She was nervous. When she was nervous, she drank far too quickly.
Just as she had drunk far too quickly the night of The Fire.
She swore again, standing up. She was going to go to bed. She was glad that Andrew "Hawk" Douglas had married again and found solace when he had no one left on the Douglas side of his family. She'd done well with his people and his estates. He owed her his thanks.
Even if she had passed out, drugged, just moments before his brother had died....
She left the office. The castle was quiet as she hurried to the master's chambers.
Once there, she paused. Sometimes, she still wondered what she was doing here, in Castle Rock. Specifically, in the master's chambers.
But the administration of the castle, the properties, and the mines had always been done from Castle Rock; to be lady here, it was necessary for her to live where the people expected their lady to live. And as to the master's chambers, if she was to make her claim to the title of lady within her own family, it was necessary as well that she command the master's space as her own.
Sometimes, still, she shivered to be here.
And sometimes, the pain was oddly poignant. She could remember David clearly. Remember him here. Remember his touch.
She wasn't going to dwell on the past, she determined with an anger that belied the very sentiment.
She shed her clothing and climbed into her nightdress. She was tired, exhausted.
She lay down, praying for sleep.
It was a long time coming.
Yet when she slept at last, she dreamed. Nightmare images flooded her mind.
It seemed that she had barely closed her eyes before she awoke with a start, choking back the scream that had risen in her throat from the force of her dream. In it she had been running in the hills, aware that she was being chased, terrified of what would come at the end of it. When she looked back at her pursuers, all that she could see were shadows in the mist.
Like shadows, her pursuers were strange, constantly moving shapes, ever-changing as they came ceaselessly closer and closer.
They might have been selkies, creatures of myth and magic, beasts that could shed their coats and adopt human forms. But they were still dangerous creatures, for they remained beasts inside.
They had kept coming and coming, silent as they ran over the green-carpeted hills. Coming closer, closer, encircling her. They hadn't been selkies at all; rather, they had been strange human beings, half-naked, bronze and copper in color, wielding axes, hatchets, bows and arrows. They'd been adorned in feathers, and in her dream she had known that they were savages from America, that they had come for vengeance. The mist continued to swirl all around them, then from that mist there stepped another man, this one clad in Highland colors, kilted and broached, his sword in his scabbard, his dirk set into the sheath at his calf. This one walked straight toward her, this one stared straight into her eyes, and he knew her, knew the truth of all that had happened, and it was then that the scream rose in her throat....
Until she awoke. Hot, yet shivering, her heart beating quickly within her chest.
She rose, trying to calm that racing beat, to slow her breathing.
Dear God, but she was shaken tonight!
She smiled mockingly at herself as she walked to the window, looking out upon the mist-shrouded night. Naturally, she was having nightmares. The new Laird Douglas was coming to Scotland to see to his affairs. Andrew Douglas—Hawk—to those who knew him well. A man who was half American Indian. Her dreams might well be filled with vengeful savages, eager to learn the truth.
What was the truth?
That question had plagued her for five years now, during the time right after The Fire when she had stayed, the time when she had run to Glasgow, the time when she had returned. And now, knowing that David's brother was coming back, she was starting to live with the nightmare again.
Because she had lured David to his death.
Oh, God, not intentionally!
As angry as she might occasionally get with her family, she loved them all. Gawain, Lowell, Alaric, Aidan—and Alistair. Alistair especially, perhaps. He and she were so close in age; they had always been friends. But she'd never meant harm to David, even for Alistair's sake. Her kin had needed time, only time, and she had meant to give them that. But it had been time itself that had betrayed her in the end; fate had played her cruelly. The only good to come of it was that she would never be so innocent again, never so malleable.
Nor, she thought, would she ever live without the nightmares.
She suddenly felt as if she had to escape the confines of the castle, the heavy stone walls that surrounded her.
The shimmer of moonlight on the loch seemed to beckon her. She slipped her white-fringed shawl from the hook by her door, sweeping it around her. She quietly opened her door and stepped barefoot from her room.
This is madness, she thought. She was like some poor fey creature, rushing out to see the moonglow on the water when it was well past midnight. She told herself firmly that she couldn't ran away from the past, the future, or the nightmares.
Still, the urge was with her. She needed to get out. She ran down the steps to the hall.
The great hall of Castle Rock was empty. She stood on the last step for a moment, surveying it. The great hall at Castle Rock had been much the same for centuries. A massive table in the center, carved hardwood chairs around it, and tall-backed chairs facing the hearth that ran at least half the length of the far wall. The stones that comprised the walls were ancient. What ghosts might linger here, she wondered, then shook off the fanciful thought. The hall was simply caught in the stillness that came with the night. The world itself was quiet.
She hurried out the massive wooden doors to the courtyard, through the high gates, and down the slope of rich, verdant grasses toward the loch. Ahead of her loomed the massive Druid Stones.
