“Though ye knew me as Mr. Andrew Mackenzie. My situation was elevated a few years back,” he clarified. “It’s good tae see ye, lass.”
The darker man in the green coat—the one with a scar upon his cheek—was Sir Rafe Gordon.
“Ye knew me as Lord Rafe Gilbert. Unlike Andrew, my situation didn’t so much elevate as slide sideways.” Sir Rafe shot Lord Hadley a wry grin. “We are delighted to have ye among us again, Miss Fyffe.”
The enormous redhead was Mr. Ewan Campbell, as Eilidh suspected. His wife, Lady Kildrum, was a countesssuo juro—in her own right—and owned Kilmeny Hall and its lands.
Even Dr. Whitaker was no longer simply Dr. Whitaker but had somehow become the Marquess of Lockheade.
When the introductions were done, Eilidh was invited to sit on a chair across from Lady Kildrum. Master MacTavish stood beside the arm of the chair, hands clasped behind his back.
Silence hung for a moment.
Eilidh felt like an interloper, mingling with such august company. Moreover, why did these gentlemen claim Master MacTavish as a friend? Did they know of his dreadful reputation? Or, as men, did they know and simply not care?
After all, they had all been aboardThe Minervawhen she had been—
Eilidh forced her mind back from that abyss, from the urge to stare at Lady Kildrum’s distended stomach and weep until her chest hitched and her lungs burned.
Numb. She would remain numb.
Dr. Whit—ehr, Lord Lockheade—checked his pocket watch.
“The procurator fiscal should be here soon,” he said.
“About time,” Lord Hadley snorted. “I am more than ready tae wash our hands of this once and for all.”
“Aye.” Sir Rafe nodded, his white scar standing out on his tanned skin.
Their eyes kept drifting to Eilidh as they spoke.
“It’s a wonder tae have ye here, Miss Fyffe.” Lord Lockheade smiled. “Ye have been greatly missed.”
“Thank you.” Eilidh nodded but said nothing more. She had no real memory of these men, so she could hardly return the compliment. “May I ask . . . why are you all wearing the same dark tartan? I don’t recognize the pattern.”
Lord Hadley smiled, pinching a bit of the great kilt wrapping his chest. “It’s your tartan, lass.”
“Mine?”
“Aye. Ye are part of our Brotherhood of the Tartan, and we all consider ye to be a true friend. So when we thought ye dead, we renamed ourselves the Brotherhood of theBlackTartan. To go along with the name, I commissioned this tartan in your memory. The black ground represented our grief and anger.” Hadley traced a wide, cherry-red band on the tartan of his kilt. “Red for our guilt over innocent blood spilt. A little gold for hope, a wee bit of green for growth.”
“We all wear it from time to time,” Sir Rafe added. “It was our way of honoring your memory.”
“Aye,” Mr. Campbell agreed. “But today, we wear your tartan tae let ye know that we stand in solidarity with yourself. That ye are never far from our hearts.”
Something tumbled in Eilidh’s chest at the men’s kind words, an ache that made her throat sting. She had no reason to doubt their sincerity, and yet . . .
She struggled to merge the men’s words and actions with the events she knew had to have occurred aboardThe Minerva.
It made no sense.
“Evil comes in many forms,”Reverend Gillespie’s voice echoed in her mind.“Do not be deceived if, at first, it appears welcoming and enticing.”
But the Brotherhood appeared to be genuinely . . . caring. Moreover, did evil parade around in tartan colors signifying real grief and loyalty?
Eilidh rather thought not.
“Would you care for some tea, Miss Fyffe?” Lady Kildrum asked, a kindly smile on her face, her ladyship rather proving Eilidh’s mental point.
