by Amy M. Reade
Trading the urban pace of Edinburgh for a tiny village overlooking a breathtaking blue loch was a great move for budding photographer Sylvie Carmichael and her artist husband, Seamus—until a dangerous crime obscures the view . . .
Sylvie’s bucolic life along the heather-covered moors of the Highlands is a world away from the hectic energy of the city. But then a London buyer is killed after purchasing a long-lost Scottish masterpiece from Seamus’s gallery—and the painting vanishes. As suspicion clouds their new life, and their relationship, Sylvie’s search for answers plunges her into an unsolved mystery dating back to Cromwellian Scotland through World War I and beyond. And as she moves closer to the truth, Sylvie is targeted by a murderer who’s after a treasure within a treasure that could rewrite history . . . and her own future.
Also by Amy M. Reade
The Malice Series
The House on Candlewick Lane
Highland Peril
Novels
Secrets of Hallstead House
The Ghosts of Peppernell Manor
House of the Hanging Jade
Highland Peril
Amy M. Reade
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Amy M. Reade
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Glossary
Prologue
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
EPILOGUE
Author’s Note
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2017 by Amy M. Reade
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Special Sales Manager:
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: September 2017
ISBN: 978-1-5161-0015-6
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0018-7
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0018-2
For John
Acknowledgments
As always, I must thank my first reader, my husband, John for his invaluable advice and support. And thank you to my kids, who offer nothing but encouragement as I continue along this journey I’ve chosen. And thank you to the rest of my family, for always keeping the faith.
I would also like to thank the editors, artists, and talented professionals at Kensington Publishing for all their hard work in bringing my words to print. And in particular, I offer a huge thanks to my editor, Martin Biro.
Glossary
bairn: child
braw: fine, great
cullen skink: classic Scottish soup made with smoked fish (usually haddock), potatoes, and onions
dinnae: don’t
ghillie brogues: shoes specially made for bagpipers or for wearing with kilts. They are generally black, with no tongue and long laces.
haggis: often referred to as Scotland’s national dish, it is a combination of meat, oatmeal, onions, spices, and salt. The meat is frequently sheep’s heart, liver, and lungs.
ken: v., to know
kirk: church
scunner: a person who engenders disdain; someone who causes disgust
sgian dubh: (Gaelic) “black knife.” This traditional kilt accessory is a small knife, often with a decorative handle and leather sheath, which is worn tucked inside the top of a man’s hose.
sporran: pouch used to store small personal items, usually worn with a pocketless kilt
torch: flashlight
wynd: alley or narrow lane
Prologue
1652 Scotland
“Quickly, Elizabeth!” the woman whispered, the urgency in her voice unmistakable.
“I’m hurrying, m’lady,” the maid replied with a grunt, gathering her skirts in one hand and tripping across the rocks behind her mistress. The waves crashed far below at the base of the jagged cliff as the North Sea grew angrier in the keening wind.
The bundle of flax was as heavy as an anvil. Elizabeth repeatedly changed hands to hold the neck of the burlap bag and her skirts simultaneously, being sure to keep the contents of the bag from spilling onto the ground.
“Over here, Elizabeth,” Christian whispered. “Don’t go any closer to the edge.” Christian was in the lead, making her way through the tall grass in the darkness, her steps guided only by the few distant torches burning on the side of the mammoth castle facing the sea.
Elizabeth followed the sound of Christian’s voice, straining to hear above the wind. Twice she had to stop, but only for a moment, to catch her breath. She didn’t know how Christian was managing with two bags.
The women had a long distance to walk before they would meet the Reverend Grainger’s coach. They were headed several miles through the woods, from Castle Dunnottar to a road that would take them to the village of Kinneff. It would be a difficult walk, fraught with danger, not only because of the rock-strewn path and the precipitous drop to the sea, but because the English army was nearby, and who knew what wild animals and ill-meaning men lurked in the darkness.
Elizabeth hurried to catch up, almost dragging the heavy bag along beside her. Her mistress stopped for a moment, waiting for her to draw near.
“Stay close behind me. Do not say a word to anyone.”
Elizabeth nodded, not sure if Christian could see her face in the darkness. She clenched and unclenched her hands, trying to uncramp them. She bent to the side to retrieve her bag, but her foot bumped it and tipped it over. The neck of the bag had come untied and some of the flax spilled onto the ground with a quiet shushing sound. Elizabeth looked up, barely able to see Christian moving forward toward the English encampment.
“Elizabeth!” came the hoarse whisper. “You must hurry!”
