Chapter Three

"S ir Gavin," the housekeeper said, tapping on the study door. She peered inside. "You have a guest. Miss Cameron, sir."

Startled, Gavin set his pen in the stand and stood. He had heard a carriage but had hardly noticed as he worked. "Mr. Cameron?"

"Miss Elinor, sir." Flushed, the woman seemed to repress a smile; he knew she had always favored Elinor. "She is back. Er, came to call. Her driver is with her."

His heart thumped. Elinor, not Edgar? "Please show her in."

She entered the room, all grace and beauty in a blue-gray gown and snug tartan jacket of dark blue and green. A gray bonnet curved around her head, ribbons securing it under her chin above a swath of lace at her throat. Cascades of dark curls framed her face. Her eyes were sky blue, her cheeks and lips rosy. She glowed.

Perhaps that was just the afternoon sun slanting through tall windows, adding sparkle to grace. She tilted her head, eyes alight.

"Sir Gavin." She folded her gloved hands, but he sensed a thread of nervousness. Mrs. Blair hovered by the door, smiling.

"Miss Cameron." Behind his back, he fisted a hand. "This is a surprise."

"It is. I apologize. I know you expected my brother."

"I did. Mrs. Blair, that will be all."

"Aye sir, but what about Mr. MacDonald?"

"Angus is with me," Elinor Cameron explained.

"Of course. Send him to the kitchen for refreshment, Mrs. Blair."

"Sir." As she left, he saw the twinkle in her eye; she was obviously delighted to see Elinor.

He gestured toward a chair. "What can I do for you? Please sit."

"I have been in the coach for over an hour, so I am happy to stand. Perhaps it is more a question of what I can do for you."

"For me?" He moved forward and stopped. She always had a way of luring him, though likely she did not know it. "Did you come here to—talk about—"

"Not that." She waved slim fingers gloved in dove gray. "I do not mean to trouble you. Cousin Hugh told us of your request. I hoped to be of some use."

"Ah." He wished she would sit and relieve the awkwardness in the air.

"Unfortunately, Edgar has duties in the Court of Sessions this week, but thought he might get away this evening."

"So you brought the message?"

"I bring assistance." She patted a basket, its handle over her arm, linen cloth tucked around its contents.

"A picnic?" He was confused.

"Items that might help with the work to be done."

"Perhaps you could explain."

"At Samhain, ghosts can be more active." She walked past him, skirts shushing, and set the basket on a table. Blackwood's Magazine lay there.

"Did you bring jack o' lanterns and a terrifying disguise?" He smiled. "Just in time for the festivities in the glen tonight."

She gave him a sour glance. "I have a plan that could help with Braemore's ghosts. Hugh said you read the story in Blackwood's ?"

"I did, and thought Edgar might share some insights."

"Edgar is not the author. I am."

"Ah. That did occur to me, considering your interests."

"Even Hugh did not realize until today. I brought some things that are known to discourage ghosts. I sometimes saw them here, so I know—I might know what to do."

"Ah. I saw some odd things too, but considered that it might have been due to the injury."

"Are you recovered now? Excellent." She watched him with those earnest blue eyes. "May I take the basket to the kitchen?"

"Certainly." He motioned her ahead of him. So, she intended to address the matter of ghosts without addressing the trouble between them. A relief. He had often thought about their parting and wished to apologize, but felt unprepared now.

Carrying the basket, she left the room to walk down the hall and descend a few steps to a whitewashed corridor. She knew the way. He followed.

"Allow me." He took the basket from her, which felt heavy. "Rocks?"

"Turnips."

"I quite like mashed neeps."

She laughed. "I know." He smiled, hearing that musical laugh.

He felt a bit docile carrying her basket, a smitten lad again happy to do Elinor Cameron's bidding. Watching her neat, slim figure in blue-gray and tartan, bonnet feathers shivering, dark curls bouncing, he remembered the feel of her in his arms, the soft glory of her hair when loosened. What stirred in him then was not the least docile.

"This way," he said unnecessarily as she entered the kitchen.

"Hello again, Mrs. Blair," she said, stepping into the stone-vaulted space, part of the cellar of the original castle. A wide addition to one side spilled light from tall windows onto a large oak table where the housekeeper, the cook, and a kitchen maid worked.

A man sat at a lower table in the corner eating cold ham and cheese; he stood as they entered. A grizzled fellow with gray hair and beard, dressed in brown jacket and trousers with a swath of plaid draped over one shoulder, he grinned. "Sir!"

"Angus MacDonald! Good to see you." Gavin clapped his shoulder. He had known Angus for years; the man had marched in the Regiment of Foot under Elinor's father and later came to work for his Cameron kin. There was no more reliable man.

"Sir, I will be taking Miss Elinor back soon as yer visit is done."

"No need to wait for me, Angus MacDonald," Elinor said. "I have work to do that could take hours."

" Ach, ghosts and such," Angus said, shaking his head.

"Ghosts?" Mrs. Blair looked alarmed.

"Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Bee," Gavin said.

"I wish you could send those awful things out of this house!"

"We intend to try, Mrs. Blair," Elinor said.

The housekeeper stared. Gavin smiled at Elinor's serenely confident air. The lass was smart, stubborn, passionate. None knew that better than he.

"Well, I do not want to be here when you try! They are misbehaving lately. We should all leave this house tonight," Mrs. Blair retorted.

"Perhaps Miss Cameron's plan will be effective. Shall we talk further?" He gestured toward the door. "Mrs. Blair, please bring tea to the library."

"So," Gavin Stewart said later, as they sat over a tea tray. "I recognized Braemore in your story."

"It was part of the inspiration." Elinor blushed to think he saw that.

"The rest was from your research? How is that effort?"

"Going well, thank you." She poured more tea into the cup he lifted in silent request. They sat over a steaming teapot, china cups, small cakes, and tiny sandwiches of jam or cheese. That Mrs. Blair had remembered her love of rowanberry jam was just the warm welcome she needed. She added another measure of sugar to Gavin's tea, knowing he took it strong and sweet.

"Your lectures continue?" she asked.

"The next session begins in January. I am planning a series on the events leading to the Declaration of Arbroath in 1320."

"So interesting." The conversation felt painfully polite. She yearned to sit close, ask about his health, his plans, and if he was happy. Uncertainty hung in the air. In a far corner of the library, Mrs. Blair sat with needlework, a silent chaperone.

"I saw you in one of my lectures last year," Gavin said.

Elinor paused, a morsel of cake on her small fork. So he had noticed. "The subject interested me. Cousin Gilbert was attending the series. He escorted me."

"A fine student. What was the subject?"

"I—do not quite recall." She had not paid attention. She had only wanted to see him. But she saw a twinkle of amusement in his hazel eyes.

"Miss Cameron, we are skirting the issue at hand."

Startled, she set down her cup. "Issue?"

"The hauntings."

He used to call her Elinor. "Tell me, what happened that you sought advice? Your nature is to forge through a problem rather than admit a need."

He huffed. "True enough. I intend to sell Braemore. An interested party requires proof that ghostly activities have ceased."

"I see. A shame to sell it! I wish I could buy it—I would welcome ghosts!"

"No doubt." A smile played on his lips. "I will be honest with you. My father spent much of his fortune helping Highlanders keep their homes during the Clearances. A noble effort that left much debt. I am loath to sell, but I must. Eliminating the ghosts sounds mad, but is necessary."

"Yet you never much believed in the hauntings."

"I am more inclined to the notion now." He blew out a breath. "The dreams have returned."

"Oh!" She sat forward. "The woman? The shadowy figure?"

"Just the woman. A slight figure, misty and silvery. Very sad. She reaches out, says something I cannot quite understand, and then I wake, often to a commotion."

"Tapping, knocking?"

"Tremendous thumps that shake the doors, even the walls. Things are thrown—books, dishes. Stones, if one is in the tower."

"How often has this occurred?"

"Too often in the short time I have been here. I have not slept well." He pushed a hand through his hair, fingers deep in the dark waves.

Her heart went out to him. "Apparitions?"

"Just dreams. I am not given to seeing things."

"What about the tower?"

"I have hardly set foot there since—we were there last."

She met his somber gaze. "I see. That day—" She stopped. The disagreement—his voice low and flat, hers raised. He had insisted they could not marry, saying only that he was not ready, not well. She insisted that she loved him and would not leave him. But he prevailed. She had nearly tumbled down the steps as she ran, heartbroken.

"Things sometimes happen in the tower. Servants have seen lights, noises, stones falling. They have even heard moans. I keep my distance."

Elinor knew he paid a price for that. The tower originated from the era he studied most closely, yet he avoided it now. She frowned, saddened to know that.

"I would like to visit the tower to see what happens for myself."

"Better to visit the library, the study, and my—private rooms. Avoid the tower. I am only thinking of your safety," he added.

She glanced toward Mrs. Blair, whose needle flashed in and out in the light. "Braemore," she said softly, "I have visited your bedchamber before and would not hesitate to go there again." Too late, she realized how that sounded, cheeks burning.

"Aye so?" He cocked a brow; seeing the flash of humor in his eyes, she hoped for affection there too.

"Only because I am determined to send away the ghosts." She lifted her chin.

"Brave Miss Cameron."

"Is now convenient to visit the tower? With Mrs. Blair on duty, we can hardly visit your private rooms."

"Very well." He rose; so did she, looking about for the bonnet and gloves she had removed.

"No need. We are not in the city and are more casual here."

She nodded, recalling that he sometimes read her thoughts. When he offered his elbow, she took it. The hard muscle beneath the wool was taut, familiar, reassuring. In silly, needful impulse, she wanted to press closer.

"Shall we go through the back garden?" she asked.

"Aye. Be careful as you walk through the tower. It is ruinous."

"I remember the hazards there quite well, sir."

"I assure you that this time, I will not be one of them."