by Jeanne Rose
WHEN CAITLIN OPENED HER EYES again, bright sunlight streamed through the cottage windows. She groaned and turned over, stiff and sore from sleeping on top of the bedspread fully dressed.
She couldn’t remember falling asleep. She also wasn’t sure if she’d actually hitched a moonlight ride with a nameless man on horseback the night before or if she’d dreamed the episode.
Surely something uncommon had happened or she wouldn’t be lying there in her trench coat.
She rose slowly, groaning again, and went to the window to see if her car was parked outside. The drive was empty.
So she had hitched a ride.
And she certainly had been kissed.
The clock showed nine-twenty, still in time for breakfast. Hungry, Caitlin washed up, ran a brush through her hair and pulled on fresh clothing, then headed for the main house. Outside, she examined the damp earth and gravel for hoof prints, puzzled when she couldn’t seem to find any.
Entering the manor’s spacious entryway, she made her way down the hall. Several guests sat in the dining room beyond. The older American couple, silver-haired Professor Abernathy and his petite wife, were carrying on a lively conversation with the MacDonalds and Julian Taylor, the London antique dealer, all of whom Caitlin had met when she first arrived.
“Don’t think I’m not careful of the people I take in,” Mary MacDonald said firmly. “I accept only those who are referred by the agency in Glasgow. I don’t want the riff-raff. Why, Sally Campbell had an antique chest taken from her own home in Droon. And right beneath her very nose, too.”
Mrs. Abernathy clucked. “How terrible.”
Mary addressed Julian. “And have you ever been approached with such goods in your store?”
“Stolen articles?” Julian paused. “It’s hard to say for certain, but I hope not. I’d wager the thief who took that chest wanted it for himself.”
“Nevertheless, you have to be careful,” Professor Abernathy put in, between puffs on his pipe. “There are those who would steal the Loch Ness monster if they could get hold of it.”
Alistair MacDonald didn’t react to the other man’s humor. His rugged mustached face wore a disapproving expression. “I met man in Greece once who was ferreting out a huge chunk of marble column in his luggage.”
Julian shook his sleek head. Then he spotted Caitlin coming toward the group and broke into a smile. “Well, good morning, Miss Montgomery.”
“Caitlin,” she said. “Good morning everyone.”
“Yes. ’Tis a glorious day we’ll be having after the damp and fog of last eve,” Mary said.
Julian rose and pulled out a chair for her. “You’re looking lovely, as usual.”
“Thank you.”
Yesterday, Julian had gone out of his way to praise her rich auburn “Highland” hair after she’d admitted having a Scottish grandfather. Sitting, she spotted the platter of scones in the middle of the table. Her mouth watered.
“Is there any coffee left?” she asked Bridget, the plump cook and housekeeper.
“Aye, an’ some eggs and a wee bit o’ bacon, too, if ye will.”
“I know I should have been a bit more prompt.”
Mary waved an elegant ringed hand. “Don’t be worrying yourself. A vacation’s for relaxing. No strict schedules.”
Caitlin smiled. “That’s very gracious of you.”
“Living graciously is what we like to do best,” said Alistair.
Caitlin thought that was the truth, just as she was certain the MacDonalds didn’t really need the extra income from the bed and breakfast. A successful middle-aged businessman who’d retired early from his export/import business, Alistair had told her he now divided his time between his hobby of studying Scotland’s history and legend and joining his talkative wife in playing host to international visitors.
As soon as Bridget brought her a cup of coffee, Caitlin helped herself to a scone and slathered it with butter.
“Late night?” Julian asked.
“I left Inveraray later than I expected and got caught in the fog.”
“Find something fascinating in the town?”
She nodded. “Old tombstones with Celtic designs. I did several sketches.”
“And you’ll turn them into exquisite jewelry, I ween,” said Mary, smoothing a stray brown hair into her chignon. She turned to Mrs. Abernathy. “Caitlin is a famous artist.”
Caitlin laughed. “I only wish I were famous.” She’d been lucky enough to sell a line of her jewelry to a department store chain the year before. Her career as a designer was barely taking off. “I’m merely doing well.”
