The Legend of Lady MacLaoch

by Becky Banks

  I cursed the person who’d written it, gave the door a kick in distress, and ran for the pier.

  Two tiny fishing boats bobbed in the water at the end of the pier. The water was low, several feet below the pier. I cautiously climbed down the wooden, makeshift ladder and toed myself into the first boat. The boat rocked fiercely when I sat and nearly capsized. Just as I leaned to pull the starter cord on the outboard motor, I heard tires squeal into the boathouse parking lot.

  Grasping the cord, I tugged. Nothing.

  I pulled it again, and nothing. I yanked and yanked and got nothing, not even a sputter. Looking around wildly, I figured that the other boat was close enough. At the edge of the one I was in, I leaned for the other, fingers stretching.

  I heard a frustrated scream and the sound of a shoe kicking the door of the boathouse. “Open this door or else!” Eryka yelled, as though I had simply locked her out and would just as simply let her in.

  Rapid gunfire was followed by the shattering of glass—she was going in through the boathouse window.

  As quietly and as gracefully I could, I set one leg over into the other boat, then the other.

  Eryka screamed. It was a simple and terrifying sound, one that reminded me of a wild animal screeching at the lost scent of its prey.

  Only I was wrong.

  Her frustrated screaming was not as terrifying as the soft “Oh” I heard her say next, followed by the knowing click-clack of her heels moving swiftly down the pier.

  I shoved myself fully into the second boat and threw myself at the little outboard motor. Sending up a prayer, I grasped the handle of the starter cord and yanked with such ferocity that the motor barely chugged before it started richly, spewing a black cloud of exhaust out the back of the boat and over the water.

  In the same instant that the motor kicked to life, announcing with certainty where I was, I switched to reverse. The motor strained and the boat went nowhere. My mind reeled—I was still attached to the pier.

  I staggered forward and tried with bumbling fingers, shaking with adrenaline and fear, to undo the simple knot at the bow. My insides churned as Eryka’s steps got closer. My right foot wobbled on something, and I instinctively looked down.

  A fishing knife.

  I didn’t waste another second: I picked up the knife, swung with all my might at the taught rope, and severed it in half.

  The motor idled the small boat backward while I made my way to the rear so I could twist the engine’s throttle to full. Even with the engine flogged, the boat moved with strained effort through the water in reverse. Sitting on the rear plank, I brought my hand up, still gripping the fishing knife as if it were a perfect form of defense against a gun.

  Eryka came into view. She shot wildly at me. Water spewed as each bullet hit the surface; wood fragments splintered and shattered into the air as some bullets hit my lifeboat.

  Terrified, I pulled my legs up so that I was in a protective ball, my arm shielding my face as if it were bulletproof.

  Suddenly the peppering stopped. I looked up to see Eryka steadying her gun, taking the careful aim of a last-attempt shot.

  Shit, was my first thought as the seconds ticked by. It was followed by the hope that when her bullet hit me it would be a body shot, something I could recover from, the way Rowan had. The following second brought a sickening third thought: this was my end. I had come all this way, fallen in love with a man and he with me, only for us to be immediately torn apart forever.

  I realized this was Rowan’s fear. The legend of Lady MacLaoch rearing its ugly head once again, with me as the pawn to be torn from this world just to make Rowan suffer. This was the culmination of the curse—a twisted trick from Lady MacLaoch to have the ancient love be rekindled just so that it could die once more.

  Paralyzed with indecision about what I could do, let alone what I should do in such a nightmarish situation as this, I saw Eryka’s finger squeeze the trigger to engage the bullet—the trigger which gave the command to propel the bullet from the chamber and through the air and into me. I flinched as I heard the hammer hit with a click that echoed off the water.

  In that fractured second it was as if I weren’t sitting in a boat where violence had exploded all around me. My mind, instead, transported me somewhere else, a happier time. A place where I was calm and able to notice details, like the briny smell of the water and the feeling that, despite my sodden clothing, I was warm, hot with exertion. As this peace settled into me, I had the thought, Here I go—now I die.

