by Jill Jones
A simple act. A responsible one.
And one he hadn’t given a thought to at the time. Not until he’d heard the ambulance, and his friend from the police had knocked on his door, his face grave and ashen.
Duncan would never forget that look.
Three crosses now stood in the churchyard near the edge of town. He visited them from time to time, less frequently as the years went by. He had loved Meghan, in spite of her reckless ways and the fact he knew she had not always been faithful to him. But the boys, oh, Christ, how he’d loved them. He would have stayed with their mother no matter what for the sake of Peter and Jonathan.
But now they were dead.
Salt spray lashed his face, tasting like tears. He forced the powerful boat onward, lunging across the waves, speeding over the coastal waters as if the air rushing past his face would blow away his torment.
Reaching a point far away enough from the Ladysgate to avoid the submerged rocks but close enough to check out the area, Duncan shifted into idle, slowing the boat and letting it bob among the waves. He took out his binoculars and surveyed the shoreline, but he saw no sign of life nor any debris that would indicate a shipwreck. He tried to focus on the water near the arched formation, but he was too far away to see anything in the deepening shadow it cast across the waves. Cautiously, he moved the boat forward again. The rocks that lurked beneath the surface posed little threat at the moment, for they were sufficiently covered by the high tide. But a high tide did not mean the absence of a strong current. Duncan inched his way over the ocean’s floor lest he be caught in the treacherous current that had earned its reputation as a killer.
And then he thought he saw something. A tiny dot of orange stood out against the dark water, spotlighted by a ray of lingering sunlight. Duncan’s heart began to beat harder. It looked like a life jacket.
An empty life jacket.
Acting on impulse, he revved the engines and sped toward the floating object which drifted just the other side of the Ladysgate. As he neared the maw of the giant monument, he realized his mistake. With a sudden sickening horror, he saw that the force of the current was overpowering his ability to steer clear. Frantic, he turned the wheel, trying to make his way back toward the open sea, but he succeeded only in turning the boat dangerously broadside to the rocks. The sound of water being sucked through the narrow pass grew louder. He reached for his radio.
“Mayday! Mayday!” he called, furious that he’d let himself get caught in such a situation. “This is the motor vessel Intrepid. I’m located at the Ladysgate, south of Stonehaven. I’m caught in the current and have lost steerage. Mayday! Mayday!” He released the broadcast button, his voice clutching in his throat. “Oh, my God,” he uttered and watched helplessly as the force of nature dragged the craft between the legs of the archway.
Praying that he would somehow ride through the danger, he looked up to see what faced him on the other side. But instead of the clear view he’d had when he spotted the life jacket, he saw nothing but a wall of dense, swirling fog which swiftly enveloped him in its deadly embrace.
Robert Gordon made a fresh pot of coffee. The clock read two a.m. But the story unfolding before him was like history come alive, and with each entry he translated, he became ever more convinced it was authentic. He was especially intrigued with the entries that related to northeastern Scotland, his own home:
4 November 1562
Dunnottar Castle
We are at last en route to Edinburgh once again, and I welcome a respite from these sad affairs. I was forced to witness the execution of Sir John Gordon to give the lie to the stories he had spread that I had encouraged him in his wild matrimonial schemes. I deplore bloodshed, but the executioner was clumsy with his axe, making the ordeal even more dreadful. I am grateful for the hospitality of the Earl Marischal and his Countess, Lady Keith, here at the fortress of Dunnottar where I shall linger a few days until I regain our strength to continue the journey.
Riding south from Aberdeen along the coast, we came across a most remarkable rock formation. Our host the Earl called it the Ladysgate, for it is rumored to steal away fair maidens who pass through its portal into the land of the faeries, never to be seen again. We are disinclined to believe such nonsense. However, we found ourself wishing suddenly we could disappear through such a portal. Perhaps on the other side, in the land of the faeries, we would discover the peace and harmony so absent from our affairs in this land.
