by Nina Mason
Graham, saying nothing, slammed the boot, picked up the bags, and, with her on his heels, followed MacCabe through the front door and up the stairs. He paused on the landing before an old suit of armor, which had stood in that spot for as long as he could remember. In one gauntleted hand, the hollow knight held an iron war axe on a brogit staff.
His Granda claimed it belonged to his namesake: John Graham, laird of Claverhouse, who led the Jacobite uprising of 1688. Unfortunately, Graham was killed at the uprising’s first skirmish, ending the rebellion in its infancy.
“Say hello to Bonny Dundee.”
Lingering a moment, she scrutinized the gleaming metal suit with narrowed eyes. “Isn’t he also called Bloody Clavers?”
A frown pulled on his eyes and mouth. “Aye. By the same lot who call Good Sir James Black Douglas and Cumberland the Butcher Sweet William.”
With a laugh, she met his gaze. “Didn’t Sir Walter Scott write a song about him?”
“Aye. And a novel.”
Old Mortality, one of Sir Walter’s best, in his opinion.
When MacCabe, who’d been waiting, moved toward the drawing room, he followed while singing the refrain from Scott’s air under his breath.
“Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can
Come saddle my horses and call out my men
Unhook the West Port and let us gae free
For it’s up with the bonnets o’ Bonny Dundee.”
The room, he was pleased to see, was little changed. The furniture, an assortment of chairs and a pair of matching sofas in the Logan tartan, was still cozily arranged before the grand fireplace, where a good-sized blaze now burned. The floor-to-ceiling oak paneling glowed as if freshly polished, and the carved panels depicting scenes from Arthurian legend were still in good repair. Hanging over the mantle, as ever, were the two crossed swords from his father’s collection of Highland weaponry.
“There’s brandy, wine, and whisky on the sideboard, my lord,” MacCabe informed him.
The sideboard mentioned was a carved mahogany cupboard on the opposite wall. Turning to have a look, his gaze swept over its shimmering display of cut crystal decanters and ewers, most imported from Ireland. They’d been there for as long as he could remember, and seeing them now made him feel an unsettling mixture of nostalgia and thirst.
Setting down the bags, he started over. He could use a drink to take the edge off. As glad as he was to be home again, he still felt uneasy. But which was gnawing at him, past or future?
After collecting their luggage, the caretaker left them alone. She moved closer to the fireplace, stretching her fingers toward the flames as she examined the swords. He lifted a decanter of whisky off the sideboard and removed the stopper.
“Do you fancy a wee dram?”
“Please,” she replied without looking over.
He sniffed the neck of the decanter, savoring the dusky aroma of peat and smoke. Oh, aye. MacCabe had brought out the good stuff to welcome the prodigal son home from his travels. He positioned two glasses, tipped the decanter, and began to pour.
“Is this your clan crest?”
“Aye.”
He didn’t look, assuming she referred to the badge in the center of the swords. It depicting the crest of Clan Logan, a heart pierced by three passion nails. Below it, across a banner, was the Latin phrase Hoc Majorum Virtus Translation: This is the Valor of My Ancestors. Returning the decanter to its place, he restored the stopper and picked up the glasses before carrying them to where she stood.
“The nails are meant to be the ones used to crucify Jesus Christ.” He handed her a glass. “The pierced heart, as you probably know, is a symbol as old as time.”
“It’s very like the image on the Three of Swords,” she observed before sipping her drink.
His eyes narrowed as he considered the comparison. Oddly, he’d never associated the tarot card with the crest of his clan. The card represented heartache and separation while the badge had always symbolized courage, devotion, and sacrifice. Saying nothing about it, he walked his drink to one of the sofas and took a seat.
She rounded on him with an exuberant expression. ““This place is amazing. I still can’t believe we’re here.”
He took another sip, lifted the glass to his eye, and peered at her and the fire through the filter of golden liquor. “Are your parents still alive?”
She looked a tad taken aback by his question. “Yes. They live in Chelmsford. Why?”
