by Jill Jones
Taylor leaned toward Fergus. “Can you take me there?”
He gave an uneasy laugh. “Now? ‘Twould hardly be a good idea in this storm,”
“Of course not now. I’m a film producer, not a fool. But your story is interesting. I’d like to see this granite arch, by the light of a sunny day.”
“If th’ rain lets up, I’ll take you there tomorrow,” Fergus offered. “Y’ can see it from land, but y’ canna get to it because th’ level of th’ ocean has raised up over th’ past centuries and th’ shoreline has eroded. Th’ best view’s from th’ sea.”
“The sea? You mean we have to go there by boat?” The adventure suddenly lost its lustre. She wasn’t afraid of boats, but neither was she fond of them.
“Aye,” Fergus smiled at her hesitation. “But there is nothing t’ worry about. I am a seasoned captain.”
Taylor heard a stir from a booth in the far corner of the room and realized suddenly someone had been sitting in the shadows watching them, listening. The man now stood up, his tanned, rugged face set in hard lines, his eyes hard, almost angry. The height and breadth of his body seemed to fill the room as he approached them. Taylor’s eyes grew wide, and she felt her heart lurch.
“Stay away from those rocks, Fergus,” he growled, his ice-blue eyes fierce beneath heavy brows that were drawn tightly together. “You have been warned before.”
Fergus McGehee looked up at the man, and Taylor saw the color drain from his face. “Ye’ll not be tellin’ me what t’ do, Fraser,” he replied hotly, standing to meet his opponent.
The man called Fraser walked slowly over to the table where Taylor sat with her equally wide-eyed young companions, wondering if these two grizzly-sized men were about to exchange blows. Fraser glared first at Fergus, then allowed his gaze to travel over the rest of the locals who had drawn around the storyteller. “You people know better than this,” he said, as if he were a grandfather admonishing wayward children. “Don’t stir up trouble.”
Then he turned his attention to Taylor. The electric blue eyes seemed to burn straight through her.
“It is no ancient curse that causes people to disappear through the Ladysgate, Miss Kincaid,” he explained with a somewhat patronizing attitude. “It is the giant boulders that lie beneath the surf…and the foolish sailors who dare to bring their craft into those treacherous waters.” He looked again at Fergus. “You’ve been cited before. Stay out of there, or I’ll personally see to it your license is revoked…permanently.”
With that, he strode toward the front door, reached for a yellow vinyl jacket that hung on a coat rack there, and shrugged into it as he stepped out into the storm.
Behind him, the group murmured among themselves and broke up, moving back into the room where Taylor had played darts. She looked across at Fergus. “Who was that?” she asked, frowning. She was confused and disturbed by the instant and electric attraction she had felt toward the man who had just left. “What was that all about?”
“He’s Duncan Fraser,” Fergus replied coldly, the good nature gone completely from his voice. “He takes care of problems out on th’ rigs. But he’s also a Master Mariner and the Harbormaster, and head of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution here.
“And sometimes…” he added sourly, “…he thinks he’s God.”
Dodging the sheets of water that poured from roofs and gutters, Duncan pulled his collar closer about him, wishing for all his life he’d never laid eyes on the blonde. But there was no way he could have ignored her. From the moment she walked in the front door, her presence seemed to permeate and enliven the whole place. And watching her throw darts in the next room, her body trim and athletic, her stance bold, her eyes shining at the challenge, his attraction to her had been immediate and visceral. It wasn’t just her fresh-faced, feminine appeal that had kept his eyes riveted on her, but rather a way she had about her, a confidence, a radiance, a daring…
How on earth had she ended up in his accustomed lounge bar? Few Americans, especially sexy blonde American women with the brass to accept a challenge for a dart game, happened into the Hook and Eye. A part of him resented her, as if she had invaded his private space. For certain she had shattered his peace of mind.
Duncan had been about to leave, recognizing the threat she posed to his well-ordered, emotionally guarded existence, when she’d come back from her victory at darts, beer glass in hand, hair swinging, the flush of triumph on her face, and he’d found himself abruptly anchored to his chair, unable to run. Only when that idiot Fergus McGehee started spinning his nonsense had Duncan been able to gather his wits enough to mobilize.
