“I was given little training in proper steps,” she stammered. “Still, I have some meager talent and delight in dancing.”
She thought of the more informal assemblies. Even those required a number of dancers to exact the steps, a minimum of four to six couples.
Did Neil have other guests in mind? Where were they keeping themselves? Circling her head at the room, she asked, “Who else will make up the set?”
Fergus wore a half smile. “Don’t look at me. And, trust me, you don’t want to see Wrenie dance.”
“I heard that!” she called from the kitchen.
“I hear you too, moocher—scarfing my chips and dip! I suppose the last of the bagels is history.”
“Saving that for something, were you?” Wrenie called back in between evident mouthfuls, with her usual disregard for her station.
“Does the word deli mean anything to you?” Fergus rejoined.
It didn’t to Mora.
“Thought I was in one. You need to restock the shelves,” Wrenie replied in a saucy tone.
Mora had given up making sense of the incomprehensible flow between them, or Fergus and Neil’s indulgence of the outrageous woman, but she had no inclination to include Wrenie in any social event. Nor did she think it seemly for servants to dance with gentlefolk.
She returned her gaze wonderingly to the faint mirth in Neil’s. “Who then?”
“Just us.”
“Dancing—alone?”
He squeezed her hand. “It’ll be all right, really.”
Unheard of. She was at a loss for words.
*****
Neil almost laughed out loud at Mora’s wide eyes and open mouth, but he made a considerable effort to conceal his amusement. He shouldn’t have shocked her. Someone as sheltered as she’d been couldn’t possibly have gone out dancing, unless it was to a square dance, if they had those in Scotland.
But here she sat in that totally impractical dress, hair piled on her head in an equally inappropriate style, clearly uncomfortable with her unaccustomed do and outfit, but trying to be a good sport. And despite it all, achingly desirable. It seemed the true test of her beauty was to survive a morning at Wrenie’s hands with her looks unscathed. Relatively. That hair had to come down.
The least he could do after her trying ordeal was to show the poor girl a good time, and escape the baffling mystery that hung over them and Mrs. Dannon’s horrific death for a few lighthearted minutes. Besides, he wanted an excuse to take Mora in his arms and, thanks to Wrenie’s fashion sense or lack of it, she was outfitted for dancing.
“Pin a corsage to her dress and you could take her to the prom,” Fergus tossed out. “I’ll bet Mora missed hers.”
“I’m contemplating something along the same lines,” Neil admitted.
Fergus grinned. “If we had time for a theme I’d be all over Camelot.”
“Better than Under the Sea, like my senior prom. This occasion calls for something special. What do you suggest? And don’t even think about trotting out Benny and the Jets.”
Fergus looked askance. “I wasn’t.”
But Neil knew Fergus loved to sing along.
“Fine. I’ll see what could possibly top that.”
To his credit, Fergus roused himself from his absorption in the laptop, lowered the recliner and got to his feet. Even a multitasker par excellence such as Fergus couldn’t do everything from his chair, and this could only mean he was foregoing his iPod and choosing from among his cherished collection of old vinyls. Fergus insisted there was nothing like the sound of an original recording.
Neil was touched by the gesture from one generally disinclined to put himself out, which required a trip across the room to the oak cabinet in the corner that housed, along with assorted electronics, a record player, also vintage and in prime condition. Fergus would have it no other way.
His back to them, he opened the double doors to the cabinet and sorted through albums neatly lined on the shelf. When it came to his prize possessions, Fergus was orderly. “What’ll it be? Moody Blues, Elton John, Beatles, Billy Joel,” he read off.
“Surprise me, but make it a slow dance.”
“I got that much,” Fergus replied.
Fortunately Neil had cleared the carpet earlier or he and Mora would have to dodge food wrappers and comics. Curling his fingers around her hand, he rose and drew her up with him. She got to her feet a little unsteadily in the heels. Another good excuse to slip his arm around her waist. The satin rustled and sequins shimmered in the light slanting through the window. This Eighties styled dress was intended for display beneath a dazzling disco ball.
