by C. J. Bahr
“You have my word, Fiona. I’ll be there, come hell or high water.”
She rose smoothly to her feet and took his hand. “I’m sorry to doubt you, but now I am relieved of my silly wee doubts. You have given me your word, which is a bond you’ll never break.” She leaned forward and placed a soft kiss to his cheek. “I’ll leave you now,” she shot a quick glance to the desk and dark stain. “You’ve got work to do. Thank you for understanding.”
He reached to take her arm, but she sidestepped him. “I’ll see myself out.” She gave him another shy smile. “I’m looking forward to seeing you at the party.”
Simon watched her leave then shook his head. He had been neglecting her. Somehow he’d have to do better. Yes, his family’s safety and catching the murderer were of utmost importance, but so was his word and honor. He owed it to both their families, especially after his disappearing act, to forge the best match, to make something lasting, which he wouldn’t accomplish by ignoring his beautiful bride-to-be.
The maid returned, bobbing a curtsey before crossing the room and dropping to her knees by the desk. She started dabbing at the black stain.
He sighed again as he watched. The carpet was surely ruined, but that was the least of his problems.
“My lord, here’s an envelope. It’s fallen. Luckily it’s only next to the spill.” The maid turned and held out the vellum.
“My thanks,” he took the envelope, looking at it as he crossed the room. Scowling, he stopped in his tracks. He tore it open and pulled the folded sheet out.
Your time has run out. By the start of the festival, give me what I want or the killing starts.
He clenched his hand into a fist, crumpling the paper.
“Is everything all right, my lord?”
He glanced to the maid. “Aye, Heather. Everything’s fine. I’ll be in the library.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Simon strode out of the study and down the hall. Entering the library, he slammed the door behind him. In four long steps he reached the whiskey decanter. He threw the crumpled letter down upon the crystal tray and poured himself a dram. The liquor burned down his throat, bringing some sanity back and transforming his rage to a slow smolder. He poured himself another and walked to the large window.
He must think. He had to calm himself. Acting blindly and in anger would not help. Simon willed his muscles to unclench as he took a slow sip of whiskey. Logic. That was how he had dealt with his Napoleon adversaries and the spies within his own ranks. He was known for getting the job done and never failing. Not once. And he wouldn’t do so this time either.
The note hadn’t been there earlier this morning. The desk had been neat as a pin until he’d entered and made the mess himself. There had been nothing on the floor. So, how had the note gotten there?
He took another sip as he retraced his steps from his morning actions. This was the closest he’d been to an actual note appearance. Always he would enter a room to find the next missive, but he knew the note hadn’t been there earlier. Who had entered the room since he started work on the accounts? This morning he’d given orders to be left alone and he had been. The obvious choice was the wee maid. She was the one who discovered the note on the floor. She could have easily planted it herself. Simon shook his head. It wasn’t Heather. She was extremely loyal. The MacKay’s gave her a position when no one else would. They saved her life. Heather would never betray them.
He stared out the window, the glass in his hand forgotten as he spotted a rider in the far distance headed in the direction of Sinclair house.
Fiona Sinclair. She had just been here, and then the note magically appeared. It couldn’t be. It was daft to think she was involved. The Sinclair’s and MacKay’s had shared decades of history. Loyalty and friendship to a Highlander were sacred, never to be betrayed. Fiona would never collude with a murderer, let alone turn her back on family. It wasn’t in her blood.
He continued to stare until the rider disappeared from the horizon. But as he’d learned from the military, nothing was impossible. In fact, the more outrageous or hideous something was, the more likely true. Mankind could be innately evil. But, Fi? He couldn’t believe it.
Simon racked his brain, sifting through his memories. He had received several notes from his hidden adversary, and could recount at least three more times Fiona had been nearby. She wasn’t a killer, but he could possibly see her as an accomplice. Fiona Sinclair, his fiancée, was she loyal or a betrayer? He would find out.
