Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(92)

Fenella shook her head. “I mentioned I wanted to contribute, seeing as Vivianna is a family problem really. Mrs. Truman was a tad…” Fenella hesitated then leaned forward and whispered dramatically, “upset.”

Abby could very well imagine Mrs. Truman’s “tad upset” being described, more aptly by an American as “having a conniption”.

She decided not to mention it to the older woman. She also decided to bake her some cookies. And, maybe, buy her a knick knack.

Or two.

“This will not do,” Mrs. Truman declared, walking back into the room, followed by Jenny.

And Jenny was followed by a man the like of which Abby had never seen.

Well, she had. In a movie. And blowing on a bagpipe.

But not in someone’s living room during afternoon tea.

He was wearing full Scottish gear, kilt, hose, ghillie brogues, garter flashes, knife in the hose, belt, sporran, the whole enchilada.

He came directly to Abby, arm out, his shock of white hair wild, his face red either from cold or it was that way normally, his crooked, slightly demented smile wide and his huge body lumbering ungainly across the room.

“Wee lass, am I happy to meet ye,” he declared, Abby put her hand in his and he pumped her arm so hard, her whole body shook. Jam splodged out of the scone in her other hand and splatted on her knee. “Uh. Sorry,” he mumbled, letting go of her hand, his eyes on the jam.

“That’s okay,” Abby murmured, dropping her scone on a plate and grabbing a napkin to wipe up the spill.

“Praise be!” he cried, Abby jumped, looked up at him and he shouted, “A fine beauty and a sweet lass. Nothing better for our native son.”

“Oh my,” Fenella whispered, eyes wide and staring at the Scot.

“Were none too happy, we Scots, when Cash Fraser found himself an American. But one as fine as you, lassie, we couldn’t be unhappy for long,” he told her and then gave her an exaggerated wink.

“This is preposterous,” Mrs. Truman announced, arms crossed on her chest, narrowed eyes on the Scotsman.

“Mrs. Truman, give him a chance,” Jenny mumbled. “We need all the help we can get.”

“I’ll give him a chance,” Mrs. Truman returned, “a chance to turn around and walk out my front door.”

“What’s this I’m hearing?” the Scotsman bellowed.

“Maybe you should tell us who you are,” Cassandra suggested, peering at him closely.

“Excellent idea,” the Scotsman declared and put his hands to his hips, planting his legs wide. “I’m Angus McPherson,” he told them as if that said it all, which it did not.

“You are not,” Mrs. Truman informed him irritably and he blinked.

“I’m not?” he asked.

“No one is really named ‘Angus McPherson’,” she stated.

He shook his head and then recovered.

“Well, I am,” he retorted.

“Are not,” Mrs. Truman shot back.

“Am too,” he roared on a forward lean.

“All right!” Abby cut in loudly, standing and facing Angus. “Why don’t you,” she stopped and turned to Jenny, “or maybe, Jenny, it should be you who tells us why Angus is here.”

Angus didn’t catch Abby’s hint.

“I’ll be hunting the ghost who wants to murder the true love of a Scotsman, that’s why I’m here,” Angus declared.

“Oh my,” Fenella said again.

“Um…” Abby began then was uncertain how to proceed so she went for the most obvious point, “I’m not his true love.”

“Balderdash!” he shouted.

“I’m not,” Abby insisted.

“I’ve seen the pictures, lass. That boy loves ye, make no mistake,” Angus decreed and Abby’s eyes went to Jenny who made a slight grimace and shrugged.

“Scones!” Angus boomed, “Jam! Cream! The only three things the English could ever do right.” Then he pushed forward toward the plates of food while the women tensed for The Truman Detonation to End All Truman Detonations.

They didn’t get it.

Instead, Mrs. Truman asked calmly, “Mr. McPherson, would you care to desist eating my food before you tell us how you’re going to make Abigail safe?”

“Don’t you worry, I got my ways,” Angus replied, cutting open a scone.

“Why don’t you share your… ways?” Mrs. Truman suggested but without it sounding even a bit like a suggestion but an awful lot like a demand.

“Can’t,” he returned, flipping open his scone, “family secret.”

“I’m afraid we’re not ready to rely on, nor pay for I might add, any ridiculous and likely ineffectual family secrets,” Mrs. Truman proclaimed.

Angus loaded cream on his scone. “Oh, I’ll not be expecting payment, woman. I’m doing this for a fellow Scot,” he boomed out the word “Scot” and all the women jumped except Mrs. Truman.

Then Cassandra murmured, her eyes on Angus, her voice strangely filled with awe, “Oh my Goddess, you’re The McPherson.”

Angus slopped an enormous spoonful of jam on his scone but his head turned to look at Cassandra and his loud voice had gone quiet when he replied, “That I am, lass.”