He smiled to himself picturing her response to a crowded club, flashing strobe lights, blasting music, and then the familiar strains of Simon and Garfunkel’s Are You Going to Scarborough Fair filled the room. He had to hand it to Fergus in making this particular selection. The age-old song based on an ancient ballad suited Mora.
“Perfect.” He circled his other arm around her back. He didn’t pull her to him as tightly as the fiery surge inside him urged, but closely enough to savor her soft curves.
Gasping slightly, but not in any way that made him think she objected to his hold, she tilted her head at him. If possible, her eyes widened even further. “I do not know this dance.”
“I do. Follow me,” he said, realizing his words carried a deeper meaning. He was asking her to trust him, when he didn’t yet know where he was leading them. But he would. Someway, somehow.
Mora lifted smooth arms around his neck and swayed in his lead as he slowly circled around the carpet. She was a natural, or maybe they were naturally good together. He didn’t doubt that one bit.
What bliss. Neil wished he could go on and on with her this way. Like being lost in a wonderful dream. The words of the song reverberated in his head, and it seemed to him that she’d always been his true love, his only love.
All too soon, the haunting refrain of the song came to an end. “Neil,” she summoned, sounding equally transported. “Have you been there?”
“Where?” Her query totally caught him off-guard.
“Scarborough Fair.”
He stopped in mid step and looked down into her face. She was utterly sincere.
“Everyone goes who’s able. My tutor said ’tis the merriest gathering in all of England.”
“Holy sh—” Fergus erupted and broke off. “There’s a link I need to double check.” He practically pounced on his laptop.
But Neil stood still. He had no idea how to reply to Mora. No words were needed, though, to simply hold her. She leaned her head on his chest while Homeward Bound played in the background.
“I thank ye fer the dance, Neil. ’Twas far lovelier than I could imagine, only…” she trailed off, wistfulness in her voice.
He sensed what she’d left unsaid. “Nothing here is as you expected, is it? Do you want to go home?”
“How can I?”
How indeed, and how could Neil let her go?
****
Mora savored the near unimaginable delight of Neil’s arms around her while wondering and waiting. As expected, Fergus jumped in.
“She’s right,” he declared. “She can’t go home the usual way. From what I’ve been able to learn, your lives are somehow entwined.”
This much Mora knew.
He bore on. “And I suspect that key in her cross, literally, unlocks the secret to all of this.”
She listened in stunned silence.
Neil loosened his divine hold on her. “But I found nothing missing in the house, and have no idea what this MacDonald was seeking or if he found it.”
“Either way, he’ll be back,” their host predicted, “because he doesn’t have the key.”
Chill fingers, like the icy grip of a banshee, clenched Mora’s innards. Instinctively, her hand went to the sacred relic at her throat. “And me wearing it round m’ neck.”
Neil held out his hand. “No longer. Give the cross and the key it holds int
o my care.”
Despite everything that had passed between them, Mora had to be certain. “Ye said I was to have its keeping.”
“But now I’m asking for its return.”
She looked long into his eyes. “Are ye the same Neil as him who did the giving?”
He sighed. “God only knows what’s going on.”
“And him alone,” Mora agreed.
Fergus gave a low whistle. “My research may be of some help. It seems in the fall of 1602 Mora Campbell married Calum MacKenzie. Their son had a son and so on until this Neil came along.”
Mora absorbed his words in disbelief. How could he know events that had not yet occurred?
Neil scrutinized his friend as though he were a lunatic—a distinct possibility.
“Just a minute, are you trying to tell me that Mora is my great-grandmother a zillion generations back?”
“Technically not yet.”
“What do you mean not yet?”
“She’s caught in a time warp where she hasn’t yet wed Calum.”
Neil flung up his hands. “What happens if she doesn’t?”
Fergus seemed stunned by his own admission. “You don’t exist.”
“Plainly I do. I’m right here.”
“What’s today?” Fergus mused, “November 3rd? She doesn’t wed Calum until the 5th. We’ve got two days to get her back where she came from.”