Several moments later Elizabeth, panting with exertion, caught up to Christian. “What have you been doing? You must move more quickly. If I had known you would be so slow, I would have done this myself.”
“I’m sorry, m’lady,” Elizabeth mumbled.
Elizabeth knew her mistress could not have made such a journey by herself with three bags of flax. Christian needed her help, and was likely grateful for it. The two women, each lugging her heavy load, continued through the grass, thankful for the wind that cooled their faces and for the cloud-filled night, which helped them move away from the castle unnoticed.
Christian finally spoke. “Do you hear that? I believe there is a horse ahead. Perhaps it is my husband’s coach.”
“Who’s there?” a voice shouted. Both women froze. Each knew instinctively to remain absolutely still and wait for the English soldier atop his steed to continue on his way. Though Christian had discussed with th
e mistress of Castle Dunnottar the possibility of being discovered by the English, she had not discussed it with Elizabeth. But Elizabeth knew what they had just accomplished, and she knew they had risked their lives this night. They were not about to reveal their presence on this desolate cape high above the heaving sea.
In spite of the cool breeze, a droplet of sweat made its way down Elizabeth’s face and dripped onto the ground. She would have sworn she heard it hit the ground with a deafening roar. Of course the soldier could not hear her sweating. She wondered if her mistress was sweating, too, nearby in the darkness.
After a few moments of silence, save for the wind billeting around them, Christian and Elizabeth heard the soldier on his horse move away through the waving grass. He wasn’t trying very hard to be quiet. He probably assumed he had startled an animal foraging for food.
The two women continued on their way, stopping only to listen for sounds above the wind. There were none. The soldier had disappeared. Elizabeth heaved the bag onto her back, where it would not make any noise dragging along the dry ground. Another hour, and the night sky remained blacker than ever. Finally she heard a noise—the sound of a horse. Elizabeth strained her eyes to see ahead into the darkness, but she could see nothing but the even darker form of her mistress standing in front of her.
“Over here,” Christian whispered, barely audible. Elizabeth followed the sound of her voice. They had arrived at the dirt track several miles north of the village of Kinneff. Elizabeth set down her heavy sack. The horse’s soft whinny carried on the wind and Christian crept closer to the sound. Just a moment later there was the trill of a bird—a labored sound that seemed out of time and place in the darkness.
“My husband is here,” Christian whispered. She made a similar trilling sound with her throat. Elizabeth tugged the sack along the ground until she could see the outline of the small coach and the horse in front of it. A tall figure stood near the horse. Reverend Grainger. He stepped forward and took hold of one of the bags his wife was carrying. He hoisted it onto the seat of the coach and then did the same with the second bag. Christian clambered up into the coach and turned around to watch as her husband took Elizabeth’s bag by the neck and swung it up with the others. He climbed up onto the seat and took the reins; Elizabeth took her place behind the coach. She would walk the rest of the way.
A short distance down the road, the coach stopped. The only noise Elizabeth could hear was from the wind, but the Reverend had heard muted voices up ahead. He turned in his seat and hissed a warning to the two women. “Shh! I will speak to them.”
The coach drew up to a group of three soldiers, one of whom was holding a torch for light. One of the men ordered them to stop as they approached. Reverend Grainger pulled on the reins. The horse, seemingly having taken on the nervous temperament of the Reverend and the two women with him, stomped his feet and neighed.
“What are you doing?” asked one of the soldiers, his English accent strong.
“I received word that my good wife was taken ill whilst visiting Castle Dunnottar, and I have been to fetch her and her maidservant.”
The soldier with the torch leaned closer to the side of the coach. “What is in the bags?”
“The bags contain flax that my wife and her maidservant will use to make poultices for my parishioners.”
“Let me have a look.”
Christian obediently opened the necks of the three bags of flax and the soldier ran his hand through the seeds, letting them fall back into the bags like gold pieces in a treasure chest.
“Where are you going?”
“To Kinneff.”
“Proceed.”
Without further discussion, Reverend Grainger flipped the reins and the horse clopped forward toward Kinneff. Elizabeth knew, without hearing, that the couple in the coach had just heaved great sighs of relief.
Before arriving at Kinneff, the coach slowed. Elizabeth knew what was happening; it had all been part of the hastily arranged plan. She must never know what was to happen to the contents of the bags, so she was being sent away forever to protect herself, her employers, and Scotland.
Christian climbed down from the coach and Reverend Grainger came around from the front. Elizabeth stood before them and bowed her head.
