Chapter Six
The sky darkenedover the heathery slopes that formed the bowl of the glen and spanned into the distance. Dusk was near—a storm, too, Gavin thought, seeing clouds thicken, feeling the wind whipping at his hair and coat. Torchlight sparkled like stars down in the glen, trailing near the village. The revelers would be in disguises, pranking and singing, making mock threats until they got cakes.
He headed for the house, his arms filled with fragrant branches. Hearing a growl, he stopped. Thunder, far off, surely.
In the kitchen, Elinor stood with sharp knife in hand at a table scattered with several small, shriveled, ugly heads with squinting eyes and tiny crooked teeth.
“Good God, those look ghastly.” He set the branches down. “You planned to carve the neeps? I hoped you might mash them.”
She laughed. “I carved a few last night at home, and just need to finish the rest.”
“Waste of good turnips,” he murmured, picking up one or two to peer into the hollowed-out centers. “But if they scare away Halloween houlets, all the better.”
“It is part of my plan.”
“Miss Cameron and her plans,” he murmured with a smile. “What more do you have in mind? Are turnips enough to vanquish ghosts?”
She patted the basket. “Turnips, candles, red yarn, bits of iron, and some verses written on paper. And now we have rowan and juniper too.”
Gavin blinked, doubtful. “Well, that ought to do it.”
Elinor smiled. “I will show you as we go.”
“Have youSturm und Drangplanned, as in your ghost story? Banishing spirits with fire and incantation might be useful.”
Her smile was beatific. “Some of that, aye. Look,” she said, pointing to some carved pumpkins and a cluster of grimacing jack o’ lanterns made from carved and painted dry gourds. “Mrs. Blair and the maids carved pumpkins, and she brought these lovely gourds out of storage.”
“I remember the gourds. My mother brought them out each Samhain.”
“So you use the old word.”
“Mother was a Highland MacGregor, remember.”
“I do. My grandmother was Highland too. Samhain was an important festival in our home, and here at Braemore too, as I remember when we were younger.”
“Aye, ghoulish heads and candlelight to scare away whatever lurked outside—or inside,” he added. “Mother let us wear masks as well. My sister and I enjoyed it, but Father thought setting candles in windows was hazardous, so the things were packed away. I have not seen them for years. I am glad Mrs. Blair kept them.”
“She also left apple tarts and pumpkin cakes for you.”
He smiled. “She calls them pompion pies, as the French do. The Tudor court had them, did you know? Explorers to the Americas brought them back as a rarity. Now they are almost ordinary in kitchen gardens.”
“Always the historian,” she said, running the knife inside a turnip.
“At times. What will you do with your wee army of beasties?”
“Set them in windows with the laird’s permission, unless he thinks it hazardous.”
“The greater hazard is confronting ghosts without a plan. Can I help?” He chose a knife from those on the table and took up a turnip. “These should be in place before dark, I imagine.”
“Just so. Those clouds look stormy.” She pointed toward the kitchen window.
“The weather is stirring up. Good Lord, these are not easy to cut,” he muttered, attempting to carve a gruesome smile in a hollowed turnip. “I have ruined this one.”
She laughed. “Nicely frightening, and rather adorable.”
“You always had a taste for the macabre, though you are the most—” He stopped.
“The most?”
