by Nina Mason
“Did you find Fitzgerald?”
He swallowed and shook his head, which was starting to clear. “Aye. And his lads. I took care of the dark-haired pair, but the fair one is still at large. In fact, he’s hunting for you—well, us now, I suppose—as we speak.”
The crease between her eyes deepened. “But, I thought I was safe here.”
He moistened his dry lips. “I thought so too. But maybe I’m wrong. And if I am, we can’t stay here like a pair of sitting ducks. He’ll feel me and find us eventually.”
“What do you suggest we do?”
“Find them first and kill them,” he told her. “I just haven’t quite figured out how to go about it.”
He was safe for the moment, and grateful to be so, but also unarmed. And he could hardly return to the attic armory with her in tow. The broadsword was in the dungeon, but, with any luck, the claymore was yet stuck in the floor in the caretaker’s office. There also remained Bonny Dundee’s long-handled axe, though that would provide only temporary protection. To break the curse, he needed a stake of hawthorn wood. There was a hawthorn tree in the walled garden, but how to get to it and complete the task without being discovered? As he tried to work it out, he began to feel like the man who needed to row a fox, a chicken, and a sack of grain across a river one at a time.
He got to his feet, still thinking. He couldn’t risk leaving her here unattended, which meant they’d have to wend their way through the corridors with no defenses at first.
Unless...
He hadn’t thought it possible, but what was the worst that could happen? If it didn’t work, he’d come right back, so she wouldn’t be alone for more than a moment.
“Graham,” she said against his chest, “can I ask you something?”
“Aye.”
“Why do you have a ring in your sporran?”
The question zapped his brain, bringing his full attention back to her. With all that had happened, he’d forgotten all about his plan to propose.
“It was my mother’s,” he said, hoping she’d drop it.
Drawing back, she regarded him with suspicion in her eyes. “But why do you have it?”
He looked away from her probing gaze. “I’d rather not say.”
“Were you by any chance planning to propose?”
Biting his lip, he fought the impulse to roll his eyes. What part of his last statement did she not understand? “Aye, well. Not right this minute, no.”
Worry pinched her features. “But you were planning to at some point?”
All at once, his mouth felt as dry as sun-bleached bone. He heaved a sigh. “If you must know, and it would seem you must, I was planning to ask you tonight. Though, now that I think about it, putting it off seems a wee bit pointless. Now that the pussy’s out of the bag and all.”
Lips pursing, she looked hard at him for a exasperating moment. “And that’s your proposal?”
He cleared his throat with a nervous chuckle. “I suppose it is, though I expect I’d have done better had I not been blindsided.”
She looked injured. “Are you upset?”
“No, lass.” He set a consoling hand on her shoulder. “Though I will be should you refuse me.”
A devilish gleam replaced the hurt in her eyes. “Are you afraid I might?”
“Aye, well.” He looked at the floor, raking his hair. “A man can never really be sure what’s in a woman’s mind, now can he?”
A laugh escaped her as she slipped her arms around his waist and snuggled against his chest. “Yes. I will. Marry you, I mean.”
“Come what may? Curse or no?”
“Yes.”
The momentary flood of relief he felt evaporated in a scorching surge of anxiety. “And now, with that settled, shall we get on with the business of Lord Fitzgerald?” When she started to pull away, he tightened his hold on her. “Stay where you are, eh? I want to try something.”
Closing his eyes, he willed himself to the walled garden. He hugged her to him as the cosmos pulled him in. He could feel that familiar breaking apart, the icy entities moving past and through, the paradoxical sensory transcendence. The hiss of eternity echoed in his ears. If his curse could be broken, he would miss the ability to travel this way, but not its soul-jarring sensations.
When his molecules reunited, he found himself under the hawthorn tree. The smell of decaying flesh hung in the air, the regrettable bouquet of the blossoms. He felt a bit dazed, so it took him a moment to realize she wasn’t in his arms—or anywhere else within his field of vision. Panic stabbed his heart. Cursing under his breath, he closed his eyes and willed himself back to the priest hole.