Mora didn’t want to marry Calum. Judging by the expression in Neil’s eyes and the way he’d held her, and kissed her the evening before, he didn’t want her to either. Was Fergus the most unlikely of prophets or insane?
“My mother might have some deeper insight,” he offered with a shrug of his slender shoulders.
“Great,” Neil muttered. “All our hopes rest with Psychic Betty.”
Mora lifted the crucifix. “And with the Lord. Surely, ’twas he who sent me to ye.”
Neil eyed her in what could only be confusion. “I assumed it was the airlines, but it seems there’s far stranger stuff at work here.”
And growing more so by the moment.
Chapter Eleven
With a hand on Mora’s arm, Neil walked with her up the pavement in front of his house. She staggered in the green stilettos. He steadied her before she fell or caught her pointed toe in the sidewalk crack.
The afternoon sky held that purity of light seemingly unique to autumn. Sunshine poured over Mora with the burnished glow of stained glass. Cathedral light, perfectly suited to her and reminding Neil of a painting by Vermeer. Even with her hair up on her head in that ridiculously overdone style, she was more radiant than ever, her skin dewy, eyes troubled but stunning. And her hair lent itself to that Renaissance look.
The southerly breeze was mild, yet Mora clung to the arisaid wrapping her like a child in a favorite blanket—a meld of the old and new. Beautiful and adorable, she was a lethal combination, her pulsing effect on Neil relentless.
The beauty of fall surrounded them, but Neil sensed a great deal of winter lurking ahead. A fist thrust into his gut couldn’t have laid him lower than Fergus’s latest revelation. His middle ached under the pummeling he’d taken.
Mora could not possibly be the same woman as his distant ancestor, he silently argued, wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms again and kiss her. What wouldn’t he give to cover that sweet mouth with his once more and linger there? He swore by all that was sacred he’d not bolt this time, and the consequences be damned.
Desire grew in him with the strength of the breeze swirling the red and yellow leaves in his yard and lifting her shortened skirts. Tendrils of auburn hair pulled free from her topknot and danced in the gusts. No woman had ever seemed more appealing to him, or ever would. And it wasn’t only her physical beauty striking sparks in his innermost being. She possessed a soul to match her outward form, borne of wind and fire. A spirit to match his.
Nothing that had happened involving her made any sense. It was all a freakish mistake. Had to be.
She was Mrs. Dannon’s niece and just confused from that knock on her head. Mrs. Dannon must have described him in detail to Mora, likely even sent her a photograph, and she’d developed an attraction to him based on that. As for her other peculiarities, well, she’d been unnaturally sheltered. And any memories Neil thought he’d had of the past were simply his imagination running away with him. That was all. Fergus’s finds were coinci—
“Why does yer house bear the numbers of the year?”
Jerked from his internal tirade, Neil stopped with Mora in front of his large Victorian home and stared at the black numbers stamped above the paneled door.
Damn. 1602. Why hadn’t he put all of this together before?
He lifted his eyes to the chocolate brown gables and ornate gingerbread work set against the creaminess of the house. This was more than a little uncanny. His spirits dipped and that fist drove back into his gut.
“I haven’t any idea. Come on. Best go inside.” He walked with her up the steps to the door.
No need for his key. Mrs. Fergus already awaited them inside. She’d requested time alone in the house before their arrival to feel its energy, do a spiritual cleansing, and Lord only knew what else. If she had any fears The MacDonald might return, she’d concealed them. Besides, Betty Fergus could cope with demons of his ilk better than anyone Neil knew.
He sniffed the spicy fragrance before he even cracked the door open. “What the—”
Mora inhaled. “Gum Olibanum.”
He glanced down at her, arching an eyebrow.
“Frankincense,” she said.
“Of course.” He squared his jaw and muttered, “We are not sitting through any séances.”
A look of befuddlement further clouded Mora’s eyes.
“Trust me, you wouldn’t approve,” he said.
