They tethered their horses out front, and Fergus hesitated for a moment.
“Where’s wee Amy?”
Martin pointed in the direction of the cellars.
“Show me.”
“Why? To make sure there isn’t a Mulvaney bullet in her?” he snarled. “You see to the living, old man, the police can see to the dead.”
“I hope ye rot in hell one of these days.”
“I’ll take you with me when I go.”
Mrs. Irvine met them at the door.
“Any change?” Martin asked.
“Not much, she’s stopped crying, still refuses food or drink. I swear it’s like looking at a white marble statue in your bed.”
“Where’s my wee Bethie?” Fergus ignored Martin and spoke to the housekeeper. “Take me to her.”
He ushered the old man inside. “Mrs. Irvine, make us some tea, please.”
“Warm milk for wee Bethie,” Fergus ordered.
Mrs. Irvine raised her eyebrows.
Martin shrugged. “Do as he asks. This way, Campbell.” He marched ahead of the old man.
“This place is a decaying mausoleum, not fit for a wee lassie to live in.”
“I plan to have some of the rooms refurbished before the child is delivered.”
The old man snorted in disgust.
They came to the bedroom and Martin pushed the door wide open.
“Elizabeth, I’ve brought someone to see you.”
No answer. His heart plummeted to his boots. Her silver hair poured over the pillows. Her face was pale as porcelain, and she lay so still she looked like a white marble figurine. Her beautiful blue eyes showed such sorrow and despair he gulped back a lump in his throat. Men never cried. He fought to keep his emotions under control.
“Bethie.” The old man gabbled several words in what Martin assumed to be Gaelic and rushed to the bed.
“Grandfather.”
This one word dredged from the depths of her soul, pierced Martin’s heart. When they embraced, he felt like a superfluous intruder in his own bedroom.
Leaving them together, he trudged downstairs to the kitchen, feeling like death warmed up. He wanted to grab a whisky bottle to blot out the pain of rejection, but needed to keep a clear head for when the police arrived. He drank the tea Mrs. Irvine gave him, waving away the piece of cake she offered.
“Give me the milk. I’ll wait in the study until the police arrive.”
“Poor little soul lying down there for all those years and we didn’t know.” Mrs. Irvine shuddered.
“I meant to have those cellars filled in years ago. How in tarnation did the child get the trap door open? It should have been locked.”
“Too long ago for recriminations, Mr. Mulvaney. Have a lie down you haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”
“I have to wait for the police. I wish they would hurry up so we can get this over and done with.”
He took the milk upstairs, and hesitated at the bedroom door. Fergus was crooning a lullaby in Gaelic. Martin didn’t understand the words, but recognized the tune.
The old man sat on the bed with his arms around her, and Elizabeth was propped up against the pillows, her head resting on his chest.
“Here’s the milk.” He stood with his feet apart gazing down at them. “She doesn’t look so distraught now.”
“Aye, the wee lassie feels safe now. Grandfather won’t let the Daoine Sith hurt her.” Fergus patted her head.
“Who?” What was the old man gabbling about?
“The fairy folk.”
Martin snorted in disbelief. How could a grown man believe such rot? Now gypsies, they were another matter entirely.
“Drink the milk, Bethie, it will make ye feel better,” he crooned. She took the glass, and with a trembling hand raised it to her lips.
“Drink the lot then sleep, Grandfather will be here when ye wake up.”
“Where’s Alistair?” she whispered.
“In Wangaratta,” Fergus said. “Won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“Martin.” She raised her head to face him.
“Yes.”
“Have you made arrangements for Amy?” Her eyes glistened like wet jewels under a bright light.
“Yes, I’ve taken care of everything, so don’t worry, just rest. Your grandfather can stay the night here, if he wishes. I’ll be in my study if you need me, Campbell.”
Martin sat slumped at his desk, face resting in his hands, when Fergus stomped in.
“Mulvaney.”
“Is Elizabeth all right?”
