If that hadn’t been enough, the tour of the local castle had sealed her interest. There were abundant riches in the carefully recreated tableau on display there. Silver aplenty in the dining room. Rich tapestries and gilded walls. Crystal chandeliers that looked as though they dripped with real diamonds. More of the same filled a parlor with massive marble fireplaces and a ceiling covered in frescos. What could a man with such wealth consider a prize? It could be anything.
Aila’s adventurous spirit — long stifled — reared its head at the scent of adventure. The thrill of the hunt. Just as Donell anticipated.
She hated to give him the satisfaction.
“Don’t you like the fish, dear?”
Aila glanced up from the history book she’d bought from the gift shop with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Vi. Dinnae mean to be rude. Nay, it’s delicious.”
Dutifully, she picked up her fork and applied it to the promised plate of salmon before her, fresh caught from Loch Fyne that morning. The flight of whisky samplings Violet had chosen for her were equally tasty, though none summoned the feeling of autumn as the Macallan she’d shared with Donell.
Auld Donell. Her eyes strayed back to the history book. From everything Brontë had shared, Aila knew he was a wily old man. He’d tempted her friend with a chance to change her fate and that of many others. All of it nothing more than subterfuge to satisfy his own ends. What ulterior motive could he have in sending Aila back to find this treasure? Despite his assurance, there had to be one, didn’t there?
“I’m surprised to see you with a history book. Normally you have your nose stuck in an old mystery.” Violet offered an indulgent smile. “I take it you enjoyed the tour?”
“I did,” Aila confessed. “That millstone? The one that’s said to be cursed? That’s fascinating.”
A mystery in itself. The moss-covered stone displayed in the castle gardens bore no information other than a small plaque calling it theBlàr an Buieand stating that it was said to be cursed. She’d spent half an hour before supper Googling it, trying to pinpoint the source of the curse or anything about it with no success. Aye, Donell was right. She might not have been much of a history buff but she was a sucker for a good mystery.
“I’m so happy you enjoyed it. I brought my granddaughters here a time or two. Jane and Brontë wanted nothing to do with it. Ginny enjoyed it. That lass has a love of history.”
Aila bit back a smile as she savored a bite of the salmon. “I think ye’ll find that Brontë’s recently developed a fascination with history herself.”
“Really? Perhaps I’ll persuade her to join me on a tour or two when she and her new beau return from their trip. What did my granddaughter say he did for a living again?”
Lived a life in two different times, Aila thought to herself but answered aloud, “International relations.”
“And constantly traveling for business? What a wretched lifestyle.” Violet clucked her tongue then grinned. “I’d much prefer a cozy drawing room. Nothing like that one in the castle though. It was a bit over the top, wouldn’t you say?”
“It was. Far too much gilding for my taste. The weapons display in the hall was impressive, though, and overall it was stunning, if one likes that neo-Gothic thing.”
Aila flipped through the book to a page with exterior photos of the castle and portraits of several bewigged men. They were captioned by an abbreviated history of the design, having first been sketched out by John Vanbrugh, the architect who designed Blenheim Palace, then built by Scottish architects William Adam and Roger Morris. The three men having died either before or soon after the groundbreaking, Adam’s sons James and Robert had completed the project.
She turned the book to show Violet who slipped on her reading glasses to squint down at the page. “William Adam was quite famous. His sons and their work equally so. Not much to look at though, those historical lads with their wigs and paunchy bellies.”
A grin teased Aila’s lips. “Oh, I dinnae ken. I’ve seen some evidence that there is at least one good looking man in the history books. These poor lads? Probably had to get by on their talent alone.”
“Sassy.” Violet shared her smile then tapped the book. “This other lad, now he’s a — what would you call it? Proper hottie?”
Aila made a face. “I doubt that. Let me see.”
Violet turned the book back around and Aila looked at the last of the tiny images. In her opinion, eighteenth-century period paintings tended to make people look soft and rather bulgy-eyed. Not a flattering look. Despite the romanticized styling, the older woman was right. He was a proper hottie. Not that she’d admit it. She looked down at the caption beneath the photo. “Lord Finlay Keeley. He’s no’ so bad I suppose.”
“The first kind thing you’ve had to say about a man in months,” Violet teased. “He should be flattered by your enthusiasm.”
“It would be just my luck to fall for a dead man.” Not that she wanted one at all. Aila pursed her lips, determined not to let Vi turn the conversation to one they’d thoroughly exhausted of late. “Astonishing that the castle took more than forty years to finish, isn’t it? Though logically I suppose it makes sense, given the available technology of the day.”
“To build it in any manner at such a time in history is astonishing.” Violet set her fork and knife on her empty plate and lifted her napkin to her lips. Aila released a sigh, grateful the older woman accepted the change of subject without argument. “Most Scotsmen suffered financially in the years following Culloden, yet the duke had resources enough to build himself a new castle.”
“That’s what happens when ye’re on the right side, I suppose.” Aila closed the book on Lord Finlay and rested a hand on the cover. “I read that the third duke at the time supported the English king, George I, rather than Prince Charlie.”
“Simply because one is on the winning side of the war, doesn’t make it the right side. Campbells!” The older woman nudged her plate aside with a grunt. “Waving his wealth and privilege about in the faces of his countrymen who bore the consequences of the Clearances in the aftermath of the war.”
“Aye. Then to decide that the existing village around him was too close — after the fact, naturally — and exploit his position to move it?” Aila grinned. “There’s a man who’s too rich for his own good.”
“One cannot have one’s view spoiled by the rabble,” Violet replied in supercilious tones.
“One should have thought about that beforehand.”