Closing his fingers around the white porcelain knob, he opened the dark walnut door and ushered Mora ahead of him. He stepped behind her into the entryway and closed out the sunlight. What had Mrs. Fergus done to his home? It seemed to have been transformed into a temple or chapel, depending on one’s perspective. He preferred chapel.
Aromatic smoke wafted from a cobalt blue burner on the small drop-leaf table standing against the wall opposite the stairs. Lotus blossoms embellished the ceramic piece, one of Mrs. Fergus’s many artistic acquisitions. Beside the circular burner, a white pillar candle dispensed yet more scent as well as illumination.
Fortunately, Neil wasn’t asthmatic and Mora didn’t appear to be, or the smoky fragrance might’ve triggered an attack. Perhaps Mrs. Fergus hoped to overpower The MacDonald with incense.
Who could say? Their resident psychic wasn’t readily apparent.
Mora turned her head from side to side and gazed up the hazy hall. “Is the good woman at her prayers?”
“Of sorts.” Hooded Monks chanting Gregorian chants would seem a fitting touch.
They passed the place at the base of the steps where poor Mrs. Dannon had lain. After Neil’s effort to clean up the blood, he’d covered the area with a white sheet. The stained boards would have to be replaced. For that work, he’d need a skilled carpenter. Not available overnight.
For now, the flame from the candle flickered over the shroud reflected in the ornate mirror on the landing. The filmy light touched the crystal in its natural state that had sprouted on the newel post. Raw gemstones lined the edge of each step. A spray of red roses lay on the sheet at one side of the impromptu memorial.
“Beauteous roses, and to be had even in late autumn,” murmured Mora, clearly surprised by the presence of flowers she must think bloomed only in summer.
“Yes, a thoughtful gesture from Mrs. Fergus. Mrs. Dannon would approve the flowers. Though not necessarily the crystals.”
Mora lifted puzzled eyes to his. “Sech precious stones. Whyever not?”
“Crystals weren’t a part of her religion, or mine for that matter. Or yours, either.”
Mora gave a slight shake of her head.
“For all kindness she shows us, Neil.”
“Right. Mrs. Fergus is somewhere in this cloud.”
He led the way down the hall over the red and blue Oriental carpet. The weave muffled their tread. Pausing outside the parlor, he poked his head inside the dim room, shadowed by the heavy drapes.
Mora peered around him. “No one’s about.”
“But she’s been here.” He nodded at the stones.
Various sizes of quartz had materialized on ponderous pieces of furniture, in the antiquated bookcase beside leather-bound volumes, and in the curio cabinet alongside nineteenth century porcelain figurines. An amethyst cluster kept company with the stuffed owl on the mantelpiece. Whitish, pink, and bluish gray crystals dotted the room and probably the entire house, like rock formations from the deep grottos of a cavern.
Mrs. Fergus must have brought a trunkful of the multifaceted stones, reminding him of the gem exhibit at The Smithsonian Museum. A sight she must relish. All of this would make an excellent contribution to the museum’s collection.
Neil’s faith, such as it was, resided in his heart. He had no need of outward manifestations. Just now, though, he was grateful for any help Psychic Betty could give them. Despite her kooky ways, she was a goodhearted woman.
Maybe it was partly the scent permeating his home, but it seemed to him that Mora was right. Magic was at work here. Anything might happen.
Chapter Twelve
Mora hadn’t gotten a good look at Neil’s home on her first visit, before being taken away to the hospital. Her immediate impression was of finely crafted furnishings, rich carpets, and upholstery a duke would be proud to possess. Certainly, a Hielan chieftain.
Costly cloth hung in folds at the windows, and the walls were papered in a gold pattern. She turned her head from side to side as he led her through the house, pausing at each room. There were no shining arms, such as the claymores she was accustomed to seeing, or the stately heads of stags and ferocious boars on display, but the house possessed a grandeur all its own. Fine statuettes and gaily costumed figures, urns of dried flowers and iridescent feathers, more books than she could imagine and myriad other marvelous things lined shelves, sideboards, and overflowed handsome cabinets.
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