She realized there was something written on the back of the copy of the parish registry. She felt her way down onto the table and looked at the rather lengthy list there.
Malcolm’s bastards, apparently.
She read each name, noting the birth dates next to them, then felt time slow to a crawl.
Ceana, b. 1372.
She felt the world shudder. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she would have fallen down. It wasn’t so much the name as it was the date...
Or maybe it was the name.
She dug under papers until she came up with Nathaniel’s cell phone. She’d charged it, which she supposed might have been the smartest thing she’d done all week. She unlocked it, then scrolled through his contacts. She didn’t hesitate before she made good use of that little telephone icon next to Gavin MacLeod’s name.
The phone rang several times before it was answered.
“If this is my ugly brother,” a voice said sleepily, “instead of a gorgeous woman wanting me only for my body, I’m hanging up right now.”
“Gavin, this is Emma.”
There was the sound of a phone taking a tumble past a nightstand onto a hardwood floor, then some fumbling, then a less sleepy voice on the other end.
“Is he hurt?”
She would have smiled, but she couldn’t. “He’s fine,” she lied, “just a little out of touch. It’s a long story.”
“I’ll be on a plane this morning.”
“That’d be great,” she said, wondering if that would be a good thing or she was bringing someone into the mix who should really stay home, “but that’s not why I called. This is going to sound like a crazy question, but what was your mother’s name?”
“Ceana,” Gavin said without hesitation. “Why?”
Emma picked her phone—well, Nathaniel’s phone, actually—up off the floor. “No reason,” she said breathlessly.“But while I have you on the phone, I have another question. How old was she when she married your father?”
“Eighteen, I think.”
Emma frowned. “That’s interesting.” Interesting, but not very useful. If she wanted to fit Ceana into her storyboard—
“But my dad met her when she was fifteen,” Gavin added, “if that makes any difference to you.”
“Oh,” Emma said, feeling her breath be stolen by some unseen force. Curiosity, no doubt. “Do you know where they met?”
“In Scotland,” he said. “Actually, in Benmore.” He paused. “That’s a little ironic, isn’t it, that Nat should end up there.”
“Oh, yes,” she wheezed. “Very ironic. I’d love to hear the rest of the story.”
“Well, it’s more romance than I’m comfortable with,” he said with a bit of a laugh, “but I’ll humor you if you like. My father was in Scotland for a gap year of sorts. He had money enough, but he was a bit of a do-gooder, so he liked to look for ways to make a difference.”
“Sounds like your brother.”
“Nat is my father, only mouthier,” Gavin said dryly. “Anyway, apparently my dad was doing some odd jobs in the area, and he happened to meet my mum while she was doing the same. It was a love match from the start, though she was obviously too young for anything serious. My mother was an orphan, so Dad asked one of the local couples to foster her.”
“Very chivalrous,” Emma murmured. “Do you know who they were?”
“Ryan Fergusson and his wife, Flora. My father paid for all her expenses as well as contributing heavily to village coffers, in spite of the Fergussons’ protests. My mum always used to say Ryan and Flora were the only Fergussons she ever liked.”
“I think I’d have to agree with her at least in principle.”
“I haven’t been there enough to know, so I’ll take your word for it.” He paused. “You know, if he wasn’t such a jerk, you would probably get along with our cousin Gerald. He’s into genealogy, too.”
