Read Chapter 27: The Uncle's Threat

The knock came at half past eight, and Eilidh knew before she opened the door who it would be. Iain MacKinnon stood on the castle steps in a waxed jacket that cost more than her month's wages, rain beading on his shoulders, a smile already arranged on his face like a salesman's display.

“Miss Grant,” he said, as if they were old friends. “I thought we might have a word before the lawyers get involved. Tea, perhaps?”

She kept her hand on the door frame. “I don't think we have anything to discuss.”

“On the contrary.” His smile widened. “I think we have a great deal to discuss. You've caused quite a stir, you know. The papers are having a field day with this—what did they call it? ‘The MacKinnon Conspiracy.’ Very dramatic. Very good for book sales, I imagine.”

“I'm not writing a book.”

“No, you're restoring a castle. Interesting career choice, given the circumstances.” He tilted his head, studying her like a specimen. “Or perhaps not a choice at all. Perhaps this was always the plan.”

The implication landed exactly where he intended. Eilidh felt her jaw tighten.

“What do you want, Mr. MacKinnon?”

“I want to save my family's reputation. And I want to save you from making a terrible mistake.” He reached into his jacket and produced a card, holding it out between two fingers. “I've made some calls. There are people in Edinburgh who would be very interested in a restorer of your”—he paused, letting his gaze travel over her—“ambition. A fully funded project. National Gallery annex. Your name on the door.”

“You're offering me a job.”

“I'm offering you an exit. Sign a statement saying you have doubts about the documents' authenticity—genuine doubts, mind you, nothing criminal—and I'll make sure you walk away from this with more than you came for. The castle goes to me, Hamish gets a fair settlement, and everyone keeps their dignity.”

Eilidh looked at the card. Then she looked at Iain's polished shoes, his tailored coat, the careful grooming that suggested a man who had never once had to fight for anything he wanted.

“I knew Finella's story was buried,” she said quietly. “I knew someone had worked very hard to make sure she was forgotten. But I didn't know until this moment what that someone looked like.”

Iain's smile dimmed. “Careful, Miss Grant. You're playing with things you don't understand.”

“I understand that a woman was murdered so your family could keep what wasn't theirs. I understand that her brother's ledger shows he was stealing from the estate for years before she came back to claim it. And I understand that you've shown up here within days of that ledger being found, which means someone on my team is feeding you information.”

His expression flickered—just for a moment—and then smoothed again. “I have sources. That's not a crime.”

“No. But blackmail is. And that's what this is, isn't it? You're not offering me a job. You're buying my silence.”

“I'm offering you a future.” His voice hardened. “Take it or leave it. But understand this: if you choose to fight me, I will bury you. I have lawyers who specialize in exactly this kind of thing. I have connections in the heritage sector who will make sure you never work in Scotland again. And I have the law on my side, because whatever romantic notions you've cooked up about that dead woman, the fact remains that I am the legitimate heir to Castle Kintail.”

“Are you?” Eilidh stepped forward, into his space. “Because I've been reading the family records. You're Finella's great-nephew—her brother's grandson. That's true. But the deed we found predates your grandfather's claim. And it says the castle goes to the Grant name if the MacKinnon male line fails.”

For the first time, something real moved behind Iain's eyes. Not fear. Calculation.

“The male line hasn't failed. I'm here.”

“You're here because your grandfather stole from his own sister and had her killed. You're here because every man who could have testified against him died before they could speak. You're here because for a hundred years, no one had the courage to open that door.” She held up the card, letting the rain hit it. “I'm not for sale, Mr. MacKinnon. Not for a building with my name on it. Not for anything.”

She dropped the card onto the wet stone and closed the door.

---

Hamish was waiting in the library, a glass of whisky untouched at his elbow, staring at the fire as if it held answers. He didn't look up when Eilidh entered.

“He's gone,” she said. “I sent him packing.”

“He'll be back. With lawyers. With injunctions. With whatever it takes.” Hamish's voice was flat, drained. “I should have known this would happen.”

“You couldn't have known. None of us could have.”

“I could have left it alone.” He finally looked at her, and there was something raw in his eyes she hadn't seen before. “I made a promise to my father. I broke it for you.”

The words hung between them like a blade.

“For us,” she corrected softly. “You broke it for the truth.”