“Aye, she’s asleep. When are the police coming?”
“Some time this afternoon.”
“Don’t let them touch wee Amy until I get back.”
“They’ll have the undertaker with them.”
“Don’t let them remove the body. I need to go home and get a suitable shroud for the poor wee lass.”
“I should have something here.”
“No, she must be wrapped in a Campbell plaid.”
The old man paced up and down, wringing his hands and moaning until Martin agreed. What was a Campbell plaid?
“Get someone to watch over Bethie until I get back. The poor lassie is exhausted, but just in case she wakes up.”
“I suppose you blame me for all this?” Martin said bitterly. “I wish I’d never clapped eyes on any of you Campbells. You’ve caused me nothing but trouble.”
“Take me to wee Amy.”
They made their way down to the cellars. Martin shuddered when the lamplight picked up the small broken body in the corner. To think the child had lain here for so long in her lonely tomb. There had been many black moments in his life over the years; this would have to be the worst one, except perhaps the episode with the young maid, Emily Parsons. After his father raped and beat her, he had left her in the cellar so he could return later and torture her again.
When he sneaked down with some food and water the next day, Emily begged him to help her escape. Too afraid of a flogging from Black Jack he ran away and hid under his bed, leaving poor Emily to her fate.
A few weeks later, he went off to boarding school. The episode still haunted him even after all these years. The fear. The absolute helplessness of never knowing Emily’s fate. He dared not admit even to himself, until he went down to the cellar and saw the body he feared it might be hers. Was this place cursed? Would it forever be tainted by Black Jack’s evil?
“Don’t touch anything until the police have been here,” he warned, trying to pull himself together.
“Wee Amy’s not to be moved until I get back.” The old man’s voice cracked with emotion.
“You think it’s her?”
“Aye. The boar’s head brooch she’s wearing belongs to the clan Campbell. Ye think she died straight away?”
“Yes, the child broke her neck when she fell through the trap door.” Martin didn’t know why, but even if he had thought otherwise, he wouldn’t have said so.
“I pray to God ye be right,” Fergus said in a broken whisper. “I always thought the Mulvaneys murdered her.”
“I know you did. The scandal just about ruined me,” he retorted bitterly. “And you never let it die down, did you?”
“I thought ye be guilty,” Fergus staunchly defended himself. “I couldn’t let ye get away with murder.”
“You had no proof, yet you didn’t care, did you? Easier to blame the Mulvaneys.”
“The lassie disappeared from here, it was a natural assumption.”
“Let’s get out of here, Campbell. We’re fighting over the child’s body like a couple of vultures.”
They came back into the light, and after watching Fergus ride away, Martin wearily made his way inside. Upstairs he checked on Elizabeth who still slept. He crept over to the bed. How young and vulnerable she looked, and so tragically beautiful, his storm girl. How much could a frail little thing like her bear before being pushed over the edge of sanity? How could she survive the rigors of childbirt
h? He cursed the day she came into his life.
When the police arrived with the undertaker, his blood turned icy cold. A wooden coffin sat on the back of a police wagon. They did not even have the decency to use a closed in wagon.
A police constable interviewed him, took down notes in a battered leather bound book and said. “I’ll need to speak to your wife.”
“You won’t be speaking to her.” Martin refused point-blank. “She’s in shock and is sleeping.”
“We have to find out what happened.”
“I’ve told you what happened. My wife went down to the cellars by mistake and found the child’s remains. She became hysterical and went into shock. Took us hours to calm her down. She’s with child and I won’t have her upset again. Understand?”
“Yes, but.”
“No buts. I don’t want the body removed until Fergus Campbell gets back here, either?”
“You can’t obstruct the law.”
“I can do what I like. This is my land.”
“I’ve got tea ready for you in the kitchen, constable.” Mrs. Irvine’s interruption saved the situation. “And some nice fruitcake.”
