"Is that a sore point with you, Alistair?" she demanded.
He shook his head, smiling his most charming grin. "Nay, for I've not your talent for leadership, cousin. And I love you—as a cousin should—with all my heart. I wouldn't begrudge you a thing. If you were not Lady MacGinnis, my father would be Laird MacGinnis, and after him Alaric. And God knows, if it were still the ancient days, Uncle Lowell might well want to battle me for the title, whether Aidan had an interest in it or not. But actually, I do like the sound of the pipes. I like our slightly strange holidays, and I like the wind in the rocks at night, and the whistling in the caves and caverns by the loch. I like our tartans, and our dress, and our stories of beasts and sea creatures and more. I just wish..."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Alistair?"
"I wish that the Night of the Moon Maiden would come and go. I wish that Sabrina would be found I wish that..."
"What, Alistair?"
"Well, there is evil, of course. And it must be rooted out."
"Evil," Shawna said, growing nervous.
But Alistair yawned suddenly, and stood. "Well, I'm for bed," he said quite casually.
"Alistair, wait a minute—"
"You should go to bed, cousin. Did you know that the castle has eyes? They watch you all the time. Ears, too, for it seems that the castle listens..." He cocked his head as if he, too, listened.
"Wait a minute, Alistair, you just said that you want to root the evil out. What are you talking about?"
"Strength," he said after a moment.
"Alistair, please, talk to me—"
"I'm wandering, Shawna, nothing more. Come on, I'll walk you back to your room."
"I'm fine. I can walk back on my own."
"I shall sleep better if I know you are safely in bed."
Shawna sighed. "Fine."
As they walked up the steps together, Shawna studied his face. "You came down just for brandy?" she inquired.
"Aye," he said, then shrugged, flushing. "Nay, I thought I heard something downstairs, something more than the usual creaks and groans."
"What did you hear?"
"Ghosts, I don't know."
"But—"
"Maybe I was dreaming. I heard sounds coming from the chapel, or so I thought."
"Did you go there?"
"I did."
"And?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Christ stared down at me from the old crucifix above the altar, and silently bade me go in peace. The chapel was quite empty, and the door to the crypts was securely closed. There. Now you know that I have carefully looked downstairs, and you must go to bed and stay there."
They had come to the door of her tower room. He gave her a cousinly kiss upon the forehead. "Go to bed, cousin."
"Aye. Good night, Alistair."
"And stay in there!" he admonished her.
"Aye, cousin. Good night."
The door closed. She waited until she heard his footsteps receding down the hallway, going down the stairs to the floor below.
Then she hesitated.
Wanting to go out again.
And suddenly, very afraid to do so.
* * *
The chapel in Castle Rock was exceptionally beautiful. Situated off the great hall and down a flight of circular stone stairs, it was half above ground level and half below. Massive stained glass windows that just caught the light of day rose on the upper half of the walls. They had been added during the fifteenth century. Otherwise, the chapel remained just as it had been originally, with old Norman stone design and great archways. The altar top was marble brought from Italy, the beautiful wooden crucifix hanging above it had been carved in Germany in 1256.
Church services hadn't been held there, other than an occasional christening or family event, since Scotland had embraced the new religion years ago—except, of course, in the days when the Stuart "pretenders" to the throne of Great Britain had still held out hopes of returning to rule in glory and the Stuart Catholicism had still held many Highlanders—and Lowlanders, at that—in secret communication. Prince Charles—the son of Charles I, one day to be welcomed back as Charles II—had found haven at Castle Rock along with a number of his supporters. He had sat in the chapel the night he had been hidden here by the Highlanders.
The chapel had always been a matter of great pride to the Douglases.
And staring at the historic crucifix, the windows, darkened now by night, the ancient walls, David was grateful to see that the MacGinnises had maintained it as carefully and lovingly as any family member might have done.
But he hadn't come to savor the beauty of the chapel that night.
Toward the far left of the altar was the iron gateway to the crypts.
The gate slid cleanly open to his touch—the hinges well oiled. The last burial here would have been his own, since his father, by choice, had been buried on his property in America.
Once inside the gate, David set down the steel bar he carried and struck a match, lighting the lantern he'd taken from the chapel. He lifted it high. A second curving stairway with thirty-six steps led down to the crypts below. He descended into the pitch-blackness.
Upon reaching the landing far below, he lifted the lantern once again, looking at the stone corridors that ran in a number of directions from a main hallway. The straight corridor led to steps—twenty-eight of them—at the top of which was a door that opened into the cemetery. But down here, the Douglases themselves were buried, along with priests and servants who had been close to the family. Tombs lined the walls, one for an ancestor who had fought with Montrose against the English, another for an ancestor who had fallen to preserve the life of Mary, Queen of Scots. He paused at the first gateway, where, deep within, the oldest tombs lay, ancestors rotted to bone in their gauzy shrouds. Chilly temperature had preserved what might have been lost, and the insects were kept from their tasks of breaking down the dead by that same cold as well. Services here in the crypt often reminded the living of what was to come.