“Did I?” He stood, pacing to the window. The rain had turned to sleet, streaking the glass with ice. “I've been thinking about that. About why you really came here. About what you wanted from this.”

“I came to restore the castle. That was all.”

“Was it?” He turned to face her. “Because the timing is interesting, isn't it? You arrive with your credentials and your careful questions. You find the sealed chamber. You find the documents. And suddenly my family is destroyed and your family has a claim to everything I own.”

The words hit her like a physical blow. She took a step back.

“You think I planned this.”

“I think you're ambitious. I think you saw an opportunity. And I think”—his voice cracked, just slightly—“I think I was a fool to trust you.”

“Hamish.” She heard her own voice shake. “I didn't know about Finella before I came here. I didn't know about the deed, or the ledger, or any of it. I found the chamber because I was doing my job—because I cared about this castle and its history. I care about you.”

“Do you?” He laughed, bitter and broken. “Or do you care about what I can give you? The story. The claim. The castle itself, maybe, if you play your cards right.”

“That's not fair.”

“None of this is fair!” His shout echoed off the stone walls. “I lost my father to a secret he carried his whole life. I lost my grandmother before I ever knew what she was protecting. And now I've lost the only thing I had left—the belief that I knew who I was and where I came from.” His voice dropped. “And I lost it because I let you in.”

Eilidh stood very still. The fire crackled. The sleet tapped against the glass.

“If you truly believe that,” she said quietly, “then you never really trusted me at all.”

“Maybe I didn't.” He turned away from her. “Maybe I was just lonely enough to convince myself I did.”

The words settled into the silence between them, heavy and final. Eilidh felt something in her chest close like a door.

She could leave. She could pack her bags and walk out of this castle and never look back. She had the deed. She had the ledger. She could take them to a solicitor in Inverness and press her claim and walk away from Hamish MacKinnon and all his damage.

But she didn't move.

“I'm not leaving,” she said.

Hamish turned, surprise flickering across his face before he masked it.

“I'm not leaving,” she repeated, “because I believe in what we found. I believe Finella deserves to be remembered. And I believe that whatever you think of me right now, you know I'm not the enemy.” She crossed the room, stopping just before the edge of his personal space. “You're scared. I understand that. You've had your entire sense of self pulled out from under you in the span of a week. But you don't get to use that as an excuse to push away the only person who's actually been trying to help you.”

He stared at her. His jaw worked, but no words came.

“Iain offered me money,” she said. “He offered me a career. He offered me an exit. And I turned him down because I believe in this—in the truth, in the castle, in you. So if you want me to go, you'll have to say it. You'll have to look me in the eye and tell me you don't want me here.”

The silence stretched. Outside, the wind howled around the towers.

“I don't want you to go,” Hamish said finally, so quietly she almost didn't hear it. “I just don't know how to have you here without falling apart.”

Something loosened in her chest. She reached out and took his hand—cold, rough, trembling slightly.

“Then we fall apart together,” she said. “And we put ourselves back together. That's what this is, Hamish. That's what we're doing.”

He didn't pull away. For a long moment, they just stood there, hands linked, the weight of everything pressing down on them both.

“He's Finella's great-nephew,” Eilidh said quietly. “Iain. I checked the records this morning. He's her brother's grandson—the direct male line, if you ignore the murder and the theft and the cover-up.”

“So if the deed is challenged, he has standing.”

“He has standing. But he doesn't have the truth.” She squeezed his hand. “And I have a feeling the truth is going to matter more than he thinks.”

They stood together in the firelight, two people holding onto each other and onto a history that was still being written.

---

Later, after Hamish had gone to bed and the castle had settled into its midnight quiet, Eilidh sat alone in the library with Finella's ring on the desk before her. The gold caught the lamplight, warm and patient.

She thought about Iain's face when she'd mentioned the deed. She thought about the thread of fear beneath his confidence—the knowledge that he was fighting for something built on sand.

And she thought about the dusty folder she'd found her first week here, misfiled in the estate records. A debt, old and yellowed, that she'd set aside without understanding what it meant.

The Grant claim.

She picked up the ring and turned it over in her fingers. Somewhere in that old paperwork was the answer. Somewhere in her family's history was the key to all of this.

The question was whether she was brave enough to use it.