The Ghosts of Tullybrae House by Veronica Bale Read Free Book Online

amount of work she’d accomplished, and was looking forward to a break.
    Saturday morning dawned dim and foggy, but her mood was light enough to drive away the shadows.
    “You look like you have some plans for the day,” Lamb noted at the breakfast table.
    Emmie nodded as she dunked a narrow strip of toast—a “soldier”—into her soft-boiled egg. “I’m thinking of driving into Aviemore today to do some errands. This is really good, by the way.”
    “Nothing I can help with?”
    “Just dry-cleaning and some groceries. Nothing I can’t take care of, myself. And I have a few things I want to pick up that I’ve run out of. Why—you wanna come?”
    “Nay, you’re all right,” he answered. “But thank you all the same.”
    “Do you need anything while I’m out?”
    He thought for a moment. “Well, as long as you’re asking, I wouldn’t mind a nice bottle of red wine. His lordship has a fine reserve in the cellar, but I don’t feel right about taking from him.”
    “Oh, come on, Lamb. He’s dead. He can’t complain. Live a little.”
    His eyes crinkled in what was almost a grin. “Old habits die hard. Anyway, will you be out all day, do you reckon?”
    She mopped up the last of her egg yolk with her remaining soldier and bit into it. “I should be back mid- to late-afternoon. I was thinking of finding a pub somewhere for lunch.”
    “Ah. Well, then you’ll want the Aviemore Arms. On the High Street, just past Craig Na Gower Avenue. They do a nice steak and ale pie, they do. That is, if you like steak and ale pie. You might not, but I do.”
    “I love steak and ale pie. I’ll check it out.”
    After clearing away the dishes, Emmie dashed out to her Panda. Soon, she was on the road, driving through thick, Highland mist, her headlights and her eyes peeled for stray sheep. She made it to Aviemore in a little over half an hour.
    By mid-morning, the sky had cleared up, and the sun came out. It shimmered through the moist air, bestowing the quaint tourist town with an invigorating, dew-kissed feel. The Highland air was so fresh and so fragrant that Emmie found herself inhaling deeply every time she stepped out of a shop.
    The locals were friendly, and customer-service was clearly a top priority. Each shop owner invited her in like she was an old friend. They spent time with her, explaining their products, and letting her try, feel, taste and smell them. At one store, a stout, middle-aged lady in a tartan vest took the time to explain to her all the different clan plaids that were represented on pure wool scarves, which were prominently displayed near the front window.
    “This one here is Urquhart,” she said, pulling one out and showing it to her with soft, short-fingered hands. “My clan.”
    “Matches your vest.”
    The woman beamed. “Aye, it does. And see here?” She fingered a small, gold pin anchored to the lapel. “Speak weil, mean weil, doe weil. The Urquhart motto.”
    Emmie’s eyes travelled up the built-in cubbyholes with all the scarves stacked neatly by clan. “What about MacCombish? Is there a tartan for that name?”
    “MacCombish, MacCombish.” The lady tapped her chin with her pinkie finger, then scurried to the counter at the back of her store on fat, little legs. From beneath the cash register, she pulled a well-thumbed paperback book.
    “MacCombish,” she repeated to herself as she leafed through the pages. “Ah, here it is. Well, see now, MacCombish was under the protection of Clan Stuart. The Bonnie Prince himself. So they would have worn his colours.”
    The lady laid the open book on the counter, and pointed to the entry. Emmie leaned over, craning her neck slightly to read the blurb beneath the name.
    “And here’s the Stuart colours,” the woman continued, flipping to a well-used page. In a full-page, glossy image was a replica of the red and black of Clan Stuart. “Is your name MacCombish, lass?”
    Emmie hesitated, drawing a finger over the colourful plaid