Chapter Eleven
Inverness, Scotland
July, Present Day
Laurel grimaced as she tugged her jeans back on. How could she justify the dress? But in the gown, she felt feminine and beautiful, something she was utterly shocked to discover. She looked at the soft cream creation, with its empire waist, revealing cleavage and smooth straight lines, taunting her from its hanger. £500. With a quick conversion of British pounds into American dollars in her head, she realized the dress was going to cost her a small fortune, the exchange rate was hideous right now.
No dress was worth that for one night!
Well, especially when it was a costume she’d never be able to wear anywhere else, ever again. Where was her fairy godmother when she needed her to give her a free dress made by birds and squirrels? But, dear God, she did love it. It made her feel as if she was in a fairytale. The ugly duckling turned into a beautiful swan.
Always more comfortable in a battered pair of jeans and comfy sweater, this time she was tempted to toss out her tomboy image for something more romantic. It was hard to believe, but when something actually made her feel beautiful, logic and caution was beginning to take a back seat to fantasy.
“Hey, are you alive in there?”
“Yeah. Just a sec.” Laurel fingered the dress before lifting it off the hook and draping the long gown over her arm keeping it off the floor. She opened the dressing room door and found a grinning Beth.
“Oh, don’t look like your dog got hit by a car.” Beth grabbed her arm and dragged her to the sales counter. “I’ve got great news for you.”
“Beth, there’s no way I’m buying this dress. I can’t afford it.”
“Oh yes you are.”
“It’s ridiculous. I’ll never be able to wear it again.”
“Pish! You have to buy it. You look fantastic in it.”
“I’m not getting it.”
“Yes. You. Are.” Beth took the dress from Laurel’s arm and placed it on the counter.
“Beth, if you think for one moment you’re buying me this dress—”
“No, no, no. Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.” The sales clerk and Beth exchanged glances before Beth turned to Laurel. “The price was incorrectly marked. It’s on sale!”
“Yeah, right. Even if it was a hundred dollars less, I still couldn’t justify this dress. The exchange rate sucks”
“How about five hundred dollars less?”
“What?” Laurel looked at Beth then the clerk.
“Aye, miss. The dress is half off. It’s £250.”
Disbelief crossed Laurel’s face as she stared at the petite clerk, who, for some reason, looked like she was trying hard not to laugh. Laurel did the math. At £250, the dress would be a little over four hundred dollars. It would hurt, but it was doable. And just like an evil small devil on her shoulder, Beth continued to nudge.
“You’ve got to get it now. Oh, come on. You can’t fool me. I saw your expression when you looked in the mirror. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Alex. You know you’ll get lucky if you show up dressed in that.”
Beth wore her down. Damn it, she was on vacation and she was coming off a major break-up. How could she turn down something that made her feel pretty? Laurel needed to get out of the rut she was stuck in, think outside the box. A costume ball and gorgeous gown were so not her, it would probably do the trick. Besides, a little shopping therapy was just what the doctor ordered.
“All right, I’ll do
it. I must be crazy.” She dug in her purse for her credit card.
“Hoo yah! Lori’s breaking out of her shell. You’re actually being extravagant! I can’t believe it.”
She frowned at Beth as she passed her card to the clerk. “I do wild things every now and again. College, remember?”
“Yeah, right. I believe I was the cause for most of your college excitement. Left to your own devices, the last time you went nuts was when the Inca civilization was around. Actually, it was probably older.”
“Ha, ha. Hysterical.” She dismissed Beth as she signed the sales slip and watched the girl behind the counter bag her gown.
“Errand time,” Beth declared. “It’s off to the caterer’s, check on the linens, then to the printer’s to okay the festival advertisements. Oh, and the florist, how’d I almost forget that?”
“Um, Beth?” She hated to ask her friend the next question, but she’d didn’t know when she’d get to Scotland again, and Inverness was such a historic city. Helping Beth run errands seemed like a kind of sacrilege to her. “Would you hate me forever if I bailed on you?”
