by Diane Darcy
She dug the office key out of her dress pocket, inserted it into the deadbolt, twisted, and was startled to realize the door was already unlocked.
She pushed the door open—to see Jerry, hunkered over her desk, studying her laptop, which had been packed away in her rolling computer bag, against the wall next to her purse.
It took her about one second to realize what was going on, and, with a scream of fury, she threw her high heels at him— hitting his head and shoulder—rushed her desk, and slammed the laptop shut. She might have laughed at Jerry’s slack-faced expression, if she hadn’t been killing angry. “You filthy piece of slime! How dare you. How did you get in here? How did—”
A squeak of dismay had Samantha swinging her head to see her secretary, Courtney, frozen in the chair next to the door. When Samantha had charged into the room, she hadn’t seen her. Her hand still firmly pressed on her laptop, Samantha took a deep breath and glared at the younger woman whose red lipstick was smeared to a lighter shade around the edges of her mouth. “Well, that answers that, doesn’t it? You’re fired.”
“Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
As Courtney sputtered apologies, Samantha turned back to Jerry and focused on his own lipstick-smeared mouth. “Seducing my secretary to gain access to my work? Tsk, tsk, Jerry. As much as Esme likes you, even she won’t overlook outright thievery. You are so going to be toast over this. Let’s see you charm your way out of this one.”
Courtney tried to interrupt. “Ms. Ryan, please—”
“Shut up and get out of here. And go wash your face.”
With a cry of distress, Courtney ran from the room.
Jerry slowly stood and, as he did, Samantha heard a snick. Her mouth parted as Jerry held up the thumb drive he’d just pulled out of her computer.
“Give me that!” Renewed fury drove her across the desk to snatch at his hand but he jumped back and actually laughed as he shoved the drive into his pocket. “I think not. In fact, I think I’ll be taking a trip to Scotland in the very near future.”
“You...I...if...” Samantha was so angry she couldn’t articulate. She thought she could actually kill him in that moment. She took a breath and tried to salvage the situation. “That’s...you...that’s my work you’re trying to piggyback.” Samantha sputtered.
“No, it’s not. I’ve had a special interest in The Crown of Scotland for years.”
She literally saw red. “Liar! You can stand there and say that to me? You, who have never had a single thought of your own, let alone a find of your own in all the years I’ve had the misfortune to know you? I’m exposing you and you’re getting fired. Your reputation will be ruined.”
He smirked. “I really don’t think it will. I do what it takes, Sammi dear. And the university appreciates that.”
She side-stepped, and he circled around the desk, out of her reach. “I’m going to kill you right here and now. With my bare hands. You know that, don’t you? And then I’m going to kick your cold dead corpse multiple times, walk over it, and go to Scotland.”
“Ah, Scotland. I’ve been meaning to go there for the longest time. I wonder what time the next flight leaves?”
“If you’re dead, what does it matter?” She slowly maneuvered around one side of the desk, but he kept pace with her, snaking in the opposite direction. She retreated so he couldn’t get around to the door.
Eyes narrowed, he went one direction, and when she rushed to meet him, he went the other. By the time she lunged to block him, he was rushing at her, shoving and tripping her, and she fell hard to the carpet, landing on her stomach, scrambling to get up, her dress trapping her.
He was on her in an instant, pressing one arm behind her back, and a knee to her spine.
She screamed. Bucked. Kicked with her bare feet. “Get off me so I can kill you.”
He chuckled and leaned down, next to her right ear. “Shh. Shh.” She struggled and when it did no good, he laughed softly. “Make no mistake, Samantha. This is one time you don’t get to win. Sure, there will be talk, but in the end, possession is everything, isn’t it? I’ll write up my own notes and people will just think professional jealousy got the better of you. Your complaints will go unheard, unsatisfied. And I’ll be there, laughing behind your back as I claim all the glory.”