“I’m just curious to know why you’ve never spoken of them.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged and looked at the floor. “I guess they just haven’t come up. It’s not as if we’ve known each other all that long.” Her lips pursed. “This time around, I mean.”
He regarded her narrowly. “Who are they?”
Lifting her gaze to his, she arched an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”
“No, but I’d like to know all the same.”
But it did matter, if only because he’d need to ask her father, whoever he was, for her hand should she accept him. If they were to marry, he was determined to do it properly.
“My father’s a salesman. For a candy company.”
“Oh aye?” He sipped his drink and licked his lips. “And have you told him about me?”
Her face took on a tortured look he didn’t understand. “Not yet.”
His heart sank. Was she ashamed of him? Ashamed the love of her life turned out to be a blood-drinking sex fiend? Not that he’d blame her if that were the case. How could he when he was ashamed of what he was?
He eyed her warily. “What if my curse can’t be lifted? Will you stay with me?”
“Yes. Of course. You know I will.”
Did he? He knew she loved him, having felt it in her blood, but was love enough to sustain such an unequal partnership? As he cogitated, he began to feel more and more uneasy. While he could feel her gaze boring into him, that wasn’t the source of his discomfort. There was something else. He just couldn’t seem to put his finger on what it could be. He sipped his drink, chewed his lip, and finger-plowed his hair.
“And what if we do break the curse? Have you given any thought to what you’d like to do?”
His eyes met hers and narrowed. “Do? I don’t know what you mean.”
“For a living.”
“Oh. Well. No. I can’t say I’ve given it a moment’s thought. Beyond finishing my book, of course.”
“Book? What book?”
Her tone sounded disingenuous, though he couldn’t think why. “Have I not mentioned I’ve been writing a vampire novel?”
She frowned at him. “I’m pretty sure I would have remembered if you had.”
“Well, I am,” he said. “Though I’ve only just started it.”
She turned back to the fire and went quiet. He drank his whisky and continued trying to figure out the source of the disquiet he felt.
“There’s something I should probably tell you.”
Alarm pinged like a clock’s chime. “Oh, aye?”
“Please don’t be mad, but I kind of read your memoir. Not everything. Just bits and pieces here and there.”
Concern tightened his chest and creased his brow. “Which bits and pieces?”
Silence fell once more. He began to stew in it, his feelings a churning mixture of apprehension and curiosity. On the one hand, he could think of nothing in his past he would keep from her if asked. On the other, he didn’t care for her playing fast and loose with his privacy. If they married, as he hoped they would, he needed to trust she’d respect his boundaries.
“Jack the Ripper. And Singapore.”
He waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he started to send in his probes, but stopped himself. If he expected her to respect his boundaries, he’d best extend her the same courtesy. “Nothing else?”
With a roll of her eyes and a pinched expression, she said, “That was enough, believe me.”
The unease was still there, still gnawing. Dam
n the feeling. Was it to do with her or something else? He finished his drink and got up to pour another.
“Please Graham, just tell me. What’s going on?”
Her question stopped him, but only for a moment. Upon reaching the buffet, he reached for the whisky and refilled his glass. He took a slug to calm his nerves, but didn’t turn. He didn’t think he could ask what he wanted to ask if he was looking at her. “Will you go on loving me, do you think? Come what may? Curse or no?”
He heard her heave an exasperated sigh. “How can you ask me that? How can you doubt me? We’re soul mates. Twin Flames. What part of that can’t you get through your thick Scottish skull?”
Her contemptuous tone was a knife to the heart. Biting his lip, he did his best to shake it off. It’d been a long day and he was so bloody tired he could hardly see straight. So, he could only imagine how exhausted she must be. And he still felt on edge. But why? Was it coming home? Was it the looming proposal? Fear of rejection? Angst over the future?
Maybe, but it felt more like foreboding than worry. It felt as if something was wrong, dammit, but what?
