The Legend of Lady MacLaoch Read Free Page A

the tinkle echoing through the phone. “It’s unladylike.”
    “Mother,” I said, before she could get any further with her favorite line of reprimand. “The name?”
    “Oh yes. It says here that the name your cousin found actually came off of the back of a photograph. Did you know that that was what started this all? He thought he found a picture of his daddy as a boy in a box full of old photos, so he showed Grandpappy. Turns out, that was what he was asking him down there at the end of the table—who this man was, and how they’d gotten the picture to look so old! Well, it turns out that they aren’t teachin’ cursive in schools anymore ’cause his name was right there on the back! Ha! Can you believe it?” Her drink gave strength to her Carolina accent.
    I took a deep breath. “That’s nice, Mother. So what was that name on the back of the photograph?”
    She took a sip of her drink, smacked her lips, and said, “Iain Eliphlet Minary.”

CHAPTER 4 S cotland is like my university town of Portland—it rains. A lot. And based on the breakfast that sat before me on my first day in the little town of Glentree, Scotland, food and drink were the staples for keeping the dreariness at bay. I stared at the food—a bowl of porridge (offered with or without whisky, but definitely without the e in whisky ), eggs, sausage, toast, bacon, grilled tomato, and potatoes—and it stared back at me in challenge.
    Carol, my host and owner of the stone, three-story Victorian-era townhome where I was staying, moved about the breakfast room tidying up after the other guests, who had already left. The room was small and quaint, with old wooden tables polished to a shine and vases of flowers filling the space with their own brand of cheery sunshine.
    Carol had wild auburn hair and a warm, motherly attitude that I knew could change at a moment’s notice, should something or someone get out of line. She was married to Will, whom I hadn’t met yet because he did the cooking. They had bought the townhome to turn into a bed-and-breakfast as a fun retirement project. I had gotten all that by the time I took my first sip of tea.
    “Carol,” I asked as I mopped up the remnants of my egg yolk and sausage with a piece of toast, “is there a historical society in Glentree?”
    Carol paused a moment. “Historical society? Like the history of Glentree?”
    “Well, not exactly. I’m doing genealogy research.” Thinking about it, I amended, “Yes, I suppose the history of Glentree would be a good place to start.”
    “Your family started on Skye? Well isnae that lovely. Let me see. I’m not really sure but ye should probably want tae visit the library first. ’Tis a good place tae do research, aye. Oh! And truly each castle on the island has deep history as well and might be a great source of knowledge.”
    “Excellent.” Castles, I thought dreamily, and pictured myself sitting at an ancient desk, thumbing through volumes of antiquated texts, surrounded by the intoxicating musk of old books. “Thank you, Carol. Do you have the names of the castles I shouldn’t miss?”
    “Aye, well, I would ask the research librarian at the library, Deloris. The ones I can think of are Castle Laoch, Dunvegan, Eilean Donan, and Clan Donald has Castle Armdale and a very prolific history as well.” Carol tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Come now, what is your ancestor’s name? Maybe with a stroke o’ luck, I’ll have heard o’ him, aye?” she said and winked at me.
    I smiled back at her. “That would be some luck. His name is Iain Eliphlet Minary,” I said, careful to roll the r , as they did here.
    Carol’s hand dropped. “Who?”
    “Oh, uh. Iain Eliphlet Minary,” I said again, wary of her reaction and thinking that I’d just sworn in Gaelic.
    She relaxed a little. “Oh, I though ye said Minory, spelt with an o .” She shook her head and gazed out the window, her face taking on an unusual look of profound regret and stern