by Becky Banks
“Och, good! It sounds like ye had a nice time. I bet ye can’t wait for Friday now, can ye?” Carol asked, beaming.
“Friday?” Then remembered before she said it.
“Och, ye are so modest, the final gala of course,” she said and gave me a wink before reporting back to the kitchen for round two of the meal.
A short time later I found myself at the research section of the library’s basement.
“Good morning, Deloris,” I said as I dropped my bag at one of the desks.
“Aye, good morning tae ye.” Deloris came to the front counter. “I suppose ye didnae find what ye were looking for last night then, eh?”
“What I was looking for?” I asked.
“Aye. Or ye wouldn’t be here this mornin’.”
I nodded, realizing what she meant. “I learned much last night”—she nodded; she’d heard at least some gossip—but, unfortunately, nothing that will be of help to my original search.” I took a deep breath and admitted defeat aloud: “I think I need to know everything there is on the Lady MacLaoch curse.”
Deloris blinked. “Oh, so ye didn’t find out about the Minarys then?”
“No,” I confirmed. “I’m beginning to believe that I am in fact the descendant of Iain Eliphlet Minory. I think,” I paused, not sure I wanted to say this aloud, “that I am indeed meant to, somehow, fulfill an ancient destiny.”
“Oh.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s weird. But I just feel that if I could read all I can about this curse, something will pop out at me that will tell me what I need to know.”
“Well, I’ll round up what I can for ye.”
A short while later Deloris and I settled in together to review the documents she had uncovered. The variety of curses the MacLaochs were apparently under was amazing.
“These all are dramatically different depending on the person’s bias,” I said. “‘And she said unto him that he should never love another, though if he shall, his babes will have the heads of horses.’ Heads of horses?”
“Well, it’s more exciting than this one—this says the male MacLaochs will all become strong and virile. Not much of a curse if ye ask me.”
“Ugh,” I said, and put my chin in my hand. This was going nowhere.
Just then the door chimed open and Dr. Peabody strolled in, holding a large box.
“Ah, hello, Nicole and Deloris! Doing research?” He sounded as though the strange evening mere hours before had never happened. He placed his box on the reception counter and came over to us.
“Yes. And you?” I asked. Thinking of my bruised arm, I added, “I hope you’re not here to prove any more theories.”
“Wasn’t it magnificent!?” he beamed, obviously missing my point.
“Which part? Your proving your theory or bruising my arm?”
“Oh yes, I am sorry about that, Ms. Baker, though what it proves is substantial,” he said. “But sadly, I must conclude my business here in Glentree—my family and I are headed back to the States after a tour through Craigellachie. So,” he said, looking at Deloris, “I’ve come to return those materials I borrowed. I didn’t know which ones belonged to Castle Laoch, so I’ve just included everything in the box.”
Dr. Peabody took a deep breath. He had the obvious look of a man who didn’t want to rush away from a center of research—more specific, to leave his research subject behind.
I smiled at him knowingly. “Ed, before you leave, I bet you can help Deloris and me with our current question.”
“Yes?”
Why did I want to give him a little going-away gift? I had no idea. But it was fun to see how giddy he got over research.
“There are as many versions of the curse as there are days of the year. How can we weed out the most credible of the bunch?”
Dr. Peabody beamed. “Ah, yes. Which one is the truest form? A very good question, and I think I can help.”
“Really?”
He turned to his box, unloaded a few top files, found the one he’d been looking for, and flipped it open. “Here,” he said, handing me a sheet of typewritten paper. “This is dictation taken from a Secret Keeper. That’s someone who’s been nominated to remember the story—every generation has someone who is in charge of memorizing the curse verbatim from the past generation.”
By the time I’d finished reading, all the hair on my body was standing on end.
“This is it,” I whispered. “Do you know who the current Secret Keeper is?”
Dr. Peabody shook his head sadly. “No, I don’t know who this person is. It’s not listed anywhere.”
I reread the curse. “This sounds just like the one the MacDonagh brothers told to me. Here, this is the part I was looking for: ‘When they have walked the lonely halls of despair will I bestow upon them a peace I once held long ago and then, only for a moment,’” I recited the words and fell silent.