“What is it? And don’t tell me nothing, dammit. Because there’s clearly something eating at you. You’ve been out of sorts for the better part of the day.”
“There is something.” He stopped himself, afraid of alarming her.
“Tell me.”
“I would if I could, but all I fell at this point is something isn’t right.”
“Between us?”
“No. Here. In the castle.”
And then, with the force of a lightning bolt, he realized what it was. Closing his eyes, he homed in on the feeling. “Fitzgerald’s here.” Opening his eyes, he rose from the sofa and offered her his hand. “Come, so I can put you somewhere safe. Somewhere he won’t know to look.”
Chapter 23: Down the Priest Hole
“Where are we going?” she asked, pulling on his arm as he towed her along.
“I’m putting you in the priest hole for safe keeping.”
She pulled up. “No. I’m not going to hide somewhere while you face him alone. I want to go with you. To help you.”
“And do what, exactly? Be a pawn in his game? Let him mesmerize you into doing his bidding? And how might that help?”
With notable reluctance, she allowed him to tow her down a long corridor to the bedchamber through which the secret chamber lay. His grandmother had hidden his grandfather there after Culloden. Though his Granda had relayed the tale to him dozens of times, he never tired of hearing it. His grandmother, a fine lady of tremendous courage, had scarcely concealed her husband when his pursuers arrived to search the castle. Undaunted by their threats, she personally escorted the posse from room to room. In the bedroom concealing the chamber, however, the soldiers became suspicious for some reason and determined to stand guard overnight.
Food and wine—laced with a mixture of opium, mandrake root, and hemlock juice—were sent up and, in due course, the men dropped off. Lady Logan then crept in with a tray of food for her husband, stepping over the slumbering guards as she crossed to the secret entrance.
They were before it now, a section of heavy oak wainscoting affixed with a spring release. Without a word, he bent to trigger it. The panel swung open, revealing a cupboard door just big enough for a grown man to crawl through. After getting down on his hands and knees, he instructed her to do the same. He squeezed through the portal before turning to assist her. When both of them were safely inside the inner chamber, an ante room roughly the size of a broom closet, he secured the entrance so no one could happen upon it. Pivoting, he crawled a few steps before prying free one of the floor’s heavy flagstones. The trapdoor to the priest hole was concealed underneath.
She frowned at the small opening. “You have got to be kidding.”
“It’s all right. You’ll be safe here. And relatively comfortable as hidey-holes go.”
Spacious compared to most, the secret chamber was about eight-by-eight with a six-foot ceiling. Its small fireplace vented into one of the larger chimneys to prevent detection from outside. As far as he knew, it was still equipped with a simple cot, a leather chair, candles, a selection of books, jugs of whisky and water, and a horn cup for drinking.
“But I want to go with you. To help you.”
“I want you somewhere he can’t do to you what he did before,” he insisted. “Or use you against me.”
After removing his sporran, he dropped it through the hole before positioning himself on the ledge with legs dangling. As he hopped down, his kilt ballooned like a parachute. Landing solidly on his feet, he looked up to find her peering down at him with an expression of worry.
“Once I’m down there, how do I get out?”
“I’ll come back for you.”
Anguish cut deeper grooves in her face. “And what if you can’t?”
He swallowed hard, not wanting to consider that very real possibility. The truth was, he had no idea what to do about Fitzgerald. If he failed in his quest, she’d slowly starve to death like all those poor bastards whose skeletons had been found in similar chambers over the centuries. The thought clawed his heart. Still, what else could he do? Throwing her in the wizard’s path was not an option.
“Come, lass.” He reached for her. “Jump and I’ll catch you.”
When at last she dropped into his waiting arms, he gave her a quick kiss before setting her on her feet.
“Promise you’ll come back for me.”
He faded into the ethers, leaving naught but a promise behind. “I shall. I swear it.”
