“I know, Da. I love you.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Nick
It’sstilldarkasI put the strange address Mandy gave me into the satnav of my hire car. Thank the satnav gods, the car seems to understand and I head out of Inverness before the morning traffic starts.
In no time, I’m deep in the countryside, towns and villages becoming smaller and further apart. Gloriously green hills bordered by low, dry stone walls are dotted with a motley collection of woolly sheep and shaggy Highland cattle. The sun rises into a perfect pale blue sky, yesterday’s clouds having blown away overnight. Everything seems to sparkle and glow. If the dashboard didn’t tell me the temperature outside was two degrees, I could almost believe it was summer.
The road takes me south along Loch Ness and then west towards the coast. In less than two hours, I’m crossing the bridge onto Skye. On any other day I might be able to appreciate the wildly beautiful scenery, but my mind is consumed with plans of what I might say to Lulu. In the end, I settle on starting with the most important thing. I love her. Nothing else matters. Except the possibility she might love me back.
If she didn’t love me—or at least have feelings for me—would she have reacted the way she did to that photo? I might be obtuse when it comes to feelings, but Mandy isn’t, and even she could see no other explanation than Lulu was hurt.
Once I’m on the island, the roads are narrow and winding. Glimpses of glittering sea leap out at me as I roll around corners, only to disappear again on the next bend. Signposts with strange names like Camastianavaig and Flashader pass by, and eventually, the satnav tells me I’m there. A tiny but beautiful stone cottage with smoke blowing from its chimney sits beside an enormous, ancient-looking stone and iron gateway, the elaborate gates standing open on a wide gravelled drive. I’m assuming it was once the gatehouse for a manor house. I park in the small space beside the cottage and take a couple of deep breaths. This is it.
I’ve hardly had time to get out of the car before the door to the cottage whips open to reveal a small round woman with a mop of steely grey hair and a spotless apron.
“Can I help ye?” she asks in a broad Scottish accent, her smile friendly.
She’s not what I was expecting to see, but years of working as a lawyer allows me to keep my cool. “I hope so, yes. I’m looking for Lulu MacLeod. Or her father, Duncan. Would they happen to be home?”
Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open for a moment, almost as though she’s shocked to be asked such a thing. But she gathers her wits quickly.
“Och, I expect so, pet. But ye’ll need to go on down the drive aways yet. Take care as you do, himself likes to let the sheep roam in the home pasture and they do have a habit of getting onto the drive. If you happen upon one, just drive right up and tip the horn and it’ll be out of your way in a trice. Usually.”
“So, down this driveway? How will I know which house?” I can feel myself squinting down the driveway, where not a single house is visible, while wondering who ‘himself’ might be.
“Och, ye canna miss it, pet. They’ll both be home at this time, I expect.” And with that, she smiles brightly and snaps the door shut in my face. Okay. At least I know Lulu is here.
She’s right, there are plump black-faced sheep all over the drive, which meanders for a couple of kilometres down towards the sea. Occasionally I get a glimpse of tall chimneys and once a stone pier jutting out into the water. But no sign of a house. Until there is. I cross a tiny stone bridge over a little stream, round what turns out to be the final bend, and meet with a wide gravel courtyard watched over by a massive stone house. Well, more of a castle, to be honest. Houses don’t have turrets. This place has turrets. Three of them. Along with dozens of chimneys and an enormous wooden door, blackened with age and banded with iron. This can’t be right. There are no other houses nearby, although away to the left, there appears to be a collection of outbuildings—barns and stables around a broad courtyard.
It’s precisely the kind of house, I mean castle, my mother would love, but I can’t quite make the mental connection to Lulu. Still, the woman in the cottage seemed sure, so I park the car and get out.
Climbing the half-dozen wide stone steps to the door, I feel confused and out of place. The word interloper crosses my mind, a reminder of my feelings about Lulu when we first met. Despite our current circumstances, I can feel a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips.
I drop the giant doorknocker, and from somewhere deep in the bowels of the house, I hear a loud bark, followed by the scrabbling of claws and a steady footfall. None of that sounds like Lulu.
The door swings open on an enormously tall, enormously broad, enormously weathered man with wild red hair and grubby trousers, tucked into long, striped woolly socks.
“Ah. You’re here. I was wondering if you would make an appearance.” He somehow manages to make a smile look stern.
“I beg your pardon? You seem to have the advantage of me.” I have no idea how he’d know who I am, or why I’d be here. Perhaps he’s a little mad. Certainly his clothing and hair suggest it. But then I notice the paint stains on his hands. And the familiar wild hair. “Are you Duncan MacLeod?”
“I am indeed, lad. Come in, come in. We’re letting all the warm air out.”
As he steps back, I take in the hallway. Cavernous is the only word that comes to mind. Worn stone flagging sweeps away towards a curving wooden staircase, which rises through two stories, softened by a faded red Persian runner. On either side of the staircase is an honest-to-god suit of armour. Pocket doors sit closed on either wall, flanked by an eclectic collection of watercolours and oils. I recognise both Lulu’s work and her father’s. Along with much older paintings of the castle and the coast.
Two brown and tan kelpies sniff at my legs, tails wagging madly until Duncan moves away, and without a word from him, they’re following him down the hall beside the stairs.
“We’ll sit in the kitchen—it’s much warmer there, aye?” It’s very clearly not a question. We head down a set of worn stone stairs to another cavernous room, this one much warmer than the hall upstairs. “It’s no’ easy to keep a house this size warm in the winter, so we do spend a lot of time in the kitchen.”
“I can imagine,” I answer as he busies himself at an ancient Aga stove, moving a gently steaming kettle onto the heat.
“Tea.” Again, not a question. I’m not easily intimidated, but I can’t imagine ever contradicting this man. He wears a natural authority suggesting years of being obeyed, and he is so far from what I was expecting I find myself tongue-tied. Unsure of what to do, I stand awkwardly near the table as though I’m waiting for permission to sit in the principal’s office.
“I should introduce myself. I’m Ni …”
“Oh, I know who ye are, lad,” he interrupts. “You’re here for Lulu. She’s out for a wee walk at present. Should be home shortly.” I briefly wonder what Lulu has told him. The lack of open hostility gives me hope.