He hoped the American woman wouldn’t listen to McGehee. Nobody had any business going near the Ladysgate. It was the most perilous stretch of water along the coast. But he’d seen the look in her eye. She was a daredevil, that one. Likely, she would persuade McGehee to take her to those damnable rocks where more than one fool had lost his life. Would the threat of losing his captain’s license be enough to keep Fergus away?
From the way the man had looked at Taylor Kincaid, he doubted it very much.
Duncan sloshed down the narrow streets of the ancient village that had been his home for all of his thirty-nine years, heading like a homing pigeon for the harbor, annoyed at how the American woman had so easily thrown him off balance. Yet strangely, he felt as if he’d just been given a jumpstart or something. He suddenly noticed the cool prick of the rain against his skin, the vivid yellow of his jacket, the smell of the ocean in the air. Not that these were anything unusual. It was just unusual that he noticed them.
Rubbish. Of course he’d noticed things like that before.
He was on RNLI duty today, and even though he hadn’t received any summons on his cell phone, he decided to check in at the Life-Boat station, just in case. In a storm such as this, one never knew when a call would come.
Besides, he had nothing else to do.
The Royal National Lifeboat Institution maintained a post in a cramped, weathered building near Duncan’s own office at the edge of the harbor. The boats of fishermen were moored there, along with other larger vessels, his own included, most of which ferried men and materials to the many off-shore rigs that sucked oil from beneath the ocean floor. As the volunteer harbormaster, Duncan Fraser was vigilant always in his stewardship of these ships that were in his keeping.
Letting himself into the protection of the one-room shack, he knelt and lit a fire in the small stove, then shook out of his jacket and hung it on a nail hammered into the wall. Glancing at the answering machine, he noted that the red light burned steady. No calls from landside. He tuned in the calling channel on the VHF and listened for a few moments, but there was almost no radio traffic.
Quiet day. Surprising in this weather. But sometimes storms kept prudent sailors in port. It was the calm, flat days that often proved more deadly, when fog crept in on the unsuspecting seaman, stealing away all visibility, turning the world into a white-shrouded nightmare. Duncan dreaded fog rescues the most.
After checking with his regular contacts on the rigs, Duncan contented himself that all was well for the moment. He picked up a magazine and settled into his wooden swivel chair, propping his feet on the desk. He opened the glossy pages and stared at them, but his thoughts raced immediately to the forbidden, and the image of Taylor Kincaid filled his consciousness.
It had been four years, no…much longer than that if he were honest about it, since Duncan had felt that kind of spontaneous, gut-level attraction. In fact, he wondered if he’d ever been drawn this powerfully to a woman. With Meghan, it had been different. He’d fallen in love with her as a schoolboy. They’d grown up together, and the allure was somehow…different. Less intense. Less…sexual.
Oh, damn, he had to stop thinking like this.
Slamming down the magazine, Duncan went to the sink and filled a ceramic mug with water. He plugged in an immersible water heater and moments later sifted a packet of instant coffee into the cup. The bit
ter drink warmed him, but he could not sit still. He stalked the office like a caged animal. What was wrong with him? In foul weather, he was usually content to read, work a word puzzle, wait in patience knowing that at any moment he might have to respond to trouble, whether on the rigs or on the sea.
But not this evening. Unable to settle into his normal routine, he finished the coffee, donned his jacket again, and stepped out into the storm. He began the long climb up a nearby footpath that led to the top of the hill, pretending he was going there to scan the shoreline in case a mariner had gone aground. But he knew that was a lie. When he reached the crest where the roadway curved sharply in a tight U away from the ocean and continued its climb up onto the lonesome moors, he stopped.
Instead of looking out to sea, he looked straight down. As he always did. The railing had been repaired long ago, and the scrubby gorse had grown over the ugly scars in the underbrush left by the plummeting vehicle, but Duncan could see it all, just as it had been that night. Oblivious to the weather, he stood and stared down the steep slope where Meghan’s car had lurched over the cliff in the darkness, taking with it everything in his life that he had loved and cherished.