* * *
What had she just experienced? There had been a void, dark yet blinding. The had also been an unearthly sound, subtle yet deafening. At first, she’d felt supported, but then she started to spin as if caught in the eye of a cyclone. She’d been weightless and utterly defenseless. It felt as if she was shattering into pieces and turning inside out all at the same time.
Where was she now? Wherever it was, there was no sound and very little smell. Just a weak bite of dust, damp, and something mildly metallic. She opened her eyes slowly. Sockets still sore, she surveyed her unfamiliar surroundings.
It appeared she was in a cramped garret of some sort. There was a small, dusty window, but no furnishings. Only a cache of antique weapons propped against the opposite wall. She was no weapons expert, but she knew enough to recognize broadswords, claymores, and dirks. All of them had to be at least a century old.
Good goddess.
Had she gone back in time?
Swallowing her rising panic, she shook her head? Was time-travel even possible? She scoffed, half annoyed, half amused. How the hell was she supposed to know? A few months ago, she hadn’t thought vampires existed either and now she was engaged to one. With a little luck, he wouldn’t be one much longer, but that didn’t change the fact of their existence. With a little more luck, he’d find her before Fitzgerald found him.
She shook her head in an effort to clear it. Her muddled mind offered no useful intelligence. She knew neither where she was nor how she got there. Crawling toward the window, she hooked her fingers on the sill and drew herself up. Wiping away some of the grim, she peered out. Down below, through the cloudy glass, she could see a sprawling green lawn. A wood lay just beyond. In the other direction, a little farther away, she spied a farmhouse or barn shielded by a stacked-rock wall and a sprinkling of trees.
Memories began to surface only to spin away like an over-animated Powerpoint presentation. They'd become separated while traveling through the ethers. But where was she? And where was he? And, perhaps more importantly, where were Fitzgerald and his fair-haired accomplice? Alarm pulsing, she cast around for an exit, but saw none.
The palpitating concern grew into throbbing panic. She considered the window, but soon dismissed the notion. It was far too high. She took another look around. There must be an outlet somewhere, mustn’t there? How else could someone have stowed all these weapons up here? Still seeing no way out, she began to feel along the paneled lower portion of the wall. Was there another secret passage concealed somewhere in the wainscoting?
Tears of fear and frustration welled in her eyes as she fingered her way around the room’s perimeter. Swallowing them back, she commanded herself to keep calm as she circled the room. Finding nothing, she went around again and then again. After the fourth go-round, the tears of frustration refused to be stemmed. After the fifth, she was sobbing like a lost child. Giving up for now, she plopped down in the middle of the dusty floor and surrendered to her despair. Tears poured from her eyes as she began to imagine how awful it must be to die slowly of thirst and starvation.
* * *
Graham rematerialized in the priest hole and glanced around. Damn, she wasn’t there. He finger raked his hair. Where else might she have gone? Fighting his mounting panic, he closed his eyes, concentrating all his energy on feeling her through his blood. Gr
adually, the signal came to him and grew stronger. She was still in the castle and still alive, thank God. But where? He sunk into the connection, attempting to use it like a tracking device. She was somewhere above him. Second floor? Tower? Attics? He couldn’t be sure. Sucking in a breath, he willed himself to the upstairs corridor, praying he found her before his dark brethren did.
* * *
Shivering under a sudden chill, she sniffed back her tears and rubbed her arms. It felt like the temperature in the room had just dropped twenty degrees. Then, she felt another presence in the room. A ghostly presence.
“King Robert never gave up, nor should you.”
The voice had a Scottish burr. Her eyes flitted around, but found no one.
“Who said that?”
“I did,” the voice replied.
“Show yourself, spirit.”
The air grew even colder as one corner began to shimmer. She watched, heart in throat, as the diffusion began to gather into the shadow of a man. Fright clawed at her insides. What the hell was happening? She’d encountered spirits in the past, but only fleetingly. And none had ever spoken to her.
