Chapter Six

T he sky darkened over the heathery slopes that formed the bowl of the glen and spanned into the distance. Dusk was near—a storm, too, Gavin thought, seeing clouds thicken, feeling the wind whipping at his hair and coat. Torchlight sparkled like stars down in the glen, trailing near the village. The revelers would be in disguises, pranking and singing, making mock threats until they got cakes.

He headed for the house, his arms filled with fragrant branches. Hearing a growl, he stopped. Thunder, far off, surely.

In the kitchen, Elinor stood with sharp knife in hand at a table scattered with several small, shriveled, ugly heads with squinting eyes and tiny crooked teeth.

"Good God, those look ghastly." He set the branches down. "You planned to carve the neeps? I hoped you might mash them."

She laughed. "I carved a few last night at home, and just need to finish the rest."

"Waste of good turnips," he murmured, picking up one or two to peer into the hollowed-out centers. "But if they scare away Halloween houlets, all the better."

"It is part of my plan."

"Miss Cameron and her plans," he murmured with a smile. "What more do you have in mind? Are turnips enough to vanquish ghosts?"

She patted the basket. "Turnips, candles, red yarn, bits of iron, and some verses written on paper. And now we have rowan and juniper too."

Gavin blinked, doubtful. "Well, that ought to do it."

Elinor smiled. "I will show you as we go."

"Have you Sturm und Drang planned, as in your ghost story? Banishing spirits with fire and incantation might be useful."

Her smile was beatific. "Some of that, aye. Look," she said, pointing to some carved pumpkins and a cluster of grimacing jack o' lanterns made from carved and painted dry gourds. "Mrs. Blair and the maids carved pumpkins, and she brought these lovely gourds out of storage."

"I remember the gourds. My mother brought them out each Samhain."

"So you use the old word."

"Mother was a Highland MacGregor, remember."

"I do. My grandmother was Highland too. Samhain was an important festival in our home, and here at Braemore too, as I remember when we were younger."

"Aye, ghoulish heads and candlelight to scare away whatever lurked outside—or inside," he added. "Mother let us wear masks as well. My sister and I enjoyed it, but Father thought setting candles in windows was hazardous, so the things were packed away. I have not seen them for years. I am glad Mrs. Blair kept them."

"She also left apple tarts and pumpkin cakes for you."

He smiled. "She calls them pompion pies, as the French do. The Tudor court had them, did you know? Explorers to the Americas brought them back as a rarity. Now they are almost ordinary in kitchen gardens."

"Always the historian," she said, running the knife inside a turnip.

"At times. What will you do with your wee army of beasties?"

"Set them in windows with the laird's permission, unless he thinks it hazardous."

"The greater hazard is confronting ghosts without a plan. Can I help?" He chose a knife from those on the table and took up a turnip. "These should be in place before dark, I imagine."

"Just so. Those clouds look stormy." She pointed toward the kitchen window.

"The weather is stirring up. Good Lord, these are not easy to cut," he muttered, attempting to carve a gruesome smile in a hollowed turnip. "I have ruined this one."

She laughed. "Nicely frightening, and rather adorable."

"You always had a taste for the macabre, though you are the most—" He stopped.

"The most?"

"Adorable creature…with a taste for the ghoulish." He tipped a brow.

"Do you think so?" She looked at him, eyes wide. So blue.

"Macabre or adorable? Both." He went silent, working on the turnip, wondering if he had said too much, too soon. "Nor are you easily frightened."

"I read Frankenstein by Mrs. Shelley twice last year and quite enjoyed it."

"Impressive." Gavin held up the turnip. "This wee monster is better cooked with potatoes, butter, and salt."

"You must be hungry—ow!" As she spoke, the knife slipped, slicing her index finger. She sucked at the cut, wincing.

"Let me see." He grabbed a clean linen cloth from a stack and reached for her hand. Dabbing at the cut, he held her finger snug in his hand. They stood together for a moment. Gavin sensed the throb of hearts and breath between them in the silence.

She reached for a thin slice of raw turnip and slipped it inside the cloth. "It will help the skin heal," she explained.

"Folklore?" His glance met hers, his voice gruff, his hand over hers.

"Folk medicine. My grandmother applied raw turnips to our cuts and scrapes when Edgar and I were small. She taught me about Samhain and ghosts also, and showed me what to do. So I mean to try."

Warmth grew between their cradled hands. "Elinor, I—"

A clap of thunder made her jump. "Oh! A storm is coming. I wonder if Edgar and Angus will be here soon."