While the police partook of their tea, Martin paced the driveway. Impossible to hold them off for much longer. The shifty eyed constable wanted to be off. Probably planned to spend the evening at a low class tavern with his unsavory cronies.
The Campbell buggy pulled up with a crunching of gravel. Fergus climbed down and Martin’s mouth dropped open. The old man now wore a kilt, every inch the Highlander.
“They haven’t moved the wee lassie?”
“No, they’ve finished their investigation and are anxious to be off. Mrs. Irvine had to bribe them with tea and cake.”
“Get the undertaker.”
The undertaker, a thin melancholy man, took the tartan plaid from Fergus.
“Wrap the wee lassie in this. My grandson and I will come into town in a couple of days to arrange a decent burial.” He swung around to face the police. “I don’t want ye putting your filthy hands on her.”
They took the coffin off the wagon. Martin accompanied them down to the cellar and watched the undertaker spread the plaid out on the ground, but averted his eyes as they gathered up the remains.
Suddenly the air was rent with the mournful wail of the bagpipes as Fergus played a lament for the poor, lost soul of little Amy Campbell. As the undertaker and one of the police carried the coffin up the stairs, the haunting sound of the pipes filled the blackness that had been Amy’s tomb for so long. He could not explain why he felt this to be right. Back in the daylight, his heart constricted. The old Highlander with tears running down his cheeks poured his soul into his music. Martin could not speak, just followed the procession to the wagon, waiting silently for the coffin to be loaded into the back.
Fergus kept piping as he followed the wagon down the driveway. This would have to be the most poignant scene he had ever witnessed. The pipes fell silent. When his old enemy trudged up, he felt sorry for him because he looked sad and somehow beaten.
“I’ll go up and sit with Bethie for a wee while before I go. When Alistair gets home tomorrow, we’ll see about the burial.”
“I could arrange something for you.”
“I’m her kin. She’ll be buried next to her parents.”
“You can stay the night here if you wish.”
Fergus’ face registered his surprise at the offer. “I have to go home in case Alistair comes. Don’t let Bethie go to the burying, will ye?”
“No, I won’t.”
Mrs. Irvine insisted Fergus have a plate of hot stew before leaving. As he shared a meal with his old foe, Martin wondered what the ghosts of dead Mulvaneys would think of him sitting at the table with Fergus Campbell. Strangely, the bitterness seemed to have ebbed from his soul.
After Fergus left, he climbed wearily upstairs. Elizabeth still slept, but looked peaceful now, and he pulled up an armchair and sat down next to the bed. The fire crackled in the grate and the room felt warm. He would stay here for a little while before sleeping in his own room as he had done since their wedding night.
If he had not been so impatient to claim his marital rights, things might have been how they were with Storm. He certainly would not have to sleep alone in a cold narrow bed.
“Martin.” Her soft tremulous voice broke in on his brooding.
“Yes?” He leaned across and patted her hand.
“Where’s grandfather?”
“He’s gone home. He’ll be back tomorrow with your brother.”
“Little Amy?”
“Don’t cry, my sweet, she’s gone too.” He scooped up a solitary tear with his forefinger and put it in his mouth.
“I dreamt I heard the pipes.”
“You weren’t dreaming. Your grandfather got them to wrap Amy in a tartan blanket and piped the coffin down the driveway. I’m sure the sound of those bagpipes would have shocked any Mulvaney spirits still floating around here.”
“Alistair can play the pipes too,” she whispered. “Grandfather taught him. Martin?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for getting grandfather.”
He brushed away her thanks. “I had to do something, we were worried about you.”
“I’m tired now. Stay with me until I go to sleep, I’m frightened on my own.”
“There’s nothing to fear.”
He held her hand, and right now would have given up everything he owned to crawl into bed beside her, and make love as he did with Storm.
Chapter Seven
Two nights after her ordeal in the dungeon, Beth lay in bed unable to sleep. Winter had been long and vicious. Another wild storm raged outside. Branches scraped against the windows, while the wind shrieked in a mighty fury.