“Oh, sheesh, I should have thought of that,” Beth replied. “I keep forgetting you’ve never been here. Of course, please go exploring. How ’bout we meet back here in an hour?”
Laurel’s grin was huge as she gave her friend a hug. “You’re the best. An hour it is.”
“Try not to get lost,” was Beth’s parting shot as she waved over her shoulder as she walked away.
Leaving her gown with the clerk to pick up later, Laurel exited the shop with a spring in her step. Well then, an hour to see Inverness. It wasn’t enough time to see Urquhart Castle or try and track down the Loch Ness monster, but it would be enough time to stroll around downtown and take in the sights. With a slight smile on her face, Laurel turned in the opposite direction of Beth and headed deeper into town.
She meandered down the cobblestone sidewalk, pausing here and there to look in a shop window, entirely aimless, and happy for once not to have a stringent schedule to follow. She lost track of how many different stores were displaying stuffed “Nessie’s” in their windows and after passing her second woolen mill, Laurel stepped to the curb wondering if she should cross the street. A flyer on the lamppost caught her eye.
An exhibit of Pictish stones at Inverness House. She had studied the Picts, who were an older race than even the Celts, one of the first inhabitants of Scotland. She knew she was heading into “work zone” mode, but a chance to see some of their history in person was like a drug to her system. It couldn’t be that far away. She’d find the house and go…which was far more exciting than window-shopping.
After getting directions from yet another friendly Scot, in a short time, she stood outside Inverness House. The house didn’t look like a typical museum, but more of a cozy B&B with stone bricks and a welcoming air. She climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to hear tinkling bells. Entering, she felt muscles relax Laurel hadn’t known were tensed, and a sense of peace filled her with the familiar features of a museum. Around the world, no matter the foreignness of the city, museums were like returning home. A clear acrylic donation box stood next to the door filled a quarter way with money. She dug into her pockets and pulled out a few pounds and slipped them into the box. Good karma.
“Ah, thank you, miss.”
Laurel turned and was greeted by a docent, a petite brunette with laughing green eyes. “You’re welcome. Anything for a fellow museum.”
“American? Do you work for a museum?”
“Yes and yes. The Chicago Field Museum.”
“Oh, brilliant! I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve only made it as far as New York, though.”
“Well, if you ever do, please look me up,” she held out her hand and the docent shook it. “I’m Laurel Saville. I do historical research and verifications, plus some other odds and ends that always need to be done.”
“Isn’t that the truth? I’m Samantha. Samantha MacDonald. Are you here for the Pict stones?”
“I saw your flyer when walking around town.”
“They’re upstairs to your right. It’s probably won’t be exciting for you, it’s only a wee collection. If you find yourself idle, there’s a portrait gallery in the left wing. We’ve got paintings from Scottish artists on exhibit. We even have a couple of George Jamesone’s.”
“I’m sure everything will be great,” Laurel headed for the stairs.
“Enjoy yourself. I’ll be around later if you have any questions.”
“Thanks.”
She made her way to the second floor and turned right into a large open space. She wandered from display to display fascinated by the intricate carvings inlaid on the stones. Most of the exhibits were photos of standing stones too large to move, but there were still plenty of physical items. She spent a good deal of time in front of a great example of some Scottish Townie. The highly decorated ceremonial stone balls were wonderfully detailed and preserved. But Samantha was right. Even taking time to pause and study, she had made it through the room in a short time.
Laurel checked her watch. She still had about twenty minutes before she had to meet Beth. Time for the gallery room.
She walked across the hall and entered another large open room. Making her way around, Laurel studied the portraits of men and women from ages past to present. It was a nice collection, especially since the art were works of their native countrymen. Paintings weren’t her specialty, which was more in the artifact range, but she could appreciate them, and of course had come across some amazing portraits in her line of work. There was always something to admire, no matter the painter or style.
