by Jeanne Rose
Though she had no doubts that it was old, Caitlin returned, “Or a good newer copy,” and reclaimed her hand.
“Then the seller didn’t say?” When she shrugged noncommittally, Julian reminded her, “I deal in antiques. If you would take it off for a moment . . .”
Caitlin almost did as the Englishman suggested to finish the matter until she remembered Bain’s admonishment not to remove the ring. Foolish, for who among this household might be his enemy? No one had even heard of him. Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to defy him in this matter.
“Actually, I really don’t care if it’s an antique or not,” she murmured.
“But you might have been cheated.”
“Then I would rather not know,” she hedged. “Whatever its history, I am satisfied with the ring.”
But Julian didn’t look any more satisfied than Alistair had. She glanced at the Abernathys across the table. The professor was concentrating on buttering a scone as if he hadn’t heard a word of the discussion . . . or was purposely ignoring the quietly building tension at the table. His wife merely looked as nervous as Caitlin was beginning to feel.
What was the big deal here?
The door to the kitchen swung open to allow Bridget passage. She was carrying a platter filled with eggs and sausages. On reflex, Caitlin slid her right hand into her lap before the servant could spot it and make another of her dire pronouncements.
Good heavens, now she was being paranoid.
Maybe so, but she was thankful when Bridget left the room and Mary tactfully turned the topic to everyone’s plans for the day. Caitlin let the others take center stage, and only when pressed, said she was too tired to play tourist and would stick close-by to sketch.
“Wherever you go, please be careful,” Mary warned them all. “Especially you ladies with your handbags.”
“Oh, my.” Mrs. Abernathy blanched. “Is there a pickpocket around?”
“City crazies,” Alistair growled. “From Glasgow and even Edinburgh. They come through every once in a while to have themselves a little fun at our expense. They bother the livestock if not the people.”
“Skinheads,” Julian muttered, frowning.
“Fiona MacGregor said a couple of the hooligans were in her shop yesterday.” Mary clucked and tucked a stray strand of brown hair back into its knot. “Then a tourist complained to the officials that her handbag had been stolen by one of them. He cut the straps right off her arm.”
Coming from a big city herself, Caitlin wasn’t particularly worried, though she promised to keep an eye out for the “crazies.”
But for the entire morning, she was as good as her word and didn’t leave sight of the MacDonalds’ place. She spread a blanket on a hillock and sketched her surroundings to her heart’s content. The manor. The cottages. The formal arrangements of azaleas, rhododendrons, fuchsias and camellias in a nearby walled garden.
Rather than sketches for her designs, she was creating memories for herself.
Memories. She would have many to take home with her, but she suspected the most vivid would be of Bain Morghue. She stared down at the ring he gave her to keep her safe. He wanted to protect her, not to hurt her.
Not like Neil.
Though she’d come to Scotland in part to get over what had happened, she couldn’t stop from thinking about the disastrous relationship.
Attending family therapy with her parents and brother a few times the year before, she’d met another patient in the waiting room. Neil Howard had been handsome and intelligent if darkly intense. That very intensity had intrigued her and she’d agreed to see him.
The closer they drew together, the more demanding, jealous and aggressive Neil became. Caitlin tried her best to understand, thinking he would come around and truly trust her given time and more therapy. Neil told her he was seeing the psychologist to get over his own mistrust because of another woman’s betrayal. But unready to tell her everything yet, he avoided details.
The crisis came when Neil claimed that someone was after him, that he needed to leave town to hide out and Caitlin had to come with him. When she told him she had no intentions of leaving her home, had encouraged him to seek help from the authorities, he’d turned on her. Either she was with him or against him.
And if she refused to come with him, he would kill her.
Luckily, a neighbor heard the argument and called the police. But Caitlin never knew what part of Neil’s story was the truth and what was fabrication because he was killed shortly after making bail.