Well enough to please herself, at any rate. After years of pursuing her interest as a hobby and selling at craft fairs, she was finally able to concentrate on designing full-time. As well as a badly needed change of pace, this research trip would give her ideas for a new line that would allow her to explore Scotland’s past. Always fascinated with the mystical, this country would provide a goldmine of inspiration. She’d never thought she would get this far at such a young age.
Bridget delivered the eggs and bacon and Caitlin dug in.
Mary went on. “It’s especially nice that your new line will have an old Celtic theme.”
Mrs. Abernathy, a quiet motherly-looking woman asked, “Could you show us some of your creations?”
“I’m afraid most of my Celtic jewelry is only at the design phase.” Caitlin laid her fork aside to explain. “My older pieces are simpler, mostly fairies and castles and unicorns with crystal horns.”
“They sound lovely,” said Mrs. Abernathy.
Julian leaned closer to Caitlin and met her gaze steadily. “I would also like to see your jewelry or your sketches . . . whenever you’re willing to show them to me.”
The flirtatious Englishman was attractive enough in a blond, sharp-featured way. Around forty, intelligent and sophisticated, Julian would make a nice dinner date. Though he could hardly compete with the mysterious horseman from the night before – Mr. Cloak and Fiery Steed.
Uncomfortable at the memory, which still seemed difficult to believe, she ate her breakfast while Professor Abernathy and Alistair MacDonald re-introduced the topic of stolen artifacts.
“At least Scotland doesn’t have too many national treasures laying about that are portable,” said Abernathy. “You can’t pack Hadrian’s wall or standing stones into your suitcase.”
“Aye, but there still is gold about. Gold armor and weapons buried in those old Celtic cairns, they say,” Alistair pointed out. “At least according to legend, there’s supposed to be a wealth of gold beneath Black Broch. They say the castle was built atop the largest cairn of all.”
“But men dug in the past and never found it,” argued his wife.
Bridget hovered in the background. “Or they came up cold and dead.”
“I heard there were some deaths connected with the place,” Alistair admitted. “Maybe it has a curse like King Tut’s tomb.”
“It be far worse than any blathering curse,” muttered Bridget.
The mention of the old castle ruins sent a chill up Caitlin’s spine. She pushed her plate aside and changed the subject. “Is there a mechanic in Droon? My car stalled out near the crossroads last night.”
“Your car stalled?” Mary said in surprise. “And how is it that you got home? Surely you didn’t walk all that way?”
Caitlin felt her neck grow warm. “Actually, I got a ride.”
“From a shepherd?” asked Alistair. “Or someone from the village?”
Caitlin shrugged. “I assume the man lives near the Black Broch area. He didn’t tell me his name.”
Bridget was rigidly staring at her. “And just what would this man be lookin’ like?” asked the housekeeper.
“Mid-thirties, handsome, dark hair. He was riding a black horse.”
Alistair laughed. “You came home on horseback?”
Bridget’s eyes grew wide. “And ye met him at the crossroads?”
Uh
, oh. And what kind of superstitious proclamation was the housekeeper about to make now?
“A horseback ride by light o’ moon,” intoned Bridget, continuing to stare closely at Caitlin. “And handsome as Satan himself, weren’t he?”
“Is this man someone you know, Bridget?” Alistair asked as more chills crept up Caitlin’s spine.
“No one I know personal, praise the Lord.” She nervously twisted the dish towel she’d been holding and cautioned Caitlin, “Miss Montgomery, you should be puttin’ salt around all your doors and windows and nae be gang out again at night.”
Julian laughed. “Come now, what is this hocus-pocus?”
Bridget continued to speak to Caitlin as if they were alone in the room. “And nae be lookin’ out the glass at night, neither. God help you, meetin’ his eyes is a direct and true invitation.”
“Don’t scare her with your country myths, Bridget.”
“Warning her is a Christian duty, sir. Ah, and she could lose her soul along with her heart . . .”
“To whom?” asked Julian.
“The curse o’ Black Broch. The Guardian. He’s been there since time out o’ mind.”
Alistair MacDonald objected, “But Caitlin’s not after gold.”