Little by little, the shadow solidified into the specter of an elderly gentleman. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had a barrel chest and slender legs. His face was handsome beneath the jowls and wrinkles, his brows thick and wiry, and his gray hair tied back with a tartan ribbon. Her astonished eyes took in his clothing, the Highland costume of a bygone era. Tartan jacket, red wool waistcoat, checkered stockings, and an old-style kilt. The tail of it was pinned like a sash to the left shoulder of his coat with a circular silver broach. A wide leather strap with a large brass buckle cut across his broad chest. From it, hung an arsenal of period weapons. Still more protruded from the ribbon-bound cuffs of his hose. They clacked together as he bent into a cordial bow.
“Lachlan Logan, fourth earl of Druimdeurfait, at your service.”
She gaped at him, speech escaping her. Who was he? Not Graham’s father, surely. His parents had drowned at sea off the tip of Africa and, as far as she knew, spirits only haunted the places where they’d died.
“Are you Graham’s grandfather?”
His green eyes twinkled. “I gather from your question my grandson’s made mention of me?”
“He has.” She blinked, still doubting her eyes. “Many times. He loved you very much.”
The ghost grinned. “I’m that glad to hear it.”
She answered his grin with a wavering smile. There was so much she wanted to ask, about him and Graham and the afterlife, but those questions would have to wait. Right now, she needed to concentrate on a more pressing mystery.
“Can you help me get out of here?”
“Aye, if you wish it. But it might be wiser for you to stay put and wait for him to find you.”
Her heart flared in protest. She couldn’t bear the thought of just sitting here like some helpless damsel waiting to be rescued. She needed to find Graham so she could help him take down Fitzgerald. Scowling at the apparition, she asked, “Where is he right now? Do you know?”
“Aye. He’s on the second floor.”
“And the others? Are they nearby?”
He shook his head. “The earl of Kildare is in the dungeon, doing unholy things to some poor lad from the village. And the other one is on the ground floor.”
“Will you come with me? I could use a look-out.”
“Aye. If you wish it. But you’d best arm yourself first, lass.”
With a sigh, she cast a wary glance toward the stash of weapons. She lacked the strength to wield a claymore and knew nothing about swordplay. A dagger, however, she might manage. Bending, she picked one up at random and ran an apprising eye over its form. It’s hilt appeared to be carved from a bone. Unsheathing the spear-like blade, she took a minute to examine it, noting some pitting and a bit of leeching rust. Did steel rust? She didn’t think so, but maybe it was just stainless steel that didn’t.
Feeling like an ignoramus, she turned to the ghost and held out the knife. “How can I tell if it’s iron?”
’Tis,” he assured her after a quick once-over. “Now are you certain you shouldn’t wait for my grandson to find you? I could tell you a wee story to help pass the time.”
She offered him a tight smile. “As much as I’d love to hear one of your stories, I can’t just sit around here playing Pauline.”
A ruddy eyebrow shot up. “Pauline?”
She started to explain and then shook her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
He nodded toward her hand. “I see you’re wearing the ring I gave my wife back before we were married. Did he tell you it’s called a witch’s heart?”
Shaking her head, she looked at the ring before meeting his phantasmal green gaze. “Why’s it called a witch’s heart?”
A smile reminiscent of Graham’s spread across his face. “Because, in my day, a man gave it to a woman to let her know she’d bewitched him.”
Melancholy washed over her as she realized he’d been separated from his wife the same way she and Graham had been separated. “Did you love her very much?”
“Aye, and still do.”
“Where is she now? Do you know?”
Eyes twinkling, he gave her a small nod. “She comes back in search of me, the way you come looking for our Graham. And it wouldn’t do for you to go getting yourself killed so the poor lad has to wait another hundred years to find love again.”
As loathe as she was to admit it, he had a point. If Fitzgerald killed her and succeeded in stealing Graham’s soul, she’d lose him forever. “Fine, then. One story. But if he hasn’t found me by the time it’s over, I’m going out there to find him, come hell or high water.”