Chapter 2
Though the mist was rising, moonglow fell upon the earth, illuminating the ragged cliffs, the rocks, the sweeping plains and vales of the landscape. Soft light, countered by shadow, fell upon the shimmering loch, where again, great cliffs rose on either side of the shoreline in the central valley.
The night was warm for November in the Highlands, quiet and still. Then the man rose from the water, alone and as naked as the bare rock surrounding him, a man as hard and unyielding as that same rock in shape and form, bred and born to the harsh and beautiful tors and craigs of the land around him. His was both a wild and rugged breed of men, a people who had stood their ground for centuries, battled, won and lost, and even into the present day, preserved both honor and individuality. Like many of his ancestors, he had suffered at the hands of the treacherous. And again, like many of those who had come before him, he had survived the malicious intent of others, and come back a more powerful and wary man.
Indeed, he was back.
Laird of all his land.
But none knew it. So far, he mused, he was king of the night. His castle was a cave.
His choice.
For now.
He stood, shaking back a thick length of dark hair. Despite the unseasonable warmth, it was cold enough for him to shiver fiercely, and long for the warmth of his clothing.
Yet he paused, staring upward, suddenly not noticing the chill that assailed him, for from where he had risen from the loch he was given an excellent view of the countryside. Castle Rock to his far right upon the highest cliff, Castle MacGinnis to his far left, both commanding great sweeps of the landscape. Indeed, neither was a manor that could be much coveted by modern standards; both structures had been built long ago, when Highland lairds had determined to take Norman architecture and use it to their own purposes. When William the Conqueror had seized England and looked to Scotland, wary chieftains had seized upon the talented Norman stonemasons instead, and thus had risen these structures. The years had added hidden alleyways and priests' nooks, since religious wars had been waged and Jacobite princes had had to b
e hidden, but very little had been done to add the modern concepts of comfort and beauty to the strongholds. Castle Rock was the older of the two edifices, standing upon the highest tor, and overlooking the largest amount of property. It was grander in scale, the seat of the Douglases of Castle Rock, a fortress of unique historical significance.
Castle Rock was his.
And he had come to reclaim it.
Yet even as he stared at the castle, he looked at what remained of the old stables, and a fire began to burn within him as fiercely as that inferno which had raged that night, five long years ago. He could remember the heat.
And he could remember her.
The whispers, the pleas, the promises, that had brought him to destruction. The ebony of her hair, splayed out upon the bunk. The ivory silk of her flesh, the sky blue promise in her eyes. He remembered her arms around him, her fevered words. A mint freshness in the warmth of her breath against his lips as she whispered her lies, the fire within her that made him heedless of the warmth igniting around him until he turned, too late...
... and entered into a world of damnation.
Ah, but miraculously, he was back. From the dead. A demon returned from the fires of hell—to discover the truth.
She'd not been in it alone. And he'd come back as he had with no word or warning because he intended to know just what had happened, just who had been involved with her. And they would all be made to repent.
Ah... but she would be the first from whom he would demand justice for the past.
She would be the first....
* * *
The night air of autumn was beautiful, crisp and clear, against her cheeks and flesh. It felt good to be out and good to run. She mocked herself, telling herself again that running in the moonlight probably certified her for madness; it would not help her escape the past. Maybe she just wanted to run away from the future, maybe it would be harder to face Andrew Douglas now than it had been when David had died.
She was accustomed to running over this terrain, riding over it, swimming within the cold waters of the loch, but tonight, she didn't seem to have her usual stamina. She was running from herself because she was...
... guilty.
Not guilty! She had never meant such awful harm to come to David; she had been more than halfway in love with him most of her life. Nay! Oh, God, how proud and arrogant she had always been around him! But she had been younger; he had been the great laird. He'd known many women. Easy to admit now that she had been jealous, and therefore as disdainful as she could manage to be at all times.
Until that night.
Well, he was dead and buried, and she was at least partly to blame.
Her lungs were growing sore. Her thoughts were robbing her of breath. Even as she ran, she knew that she had to pause. She stopped at the ancient Druid Stones to catch her breath, inhaling, exhaling, raggedly.
Leaning against the stones, she studied them in the moonlight. There were twelve of them, each stone standing at least ten feet high. Time and exposure had eroded whatever ancient writings might have been upon them, but some of the deep etchings of men, women, and animals remained. The stones were quite beautiful, arranged in a circular pattern, with a thirteenth stone set horizontally in the center, like an altar. Just to the side of it was a circular stone weighing a good two tons, a stone that still cast shadows from which people could tell the time of day.
Shawna loved the stones. They had all played here as children, she and her cousins as well as the Douglases, though David had been older and tolerant of their games, rather than a part of them. Shawna had wanted the stones to be on MacGinnis property, but they were not. She had made up stories when she was little that changed the events of history, and gave the stones to the Clan MacGinnis. David had told her curtly once that she should not be so fond of them; the altar had most probably been used for human sacrifice in ancient times. She should have realized that—since they still celebrated so many of the holidays around the stones.