“But he’s after her,” insisted Bridget. “He’ll be takin’ a lass when he’s of a mind to – some o’ them always up and disappears. My mother and my mother’s mother warned me about him. A guardian he may be, but he’s also a divil, a Demon Lover.”
Demon Lover.
Bridget’s words conjured the memory of a dark cloaked figure astride a great black horse, nose blowing flumes of white steam in the mist . . . and Caitlin wondered if she mightn’t be better off if her experience turned out to be a vision, after all.
She’d already had one experience with a dangerous man and she wasn’t about to court another.
CHAPTER TWO
DROON WAS A TINY, picturesque village that had once depended upon fishing. Boats still plied the town’s harbor and lobster pots sat on the pier, but the cobble-stoned main street featured a brand new tartan and souvenir store, as well as a small art gallery, an “historic” inn and a fancy tea shop. Caitlin stopped by the latter before picking up her car. Being early spring, she had her choice of linen-covered tables. The hostess, an iron-haired middle-aged woman was very attentive.
“Another wee cuppa tea?” she asked before Caitlin had even finished the first.
“Yes, please. And I’d like a second crumpet as well.”
The jelly-filled, buttery sweet rolls were addictive. As were the shop’s mouth-watering shortbread cookies and chocolate covered gateaux. Taking advantage of the “Land O’Cakes” meant exercising to offset the calories. Perhaps she’d walk in the surrounding hills after she retrieved her car from the mechanic the MacDonalds had recommended.
Thinking again about the breakdown made her shift uncomfortably in her seat. But then she knew her nerves were still bothering her after the incident in California. With each hour that passed, her encounter with the mysterious horseman seemed more and more like a dream. Not a nightmare, exactly, but eerie nevertheless. And yet she was certain his rescue had been real. So, who was he? Alistair agreed the stranger had to be someone who lived in the vicinity. Demon Lovers didn’t exist except in folk superstition or fairy tales.
Or art.
Caitlin thought about creating some ‘Demon Lover’ jewelry designs to exorcise her feelings. Expressing herself creatively always improved her mood. She pulled out the small sketchbook she always carried and started to doodle a horse’s head.
“Ah, now isn’t that bonnie,” said the shop’s hostess, returning with the tea pot and a crumpet. “Are you an artist?”
Caitlin nodded and self-consciously shut the sketchbook.
“There was a flock of artists in the village last summer,” the hostess prattled. “They weren’t a very talented group in my opinion. Why, one strange lad splashed colors onto his canvas every which way. Said he was painting important landmarks of Scottish history.” She snorted. “You should have seen his picture of Black Broch, a muddy mass of black and gray . . . with streaks of red, probably for blood, o’ course.”
Caitlin immediately saw the horseman in her mind’s eye, the image tainted by the mention of blood. “The ruins above the crossroads?”
“Aye. The scene of many a bloody battle, don’t you know. One Laird buried a whole regiment alive in a stony pit. They say the screams of the poor trapped souls could be heard for miles.”
Caitlin shivered. “A gruesome history.”
The hostess nodded. “The lad claimed he even heard the screams himself.”
“Probably a bad dream.” Caitlin wondered if the artist could be her mystery man. “What did this guy look like?”
“Umm, short and plain of face. A bit on the stout side.”
“Oh.” Not her midnight rider.
Before leaving the tea shop, Caitlin asked the hostess if she knew of anyone who fit the mystery man’s description. The woman said no. As did the elderly pharmacist who owned the chemist shop next door.
“You can be certain no one lives in or near that pile of rocks,” the pharmacist insisted, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Not unless it’s Auld Sandy, I suppose, passing through with his flock of sheep.”
Caitlin grasped at any possibility. “Old Sandy?”
“Aye, stay out of his way. The poor soul is crazy.” Obviously aware of Caitlin’s intense interest, the man explained, “Auld Sandy is half-wild, a hermit of sorts. He’s lived alone up in the mountains for years with his sheep and people say that he cannot speak English at all any more. He just ba-a-as.”
Caitlin eliminated Old Sandy from contention.
“Some people say there’s only ewes in Sandy’s flock and they follow him for love,” the pharmacist went on, taking Caitlin’s money and handing her change. “And why not? He probably smells and looks like a sheep himself by now.”