David paused only a moment, then moved farther down the hallway, seeking his own name upon a vault.
He paused at length. He'd been given quite an extraordinary memorial. Winged angels and serpents guarded the doorway to the crypt where he'd been buried, Latin phrases abounded. Again, an iron gate barred his way to the tomb itself, but like the gate above, it was well oiled.
And unlocked.
He slipped inside.
His tomb sat alone at the rear of the small room, purple drapery over a fine, hardwood coffin. He realized that to the left and right of the room, numerous other coffins and shrouds had been placed as well. Very old burials, some in coffins, some in shrouds, plaques in the artistry of many different centuries proclaiming which Douglas lay upon each shelf. Mary Douglas with five of her children lay to his right, none of them having obtained an age greater than six. They had died by the beginning of the fourteenth century. Laird Fergus Douglas, Mary's husband, lay to his left, alone with Eugenia, his second wife, and four of their children. A second Laird Fergus, son of Fergus and Mary, lay with his lady, Helena of York, below his father's shelf. The script chiseled into the stone stated that Fergus the First had fought with William Wallace, while his son, Fergus, had gone on to fight with Robert the Bruce. Despite the age of the corpses, they were frighteningly well preserved, their features still painfully apparent beneath the gauze of their shrouds.
He had assumed that he might have been buried near his mother's tomb, but she was farther down the hallway, nearer the stairs, and there had been two memorials built to her memory, one above ground, and one below.
Despite the fact that he lay with ancestors who had been noble warriors, this tomb was now dedicated to him.
And he did not lie within it.
"So, my dear kin, who does lie with you here?" he asked aloud.
He walked forward then, removing the purple sheet from the coffin. He studied the closure of the coffin, then took his bar and began to wedge
it beneath the lid. The coffin had been well sealed, and it was difficult to find a wedge, but he kept at his work, beads of perspiration breaking out upon his forehead. Eventually, the lid creaked and groaned, giving way to his efforts.
The noise was loud in the night, in the silence of the crypts.
He was quite certain that it would have sounded like a human moan, reverberating throughout the castle.
He needed to hurry. He set the bar down and lifted the lid of the coffin, wrenching free what remained of the nails. He set the lid aside.
And he stared down in horror at what lay within the coffin.
At his own corpse.
Then he heard the noise.
Footsteps.
He paused. Listened.
Aye, someone was coming. Slowly. Very slowly. Moving down the steps that led to the main corridor of the crypts.
He swiftly doused his lantern.
* * *
Shawna brought a single candle from her room, sheltering the flame from the drafts within the castle by cupping her hands around it.
She sped down the stairs silently on her slippered feet, pausing on the second floor to be certain that she heard nothing.
She hurried on down to the great hall then, searching it out with her candle held above her head, trying to be quite certain that she wouldn't run into another of her kin.
The great hall was quiet.
She couldn't bear just remaining in her room any longer. And Alistair had heard something from the chapel. And now, she was certain, she heard noises coming from the crypts as well. Moaning sounds, as if the ancient Douglases cried out in protest of the events occurring now.
The chapel led to the crypts.
She shivered.
Well, she wasn't going to be afraid of the dead. Not when they might hold some secret to aid the living.
She hurried down the steps to the chapel, pausing within. The light from her candle was dim, but it slightly illuminated the windows, casting off soft, ethereal colors within the chapel. She circled around, looking for anyone who might sit quietly in the chapel.
Or for anyone who might stand behind the columns in the nave, watching. Waiting.
No one was in the chapel. Of that she was certain.
She found herself walking to the iron gate to the crypts below. It was closed.
But it opened easily.
She hesitated. There was a heavy brass candle snuffer, at least six feet long, for use on the towering altar candles, lying against the far wall. She grabbed it with her left hand and opened the iron gate with the same hand while balancing the candle in her right.
Slowly, she started down the stairs. She was certain that her footfalls were silent as she went down, step by step by step.
She had been in the Douglas crypts dozens of times. She had come often to bring flowers to set upon David's coffin.
But she had come by day.
She had never seen such stygian darkness as she walked deeper and deeper into the bowels of...
Death.
She should turn, she told herself. Turn, and flee back up the steps.
The dead would not hurt her, she reminded herself.
Step by step...
She reached the landing. Iron gates walled in the ancient dead, sleeping with hands folded in prayer throughout the centuries. She tried not to look. She couldn't help but let her imagination fly, for the candlelight was so very tricky. She could swear that she saw movement, a soft fluttering of shrouds.
She could imagine a corpse sitting up, staring at her, accusing her of complicity in murder...
Shawna...
Then, she suddenly heard the sound. An awful groaning. As if a dead man had been struck anew, as if he screamed with pain from the agony of hell.
She nearly screamed herself.
She forced herself to breathe. To look straight ahead. Determined not to see the corpses in their shrouds through the iron gates of the various crypts.
She held her brass snuffer tightly in her hand, moving very slowly, using her free hand to keep herself flat against the wall. Her candle didn't shed much light. The corridor seemed filled with shapes and shadows.