“What are you suggesting?” Dr. Peabody asked.
“Well, it seems obvious, doesn’t it? That what she’s saying is that only when the MacLaoch chieftain shares her pain, and I assume here that she means, feels pain equal to or greater than the one she felt, that only then will the clan be free of the curse. Or, in other words, once you walk in my shoes, I’ll lift the curse—you can love freely as you would have done before me,” I said and sat back.
“And?” Dr. Peabody asked.
“And what?”
“Well, my dear, we know that Rowan has seen the likes of her pain, so the question is, now what do you do?”
“Wait now,” Deloris piped up. “I don’t want to pry, but I gather ye both think that Rowan has seen the likes of her pain?” She pointed to the transcript of the curse.
Dr. Peabody and I looked at each other, then back to her, and said, “Yes.”
“Oh, all right, then. So how come the chieftain seems still to be cursed?”
I had felt it earlier but now it was much stronger: the low hum in my belly. Since I had become aware of whom—not what—was the cause of the hum, I could not ignore it. Rowan was near.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It seems from this that the simple act of having seen the likes of Lady MacLaoch’s pain would do the trick. The MacLaochs, however, are strong believers that the descendant of the Minory will break the curse.”
Peabody nodded, spectacles swinging in his hand as he looked off into the distance, contemplating. “Yes. You are right the MacLaochs do believe the Minory will break the curse, and those who stick to the original concept of it realize that the Minory returning is the signal of the broken curse—mission completed, if you will.”
“Oh, so you are saying that my simply being here has broken the curse, if the chieftan’s pain hasn’t already?”
“Yes, my dear, I do believe that. However, I am just one person, and if Deloris here believes it as well, that makes for only two people. I’m afraid that just because we believe it doesn’t mean that the rest of the clan will. And there are a few who are dogged in their determination to become better acquainted with you because of it.”
“Oh, brother,” I said. “The eternal fan club.”
“Hmm,” Peabody said. “More or less.”
This time it was my turn to think. I didn’t have the deep, satisfying feeling that came after a long slog of research ending in the right answer. There was more.
“In the past few days, I’ve had a recurring dream about Lady MacLaoch and an ancient ring. In those dreams I’m wearing the ring and it belongs to me, but in reality it’s sitting in the Castle Laoch antiques display.”
The glasses dropped from Peabody’s hand. “You mean the Lady MacLaoch ring?” he asked breathlessly.
“Yes.”
“You’ve dreamed about it? Have you seen it in real life?”
“Yes and yes. Though I first dreamed about it before I saw it on display at the castle.” It felt a bit odd admitting to having dreamed of something before having seen it, though I did realize I was talking to Dr. Peabody.
&nb
sp; Peabody sat back and blinked rapidly. “I think . . . ” he said and stopped—he seemed to be immersed in a very serious internal dialogue. “I think, Nicole, that . . . I believe, and this is just a theory—one I’ve just thought of, so I haven’t addressed all the holes in it but . . . ” he said and was silent again.
Deloris and I both leaned forward.
“I think,” he repeated, “that Lady MacLaoch has begun a final work. Specifically, she means to have you fulfill what she was denied a millennium ago. I think the final piece, the key, is for you and Rowan to somehow unite. You and Rowan are to marry—that is what the ring is symbolizing.”
CHAPTER 31
Thank ye, Josh,” Rowan said to his gillie, who had prepped the estate’s old military-issue Mercedes G-Wagon, along with support vans, for the long, rough trek to the hunting grounds. “And the cabin, if we need it?”
“’Tis all prepped—spare rifles, munitions, food, and first-aid kit, should ye need it. Though if it turns out that you’ll need a night up there, only one room on the lower level is made up—the upper rooms havenae been aired out—extra bedding in the storage room. Just like last time.”
Rowan nodded and dismissed Josh, and then, to keep his mind busy, rechecked the vans and his vehicle’s supplies. The weather was going to hold for the hunt; the roads wouldn’t be too muddy, but he had the winch on the front just in case.