  Incessant clicking, the sound of an empty cartridge being checked and checked again, snapped me back to the present.

  Relief flooded through me as I watched Eryka turn into a small, raging inferno on the dock. She just kept pulling the trigger, as if the gun would suddenly refill with bullets and start shooting. I turned my attention to my boat as Eryka ran back to her car. I didn’t want to be anywhere near her after she had reloaded.

  CHAPTER 41

  In the open water, I followed the coastline toward Glentree harbor. Eventually the harbor came into sight and I could see other vessels, fishing boats in Glentree Bay, in the near distance. I was almost safe. At least now someone would hear me scream.

  The motor suddenly coughed, then sputtered, and then continued, as if nothing happened. Looking warily at it, I realized that if I ran out of gas, I had no oars.

  I shook off the fear that tried to wrestle me down, gave the outboard motor a pat—good dog—and prayed for a miracle, big or small.

  The motor roared for a few yards more, then sputtered again and, like before, came back to life. Only its second life was short-lived, and I soon found myself in the deafening silence of the wide, flat ocean loch, drifting ever so slowing toward Glentree.

  I tugged the starter cord, and it sputtered again.

  The sound it made—the chugging that precedes the roar of a motor brought to life—made me go wild with hope, and I yanked and yanked on the cord, willing with all I had. I kept at it. I could feel my hand become raw and my shoulder ache with the effort. Tears blinded my eyes, making the world go bleary.

  I didn’t stop, not even when the motor made no sound and it had become just me and the whooshing spring pull of the cord.

  “Aye! Ye will get more blood from a turnip, ye will, lassie!” called a craggy, well-humored voice from behind me.

  Shocked, not realizing how long I’d been at it, I turned to find Angus and Bernie MacDonagh slowing up beside me. Relief flooded through me at the sight of their faces.

  “Oh, ye a’richt?” Bernie asked taking in my full appearance, as they idled to a stop next to me. “Ms. Baker it is, aye?”

  I simply pointed at the motor. “No gas.”

  Angus and Bernie exchanged a look. “Well now. We were just heading to Castle Laoch to get refueled ourselves. It’s too far tae go with a tow on our tank of gas, so we’ll head to the fishin’ post o’r there,” Angus said, pointing to a small isle behind me, speaking calmly and slowly as if he were talking to a madwoman. “Best ye come on board wit’ us. Your skiff looks to have taken a wee bit of a beating.”

  Bernie and Angus helped me into their boat and wrapped me in a wool blanket that did wonders to keep the wind off me. We set out at a slow pace toward our destination, quietly digesting what was happening until Bernie broke the silence.

  “Ye ha’ the look of someone who’s tangled with a mountain cat,” he said softly. His tenderness reminded me suddenly of my grandfather, and that was enough to break me.

  I wept, loudly and soundly, about everything. Sobs wracked my body until my eyes ran dry. I sucked in a shaky breath and let it out slowly, easing the pressure in my chest.

  “Dinnae worry, lass, Bernie has that effect on all women,” Angus said behind me.

  I smiled at both of them and dried my eyes. “Sorry, and thanks for stopping,” I said. “I wasn’t sure what to do next.”

  “Och! It’s nothing,” Bernie said, getting uncomfortable. “’Tis just, lass, isnae ther
e more than that?” he asked, and then added, “When we saw ye the other day, ye seemed happy and jovial about the possibilities that ye could be from this place. Have ye found trouble or has trouble found ye?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “Och! Now those are that best kind! We ha’ a long while before we get ye filled back up an’ on yer way.”

  I looked at Bernie. He just stared back at me as though he did indeed have all day, then leaned forward and placed an old hand on the top of my head. His thumb touched a gash at my temple. I’d forgotten that I must have looked like a twister had had its way with me.

  “Maybe it’ll be easier if ye start with how ye got this,” he said softly, his voice low and gruff with age.

  I too felt the gash and remembered the wood fragments ricocheting off the oak. I must have said as much because Angus spoke next.