Chapter Six
Duncan expected his boat to be torn to shreds at any moment as the force of the current threatened to drive it onto the rocks he knew littered the subsurface along this coastline. The closer to shore it impelled him, the greater the danger. He pressed the broadcast button on his radio and once again called for help, but the air waves were strangely silent, and after a few moments, he gave up. If anyone was near, they would have heard him and would bring help. And if not, well, he wouldn’t be the first mariner to meet his fate in this place.
The fog seemed to thicken even more, for now he could see nothing further than the hand in front of his face. Knowing it was safer to do nothing at all at the moment rather than try to fight the current and fog to avoid rocks he couldn’t see, Duncan switched his engines to idle, allowing the boat to make its own way on the current. It rocked and bobbed almost gently, the soft, gray shroud muffling the sound of the engines. Duncan’s skin crawled at the eerie calm. He sensed its false security.
Hastily, he felt his way around the boat, gathering a few emergency items and zipping them into the pockets of his waterproof suit. A flashlight, a hand-held radio, a compass, a small first aid kit, a tin of sardines, a flask of whiskey. And then he sat at the helm and waited.
It was imperceptible at first, the sensation of changing directions, but Duncan felt the boat begin to turn about. His heartbeat, already racing with apprehension, slammed against his chest. Was the tide turning? Could he make it safely back to open water?
His hope turned to icy terror, however, as he realized the vessel wasn’t just turning about, but rather was beginning to spin. Whirlpools were common in these waters. Had he become caught in the vortex of one of the powerful surges created by the clash of currents?
Oh, God.
To his further alarm, he heard the engines shut down. What in hell had caused that? He had plenty of fuel.
The craft swirled and churned in the clutches of the current for what seemed an eternity. Duncan, fingers white on the useless steering wheel, felt the boat scrape and knock against hard rock as it was swept even closer to shore. He closed his eyes and met images of his sons. If he died now, would he meet them on the other side? He wasn’t a religious person, but the thought gave him comfort.
And then, oddly, it was over. The boat steadied itself and continued afloat, apparently unscathed. Duncan let out a long breath and tried to see through the fog, which seemed to be dissipating. He heard a sound like tires scrunching over a gravel driveway and was thrown forward slightly. The vessel continued to rock, but Duncan knew it was no longer totally afloat. Cautiously, he left the helm and made his way toward the bow. The waves continued to buffet the boat from astern, pushing it further each time onto the sandy shore.
He released a hoarse expletive into the mist, but being aground was better, he decided, than being sunk. Securing a heavy line to a forward cleat, he scrambled down the ladder and tied the rope around an enormous rock, wedging it beneath its weight, leaving some slack for tidal changes. Nothing short of a hurricane would free it.
Duncan heaved a sigh of relief, grateful to be alive. He had no idea how he would ever get the boat out of this pickle, but for the moment, it and he were safe. He should have listened to his own advice and stayed away from the Ladysgate. And then he thought about his reason for coming here in the first place.
The non-emergency rescue of Taylor Kincaid and the two young men who had accompanied her. And Fergus McGehee. Disgusted at his overreaction, Duncan emitted a guttural sound and started clim
bing the hill toward the road at its crest that led to Stonehaven.
Upon reaching the summit, however, he saw no sign of the road. He frowned and scratched his head. Damned strange. How could he have missed it? He took out his compass and knew he hadn’t lost his way. The road should be here. Right where he stood. Maybe it was a few paces further on. The fog continued to cloak the area, obscuring visibility. Maybe he hadn’t walked far enough.
But half a mile further on, Duncan sensed something was wrong. He knew these parts. He’d grown up here. The village where he’d spent many summers with his grandmother was nearby, and he’d roamed these high moors like a wild goat when he was a lad.
It was impossible that he was lost.