Rowan opened the rear door of the old military vehicle and pulled out his rifle case. He’d cleaned and checked the gun earlier in the week, but felt his hands perform, automatically, the check once more. He flipped the bolt handle and peered into the open chamber, then relatched and sighted the scope, making minor adjustments that he’d most likely undo later. Rowan’s mind wandered to her again, the soft feel of her under him just last night, the pull she had on his gut, as though he were caught in her dragnet, her ridiculous beauty—he told himself he was a going to regret her for the rest of his life. He was a fool to have touched her. The zinging of his scar reminded him all too viscerally: Lady MacLaoch would punish him for Cole—it was his fate. By blood, she was the last, it seemed, descendant of Lady MacLaoch’s betrothed, and that meant so many things. But of one thing he was certain—should Lady MacLaoch seek her final vengeance upon him, if Vick’s blood hadn’t been enough, to take Cole before his eyes would no doubt settle the score. The two of them reliving the last moments of that original couple was a dark thought that had settled in, and now he couldn’t shake it.
“No,” he said aloud to pull himself from the shadowy recesses of his mind. He would overcome this, he thought. “Rationalize it,” he mumbled to himself as he looked down the barrel through the scope and into the woods bordering the parking area. “It’s Glentree, not the sandbox—she’ll be fine, she’s not Vick. She’ll be fine. Distance yourself, old boy, and you might be fine too.”
Rowan took a deep breath, placing the rifle back in its case, when he heard the gravel crunch behind him.
“Aye, sir, sorry tae bother ye . . . ”
Rowan looked over his shoulder as he snapped the case shut. One of the temporary castle groundsmen stood behind him. Rowan waved him forward, not knowing how long the man had been standing there, but it had been long enough for him to be looking warily at the chieftain.
“I’ve been told the railing on the southside terrace is loose—apparently one of the guests nearly took a plunge off it. I dinnae know if it’s a real problem or if they were drunk off their arses, but I thought I’d tell ye, if ye want to get someone on it now,” the man said. “I’m off tae see tae the tent set up by the archery field. I can do it after if ye would like.” The man indeed had his arms full of ropes and wooden stakes.
Needing another distraction until they were ready to depart, Rowan said, “No. Thank ye, I’ll take a look myself and see what’s tae be done.”
• • •
The terrace, a narrow pathway on the cliff side of the castle, was rarely used in the present day. Historically, it had served as the site of the castle’s first line of defense against the rare siege from that side of the property.
Rowan emerged from the dark breezeway and looked left and right down the narrow terrace. The groundskeeper hadn’t specified where the problem was, but Rowan had assumed he would be able to see an obvious section rattled loose, since someone had nearly pitched himself off it. He saw none.
The weather was changing—his scar pinched, the sensitive tissue feeling the change in atmospheric pressure. Another storm was coming.
Rowan walked the length of the right-most section of the terrace, running his hand along the rough stone, feeling for any loose areas. He turned back to the left side—and found himself walking toward Kelly, who was leaning against the castle, a foot up on the stone in a pose that told Rowan he was there for something beyond taking in the scenery.
Leaning against the railing opposite Kelly, Rowan crossed his arms and regarded his spoiled cousin. “Aye. Ye have me alone. Very clever. What’s it tha’ ye want?”
Kelly regarded his older cousin, his eyebrows lifting in mock surprise. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rowan, I just heard that I could find ye out here.”
“Really.”
“Really,” Kelly said, looking over his shoulder down the darkened passageway.
“Ye expecting someone, Kelly?”
“No, why?”
“Kelly, I don’t have the time to stand here while ye figure out what it is ye want with me. When ye figure it out, come find me,” Rowan said and made to leave.
“I don’t think so,” Kelly said, stepping in front of Rowan and putting a hand to his chest.
Rowan looked at his cousin’s hand, then to his face. “Well now, ye do have something to say? Because if ye don’t, cousin, I’d take your hand off—”
Out of the corner of his eye, Rowan caught movement as Eryka side-stepped out of the shadowy breezeway, a silver 9mm pointed at him. Rowan let a low growl of frustration escape him and looked back at his cousin, who was now wearing a smug look.
