“You have about an hour to prepare yourself,” she assured him.
As she turned and headed to the kitchen, he made his way back to his grandfather’s sickroom. He tapped lightly on the door, then entered to find a fishing boat captain sitting by the bed, sharing a laugh with the laird. The captain had a weathered face and looked familiar, but Ramsay couldn’t place him. Fortunately Duncan said, “Eh, lad, you remember Alan Innes, don’t you? The best fishing boat captain in Thorsay.”
“He says that to all the captains,” Innes said as he rose and offered his hand. “Just like a sailor says such things to all the lasses.”
Ramsay laughed as he took the captain’s hand. “Flattery generally works even when we know it’s flattery.”
“Aye, and your grandfather knows when to flatter and when to give a kick in the arse.”
“Both useful skills,” Ramsay agreed. His gaze went to Duncan, who looked exhausted, but he’d obviously been enjoying his visitor.
Innes extended a hand to Odin, who licked the captain’s fingers with interest. “He likes the hint of fish on my fingers,” Innes said with a chuckle. “I’ll be off now.”
Innes gave the laird one last long gaze, as if he knew they wouldn’t meet again. His expression was somber as he left the room.
When the captain was gone, Ramsay settled into the chair. “This is quite a salon you’re operating here, with honored guests dropping by to say hello and perhaps share a dram of whisky.” His gaze flicked to the bottle sitting on the bedside table. It had been almost full earlier, and now it was half empty. “More of Callan’s best?”
“Aye. I’m too old to drink rotgut.” His grandfather smothered a yawn. “Go off to Jenny Donovan’s welcome home dinner. People will want to see what you’ve turned into.”
“Would you like to join the gathering? I can get the wheelchair and take you in for a few minutes,” Ramsay offered.
“I’m tired enough without being surrounded by mad chatterers,” the laird said tartly. “But come back after dinner is over and tell me all about it.”
Ramsay stood and lightly touched his grandfather’s age-spotted hand, feeling the bones under the thin skin, and he gave thanks that his journey home had gone quickly. He could so easily have been too late. He extended his hand to Odin and was given a swat for his effort. “I must not smell fishy enough.”
“Odin is a cat of strong opinions,” the laird said as his eyes closed. “But he’ll accept you eventually.”
Weary to his bones, Ramsay left the library and headed up to his old room. It was much as he’d left it all those years ago, though freshly cleaned and with a vase of wildflowers on the desk. The flowers looked much like the ones in Signy’s kitchen, which was probably not a coincidence.
His personal luggage was neatly stacked beside the wardrobe. He turned slowly, scanning the familiar surroundings. The small bookcase was spilling over with books, just as he’d left it—but dusted. On the windowsills, he’d lined up particularly interesting stones and shells, and they were still there, also dusted.
The carpet, the bedspread, the upholstered chair by the fireplace were all the same. Familiar and welcoming.
Then his gaze was caught by the one thing that was different: the watercolor painting that hung over the desk. Unmistakably Signy’s work, it was a rather abstract depiction of the sun setting across the sea, low in the sky so that it cast a long, long shadow behind the small dark shape of a man who stood on the shore and gazed toward the light.
Ramsay stepped closer to study the painting. The sea was shades of blue and subtly sun-touched waves, while the shore under the man’s feet was done in soft tones of tan and umber. He wasn’t sure if the picture depicted peace or loneliness. Perhaps both. Like Signy’s other work, it had the uncanny ability to get under his skin.
He began unpacking his clothing, automatically organizing garments in the same way as when he was a boy. He briefly wondered what it would be like to move into the laird’s spacious suite someday, then buried the thought. He wasn’t ready.
The ringing of the dinner bell was another familiar sound. Since the gathering was in his honor, he changed into fresh clothing. Given a choice, he’d have preferred a quieter evening, but it would be good to see old friends.
He was watched with a certain wariness at first, but his friendly greetings to old acquaintances thawed the atmosphere quickly. There were Stewarts and Inneses, Johannsons and Olsons, Browns and Fieldings. These same familiar names were found on all the islands, and they reflected the mixed heritage of Thorsay: Vikings, Celts, English, and a scattering of other nationalities. Ramsay had grown up assuming Thorsay’s diversity was normal but had since learned that it was unusual for such a remote place. He liked that unique mix.
He also noticed speculative glances from the women, particularly those unmarried. Signy was right that everyone was interested in marrying him off. He carried the inheritance of the lairdship on his back, and it was already chafing.
As they ate fresh fish and drank toasts to the prodigal’s return, the storm Signy had predicted began to herald itself with rising winds and a feeling of rain in the air. Thorsayians were keenly aware of the weather, so guests excused themselves and headed for their homes before the storm hit full force.
After seeing off the last guests and thanking Jenny Donovan and the rest of the staff, Ramsay returned to his grandfather’s room. He expected the old man to be asleep, but when he moved to the side of the bed, Duncan murmured without opening his eyes, “Tell me more of your adventures. I’m sure you have enough to see me out.”
Smiling wryly, Ramsay seated himself beside the bed. “Years’ worth. I hope you stay around long enough to hear them all.”
“Prop me up with some pillows and pour me some of that whisky.”
Ramsay helped his grandfather sit up, then stacked two extra pillows behind his back. “I hope you have another bottle stashed somewhere, since this one is getting close to empty.”
“When it’s empty, there’s another bottle on the shelf of travel memoirs. I’ll have enough to last the night. Pour yourself some. Callan’s whisky is the best drink for the dark hours of the night.”
Ramsay found two tumblers and splashed whisky into each. His grandfather took his glass in a surprisingly strong grip. He raised it in a toast. “To going out and coming in!”