Chapter Four
Robert Gordon returned from the library thoroughly perplexed. None of the librarians or historians to whom he had spoken had ever heard of the Scottish Rose. They had suggested he contact some of the history professors, but he didn’t have the luxury of that kind of investigation. It wasn’t a mysterious rose chalice that concerned him at the moment, or served his interests. It was the diary.
His facility with the French language was rusty to say the least, and it had taken him a good hour to translate the first diary entry. It was late, and he was tired, and yet, at one entry per hour, it would take him a couple of days to finish. Did he have a couple of days?
No. But he could work at home, where he could have a bite to eat and a pot of fresh coffee to keep him awake.
He wrapped the fragile diary carefully in a sheet of newspaper and placed it in his briefcase. He donned his weatherproof coat again, turned out the light in the office, and walked in the rain the few blocks to his apartment. He was oblivious to the weather, however, because his mind wasn’t on his surroundings. Rather, it was on a time long, long ago, and the book in his briefcase. Most remarkable, he thought, that it had come into his hands. He could hardly wait to see what secrets it might reveal. A short time later, by the light of the swag lamp over his kitchen table, he resumed his translation where he had left it off:
30 October 1562
Aberdeen
The dreadful Huntly affair has at last come to an end. What started as a visit to our Highland dominions has ended in the downfall of one of our most dangerous enemies, ironically also our sole Catholic ally, John Gordon Lord Huntly. He was Catholic only when it suited him, however, and hungry for power—one of the most contentious lords in our land. I have reason to believe that because of our mutual religion he sought to murder Lord James, and Maitland and Morton had we stopped at Strathbogie. We believe he sought to establish a Catholic coup and marry us off to his loathesome son, Sir John Gordon.
He was present in Edinburgh Castle when we vowed upon the Scottish Rose to bring peace and religious tolerance to our country, but he scorned our good will. He has paid dearly for that mistake. I bestowed upon our brother Lord James the northern Earldom of Moray coveted by Huntly. I were forced to hang Alexander Gordon, Huntly’s son who refused us entrance to our own castle at Inverness. James accompanied us on this northern invasion, and through his valor, we were victorious on the Hill of Fare. Huntly escaped in the end, but only into the arms of death, as the disgrace of defeat caused him to burst and swell, and he fell from his horse in front of his captors. His corpse has been disembowelled and embalmed in a keg of vinegar, and will stand trial in Edinburgh for his treasonous acts. It is as well he will not be witness to the execution of Sir John, which will eliminate one more traitor, even though Catholic. It will be difficult for us to explain these actions to our Holy Father.
Robert Gordon let out a low whistle. He knew well the grisly story of Huntly’s pickled corpse being tried by the Queen. As for the rest of the details in this entry, they could be easily checked in the history book he had brought with him from the library.
It was late, but adrenaline and the constraint of time urged Robert Gordon to turn to the next page.
The following morning, the rain had ceased, but the sky remained a leaden gray, and the sea roiled beneath the keel of the small fishing boat. Taylor swallowed over her growing nausea, wishing she hadn’t been so headstrong in her demand to go to the granite arch known as the Ladysgate. Still, this trip was not a vacation, and since the locals had assured her this was by far the most intriguing legend in all of Scotland, she was anxious to find out if it was indeed a valid myth around which to build a show.
“Don’t you think we should turn back?” she shouted into the wind toward the man who stood at the helm with his back to her. But Fergus McGehee did not reply, and Taylor realized he couldn’t hear a word she said. He looked strong, at ease in spite of the rough seas and fretful weather, and Taylor attempted to take comfort from his assured manner. She glanced at Barry and Rob and grinned slightly. For once the two were speechless, both hanging onto the sides of the boat for dear life. They’d assured Taylor they were totally dauntless when they’d been hired for the production team, but their bravado, she noticed, was something of an overstatement.