Despite herself, Caitlin joined the elderly man in laughter. “I’ll give Old Sandy a wide berth if I happen to run into him.” Though she couldn’t say the same for the mysterious rider, who was handsome enough to appeal to any woman, even if he might not attract sheep.
But Caitlin wasn’t smiling when she entered the mechanic’s place, a new tin-roofed garage that had been built between two stone houses. Jack, the sturdy, bushy-browed, grubby man who’d repaired her car, showed her a thick handful of blackened wires. “Look it this, will ye? Burnt to a crisp. It’s a wonder yer engine dinna blow up in flames.”
Caitlin frowned. “What causes burned out wires?”
“A fire in the engine.”
“But I didn’t see any smoke.”
“Tha’s wha’ I’m tellin’ ye,” Jack said. “’Twasn’t no fire. The engine is nae damaged at all.” He held up the wires again. “So how could this happen?”
Puzzled herself, Caitlin admitted, “You’ve got me.”
The mechanic shook his head and led her to the work table near the wall. “Wha’ a mystery.” He gave Caitlin a receipt and she paid him, though the car rental agency would reimburse her. “Nearly makes a man believe in fairy fire.”
The statement made Caitlin pause and stare. “What?”
“Ah, ’tis nothing but a bairn’s tale. Ye know, magical flames that burn blue and eat up some things while nae touching others.”
Remembering reading about the legend as a child, Caitlin nodded. “The type of fire that doesn’t smoke.” The appearance of her mystery man had certainly been the stuff from which legends were made. “Say, do you know of anyone who lives near Black Broch – a tall, dark man of about thirty-five or so? He’s good-looking, has black hair, rides a black horse.”
Jack’s reply was decisive. “Sorry, I dunno anyone who fits tha’ particular description.” Then he fixed his bushy gaze on her. “Wha’ were ye doing about Black Broch anyway? MacDonald said yer car up and died there in the middle of the night. Sometimes there be smugglers abo
ut even in this modern day.”
“Smugglers?”
“Aye, men who bring in goods by sea. Desperate, dangerous men. Ye should be careful.”
And with that abrupt pronouncement, Jack left her to take care of another customer who had entered the garage.
Dissatisfied with all that she’d heard of Black Broch and the explanations of who her mystery man might be, Caitlin drove out of town. Instead of stopping somewhere near her bed and breakfast, she found herself heading directly for the crossroads. Though nobody seemed to know the midnight rider, she was drawn to the site of their encounter, her fascination nearly morbid after hearing tales of bloody battles and smugglers.
Besides, she rationalized, she had her Demon Lover designs to work on and where better than in this atmospheric place.
Hoping she wasn’t tempting fate, she pulled over on the road where she’d left the car two nights before. Frozen to her seat for a moment, she stared out the window at the cairns nearby, then the ruins of the aged castle on the promontory above, dark stones that brooded against the clear blue afternoon sky.
Black Broch put her on her guard even while drawing her closer.
Climbing the steep hill would certainly be good exercise, and she was thankful she’d worn walking shoes with her casual sweater and pants. She locked her purse in the trunk, took her sketchbook and set off. She was nearly out of breath by the time she reached the top of the promontory and she paused to lean against a fallen stone. Glancing up, she noticed a falcon coasting on the updrafts high overhead. The bird dipped its wings and drifted lower.
Black Broch was larger than it looked from the road, Caitlin discovered as she explored. And as forbidding up close as its reputation. Only parts of the structure were still intact. Near the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea loch, a couple of towers stood tall and solid, their narrow slits of windows once meant to protect the inhabitants from enemy arrows. Castellated walls that had crumbled in places connected the towers and surrounded a weedy inner courtyard.
Caitlin approached an arched opening that led into the stone-paved courtyard. Her pulse quickened as she peered about. A salt-laden wind gusted off the sea, soughing about the old castle with near-human moans. Goose bumps rose on her neck and she glanced around furtively. But then, she’d only have Old Sandy or smugglers to deal with at the worst, she told herself, and the latter surely wouldn’t be about in broad daylight.