Guilt-ridden, she’d discussed the problem in a private session with Ty’s psychologist, Dr. Hoffman, who’d suggested Caitlin might be attracted to troubled men – she’d been so traumatized by her brother’s withdrawal and her involvement in his recovery that she looked for similar familiar relationships.
Caitlin readily admitted she had never considered giving up on Neil any more than she had on Ty. And yet, Neil had actually been killed. That meant he’d been in trouble rather than merely troubled.
Dr. Hoffman insisted that Neil had been delusional and suggested he might have been too aggressive with the wrong person, thereby ensuring his own death. Whatever the truth, Caitlin realized she must have a problem she needed to deal with in that she hadn’t listened to her own intuition about Neil in the first place.
That’s why her attraction to Bain troubled her so. He was even more intense and secretive and dangerous than Neil had ever seemed. And yet she could not deny her growing fascination with the man.
Was the fact that Bain Morghue reminded her of Neil Howard mere coincidence? Or had she subconsciously sought a man like him only to repeat her mistake? Or to prove she could do things differently given another chance?
Staring down at her pad, Caitlin was startled. While thinking about Bain, she’d subconsciously drawn him as she’d first seen him. With fog swirling around him, he was seated on his stallion. She’d caught every plane of his face, every nuance of his mesmerizing expression perfectly. His billowing cape gave him an air of power and daring and mystery. Here was a man to catch any woman’s fancy.
Suddenly, a fabulous idea came to her.
Abstracting bits and pieces of the sketch separately – the horse’s head, Bain’s own profile in silhouette, the hilt of his fantastic sword – she could combine them with traditional twining Celtic designs like leaves or spirals or sacred circles and work them into a fabulous ‘demon lover’ theme. The idea would work especially well for the larger pieces of jewelry such as broaches and pendants and accessories such as belt buckles and purses and scarves.
Caitlin grinned. She could imagine Bain’s reaction if she told him he really did inspire an idea for a new jewelry/ accessory line based on an old legend. He would probably threaten her with dire consequences.
Her growling stomach signaling her hunger, she took it as a sign to leave both her uneasy speculations and her creative ideas a while to drive into Droon for lunch. Gathering up her blanket, she slung it over her shoulder and made her way toward the cottage. Halfway there, she spotted Alistair leaving the manor and heading for his car.
He saw her, too. With a wave, he called, “Caitlin, have you time for a word?”
“Sure.” Caitlin veered off in that direction.
Alistair waited for her, his lips flattened into a straight line beneath his mustache. “About your new ring,” he said, his voice gruff. “I thought it looked familiar when you showed it to us this morning.”
Worried that he would say it had been stolen or such, Caitlin immediately grew uneasy. “Really?”
“Aye. You know how local history and legends interest me. My library is full of reference books and magazines and articles on the subject. I went through some of my materials and sure enough found it.”
“A picture of the ring?”
His shook his grizzled head. “The photo was of the sketch of the falcon.”
Relieved, Caitlin grew more enthusiastic despite Alistair’s continuing dour expression. “
What’s so special about it?”
“Well, now. A while back, a comely young woman named Janet Drummond lived nearby with her husband who was none so young nor comely himself. As the story goes, Janet liked to sketch to please herself. No one was much impressed with her work, least of all her husband who thought she should be putting her time to better use.”
“Quite a few people have that opinion about artists,” Caitlin said. “Sorry, go on.”
“Well, now, Janet started disappearing, sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week or more. And when she would return, she had new sketches for her collection. They grew quite fanciful and were very good, as well, especially those of a mysterious caped man on a great dark horse.”
A caped man on a horse? Having just sketched Bain like that, she caught her breath.
Alistair concluded, “The falcon was the last she sketched before disappearing altogether.”
A chill crept through Caitlin and she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that statement brought. Bain had said the ring’s designer was no longer of this world. “So someone started using her sketches for jewelry designs?”
