The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart

its clean architectural lines softened by the gentle pink hue of the local stone, still visible among the fading shadows. A herd of Highland cattle, barely discernible through the mist, grazed peacefully in a field to the right of the east wing. Not a sound disturbed the magic tranquillity that reigned, serene and timeless.

      It was an awesome sight, one that sent shivers running through him. “Does this place belong to your family?” he asked at last.

      “Yes.” Her eyes, like his, were fixed on the house. “There have been Dunbars here forever. At least since the late 1200s. They were baron raiders then, roaming the countryside in hordes, stealing their neighbors’ sheep.”

      “The house is amazing. When was it built?”

      “The mid-1700s. William started it, building on to a previous smaller structure, but it was finished by Fergus Dunbar, a cousin who inherited when William’s son Rob was killed at the Battle of Culloden.”

      “What was the old house like?” he asked, suddenly curious.

      “I think it was a small hunting lodge, but I’m not quite sure.” She seemed anxious to go, but Jack stood still, entranced.

      “It would make a fabulous hotel,” he remarked thoughtfully.

      “Hotel?” Her head shot round, her expression horrified. “What a dreadful idea. I can’t think of anything worse. Dunbar has always been a home.”

      “It was just a thought,” he countered apologetically. “Tell me more about Fergus.”

      “Fergus did rather well for himself,” India said, moving toward the lawn. “During the uprising in 1745 he supported the English, and made lots of money. Since the rightful heir, Robert Dunbar, was conveniently dead, Fergus inherited and added on to the house. There’s a picture of him in the portrait gallery. I can’t say I like the looks of him, though. He’s always given me the creeps.”

      “Why?” Jack asked, amused. “What did he do that was so bad?”

      “I don’t know.” She shrugged as they walked. “Some say he was a traitor. Lots of people around here were Jacobites, although they couldn’t admit to it. But even though they didn’t fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie, they never would have done anything to aid and abet the English.”

      “Is that what Fergus did?”

      “According to legend.” Again she shrugged and smiled. “I suppose stories get enhanced as the years go by. But he certainly made enough money to hire Adam to complete the house.”

      “One of the Adam brothers?”

      “Yes, the most renowned architect of that period.”

      “He did a fine job.”

      India glanced at him, her eyes softening. “I think so, too. It’s so serene, so…I can’t quite explain it.”

      “I know exactly what you mean.”

      Their earlier antagonism seemed to have dissipated mysteriously in the cloak of gray mist surrounding them. By the time they reached the house and headed for a small door in the east wing, it was nearly dark.

      Jack shuddered again for no reason and turned, glancing back across the lawn at the huge oak tree etched majestically on the dim horizon. Then his gaze moved to India, who was twisting the stiff brass doorknob on the heavy oak door.

      “I guess you’ll be okay now.” He hesitated, catching a sudden glimpse of welcoming light that gleamed from behind the half-open door. “I think I owe you an apology,” he added reluctantly. “I didn’t think there would be anyone else out there today. My mistake.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so stiff, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt obliged to apologize to anyone. “I guess I’ll be on my way. Would you mind if I call a cab? I don’t know if I’ll find my way back through the glen now that it’s dark.”

      He glanced up at the sky. Evening was closing in fast, and all of a sudden he wanted to stay. He saw a flash of irritation cross her face followed by distant politeness. It increased his desire to remain and he was now determined to go inside and see the house.

      Usually, when Jack decided he wanted something, he made sure he got it. Now, for some perverse reason, he wanted to stay at Dunbar. This woman, this amazing house and the aura of peaceful mystery he instinctively sensed here intrigued him. She’d walked into his life on what, for the last twelve years, had been its worst day, and in some inexplicable fashion she’d marked it.

      “Come on in. The telephone’s in the library.”

      As India waited expectantly in the doorway, shrouded in a halo of pale light, her thick mane of chestnut hair glinting softy, Jack found himself thinking of mythical knights and princesses and of Gaelic lore.

      Then she stepped aside and he entered the cluttered cloakroom filled with old mackintoshes and Wellington boots. The dogs scampered inside. India sent them scuttling down a passage, then closed the door quietly behind them.

      He laid his gun down on a wooden bench and slipped off his jacket, hanging it next to hers. Then he followed her up the worn carpeted staircase and along a wide passage lined with ancient volumes. He glanced up, fascinated by the carved bookcases. The coat of arms seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Nor could he explain his sudden sense of anticipation. He’d felt it before on two previous occasions in his life, both of which had been momentous. But perhaps it was just the mist and the enchantment of the place that were juggling his senses. This was Scotland, after all.

      He smiled to himself as they reached the end of the corridor, realizing that, whatever the feeling was, it felt good. He stepped forward and opened the door for India, allowing her to pass through into the library, and was immediately struck by the room’s warm, inviting atmosphere. The fire burned nicely amid seventeenth-century blue-and-white Delft tiles surrounding the grate, and, as in the passage, ancient volumes covered the walls from floor to ceiling. It was another example of that delightful shabby chic—as Diana Kinnaird referred to it—that enchanted him in Scotland and at which the British excelled.

      “You Brits have a wonderful way of making everything feel as though it’s been around forever,” he remarked with a smile as they moved into the room, glancing at the tea tray strategically placed on a huge ottoman that stood between two sofas upholstered in bottle-green velvet. Some fringed paisley cushions and a cashmere throw were strewn on one, and a huge English sheepdog snoozed peacefully in the corner of the other.

      “It’s in our genes.” Her eyes sparkled with sudden amusement. “Good quality, well-worn, not necessarily expensive but always comfortable. The phone’s over there by the way,” she added, pointing to a partner’s desk that dominated the wall on the opposite side of the room. It stood alone between two high windows framed by sagging drapes whose faded pattern melted lazily into the shadows. All of the pieces blended congenially. The faded chair covers, the books, the mahogany furniture and even the threadbare Kurdistan rug before the fireplace appeared undisturbed by the passage of time.

      “The number should be on that blue pad next to the phone,” she remarked, moving toward the fireplace and rubbing her arms. “It was really getting freezing out there.”

      “Lying on damp ground in mid-November isn’t going to warm you up,” he remarked, picking up a somewhat wilted pad with numbers scribbled all over it. He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the writing. Some of the figures had been crossed out, others written over. The whole thing was so indistinct he wondered how on earth the inhabitants of this place knew where they were calling.

      “Can’t you find it?” India asked.

      He looked up and grinned. “Sorry, but this writing is pretty hard to make out. Maybe you know which number it is.”

      “It should be about the third one down.”

      “That says old MacFee, I think,” he said doubtfully.

      “That’s right. He’s the local taxi driver. There is only one in the