearing a bright yellow jacket.
Her red hair is slightly windswept.
She looks both determined and resigned at the same time.
She spots me immediately.
Instinctively, I sit up straighter.
She hesitates for a second before walking over with an expression somewhere between amusement and annoyance.
Without waiting for an invitation, she slides onto the stool beside me.
“I’ve been thinking,” she announces.
I look at her in surprise.
“Oh?”
“Yes. I figured I might as well have a drink with you now. Then you can tell your grandmother I made an effort.”
I can’t help smiling.
“That’s very pragmatic of you.”
“I’m a pragmatic person.”
Ewan appears in front of us, already grinning.
“Hey, Clementine. What can I get you?”
“A beer, please.”
He disappears to fetch a pint.
I turn back to her.
“I should warn you, though. Having a drink with me won’t replace tea with my grandmother.”
She sighs.
“Of course not. That would’ve been too easy.”
Ewan returns and sets a beer in front of her.
She thanks him, studies the glass for a few seconds, then looks up at me.
“What is it with the McGregors and trying to keep me hydrated?”