“Nae.” Alistair frowned and his dark eyes nearly pierced her with their intensity. “I couldn’t find such a reference at any rate. Most of the sketches disappeared with Janet, except for the few she’d given to friends. And the falcon. She left that one on the front door, as if to guard the cottage until she returned. Only she never did. Some say she ran off with a handsome young lover, the mysterious man in her drawings, for good.”
Wondering if Alistair had found sketches of the mystery man, as well, Caitlin asked, “When did this happen?”
“Nearly a century ago.”
Too long ago to be Bain. She took a relieved breath. “Quite a story.” One she wondered if he knew.
“Aye. ’Twas said those times Janet disappeared, she walked the paths of Black Broch.” Alistair’s expression was dark. “I canna help but wish a pretty young thing like you wouldn’t wander about the place alone.”
Caitlin didn’t think it sounded like a request. She forced a smile to her lips. “I thought you weren’t superstitious.”
“’Tis a bad feeling I’m having about the Broch lately is all. And now your having the ring made from Janet Drummond’s drawing is right peculiar. Bridget would call it a sign, for certain.”
Thinking Alistair sounded every bit as superstitious as the maid if more restrained about it, Caitlin said, “I’ll keep your advice in mind,” though she made no promises.
“You do that. A pretty lass wandering alone any place isn’t safe these days. But Black Broch . . . your going there is asking for trouble.” Alistair opened the car door. “I’ll be going to town to pick up some supplies. Anything I can get
you?”
Not liking his tone, Caitlin coolly said, “Actually, I was going that way myself for lunch.”
“I can offer you a ride.”
“Thanks, but I wouldn’t want to hold you up.” And speaking of being alone, Caitlin didn’t particularly want to be alone with Alistair. The conversation and his subsequent warning made her uneasy. “I’m not sure what else I might decide to do after I eat.”
Like wandering around Black Broch. Alone. Despite Alistair’s warning and her own reservations because of Neil, Caitlin knew she couldn’t stay away from the place – or from Bain – for long.
CHAPTER FIVE
BUT BAIN WAS NOWHERE to be found.
After lunch, Caitlin left her car at the Bed and Breakfast and set off for the crossroads on foot. Exercise was all she got for her trouble. The ruins of Black Broch stood empty. And, if the truth be known, Caitlin didn’t have any desire to stick around and wait for him to show.
Alistair had spooked her well and good.
Refusing to let him ruin her afternoon, however, she walked another mile or so through a pretty little glen. She made herself comfortable near a stream crossing the middle of a sheep pasture, where she continued working on her demon lover theme. Engrossed in playing with the possible combinations, never quite satisfied with her designs, she didn’t realize how late it grew until light began to fade. Only when she felt herself straining to see did she realize the sun had set and the air had developed a distinctive chill.
Securing her sketchbook under her arm, she set off for home, but hadn’t gotten far before a raucous bark and frightened bleating drew her attention. She left the footpath and slid through a crude wooden fence to enter another rolling if rocky pasture. Climbing to the top of a small knoll, she saw them: three of Alistair’s “city crazies” setting a large dog of indeterminate breed on some sheep that were confused and running scared.
The men were young, late teens or early twenties, she guessed. Two sported heads barely stubbled with hair. One was bare-chested but for a vest, while the second wore a leather jacket hung with several chains. The third had his hair cut into a Mohawk dyed a brilliant yellow and orange that practically glowed in contrast with his black t-shirt. Looking across the field past them, Caitlin spotted their old junker of a car on the gravel road.
The Mohawked thug shouted and gave the dog a hand signal. The animal set after a ewe and her lamb.
Thinking to hurry back to the MacDonalds’ where she would call the local constable, Caitlin froze when a shaggy old man with long matted gray hair crested the hill opposite.
Shaking his staff at the young troublemakers, he yelled, “Away from my flock! Away I say!”