  “And who was it that was shooting at ye?” he said calmly, as if he asked people that question every day.

  “Oh,” I said, trying for nonchalance and thinking I really needed to contact the authorities and tell this story to them. “A woman named Eryka.”

  “Och! Now she’s a one!” he said. “Jealous, aye, and wanting that seat beside the MacLaoch chieftain for a long time. Before Rowan, even. What does she want with ye?”

  “My blood, apparently.”

  Angus was more shrewd. “The chieftain fancies ye, doesn’t he?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, deciding to try nonchalance, too. “He and I have handfastened, or whatever you call it, so yes, I think he fancies me.”

  Silence.

  It was Angus and Bernie’s turn for quiet reaction.

  “Hand-tied?” Bernie asked. “The MacLaoch chieftain? Rowan?”

  I just nodded.

  Then from behind me, as recognition struck him, Angus said, “Oh.”

  “Aye.” Bernie nodded. He looked at his brother, then to me with new reverence. “Ye are then.”

  “Yes, we are hand-tied. Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked.

  “Aye, ye have bound yourselves together. Ye are wedded, that is,” Bernie said absently, still staring at me. “So ye are the descendant then? Yer ancestor was the Minory of the legend?”

  “Oh, wedded,” I said using the word as if I’d just heard it. “Yes, it turns out that I am the descendant.”

  Bernie looked around me at his brother again, then at the low mound of island we were approaching.

  My stomach dropped. “Is that—” I didn’t want to finish.

  “Aye. It is the Isle of Lady MacLaoch,” they both said as they brought the small boat up to a makeshift pier in the shallow rocky inlet.

  Long fingers of pasture and heather tickled the black, smooth rocks of the beach, allowing them to take over and then gently slope into the clear, cold water. I could see a small but sturdy-looking stone building with a slate roof just beyond the pier.

  I followed Bernie out of the boat to shore and waited as they secured my boat, went into the little building, and came out with a gas can. Silently we all did our jobs; mine was observing. The clouds were starting to form an odd pattern. Had I been on the South Carolina coast, I would have said that a hurricane was coming. The fluffy, low ceiling over the island began to form harder, longer, swirling shapes that curled about a center point. It was as if someone above were stirring the white mass with a finger.

  “Aye,” Bernie said, lumbering back from returning the gas can to the shed. “That is taken care of.” He looked over as his brother came to stand next to him; then both of them looked at me with the same watery blue eyes. Could I be more uncomfortable? I could be.

  “We have something tae tell ye. Back when we were kids we were told the story of the Lady MacLaoch, as was every wee bairn, but Angus and I were told more,” Bernie said. “Ye see, every generation in our family has had one, and being as we are twins, we both were told. We were the Secret Keepers for our generation. Unfortunately our grandchildren have laughed it off, too engrossed in the Internet and their telephones tae believe in something more real than they’ll ever know.

  “But anyway, with ye here, that tells us the curse is broken, which means there is much for us to do, and it’s no coincidence that we’ve come tae be standing here on this island. It just is another sign that the last is soon tae come,” Bernie finished.

  “Now, Cole, do ye have one of those telephones? I think Rowan needs tae come now,” Angus asked.

  I looked down at my half-dry clothes, then back to them askance. “No,” I said simply, not wanting to have to explain that even if I did, a soaked electronic device would not be so very useful.

  Just then we all heard it, a motor being shut off. We hadn’t noticed the gradual hum until it was suddenly silent.

  I looked past the stone building and down the beach to where it curved around the end of the island. Both Bernie and Angus strained their eyes on the horizon, looking for the boat. The island wasn’t very big and there was a possibility that whoever it was had simply landed on the back side of the island’s low hill—a fisherman, maybe, or a tourist.

  Only the rush of goose bumps on my damp skin said that it was best if we fled, and fled right then.

  CHAPTER 42

  Down in the lower hallway, Rowan yanked open the sticking door that opened onto the outer terrace and found John ushering groups of people toward him.