"If Edgar waited for court sessions to end, he may decide not to travel tonight. The clouds are heavy to the northeast. The weather might be fierce there."

"That would leave us alone." Slipping her hand from his, she stepped back.

"Does that trouble you?"

"No. But others may think poorly of it."

"Let them. There must be bandages somewhere." Opening a cupboard drawer, he found a box of linen strips, and Elinor extended her finger so that he could wrap it. When he was done, he lifted her finger to his lips and kissed it lightly.

"Better? My Highland grandmother taught me that."

"Did she," she whispered, her gaze wide-eyed, wondering. He broke the glance first, taking up the knife to work on the ugly turnip.

"I was surprised to find you at Braemore on Halloween," she said. "Usually you stay in Edinburgh then—as I recall," she added hastily.

"I come here as often as possible, though I still keep my house in the Canongate." He swept turnip shavings into a bowl. "But you have it right, I usually avoid the place at Halloween."

"You enjoyed it when you were young."

"Oh, but it is scary now." He grinned, teasing.

"Why stay this time?"

"Because you are here."

"You did not expect me." She began cleaning the table as well.

Time to stop dancing around what begged to be said, he thought. "I hoped you might visit," he admitted. "When I read the story, I wondered if you had written it. Yet if Edgar was the author, I thought to invite him to consult on the ghosts—and hoped you might come too, being the expert."

"You wanted to see me?" She turned, knife in hand.

"Aye, but not looking so murderous." He lowered her hand gently.

"You wanted me to come back?" Tears glinted in her blue eyes.

He had missed her so. "I did. But I knew you might not want to return. I was dreadful to you."

"You were upset but would not say why. I thought it was pride—you are not used to physical weakness."

"No excuse. You were right to leave."

"You made it clear that you had changed your mind about us."

"Elinor—" He paused. "My reasons had nothing to do with you, I swear. You were strong and went on with your life. I had hoped you would. I—thought it best for you."

"You," she said. " You were best for me. Nothing else mattered. Whatever bothered you, we would have faced it together."

"That is what scared me. I did my utmost to send you away."

"It worked—until today."

A crack of thunder rolled in the distance. Gavin glanced out the window, seeing dark clouds scudding over the hills. "Elinor, I always cared. Always. I am sorry I did not make that clear. Later I wanted—but I heard you were engaged to be married."

"For a time. I ended it. I loved another."

That was unexpected. He moved gourds and turnips like chessmen, guarding his feelings. "Is it so? I wish you well."

"Gavin. The other is you."

His hands stilled. "Even after what happened?"

"I stayed away because you wanted it, not because I did. You said that day that you had to protect Braemore, and that did not include marrying me."

"It did include you," he said gruffly. "I wanted to protect Braemore and you."

"I am confused." Tears glimmered in her eyes.

His heart surged to see that. He needed to say what he should have said months ago. Regardless of any threat, real or imagined, she had come here to help, and deserved the truth. "I was a fool. I should have told you what troubled me."

She dashed at a tear. "You could tell me now."

"I will. Come here." He lifted his arms. She gave a little cry and ran to him. Pulling her into his embrace, he held her. The world seemed to brighten despite storm clouds and the awful dread of the Braemore curse, the secret he had carried for months.

Thunder boomed again. She tucked her head against his shoulder and sighed. Tipping a finger under her chin, he lifted her face and kissed her gently. The kiss was slow, tentative, giving her the choice to pull back or ease into it. She leaned toward him, renewing the next kiss, and he responded as their bodies remembered their perfect fit. Then he drew away. "It is time you knew the whole of it."

She nodded as another tear rolled down. She wiped at it. "I am a bit of a mess."

"Not at all." He ran his thumb over her cheek. "We will talk. But not here."

"We should set these things out." As she spoke, more thunder boomed, and plates on a shelf rattled. A dish slid free and smashed on the floor, pieces scattering.

"No storm did that," Gavin muttered.

"Hurry!" Elinor took up carved pumpkins and set them on the wide windowsill, then pressed candles into the jack o' lanterns. Lighting a reed at the kitchen hearth, Gavin flamed the little tapers. "The kitchen first, then we will go to the library and the rest of the house."

She put set rowan branches in a pottery vase on the kitchen table with juniper, and gathered up the rest of the branches. Gavin grabbed the basket holding turnips, gourds, candles, and the rest, and left the room with Elinor.

Lightning cracked like a whip, brightness cutting the darkening sky.