Jagged lightning slashed across the sky, illuminating the room in an eerie light, before plunging it back into a pit-like darkness. She lay petrified, reliving the dreadful time she had spent in the cellars. The howling from outside sounded as if those poor creatures from below cried out their grief and agony. Thank goodness little Amy no longer lay trapped in such a black dreadful place. Her spirit now soared with the angels.
The castle shuddered, as if hit by lightning. A fist pressed hard against her mouth stopped the screams from tumbling out. Burying her head in the pillow, she tried to block out the fearsome noise. Another giant thunderclap rattled the windows.
“Martin,” she cried out his name several times in quick succession. She wanted him to hold her in his arms, needed to feel his warmth, his strength.
“What in tarnation…” He dashed into her. “What’s wrong?” She heard him fumbling around in the darkness. When the lamp flared into life, she noticed his hair was ruffled from sleep and he wore no clothes.
“I’m frightened.”
“Frightened? What of? You’re safe in here.”
“I can’t stand the thunder and lightning. This place is so spooky, I keep thinking of the dungeons and little Amy.” She trembled with fear and cold.
“Forget all that, it’s all in the past now.” He paced the room.
“Stay with me. Oh, please. Don’t leave me on my own.”
“All right, there’s no need for you to get upset.” Sitting on the bed, he rubbed her hands between his own to bring back their warmth. When he shivered, she held the bedclothes back. After hesitating for a moment, he slipped in beside her.
“I’m not frightened when you hold me.”
“Don’t worry, there’s nothing to fear now.” He reached over and snuffed out the lamp, and as she pressed herself close to him, he trembled.
“You’re so strong, Martin.” She snuggled up to him.
“You’re safe, Elizabeth, nothing will hurt you,” he reassured softly. “Forget about the cellar, I’ll have it sealed up. There’s no need for you to be frightened ever again.”
They lay in silence, while outside, the fury of the storm intensified. “Are you still awake?” she asked.
; “Yes, how can a man sleep like this?”
She rested her cheek against the bare flesh of his chest. As he held her close, she daringly put her tongue out and touched his nipple.
“What are you trying to do to me?”
“Do you want to kiss me?”
“Kiss you? Of course, I want to kiss you. Oh, Elizabeth, I want to do more than kiss you,” he groaned the words, tasting her lips with a hungry desperation. Like a starving man who had been offered the last seat at a banquet.
He eased her mouth open so his tongue could taste the golden nectar within. He couldn’t get enough of her. When she shyly returned his kisses, heat fired his blood and his groin tightened.
His fingers worked frantically at the buttons on her nightgown. “This is what you want isn’t it? If not, stop me now.”
“Yes! Yes! I’m ready to be a proper wife to you.”
He stroked the gown away from her shoulders, so his mouth could gain access to her breast and suckle her nipple into a flowering peak. Soon this was not enough. He craved the touch of her soft perfumed skin, had to feel her naked body rubbing against his hard maleness. He practically ripped her nightgown off and flung the garment on the floor.
“Hush, my sweet, I won’t hurt you,” he reassured, sensing her fear.
“Oh, Martin, you do love me a little.”
“Storm girl, I’d die for you.”
Although, still small and dainty, her waistline had thickened with his child. It excited him, as he fought to control his rampaging passion.
He covered her, supporting most of his weight on his arms he eased himself into the body she offered with such trust. As he moved inside her, he whispered endearments and reassurance to allay her fear.
The instant her womanhood ripened and started to respond he knew, and his passion intensified. Soon they moved in unison, as he thrust and parried, whipping her up into a frenzy of need. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she gripped him tightly. Storm had come back to him.
When Beth thought she would have to die to escape the tautened agony, Martin exploded inside her, and she rode on a cloud of euphoric rapture. Finally, he rolled away, but still kept her close, his lips moving in her hair. He must love her. No man could do this to his wife without cherishing her.
Savage Possession Page 11