“Don’t imagine I won’t stop you.” She struggled harder, her cheek stinging with carpet burn. “You think having my notes is enough? Some of it is only in my head.” Are you a mind reader now, Jerry?” It was pure bravado, and by his laughter he knew it. She was nothing if not a meticulous note taker.
“What I think is that it’s my turn. This time I win.”
“You didn’t put in the work, you lazy piece of dirt!”
His weight was suddenly off her and, by the time she’d wrestled her dress and struggled up off the floor, he was gone.
She ran down the hallway toward the parking lot and was in time to see him jump in his car and drive off. Lips pressed into a tight line, she watched him brake, then merge into traffic. She rolled her sore shoulder and headed back to her office.
She considered going to Esme and telling her everything. Showing Esme her notes. But that could take a lot of explaining, and by the time she proved that the work was hers and not Jerry’s—if she could prove it—she might miss her flight.
Jerry was right. Possession was all important in this case.
She knew better than anyone there was only one flight to Scotland tonight. Hopefully he wouldn’t be able to get a seat. With quick steps she hurried back to her office, slid on socks and running shoes, gathered her things, and locked the door.
Nothing would stop her from catching that plane.
Nothing.
~~~
Nineteen hours later, Samantha drove her rental car north, toward Inverdeem. She still had a two-hour drive and was trying very hard not to speed. If she got pulled over, Jerry could end up passing her by, and that was not going to happen.
The slimy thief had made the flight. After studying his laptop for hours—two guesses as to what he’d been reviewing—Jerry had approached her, knelt down, and suggested joining forces. Fat chance. When she’d mockingly said, “What, can’t decipher my notes?” He’d stood, bowed his head, and responded, “May the best man win.”
She and Jerry both had aisle seats and whenever she’d twisted around to glare at him, he’d had the nerve to grin and wave. She’d worried the rest of the trip that he’d beat her to the site. Calling up the Internet, she’d checked her departure from Dublin to Edinburgh, confirmed her car rental at the airport, and made sure all arrangements were still in place. Finally, she’d mapped out directions to get from the airport to Inverdeem Castle.
The layover in Dublin had turned into a nightmare, nine-hour affair, as their plane went through some sort of maintenance and another had to be rounded up. Jerry disappeared for a while, which made her incredibly nervous, but he’d shown up for the trip to Edinburgh, where she’d had an excruciating wait for her luggage. But she would need her shovels and other equipment, so she’d waited. She’d been relieved to find him trying to rent a car as it let her know where he was.
He’d even had the nerve to pull her aside and suggest they share a car and the find. He’d have first credit, of course, her name after his. She’d gritted her teeth and walked on without a word.
Now, hours later, the Highland scenery had turned to fields, trees, and bushes. Traffic had thinned to practically nothing and she was still obsessively checking her rear-view mirror, but no one seemed to follow. She could only hope Jerry hadn’t been able to get a rental car.
When she finally arrived at Inverdeem Castle, tense and tired, it was eleven o’clock at night, pitch dark, and the gate was locked. Normally she would find the closest hotel and wait until daylight, but she couldn’t risk it with Jerry on the loose. She just hoped he believed she wouldn’t deviate from her typical routine, and that he’d be waiting at the gate at opening time in the morning. She, of cou
rse, would be long gone by then, treasure safely in hand.
She drove around the edges of the property, looking for parked cars, but as far as she could tell she was the only one in the vicinity. She headed back to the locked gate and drove behind a grove of trees. If Jerry looked, he’d eventually find the car, but it wouldn’t be easy to spot.
She gathered her duffel of tools and headed back toward the gate. In the glow of a security light, she studied the big padlock and chain wrapped around the bars of the gate. Locks weren’t necessarily bad. It probably meant the place was deserted. But she did have to wonder if there were dogs.
She whistled, long and loud. Waited. Did it again, and listened hard.
She was going to trust she was alone, but at the same time she dug some pepper spray out of the side of her duffel and stuffed it in her bra.