She was about to leave when she noticed a side room off the main exhibit. What the hell, she still had plenty of time. She entered the room and was drawn to a painting above a small table. Studying it, she cocked her head to the side. It was small compared to some of the other portraits, just two foot by three. A man in military dress sat astride a powerful bay horse. His dark black hair was pulled into a tight queue, and light gray eyes staring out of a striking face trapped her gaze. The man clasped one hand to the hilt of his sheathed Calvary sword, while the other stroked the neck of his steed, reins casually dropped, yet the horse seemed to still be in his control. The artist had brilliantly captured the moment. It looked as if horse and rider were on the verge of exploding into action, just waiting for the call to arms and the bugle to sound. But it was the man’s face in the painting that seized her attention. There was something about the portrait, some sort of déjà vu.
And then it came to her. The man in the picture bore an uncanny resemblance to the man who had rescued her on the plateau. The clothing was different, but the face was eerily exact. She’d never forget those piercing silvery eyes and his jet-black hair. It was a striking resemblance.
“Ah, there you are. I see you’ve found him. Drop dead gorgeous, is he not?”
“Who is he?”
Samantha laughed. “Everyone asks that when they see him. I think it’s his eyes. Let me introduce you. The beautiful man before you is Captain Simon MacKay of His Majesty’s Royal Army.”
Laurel felt her jaw drop to the ground. She had to be kidding. The coincidence was just too amazing. “Simon MacKay?”
Samantha began telling the tale of Captain MacKay describing the tale Laurel had heard from Alex and bits from Beth. “He had a short but illustrious career before having to resign his commission. He fought Napoleon. Rumor has it that he was a bit of a spy and an assassin. His home is up north, in Cleitmuir.”
“I know. I’m staying at his house. Cleitmuir Manor.”
“You know…they say his ghost roams the manor.”
Laurel knew the rumor of course, and by the looks of his portrait, she wouldn’t mind a ghostly visit. Too bad nothing’s happened so far. She just shook her head then looked at her watch. Oh crap, she was going to be late. “I’m sorry, Samantha, thank you for talking with me, but I’ve got to go. I was supposed to meet
my friend five minutes ago.”
“No worries. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you. Don’t forget to use my name if you get to Chicago.”
“Absolutely. And if you run into Captain MacKay, say hi for me.”
Samantha’s laughter followed Laurel down the stairs.
Chapter Twelve
“Have you made much progress?” Grant studied Alex, who was staring out the large bay window. His question was met with a shrug.
“Which progress are we discussing?”
“I don’t know. How about any?”
Alex turned his back to the window and faced Grant with a slight smile. “She took the bait, hook, line and sinker. I didn’t even have to ask her. She offered. In no time, we’ll have the location of the treasure. I can taste it. For once you gave good advice.”
He bit back his much desired sarcastic reply, knowing it wouldn’t get him anywhere. “Well, Beth does go on about her. I feel I know the woman inside and out.” He shook his head. “I wish we could have gotten her to come over any time but the festival. That will complicate matters, MacKenzie.”
Alex waved a hand at him. “You and your old-fashioned superstitions. There’s no ghost, Grant.”
“Aye, there is, Alex.” He frowned. “Too much weird shite has happened inside Cleitmuir. He’s around.”
“I’m not going to debate this with you, Grant. MacKay is long gone dead. My however-great grandfather made sure of that. Alistair MacKenzie’s journal was clear.”
“Pish. I know Simon MacKay’s dead, that’s what has me worried. What sort of powers does he have? How do we know he’s not in this very room listening? What if that meddling spirit finds it first? We’re cocked-up.”
“Listen to yourself, man. There’re no such things as ghosts. If you’re so concerned, bring in a priest or some stupid arse ghost hunters to get rid of him.”
Grant heard the frustration in Alex’s voice and knew when to back off. He may look like some Hollywood actor, but Alex had a mean streak, and a permanent means to ridding himself of those who failed or annoyed, or simply got in his way. There was no coming back from death. He hadn’t known about MacKenzie’s cutthroat murdering streak. If the money for this scheme weren’t through the roof, Grant would never have joined up with him. But he desperately needed the income.