“Ye shouldnae have fired her, Rowan,” he said, his voice rising, as if he’d been working on that thought for some time.
“What are ye doing, Kelly?” Rowan could feel the stinging poison of betrayal from his own kin sink its teeth in.
“Kelly, don’t talk to him,” Eryka cut in, her husky voice sounding delighted in the circumstances. “And Rowan, don’t think you can talk your pretty little vay out of this.”
“And what do ye mean by ‘this’? What exactly is this?” Rowan took in the way Eryka held the gun, loose and with the safety on, unaccustomed to its weight.
Eryka’s lips pulled back into a grin. “An intervention, Rowan dear. What does it look like?”
“An assault. But just what do ye think ye are intervening on?”
“You, of course. I didn’t spend all these years working tirelessly for Clan MacLaoch just to be thrown out when a new piece of ass came to town.”
“Working?” Rowan said, letting the last piece slide. “Eryka, don’t lie tae yourself. Ye haven’t worked a day in your life. Ye were fired for good reason, and a Walther PPK isnae helping your situation. Put it away. If ye’re really interested in getting yer job back, we can discuss it,” Rowan lied.
“Oh no, Rowan, we are much beyond that—I don’t want to work here. These past few years have been hell, but I’ve slogged through them because I held out hope that you would come around and see me for what I am,” Eryka said, jutting her chin out.
“And what exactly are ye?” Rowan asked buying time.
Eryka snarled, “Worthy of you. I could be your fucking wife, Rowan; I could have made you happy, could have raised our children here.”
Rowan scoffed, “Stow it, Eryka. As soon as your feet touched Castle Laoch soil ye were sharing my uncle’s bed, and when he died, leaving ye nothing, ye looked for new prey. So what do ye really want? Money?”
“No, Rowan,” she said, suddenly calm. “I’ll tell you the truth—”
“Eryka!” Kelly boomed. “Don’t! Father said—”
“Shut up, Kelly! Your daddy isn’t here, so I’m in charge,” she spat at him and then turned her attention back to Rowan. “After we call the police to clean up your obvious suicide—”
Kelly sighed loudly.
“—Kelly and I will get married, and I’ll have all I’ve wanted. Now, Rowan, be a good boy and stand back against that sketchy railing of yours.” She waved him back with the gun.
Rowan didn’t move.
Kelly said, “Best do it, cousin. She’s serious.”
“Back!” Eryka shouted over Kelly’s words. “I’ll shoot you right here, Rowan, I will, but blood on stone is so hard to get out. I don’t want Kelly’s and my children to ask us what the stain is.”
Rowan ignored Eryka’s ranting and looked at Kelly. “Why?”
Kelly looked startled, as if Rowan were a statue that had just spoken to him. “Why? Tosh it, Rowan, don’t ask me why. Ye should know why, ye prick. Why?” he scoffed. “The chieftain position is mine. I was here when ye were flying around having the time of yer life! Ye. Ye just come in as I’m making my plans for my ceremony and take it all. That’s all ye have ever done tae me, is take what’s rightfully mine!” Kelly said, building steam. “And now!” he shouted, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging. Rowan simply waited for it. “Ye’re fucking my chances tae break the MacLaoch curse!”
“What?” Rowan asked, not expecting that to come from his cousin’s mouth.
“Cole,” Kelly hissed. “She’s mine.”
Eryka cocked the hammer on the gun and flipped the safety off.
His cousin’s announcement was distinctly similar to that of his cousin’s father.
Reacting, Rowan stepped toward Eryka, swiping her gun to the side, and jabbed her chin with the knuckles of his other hand. The gun fired lodging the stray bullet into the railing. Eryka hit the wall behind her and slid to the ground just as Kelly leaped for the gun, but not faster than Rowan’s foot could connect with his head. Rowan picked up the PPK, popped the magazine, dislodged the chambered round, and unsheathed the slide. He threw all three pieces over the railing.