She glanced around for security cameras, didn’t see any, and, after swinging it three times, lobbed her duffel over the top of the gate, cringing at the loud clang when it landed. She glanced around, listened, didn’t see or hear anyone, and used the band at her wrist to gather her hair into a ponytail. She bunched the skirt of her black party dress, knotted the material at her waist, wedged her feet into the chain link, and climbed. When she reached the top, some of the fabric of her gown caught on the ornamental metal on the top rail and she considered going back to the car to change.
But her reason for still wearing the inconvenient thing was still valid. With all her other clothes being light in color, this offered a level of protection if she needed to hide. So she took the time to loosen the material, and started the climb down the other side. When she reached the ground, she let her dress down, and glanced about.
Was it her imagination, or was it darker and spookier on this side of the fence? A chill ran up her back. There was a full moon and a light in the distance nearer the castle, so she didn’t dig out her flashlight. She picked up the duffel, and, walking forward, could occasionally see the crumbling tower house attached to the castle through the trees.
Walking down the dirt and pebble trail past rocks and lush lawn, trees and bushes, she headed toward the site of the old village. She’d been there several times over the last few years, but always in daylight. When she passed under a few towering trees, they shrouded her in darkness, giving her the creeps. She was glad to progress back into the moonlight.
She’d been on more dig sites than she could count, seen myriad ruins, but never alone at night. Her skin prickled, and a disturbing someone’s-watching-me sensation had her dropping her bag, reaching for the flashlight in the side pocket, and running the beam in every direction.
“Hello?” she called.
A slight breeze was her only response, and the chill caused her to shiver.
Her breath hitched and she picked up the duffel, and darted forward. The flashlight made her feel like a target, so she turned it off again. Better the feel of watching eyes, than actual watching eyes. She wasn’t about to forget Jerry could show up at any moment, and didn’t want him to get the drop on her.
The closer she got to the location of the original medieval village, the less nervous and more excited she became. There was nothing left of the village other than a few short, stone walls. Curiosity seekers had been hauling off the smaller stones for centuries, and vandals had desecrated the place starting in the 17th century. The large monument was still there and had been spray painted—and cleaned up—a couple of times. But the point was, it was still there.
She rounded a clump of trees and, there, sitting solidly in the middle of a clearing, was the monument.
Her heart sped and, after a quick glance around, she walked across the cobblestone path to the monolith and touched the cool stone. She closed her eyes, listened, and tried to feel something, a presence, or a confirmation from Ian MacGregor that this was the place where he’d buried the crown.
Nothing.
She sighed. Watch it not be there. MacGregor would probably enjoy her defeat.
She’d never quite understood her fascination with the man, but in the end, decided that she’d just go with it. Everyone needed an obsession, right? The fact that he’d left a lasting monument to his mother still tugged at her heartstrings. Why were all the good men relegated to past centuries? If she could find a man like that one—she sighed again.
She’d become fascinated with the guy and started collecting snippets of information about his life. She’d considered writing his biography someday.
She ran her hand down the front of the stone, feeling for indentations. Standing in the location where thousands of tourists had stood before her, she smiled. Any photo of Inverdeem posted on the Internet inevitably included a shot of individuals, families, lovers, standing by this stone.
And the fact that Ian MacGregor must have done the same all those years ago sent a shiver up her spine, a tickling sort of sensation that made her chuckle.
She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the moon, and, at that moment, in the darkness, with moonlight shining down and a slight breeze caressing her face, she could almost feel a warm engulfing presence.
MacGregor?
She chuckled again. No doubt that was wishful thinking. She’d like to believe the man would be glad to have the crown discovered after all these centuries, but, more likely, knowing the trickster he’d been, he was perfectly fine with the mystery he’d perpetrated. If he were around, he’d probably haunt her for giving away his secrets. She’d pictured him too many times with a snarky smile on his face to believe otherwise.