Derisive laughter carried straight to her and, as if by silent consensus, the three began stalking the shepherd. The guy with the Mohawk whistled for the dog, who immediately forgot his current prey and ran to his master, the obvious leader of the group. Now Caitlin was torn. She didn’t really want to get personally involved with such tough-looking characters, and yet how could she justify leaving a defenseless old man alone under such threat?
She found herself jogging straight for trouble even as the shepherd was surrounded. “Hey, there, what’s going on?” she called out as if she hadn’t a clue.
The one in the leather jacket spun around to challenge her. “Who be wantin’ ta know?”
Realizing showing any sign of uncertainty would be unwise, Caitlin demanded, “Who are you?” Brash words to drown out the loud thumping of her heart.
“Hey, an American,” the tough in the vest said.
“Go away, lass,” cried the shepherd, “before they hurt ye!”
She stopped but didn’t retreat.
“Nae, we wouldn’t hurt a lovely lassie, now, would we boyos?” Mohawk signaled his companions to alter their direction.
Now they were intent on cornering her.
Though her instincts told her to back off, Caitlin stood her ground, hoping to shame them. “Some tough guys you are, hassling helpless sheep, an old man and a woman.”
“Easy pickin’s,” the guy in the leather jacket agreed. “We don’t like ta work too hard.”
Her stomach knotted and a queasy feeling spread through her fast. What now? She’d rushed into the situation without planning a strategy.
“Why don’t you boys go back where you belong before you get into trouble,” she suggested without any real hope that they would.
Mohawk grinned. “And miss out on a wee bit o’ fun? Nae, I don’t rightly think so.”
Maybe she could outrun them. But, staring at the spiked dog collar he wore around his neck, she was finding it difficult to breathe. “I’ve called the constable,” she lied, looking for an escape.
“Not bloody likely,” the one in the vest spat.
Caitlin noted several safety pins threaded through his right ear and the swastikas tattooed on each forearm. They really did look like skinheads.
What had she gotten herself into?
“Leave the lass be!” the shepherd shouted, now following the toughs with his staff upraised in her defense.
The guy in the leather jacket turned, grabbed the rod and shoved the old man hard so he fell to his knees groaning. Caitlin edg
ed away, now looking for a way out to go get that help, but she’d waited too long. Giving the dog a hand signal that sent him flying behind to cut off her escape, Mohawk lunged for her. She slipped from his determined grasp only to trip on the uneven ground and lose her balance. Her sketch pad flew from her hand to land flipped open several feet away.
Though she tried, Caitlin couldn’t catch herself. A spill to the rocky ground made her cry out when her hip contacted something hard and sharp. And as the gang closed in on her, she grabbed a makeshift weapon.
“Don’t come near me,” she said, brandishing a rock and scooting back.
The leader’s narrow gaze focused on her hand. “Hey, boyos, take a look at the lassie’s fancy ring.”
The one in the leather jacket whistled. “Must be worth more’n a quid or two.”
Mohawk held out an imperious hand to Caitlin. “Come, now, give it over.”
Thinking she had to be crazy to refuse, Caitlin shook her head and brandished the rock more fiercely. The moonstone of her ring glowed a brilliant blue against the gray dusk.
Mohawk slid something from his pocket. A sharp click and she saw it: a nasty looking stiletto blade.
Her mouth went dry.
Wielding the knife her way, he threatened, “I’ll cut it off if’n you like.”
Wildly looking around for escape, Caitlin’s eyes lit on the sketch she’d drawn of the midnight horseman slicing through the fog.
So where was Bain Morghue when she needed him?
The rhythmic beat of horse hooves behind her answered. A disbelieving Caitlin whipped around to see Bain crest the knoll. His features set in a mask of fury, he reined in his horse to survey the situation. The great beast whinnied in protest and pranced in place, his muscles gathering to lift his forequarters. When he reared, his front hooves flashed as menacingly as his master’s eyes.
“So, boyos, you have a fondness for pretty blades, do you?” Bain thundered. In a flash, he lifted his vicious-looking claymore.