“Elizabeth, you have been a good and faithful servant, but as you are aware, we can no longer risk having you in our employ. Nor can you risk remaining in our company. The time has come for you to depart to destinations unknown. We will not ask whither you go, and we demand that you do not reveal to us the arrangements you have made or your whereabouts.”
With these words Reverend Grainger pulled a small bag from under his cloak. Elizabeth knew how many coins the bag contained—she had agreed to the amount in advance of the trip to Castle Dunnottar. The coins jingled softly as the Reverend handed the bag to Elizabeth, then her former employers watched as she wordlessly turned away from the road and walked straight into the wood nearby, her future plans known only to her and one other person.
It would be the last time she would ever see the Reverend Grainger and Christian Fletcher.
At long last the coach arrived at the Kinneff Church. Christian longed for sleep, but there was still much work to do. She and her husband reached for the bags of flax on the floor of the coach. They pulled the bags along the ground to the rear of the church, their eyes darting in all directions to see whether any figures lurked in the dark.
Reverend Grainger pulled a huge iron key from inside his cloak, where he always kept it. With a grating noise that seemed much louder than it really was, the key found its way inside the lock of the church door and Reverend Grainger pushed open the heavy door. He led the way to the nave, where he lit a small torch. A tiny flame sprang to life, providing just enough light to see as he knelt down and used his fingertips to pry a wooden board from the floor. It came up without a sound. Christian reached for a tall pile of neatly folded linen cloths and slid the pile closer to where she and her husband squatted on the floor of the almost-dark church.
The first bag was one Christian had been carrying since the women’s departure from Castle Dunnottar. She plunged her arm into the flax and slowly and carefully pulled out the object, which had been hidden among the seeds.
It was solid silver, gleaming dully in the light from the torch. Atop its length was a crystal globe and a lustrous Scottish pearl.
The Sceptre of Scotland. It had been used at the coronation of Queen Mary of Scots.
Christian handled it as though it were holy, running her fingertips up its length and around the globe and pearl. Not a breath could be heard in the church. The flame sputtered.
“Wife, wrap the Sceptre, and do so with haste,” the Reverend Grainger cautioned. Laying out a length of linen, Christian placed the Sceptre on the floor with extreme gentleness, then wrapped it in several lengths of cloth until it was sufficiently padded. Having completed her task, she handed the Sceptre to her husband, who took it with equal care and placed it in the hollow space where the floorboard had been.
Christian reached into the other bag she had carried from the castle. Again she plunged her arm into the seeds of flax and pulled out the first of two objects hidden inside. She gazed at it, her tears glistening in the feeble torchlight. She put her hand back into the bag and drew out the second object.
The objects, together as one just hours ago, made up the Sword of Scotland. The Sword, with its silver gilt handle, intricate carvings, and scabbard of velvet and silver, might someday be restored to its original grandeur. Christian was no doubt remembering her sadness as she watched the Commander of the Castle, George Ogilvie, break the sword into two pieces in order to safeguard its continued existence. Christian would not allow the Sword, nor its brethren regalia, to fall into the hands of the Cromwellian forces.
These objects, too, were carefully wrapped in linen cloths and laid under the floorboard of the kirk.
Christian then turned to the bag that Elizabeth had carried. Reaching into t
he flax seeds with both hands, she drew out the final piece of the Scottish Regalia.
The Crown of Scotland.
She had entrusted this, the most awe-inspiring piece of the Honours of Scotland, to Elizabeth because she knew the maid would more likely be ignored if they had been stopped and questioned by Cromwell’s troops.
Drawing an almost imperceptible breath, she ran her fingers around the circlet of the Crown, feeling each jewel and precious stone in turn. In the hushed light of the torch, she frowned and ran her fingers around the circlet again, then reached to take the torch from her husband.
Holding the torch close to her face and bringing the Crown nearer, she peered anxiously at the circlet. She turned it and studied the stones, then looked up at Reverend Grainger with an expression of pained confusion.
“There are two stones missing from this circlet. I am sure the jewels and the stones were all there when we departed from the castle. Have my eyes deceived me?”
“Where are the other gems?” asked her husband.
“I do not know. We must find them. Quickly—help me search through the flax to ensure they are not within the seeds.”
Handful by tedious handful, Christian and Reverend Grainger took every flax seed out of the bag, spreading them on the floor of the kirk. The Reverend would normally have left such a menial task to his wife, but this was a matter crucial to the survival of the Scottish Regalia.