Christian holidays.
That just happened to coincide with many of the old pagan celebrations of the ancient inhabitants of the Highlands.
She ran her hand over the cool roughness of the tallest stone. The old ways were enchanting. She was grown now, but she still loved the stories and the legends. Yet as she touched the stone, she suddenly became certain that she heard a noise.
A footstep?
One...
... and then another.
Aye, footsteps. Someone else, out in the night.
She moved suddenly and swiftly from one of the stones to the next.
Again, she thought she heard footsteps.
Someone was following her.
Unease swept through her.
In the middle of the night, when all the world lay still, someone was following her. Someone was coming behind her in the night. Someone...
You are losing your mind, she thought. This is madness! She told herself sternly that she had to be imagining the sounds... no one would come after her so furtively in the night. There was no reason to be afraid.
Again, she moved a few steps forward, moving on to a third stone, and paused.
She just barely caught the sound of shuffling feet before those footsteps paused as well.
This was her home. These were her people. She'd never been afraid of the dark. She'd never been afraid here because she knew everyone who lived in and around Castle Rock.
She kept very still, waiting and listening.
Nothing.
She was afraid, imagining things, because of her nightmares, she told herself. She'd been remembering all the stories they had told and all the games they had played by the stones, which were still considered sacred and mystical by many superstitious villagers. She was letting her imagination run away with her.
No.
She had really heard footsteps. Or something. A rustle in the grass. A soft pounding on the earth.
Fear was settling into her.
"Who's there?" she called out in the night.
In answer, the wind seemed to rise, keening suddenly against moonglow and shadow. She waited, pressed now against one of the stones, but she heard nothing else.
No one would come after her. She had no reason to be afraid!
"Answer me!" she said sharply. "Who's there?"
Still nothing.
She pushed away from the stone and started walking once again. This time, she decided to leave the stones behind her. She moved easily, barefoot over the heather toward the shore. The strangest sensation of unease swept along her spine.
There was nothing at first. No sounds of anyone following her.
Then again, she heard a rustling.
She turned back.
She saw a shadow, slipping behind one of the stones.
Or did she?
In the night, light and shadows blended. The Druid Stones cast strange lines against the hills and vales. Had she seen movement? Or had the moon shifted, and lengthened the eerie play of light and dark that filled the night?
"Who is it? Who's there?" she cried out sharply.
No reply.
Yet there was someone or something in the night. She was convinced of it.
Looking back at the stones, she was suddenly quite certain she was being watched. Icy water seemed to run in rivulets down her neck and spine.
What kind of fool had she been to leave the castle and run into the night? she queried herself. Not a fool, she countered herself passionately. She had known this land all her life, knew the earth, the stone, the loch, the cliffs and hills and rocks.
Through all her life, she had known nothing but security here. She had never known what it was like to be afraid until...
Until the night The Fire had raged. And the kiss of the flame had been burned into her heart forever.
Oh, God. That was so long ago.
And this was now.
Happening. In truth.
She barely breathed, studying the stones that stoo
d like silent sentinels on the hill crest.
Again, she heard movement. And this time she cried out in fear.
The shadow was definitely no figment of her imagination. A caped figure was now running directly toward her.
The night had been so still. When he first heard the cries, he thought that they were whispers of the rising wind. Then he heard them more clearly.
And he saw the woman running from the shelter of the Druid Stones. Saw her clearly, for the moon chose that moment to break free from the clouds and cast a shimmering glow of light down upon her.
She was dressed in ivory cotton and lace, a gown appearing soft and fragile as it flowed behind her on the wind. Like the sheer gown caught on the wind, waves of ebony hair were caught in a banner flow as she ran. She was fleet and agile, running barefoot across the terrain with the grace of a gazelle. She appeared like an ancient wood nymph, a sprite, seductively magical in the mist beneath the moon, that dark hair of hers, appearing, blacker than midnight, floating in her wake, rich, wild, as full a cloak about her shoulders as the soft knit shawl that covered the soft cotton of her gown.
Dear God. Shawna.
Aye, Shawna.
Come to him already...
It seemed that every muscle within his body went suddenly tense, as if a fire, liquid and wickedly hot, ignited within his limbs at the very sight of her.
How often had he dreamed of seeing her again. Of the fury he would feel. Of the longing to reach out and shake her.
Or just touch her. For it seemed that even now, just the sight of her awoke in him a passion that was fueled by both fury... and hunger.
Shawna...
He would not be swayed by emotion. He would be as hard and steadfast in his purpose as the rock with which the castles had been built.
Yet, she came to him still. Here.
How damned curious.
No Other Woman (No Other Series) Page 3