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“Arthur,” I said, shaking my head.
“Thatcrazyman. God, I loved him.” Lottie brushed at a tear as the wail of bagpipes began again, and the kilted man once more strode forward.
“Amazing Grace.” For one haunting moment, the music transported me to another time where I could just imagine a Scottish warrior crossing the land in search of his love. Romantic thoughts which had no place here, I reminded myself, fixated on the bagpiper. The dogs bounced after the man like he was a Scottish Pied Piper, and only then did I see that one of them carried a large stuffed Highland cow.Coo, I automatically corrected myself. A heiland coo had been one of Arthur’s favorite things to photograph on his travels to Scotland, and he’d even talked of developing a Coo-finder app so that the tourists could more easily get their own photographs.
“You don’t think…” A thought occurred to me, but it was so ridiculous I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“Nothing that man did surprised me.” Lottie chuckled. We watched with horrified fascination as the dogs reached the front of the funeral gathering. The Old Wives Club shifted in unison, likely due to the possibility of getting dog hair on their Chanel, and I couldn’t look away from the impending doom. It was like watching a couple fight in public—I knew it was bad to eavesdrop, but I always wanted to listen and pick whose side I was on. Spoiler alert. I usually sided with the woman.
“Tavish and Bruce always fight over toys,” I hissed as two of the dogs separated themselves from the pack, their ears flattening.
“Arthur knows…knewthat,” Lottie said, her hand still gripping my arm. I winced as it tightened. A gasp escaped me when the dogs leapt at each other. Houston, we have a problem.
A flurry of barking exploded as the last notes of “Amazing Grace” faded into the sun, and the bagpiper strolled away seemingly unconcerned with the chaos he left in his wake. Maybe he was used to it, for the Scotscouldbe unruly at times, and this was just another day’s work for him. I grimaced as Tavish and Bruce got ahold of the coo, each gripping a leg, and pulled with all their might. The celebrant, uncertain what to do, walked forward and made shooing gestures with his hands.
The dogs ignored him, turning in a manic circle, whipping their heads back and forth as they enjoyed a fabulous game of tug. Growls and playful barks carried over the stunned silence of the gathering, with everyone at a loss of how to proceed.
With one giant rip, Bruce won the toy from Tavish and streaked through the horrified crowd. A fine white powder exploded from the coo, coating the Old Wives Club and spraying the front line.
“His ashes,” I breathed. My heart skipped a beat.
“Indeed,” Lottie murmured.
Bruce broke from the crowd and tore across the lawn toward the cliffs, the rest of the dogs in hot pursuit, a doggy version of Braveheart. Tavish threw his head back and howled, and I was certain I could just make out the cry for “freeeeedom” on the wind.
The wind that now carried a cloud of ashes back to the funeral gathering.
Pandemonium broke out as the crowd raced for the castle, trying to beat the ash cloud, while Lottie and I stood upwind to observe the chaos from afar. A muffled snort had me turning my head.
“You can’t possibly be…” I trailed off as Lottie pressed her lips together in vain, another snort escaping. To my deep surprise, the numb space inside me unlocked long enough for amusement to trickle in. In moments, we were bent at the waist, howling with laughter, while the Old Wives Club shot us death glares from across the lawn.
“Oh.” Lottie straightened and wiped tears from her eyes. “Arthur would’ve loved that.”
I wrapped an arm around Lottie and watched Wife Number Three vomit into a bush.
“It’s almost like he planned it.” As soon as I said the words, Iknewhe had. Raising my champagne glass to the sky in acknowledgment, I felt the first bands of grief unknot inside me. He’d wanted us to laugh, as his last parting gift, to remember that in the face of it all…the ridiculous was worth celebrating.
CHAPTERTWO
Lachlan
“Och, now, it’s a dreich day,” I grumbled, shaking my coat off as I came in through the side entrance of our castle. Well, I used the term “our” loosely. Technically, ownership of the castle had recently changed hands from the collective trust of the Village of Loren Brae and had passed over to private ownership. Which meant I now had a new boss that I’d yet to meet. The thought rankled, and I’d spent many a night cursing the stupid American who’d purchased the property months ago and hadn’t bothered to once step foot in it. For years now, our people had looked at me as the unofficial laird of Loren Brae, and now our village suffered.
MacAlpine Castle, situated on the bonnie banks of Loch Mirren, reminded me of a dowager countess, stately and majestic, yet showing her years if you looked closely. With four wings, an abundance of historical features, and an area open to the public for tours, MacAlpine Castle was one of the main tourist attractions for Loren Brae. It was also my home, which was why I’d somehow stepped into the role of village patriarch. On weekends, I’d don my kilt and greet tourists, posing for photos and answering questions, while Hilda and Archie, the castle keepers, managed everything else.
The three of us lived in two wings of the castle that had been converted to residential apartments several decades back, and it suited us just fine. Even if the tours had virtually dried up these days. Just the bad weather, I assured myself, running a hand over my hair to shake off any water droplets. Summer would bring more visitors—it always did. An excited yip greeted me, the only response to my grumbling, and I bent over to greet Sir Buster Campbell, one very skittish, loving, and cantankerous chihuahua.
Was it odd that I had a dog that was no longer than the span of both my palms fitted together? Yes. Did Hilda insist on putting him in a tweed vest and kilt and parade him about for the visitors? Also yes. Had he grown his own following on social media through the years, and did I sometimes wonder if people were more excited to visit the castle or meet Buster? Yes, and yes.
I bent to pet Buster, and he bared his teeth at me, emitting a low growl that had me shaking my head.
“All right, you crabbit beast. On you go then. I’ll feed you and then maybe you’ll be taking the time of day to have a wee cuddle with me.” I couldn’t blame Sir Buster. Much like myself, I often was cranky when I was hungry. I noted the time on the grandfather clock in the expansive hallway. It seemed I was fifteen minutes late for Sir Buster’s dinner, and he expressed his displeasure as he trotted through the hallway toward our shared kitchen and lounge. My own private apartment consisted of a bedroom, en suite, my study, and a small kitchenette if I wasn’t feeling like socializing with my meals. Most nights, I took my dinner downstairs and relaxed by the fire in the main lounge.
“You’re late for tea,” Hilda said, Sir Buster’s annoyed grumblings alerting her to my arrival. A round woman with lively bright blue eyes and hair just edging to silver, Hilda acted as my de facto mum. Having lost my own mother at the tender age of eleven, and my father disappearing into his work shortly thereafter, Hilda had assumed care of me as part of her duties as castle keeper. Since I resided in said castle, I’d fallen under Hilda’s domain, and it was only natural that she’d taken to mothering me. While I may be the unofficial laird of the town, Hilda was the queen of the castle and nobody, including Sir Buster, forgot it. He cut off his growls upon seeing her, and I swear that dog softened his eyes and gave Hilda a smile, flirting with her.
“Oh, sure. You were spitting chips moments ago and now you’re having a flirt, are you then?” I whispered to Sir Buster, who whipped his head around and bared his teeth at me. No growl,of course, as he knew Hilda would chastise him. Smart dog, that one.
“Don’t antagonize Sir Buster. He’s having a bad day.” Hilda pressed a kiss to my cheek before bustling back to the kitchen. Could dogs even have bad days? What could possibly have happened that would put a dog in a mood?