Chapter 25: The Dark Curse
Footsteps. Echoing in the corridor. Someone was coming. But from which direction? The alcove’s acoustics made it impossible to tell. Was it Aiden, Fitzgerald, or his darling lass? He couldn’t tell. He only knew the footfalls were drawing nearer. Pressing his back against the wall, he did his best to make himself invisible. The frequent jumping back and forth had taxed his ability to etherically transport, stranding him for the time being.
The footsteps ceased, filling the corridor with silence. Holding his breath, back still pressed to the wall, he crept to the edge and peered out. It was Aiden, dammit, stopping to have a look around. Graham ducked back behind the wall. What to do? Attack or retreat?
Aiden started walking again. Toward the alcove. Seeing no other way, Graham drew his dirk and waited for the right moment, counting on the element of surprise to give him the advantage. When the footfalls reached the edge of the nook, Graham lunged, thrusting the weapon with all his might.
The blade found only air. Aiden, startled by the ambush, reeled backward, struggling to keep his balance. Thrown off balance himself, Graham crashed heavily into the wall, scraping his left side and banging his head. Aiden, balance recovered, gaped at him, dumbstruck. Graham tightened his grip on the antler hilt. Then, in a sharp upward thrust, he plunged the blade into the Irishman’s chest. It struck meaty bone. Aiden made a wheezing sound and staggered backward, mouth agape, eyes bulging. Dark blood gushed from the wound.
Graham didn’t stick around to see what happened next. Instead, he charged down the corridor at breakneck speed, heading for the tower and praying to God he would find Cat there waiting for him, safe and sound.
* * *
Bloody fucking hell.
She wasn’t in the tower and he couldn’t afford to waste any more time looking. But before he could confront Fitzgerald, he’d need to procure a hawthorn stake. Dashing out to the walled garden, he snapped a suitable branch off the tree and took it back into to the kitchen, keeping a watchful eye out all the while.
Seizing a sharp paring knife, he began to whittle one end to a point. The task took more time and elbow grease than he’d anticipated. When dry, hawthorn, being a soft, straight-grained wood, was ideal for carving; when green, it was incredibly
hard and unyielding.
Job finished at last, he concealed the stake in the waistband of his kilt and stole back down the dungeon stairs. He crept through the dim maze of cells, ducking behind posts and peering around corners, but saw no sign of Fitzgerald.
He made his way to the cell where he’d earlier encountered Aiden. The door was open and, judging by the flickering shadows, the fire was still going strong. Back hard against the rough wall, he stole a peek around the doorway. The drugged lad he’d fed from was on the cot—either dead or asleep. He couldn’t tell which from this distance. Not that he could do much either way.
He glanced up and down the dark corridor. It was empty and as silent as a tomb, and yet Fitzgerald’s propinquity buzzed in his veins. So where the bloody hell was he? Steeling himself, he stepped into the cell.
“Looking for me?”
His heart turned to ice at the sound of Fitzgerald’s brogue right behind him. Reflexively, he started to turn, but, regaining his wits, stopped himself in time. He must think fast. The stake, which the wizard couldn’t have seen, was still in his belt, giving him a momentary advantage.
Clasping it, he spun round, drawing and jabbing in one liquid motion. The point connected with something fleshy. Fitzgerald, eyes widening in surprise, emitted a strained gurgle. He thrust again, sinking the point deeper. The wizard gasped and reeled backward, arms flailing. A fist caught Graham under the chin, knocking him off balance. As he stumbled, his head hit the doorjamb. Stars flashed behind his eyes. Going down, he groped blindly, desperately for something to hold onto.
Fitzgerald staggered backward across the corridor. Recovering himself, Graham went after him. The wizard’s back met the wall. With a grunt, he began to slide toward the floor. Moving over him, Graham met his hooded gaze.
“I loved you, you know.”
Fitzgerald’s hoarse admission made his stomach clench. “You stole everything from me, you evil bastard. Love, family, faith, home, honor, self-respect. And you’d have stolen my immortal soul too, given half a chance. And this you call love?”