She knew where David's supposed tomb lay within the crypts.
Ten more steps perhaps.
One at a time. She reached the tomb.
Just outside of it, she stood very, very still.
Waiting. Listening.
Then she stepped within the tomb.
She held very still. In the dim flicker of light her candle provided, she saw that the lid of David's coffin had been removed!
She swallowed back a scream, then turned to flee, dropping the brass candle snuffer. But a hand clamped firmly over her mouth and a powerful arm pulled her back to the dead.
Shawna's heart pounded with relief when she heard a familiar voice ask in astonishment, "What in God's name are you doing down here? I've warned you of the danger you face time and time again. Sabrina has been kidnapped, and still, here you are!"
David, she thought dizzily. Thank God, it was David! He released her, and still holding her candle, she turned to face him.
"I was downstairs earlier. And Alistair had heard something—"
"Alistair heard something—and sent you down here?"
"No—"
"That damned Alistair—again!"
"It wasn't Alistair's fault!"
"It never is."
Shawna sighed. "He has no idea that I'm here. I couldn't sleep."
"You missed me."
"Don't be absurd. You plague me to madness, appearing and disappearing into the walls, showing up, not showing up, being there, vanishing into the morning mist."
"Ghosts are supposed to do such things," he said, looking into the coffin again and adding angrily, "You shouldn't be here!"
"Alistair and I both heard noises—"
"So you felt you had to find out what the noises were?" he queried softly.
"You do seem to hold me responsible for anything that happens here," she said coolly.
He shook his head. "I can't leave you alone for a bloody second, so it seems. You heard noises, so you just walked down into the crypt, completely unarmed."
"I am not unarmed. I brought the candle snuffer—there. I dropped it when you nearly scared me to death."
"Fine weapon!" he mocked.
"It is solid brass and very heavy and I promise, if I were to whack you on the head with it, you would feel it!"
"It didn't occur to you to stay safely locked in your room where you belonged—especially considering everything that is going on here? You're an idiot."
"How kind, Laird Douglas, how genteel! I pray you, m'laird, do bear in mind! There was nothing going on here—until you returned from the dead!"
"Well, I am returned from the dead, and unfortunately, there are things that I have to do here."
David walked around the coffin. He used her candle to light the lantern he had apparently brought down with him, blew out the candle, and used the lantern light to study what remained of the man in his coffin.
Her stomach turned in knots.
"Oh, God, David, what are you doing?" she whispered.
He glanced her way. "Trying to discover just who this bloke might be. I'm assuming he's the convict whose place I took doing hard labor."
The knots in her stomach twisted more tightly. "You were a convict all that time? Doing hard labor."
David glanced at her, realizing that he'd never even given her that much information before.
"Yes," he said simply. "I'd like to try to figure out a way to make sure that this is the body of Collum MacDonald. Then, maybe I can figure out how and why he and I were exchanged for one another."
"David, this man is burned beyond recognition."
"I'd hoped for a ring, a pendant of some kind."
Shawna shivered. Most of the corpses, so long dead, smelled musty and nothing more. But it seemed that the charred inhabitant of this coffin still carried the horrible sm
ell of being burned to death.
"David, please, there's nothing to be learned from this man," Shawna whispered.
"Charming," he muttered bitterly. "He's been kilted in my best tartan."
"We thought he was you!" she said, her voice trembling with emotion.
"Aye, well, there's nothing left to tell who he might have been! Burned to bone, and not much more. I'm amazed anyone managed to dress this mess of humanity."
"Again, I tell you, we thought that it was you."
He sniffed.
"I awoke next to that abomination after the fire!" Shawna told him with soft, furious vehemence.
She was startled when he suddenly came back around to her, his fingers curling around her wrists. He swore softly. "It makes no sense! What happened between the time we both blacked out—and the fire raged? It seems someone wanted me dead, while someone else just wanted it believed that I was dead. You were rescued, and I was sold into bondage." He shook his head, confused and irritated that he couldn't seem to figure out where the missing piece to the puzzle lay.
She wrenched free from him, unnerved by his manner, backing against the gate to the vault.
"David, I swear, there is nothing more I can say that will help. After the fire, Gawain found me. He—"
"Gawain. And Gawain instantly knew it was my corpse at your side?"
"Well, I did start shrieking and screaming and crying your name. That probably added to his belief that the corpse was you."
He almost smiled. "What then?"
"What then? For God's sake, what do you think, what then? I was in shock. I was sedated, but I knew that you were dead, that I—"
"That you—what?"
Her lashes fell, sweeping her cheeks. "That I had caused your death."
"What else, what then?"
She shook her head, not understanding. "We wrote to your father and brother. They started work on the memorial. We called the undertaker and the constable."
"Aye, and there was an investigation."
"Of course, there was an investigation. Your father was grief-stricken; your brother demanded no less. He spoke with everyone. He spoke with me. You were buried. Here. In that coffin. And I wasn't afraid to come here tonight because after the fire I came almost every day until—"
She broke off, wincing.
No Other Woman (No Other Series) Page 21