  “Aye, everyone please go inside and stay there till we come tae tell ye all’s OK,” John said as he herded guests past Rowan and into the castle.

  Rowan closed the door on them and turned to John. “Where’d ye hear them?” he asked.

  “Back in the forest but, sir,” John called as Rowan made to turn and head that way, “I’ve just heard two more shots down by the boathouse.”

  “What do you mean? Just now?” Rowan said, closing the distance between them, his heart pounding, ready for action. “Where’s Simon? He’s supposed to be down there.”

  “I know,” John said and took a step back from his chieftain. “But I’ve just seen him—he’s inside wi’ the rest of them. There’s no one down there who’s supposed to be down there, and discharging a gun, no less.”

  “Aye—”

  Rowan’s words were cut off by the rapid fire of a pistol.

  John’s eyes went wide as he looked at his chieftain. “There,” was all he said. He stood rooted in place.

  “John, get ye inside, and lock that entrance.” When the man didn’t move, Rowan added, “Now would be a good time, John.”

  That was all the patience Rowan could afford—heart hammering, he took off sprinting for the boathouse.

  The gardens were a blur—low brick walls and boxy shrubbery that he and Cole had walked through just days before. He launched himself over them and was nearly out of the gardens when the sounds of a car reached his ears.

  He felt his feet shift south before the thought of changing direction had registered in his mind. The car was a late-model Peugeot—his uncle had owned one and, while it was small and maneuverable, it was dog-slow up hills.

  At the river Rowan’s pace didn’t falter as he leaped onto the first hopscotch-bridge boulder’s back and kept moving. His mind registered the deep gouges in the moss and the shattered gouge that had been carved in one rock.

  Anger fueled him. He had to be faster.

  The Peugeot’s motor sounded its struggle as Rowan made his way through and around trees, saplings grasping his sweater, pulling for attention.

  Adrenaline made him lose feeling in everything, mind and body, returning him to the machine he’d once been. Focused on the target, Rowan ran after the rusty black Peugeot, now in his sight.

  Through the trees he chased it, leaping over the last few stumps and then out onto the service road. He closed the distance between the blond behind the wheel and himself. Digging deep, he came up alongside her door. His prey, unaware of his presence, held the gear shift in one hand and a cell phone in the other, steering with her knee as she yelled t
o the person on the other line. She did all this without wearing her seatbelt.

  Perfect.

  Rowan grasped the moving car’s door handle and yanked it open. He reached in, pulling a startled, shrieking Eryka brutally from the car and onto the pavement in front of him. Leaping over her as she tumbled to the side, he caught up to the moving car again. He jumped in and shut it down, placed it in park, and pocketed the keys. Rowan turned back toward the woman whose single purpose was to kill him and everything he loved in the world.

  Face scratched, her blouse hanging off her, and having lost a shoe, Eryka started to laugh—wild and maniacal laughter—as she hobbled to a relatively upright position and waited for him to come to her.

  “Oh, Rowan, if you wanted to have your way with me, all you had to do was call. You didn’t need to pull me passionately from my car, love.”

  Rowan strode to her and cracked his fist across her jaw. The blow threw Eryka backward to the pavement. Even though it was Eryka, Rowan felt the guilt all the way to his bones for striking a woman. That was something he thought he’d never do, until he met her.

  He turned back to the car and popped the trunk. His insides squirmed at what he saw inside it. Tape, rope, boxes of bullets, and two extra-large garbage bags. Rowan took deep breaths until the desire to feel Eryka’s neck snap in his hands passed. Counting to ten, he moved to look into the car—seeing the muzzle of a 9mm made him lose count at five.

  Turning to the groaning woman on the ground behind him, Rowan leaned back against the car and folded his arms to try to contain himself.

  “Where’d ye get the second gun, Eryka?”

  “Piss off,” she said, sitting up and feeling the side of her jaw. She smiled wolfishly at him. “Actually, Rowan, I’ll tell you, if you tell me something.”