* * *
She hated staying in the priest hole alone while he took on the dark wizard, but what could she do except hope for the best and find a way to pass the time? Spying his sporran on the floor, she bent to scoop it up, praying his cigarettes were inside. She took it to the chair, setting the bulging pouch on her lap.
Twinging with revulsion, she lifted the fox-head flap and reached inside, glad to find a crumpled pack of Gauloises right on top. Setting the cigarettes on the table beside her chair, she slipped her hand back inside and felt around for his gold lighter.
Her fingers touched something unexpected. A silky bundle. Pulling it out, she recognized it at once as his tarot cards. Setting them aside, she resumed her search for the lighter. Near the bottom of the pouch, she touched something small, hard, and velvety. Pulse quickening, she withdrew the object. It was a jewelry box. More specifically, it appeared to be a ring box. With trembling fingers, she snapped it open. Her breath caught upon seeing the unusual heart-shaped ring.
Was he planning to propose? As her heart fluttered with a blend of elation and panic, her mind reached back across the day. Was that the reason he’d been acting so distracted? A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. What had him worried, popping the question or hearing the answer?
Will you go on loving me, do you think? Come what may? Curse or no?
She would. She was sure of it. But was love enough? Setting the ring box on the table with a sigh, she resumed her hunt for the lighter. Finding it at last, she lit one of his nasty cigarette and took a deep pull. The bitterness of the smoke made her grimace. Ugh. Unfiltered cigarettes were disgusting.
Turning the lighter over in her hand, she read the faded inscription. Je t’aimerai toujours. A sentiment engraved in another life. A sentiment that still rang true. She would always love him. Married or not. He was her soul mate. Her twin flame. Her destiny. But what about the realities and practicalities? If nothing changed, they had what?—ten or fifteen years before they started to look ridiculous as a couple?
Tears sprang into her eyes. What was she going to do? She loved him so much, wanted to be with him more than anything, but she just couldn’t see how it could work if they failed to break his curse. Her mind retrieved Coppola’s Dracula unbidden. In the end, Mina, the reincarnated soul of Prince Vlad’s wife, performed the ultimate act of love: she drove a stake through her beloved’s heart, breaking his curs
e another way.
She’d hoped her love would be enough to save him, that the real curse wasn’t what Fitzgerald had done to him, but his mistaken beliefs and the self-exile he’d retreated into afterward. Rather than bring him into the light, however, she’d slipped into the darkness. To be with him, she’d become willing to sacrifice everything.
If it came to it, would she have the courage to stake him? Did she love him enough to do what Mina had done? Getting to her feet, she walked to the fireplace and flicked the butt of her cigarette into the firebox. She stood there a long moment, thinking it over as she drummed her fingers on the mantle. Was killing him the right thing to do?
His image came into her mind, twisting the knife embedded in her heart. Could she bring herself to do it? Could she bear to go on living without him? Were they star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliette or Tristan and Isolde, doomed by the heavens to end broken-hearted? The tears in her eyes spilled hot down her cheeks. As she swiped at them impatiently, something he’d said echoed inside her mind: Destiny’s a cruel mistress, lass. As I well ken. So be careful what you wish for, eh?
She shook her head and bit her lip. She felt so torn, so lost, so confused. If only she had someone to talk to, to ask for advice. Remembering his tarot cards, she hurried to the table, snatched them up, and plopped down on the floor. One card. She’d simply split the deck and pray the meaning of card she drew would be crystal clear. Chewing her bottom lip, she removed the silk wrapping and, hands shaking, began to shuffle.
* * *
He came back to himself in the parlor, his mind groping for a way he might prevail. His only hope was to outwit Fitzgerald, but how? As he wrestled with the question, he went to the sideboard and poured another whisky. Taking it to the fireplace, he stared at the crossed antique swords. One was: a sixteenth-century basket-hilt broadsword; the other, a two-handed thirteenth-century Claymore once belonging to a gallowglass warrior. They were the prizes of his father’s collection, which also included pistols, studded wood-and-leather targes, fighting axes, and dirks dating back to the Iron Age.