looked more natural, more terrifying somehow, than the gradual western slope and the descending eastern ridge.
This was how an enemy coming up from England or down from the isles must have seen it, craggy cliffs slippery with ocean spray, primitive jutting rocks, biting winds whistling through the battlements. How they must have shuddered at the thought of scaling those granite walls. Those who were foolish attacked. The wise prayed for mercy and retreated. Every man with eyes in his head and the smallest claim to battle experience knew that laying siege to Edinburgh Castle was folly. As wonderful and mystical as it would always be for me, it wasn’t the castle I wanted to explore today.
“You’re awfully quiet,” remarked Ian as he shifted to stop at a light.
“Ian.” I clutched his shoulder. “Do you have to be back tonight?”
He gave me a long, assessing look before the light changed. “What did you have in mind?”
“I want to see Blair-Atholl,” I said quickly. “It’s the Murray’s castle, and it was Katrine’s childhood home. I’ve got to see it.”
“I might have known,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
I could see the red creep up under his tan. “Never mind,” he said. “I’m surprised you haven’t visited it before this.”
“I have, but it’s not the same.” I reached into my shoulder bag and took out the leather-bound book. “Now I have Janet’s diary. I want to be where she wrote it.”
A worried frown appeared between his eyes. “Let’s talk to the professor first, shall we?”
“Why?” I demanded. “What has he got to do with Blair-Atholl?”
Ian sighed. “I’d prefer to let Professor MacCleod explain, Christina. He knows as much about the Maxwells and Murrays as anyone. It really will seem less absurd that way.”
I settled back into the seat, resigned to yet another wait, to more polite greetings, the catching up on a two-year absence, the ordering of meals, the serving of drinks, the pouring of tea, and finally, when there was nothing left to discuss, the answers for which we had come. It was much more than my own curiosity about Traquair House that needed satisfying. Somewhere, in the last twenty-four hours, the stakes had changed. There was a connection between the three of us, Katrine Murray, Mairi Maxwell, and myself. And, somehow, that connection included Ian Douglas.
Turning down Giles Street into the Leith section of Edinburgh, Ian parked the car across from a restaurant I had never seen before. In the past, because I was often alone and on a limited budget, my tastes ran toward inexpensive, family-style pubs in the center of town. I could see immediately that the Vintner’s Room was of a different caliber entirely. I looked down at my jeans and scuffed loafers and swallowed nervously. When the proprietor ushered us into a warm, sunlit room with tasteful plasterwork and wooden tables and chairs, I relaxed. The setting was definitely informal.
Professor MacCleod was already seated. When he saw us, he stood immediately and held out his hand. “How are you, my dear?” he said, his fingers closing around mine in a bone-crunching clasp.
“I’m fine, sir,” I replied, kissing him on the cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you again.” It really was. The professor was the epitome of an English scholar with his rosy cheeks, patched tweed jacket, and thick white hair. I was relieved to see that the last few years hadn’t changed him at all.
He pulled out my chair. “Ian tells me you’ve inherited a substantial piece of property. I had an idea you might be related to the Maxwells, but one can never be sure.”
“That hasn’t really been established yet,” I said, pleased that he’d come right to the point. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the Maxwells and the Murrays.”
“I thought so.” The professor beamed and patted the briefcase beside his chair. “I’ll be happy to tell you all that I know, but I printed a copy of my notes for you in case I leave anything out. The two families have a fascinating history.”
“So I understand,” I murmured, glancing sideways at Ian.
His face was smooth, revealing nothing. “Shall we order first?” he suggested.
“A capital idea,” said the professor. “The grilled oysters with bacon and hollandaise are wonderful,” he said. “Have you eaten here before, Christina?”
“No, I haven’t. I’m not really familiar with Edinburgh’s finer restaurants. I usually eat in the pubs with friends or, if I’m staying longer, I cook something in my flat.”
“I don’t think anything with sauces is a good idea