Ahead, he made out the faint outline of a cottage. He picked up his pace and headed toward it. Maybe he could get a lift back to Stonehaven from the farmer. But as he approached, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. This was no ordinary cottage or farm shelter. If he didn’t know better, he would swear it was a…a crofter’s lodge. He’d seen such places in the Highlands, but modern construction had long ago replaced such primitive hovels in this part of Scotland.
“What the hell?” Duncan asked aloud. He went to the front door, which was low and made of rough planking, and knocked. No answer. He raised the wooden latch and cautiously opened the door.
“Hello? Is anyone here?” Receiving no reply, he stepped inside, where it was warm and dark and smelled of wood smoke. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom of the dusky cottage. When his gaze fell upon the chair by the fireplace, he raised his brows and drew in his breath sharply. Feminine lingerie lay scattered atop heavier garments—several sweaters and a jacket. He glanced around and spied a lump on a small cot against the wall. Perceiving that someone was sleeping under a brown blanket, Duncan started to return to the door and knock louder, when the lump stirred and tossed long blonde hair as it turned to face him in its slumber.
Taylor Kincaid.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Duncan said, awash with relief that she was safe. But what in the hell was she doing here?
Asleep.
Naked.
His noise did not awaken her. She appeared to be in a deep sleep, so Duncan allowed his gaze to linger upon her. She lay with her head propped on one arm, the other long slender limb curled gently atop the coverlet. Her shoulders were bare, and her skin glowed in creamy silkiness in the firelight. He stared at her openly, hungrily, and felt a long-forgotten desire tighten his gut. Her face was a study in delicate beauty, relaxed now as it was, unetched by care and determination. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight and narrow, and pale blonde eyebrows arched gently against a broad forehead. She could be a model, Duncan thought, and then remembered that she was instead a TV star.
And then he saw the bruise.
It was just beneath her left eye. At first he thought it was a play of the light, but stepping closer, he saw an ugly purple mark on her fine skin. His desire changed to alarm. What had happened to her? Had someone struck her, knocked her unconscious and…
He glanced at the pile of clothes. He didn’t want to think about it, that she might have been attacked, raped, and left for dead. The nausea of dread sickened him. Don’t let it be, he prayed as he stepped toward her and gently touched her shoulder. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers.
“Miss Kincaid?” He shook her slightly. “Are you all right?”
Taylor’s eyelids flew open and she let out a small, startled scream. “Who…what? What are you doing here?” she demanded, scrambling to a sitting position, her arms poised to strike. Duncan felt his own relief that he had been mistaken in concluding that she was the victim of foul play. She seemed quite capable of defending herself.
“I…came looking for you,” he said gruffly, trying to ignore the fact that the blanket had slipped, exposing the top of her breasts. “When McGehee’s boat didn’t return, I got worried. What happened to you?”
Only then did a bleak, frightened look cross her face, replacing the earlier confidence. She drew the blanket closer about her and ran a hand through her hair, brushing it away from her face. She gingerly touched the bruise and winced. “I…I’m not sure. Where are the others? Have you seen Barry and Rob and…what was the captain’s name? Fergus? Is everyone okay? What about the boat…?”
“How about one question at a time?” Duncan replied with a quiet patience that belied his anxiety to learn what had happened to her. He knelt and took the flagon of whiskey from his pocket. “Have a sip of this. It’ll warm you.”
Her gaze locked on his for a long moment before taking the whiskey, and he saw there half frightened animal, half curious television reporter.
He also thought he might drown in those blue depths.
She took a swallow of the single malt whiskey and made a face as the amber liquid slid down her throat. “Where are the others?” she said, her voice raspy.
“I don’t know,” he answered, wishing he had better news for her. “What happened? Did the boat go down?”