She peered across the choppy water, hoping they were getting closer to their destination, and hoping as well they could put ashore nearby so she could regain her composure.
“‘Tis there, on th’ horizon,” Fergus called, turning his head to her, his voice carrying easily downwind. He pointed straight ahead.
Taylor squinted, focusing as hard as she could in the direction he indicated, but all she saw was the dark flat line of the horizon where it met a dull gray sky. Moments later, however, she discerned that the horizon was not flat at all, but rather a ridge of cliffs that dropped in a cascade of dark rock into the sea. As they came closer, she noted that to the right of the cliffs, green hills also rolled toward the sea, their slopes gentler, more approachable than the high craggy rocks.
And then she made out the Ladysgate. A huge, stone archway, it stood stark and naked and alone some ways out from shore. A shiver, but not from the cold, crawled down her spine. She had seen haunting sights before, but this one was remarkably eerie.
Taking her small digital camera from the waterproof bum-bag, as the waistline pouches were called here, she snapped off several shots for later reference, then secured the camera behind the zipper once again.
“Rob, why don’t you get some footage from here, then work into some close-ups when we get nearer?” she instructed the camera man. “And Barry, think we can get anything in this wind? I’ve got the lavaliere around my neck.”
“We can try, boss,” the young man said, reaching for the silver metal case that protected the sound equipment. “I hope this stuff doesn’t get wet.”
“Leave the equipment inside the case,” she instructed patiently. “Just crack the top open enough to get the cable out, then turn the case so the lid creates a windbreak. Here, hand me the cord, and I’ll plug in.”
She laughed to herself when she saw the mixture of skepticism and admiration on Barry’s face as he handed her the end of the sound cable. It was his first time in the barrel, but not hers. She’d gone on camera in worse places. He’d have to get used to it if he remained on her crew. Keeping her weight low, she eased forward, edging past the bulk of Fergus McGehee, who started in surprise.
“What’re you doing?” he asked in alarm.
“Going forward. I want to get some footage as we approach.”
Fergus shook his head. “Tis not a good idea. You’ll get soaked. Besides, we can’t get too close. There’s a strong tide and huge rocks just beneath the surface.”
“I’m not afraid of gettin
g wet. You just drive the boat and get us as close as you can. The telephoto will do the rest.”
But he suddenly slowed the engine, throwing the vessel forward abruptly in a surge of inertia before it achieved a stable course again. “Ahh-hh-hh!” Taylor cried out, grabbing for the back of a bench seat for support. “Watch it, would you?” She appreciated that Fergus had reverted to a slower, more comfortable speed, but she’d been damned near rocked overboard by the sudden unexpected motion, and her faith in the seamanship of the man she’d hired to take her on this trip slipped a notch.
Finally ensconced in the curve of the minimal metal bowsprit at the very front of the boat, Taylor managed to plug the cord into the mike and closed her expensive rain jacket over it securely. “Can you hear me? Testing. Testing…”
Barry nodded and gave her a thumbs up. She saw his lips move, but the wind stole away his words.
“Can’t hear you, so you’ll have to signal what you need,” she spoke loudly. “Am I audible?”
Another thumbs-up and an okay sign.
“Is Rob ready? Let me know when to start.” Taylor was used to improvising in front of a camera, because she always knew her material well beforehand. She’d queried Fergus for a long time the night before, after the man called Duncan Fraser had made his rude exit. Taylor had taken copious notes about the Ladysgate and the legend that surrounded it. Today might be her only chance to get the film she needed from this vantage point. She had no desire to make another trip by boat to this spot if she could avoid it.
She saw Rob hold up his hand and begin to count down by his fingers. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. He pointed at her.
“On the rugged coast of northeastern Scotland, a grim ridge of rocky cliffs and stony hillsides fall into a boulder-laced sea,” she began. “Nearby stands a granite archway, chiseled by wind and water over aeons, and now subsided into the ocean. This arch is called the ‘Ladysgate’ and through it, according to the legend told by those native to this bleak and barren land, many people, mostly women, have disappeared from time to time, never to be seen again. We are approaching the formation now by sea…”