To think that he’d been about her age when he’d died. They had a lot in common, both hard workers, both had accomplished a lot before the age of thirty. Of course, he’d never actually reached thirty. What she wouldn’t give to meet him, right at this moment. However, she’d take that in corporeal rather than spirit form. The latter would do her no good at all.
She grinned at her fanciful thoughts, opened her eyes and looked around again to assure herself she was alone, then she stooped to remove two shovels from her duffel bag, turned on her flashlight, and illuminated the monument.
She rounded the weather-roughened stone, shining her light on every part of it, and could make out the impressions of birds carved into the granite grain. Some were so weathered by time there were only faint lines, here and there, recognizable as birds only because others had been carved deep into the rock, clear and obvious.
Squatting down on the east side of the monument, she shone her light around the base of the stone, then, parting the grass growing up the sides, she finally found what she sought.
The king’s symbol.
Or part of it, anyway. The lion’s claws, fierce and ready for battle. Right?
Doubts assailed her and she struggled to regulate her breathing. What if she was wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time. She glanced around again, flicked off the flashlight, and could suddenly feel the pound of her heart in her chest.
She tried to reassure herself. “I did it,” she whispered. “I found it. It’s here, I just know it is.”
She wasn’t sure who she was talking to. God? Her grandfather? Or more likely, Ian MacGregor. Whoever she spoke to, she just knew, in that moment she had to tell someone. “There had to be a reason I was so obsessed with you. That I thought about you and wondered about you.” Apparently it was Himself, The MacGregor, who was the recipient of her conversation. “Did you lead me here?”
Glancing around again, feeling like a fool, she took another breath and dragged the two shovels closer. She left the light off as she carefully dug into the grass so as to remove the section just below the symbols, painstakingly, so she could replace it later, and it would look relatively undisturbed.
This was not normal behavior for her. Typically, she would have witnesses. A crew. Specialists with ground-penetrating radar equipment. But she just knew it was there. And after reading her notes, so did Jerry.
No way would she let him find it first.
Chapter Three
&nb
sp; After a couple of hours of digging at an angle underneath the gigantic boulder, Samantha had made a decent-sized hole. She was exceedingly careful. If there was an ancient artifact in the soil, she didn’t want to damage it with a sharp, modern shovel.
The hard-packed earth imitated cement, and she dug, a little at a time, through the compacted soil. Lying half-inside the hole, covered in dirt and sweat, she hit something. She poked with the tip of her shovel, picked up the flashlight that lay in front of her, and aimed the beam at the spot.
She couldn’t really see anything. She gently poked with her shovel, and again, something even harder than the dirt remained unyielding.
Excitement built in her chest even as she cautioned herself that it could be a rock. It probably was a rock.
She lay on her stomach and set the flashlight in the hole. With the tip of her smallest hand shovel, she dug carefully, scraping and lifting small scoops of dirt. The feeling of excitement built. It might be wood. After a few minutes of digging she trembled and had to remind herself to breathe as it became obvious the object was not a rock, but a box of some kind. She carefully dug around the perimeter until she could grip the edges with her fingertips.
She stopped, backed out of the hole, and retrieved her camera. She was well aware the object could, and probably would, crumble when she tugged at it. She climbed back in and took a picture and the flash blinded her momentarily. She lay back down and dug a bit more; took another photo. As she slid further into the hole, her dress tightened against her shoulders and she paused to gather her skirt, then wiggled until she was in a more comfortable position.
She carefully grasped the edges of the object and gently rocked it back and forth to loosen it from its niche. The archaeologist in her cringed. It anyone in her profession saw her doing this, they’d be appalled. Hobbyists would be outraged. Even average citizens would, no doubt, be disgusted. She’d be drummed out of the field, and rightfully so. The moment she’d identified that the object was not rock, she should have stopped and waited until she could notify the proper authorities. The object should be carefully cleared of dirt, photographed, and filmed with proper lighting.