Taylor returned the flask and shivered. “I don’t know exactly what happened. It seemed like we were being drawn, sucked almost, toward that dreadful rock. Fergus tried, I know he did, to get away, but the last I remember, I was flung overboard. I..I don’t know what happened to the boat, or to…” She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, stifling a sob. “Oh, God, I wish I’d never gone near that place…”
Duncan, a veteran of regret, reached for her hand. Her fingers felt small and cold beneath his, like a child’s. He wanted to embrace her and comfort her, but he refrained, afraid of the danger of the physical attraction he felt toward her. He cleared his throat. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll find them.” He looked around. “I don’t see a telephone in this place, and I have no idea who lives here. Maybe we should start back for town.”
He half expected her to pull away from him, but instead, she squeezed his hand and gave him a weary smile. “Thank you. I think I’m okay. Maybe a little bruised here and there. I must have been knocked unconscious. I’m lucky I was washed ashore. I don’t think I ever even got my life jacket on…” Then her bottom lip began to quiver in spite of her effort to keep a brave face. “I…I hope the rest…”
Duncan returned the squeeze, then released her hand and stood up. “I’m sure they’re fine,” he said, sounding more confident than the felt. “If that damned McGehee had any sense, you’d not be in this predicament.”
“It was not his fault,” Taylor flared. “I’m the one who insisted…”
“And he’s the one who took you, the greedy bastard.”
“Get out of here! What right have you to come barging in on me like this anyhow?”
He heard fear and near-hysteria in her voice, but suddenly, his earlier concern and sympathy were overwhelmed by anger and disgust at the recklessness displayed by the pair of them. What if those two young men had been lost? Whose fault would it be? They worked for this woman. They followed her orders. If she had insisted on making the trip, had they had any choice in whether or not to go along?
He really didn’t want to know. “Get dressed,” he ordered, his jaw tightening. “I’ll check on my boat and wait for you outside.”
“Don’t bother,” Taylor called to the burly figure that ducked out of the low doorway. Fergus was right. The damned man thought he was God.
And yet she was utterly grateful that he’d come looking for her.
Throwing back the rough woolen coverlet, Taylor hurried on tiptoe to the chair where her clothing was now crisp and dry by the fire. She slipped into her panties and bra, appalled that she’d stripped bare and gone to sleep, leaving herself so vulnerable to anyone who happened along. What if the owner of the cottage had stumbled in and had not been the same sort of gentleman that Duncan Fraser, God complex and all, had proven to be? It wasn’t like her to be so foolish.
She noticed a few more bruises as she hurried into the rest of her clothing, but other than that, she seemed
unscathed by her ordeal. She dreaded another boat ride, but she would be glad to get back to Stonehaven and the warmth of a hot bath—if the innkeeper had left the water heater on. She hoped fervently she’d find the others there, safe and sound.
Outside, she was dismayed to find the daylight almost gone. “What time is it?” she asked the man who was clad head-to-toe in bright yellow vinyl and who, she decided suddenly, looked more like a Martian or some kind of cartoon character than he did God. Irrationally, Taylor began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
She laughed harder. She laughed until her sides ached. Until her mouth hurt. Until she became aware that she was no longer laughing but rather sobbing hysterically in the arms of the yellow Martian.
“Shhhh,” he said, holding her against him, enfolding her in his strong arms. He rocked her gently until she caught her breath and calmed down. Taylor closed her eyes, grateful that this man did not laugh at her weakness. In fact, he seemed to understand her terror. She leaned into his broad chest and did not move for a long while, letting his quiet strength steady her trembling body, calm her jangled nerves. For the first time in many years, she allowed someone to be stronger than herself. Recalling Fergus’ accusation that Duncan sometimes thought he was God, she smiled. Right now, that was okay with her.
She didn’t mind being held in the arms of God.
The thought threatened to set off another round of hysterical laughter, which she squelched with a determined swallow.
“I’m okay now,” she murmured, gathering her own strength at last and pulling away from him. “Let’s go. Where’s your boat?”
“We’re not going by boat.”
“Why not?”
A dark look clouded Duncan’s ruggedly handsome face. “She’s aground.” He pointed down the hill, and her eyes widened when she saw the large vessel sitting high and dry on the pebbly sand.