Martise sat down upon a trunk and heard Elaina’s footfalls grow softer and softer. She waited several minutes, wondering where Bryan was, and when he would return.
Then she heard something else. A whisper of sound. A grating. A sliding, and then a grating.
It seemed to be coming from behind her.
She leapt off the trunk, gasping, certain that the wall was starting to move, that stone was scraping against stone. She backed away and closed her eyes then heard it again, the grating.
But even as she stared, the wall came together. It was as if it had never moved.
Martise stepped forward, touching it, leaning against it. Then she heard a clanging.
The gate to the wine cellar had slammed shut. “Elaina!” she screamed. She swung around and raced through the racks of wine once again, and when she reached the iron gate, threw herself against it. It had been locked, padlocked, from the outside.
“Elaina!” she screamed. “Elaina!”
There was no answer. Her voice echoed through the empty halls.
She swore, she kicked the gate. Cold crept along her spine. Elaina … she had never suspected Elaina. Beautiful, melancholy Elaina. Perhaps she was just barely on the edge of sanity. Perhaps …
Martise clenched her teeth and sank down to the floor. She was panicking, and it was foolish. She was locked in with bottles of wine this time, no corpses. And surely there was some mistake. Elaina would come back for her.
But already, the dim light that filtered in through the chapel windows was fading from the hall. And if she wasn’t locked in with the corpses, they still were not very far away.
“No …” she mumbled aloud.
Someone would come for her. Hogarth would need wine for dinner. There was no reason, absolutely no reason, for her to panic.
Then she heard it again. The grating. As if the wall, far back in the little storage chamber, were moving. And she knew. There was a passage here. Like the passage from the laird’s library into her room. Like the sealed passage to the torture chamber, where the poor girl’s body had been discovered. There was a passage. And whoever had locked her in was coming for her now. Coming from out of the stone of the castle.
She threw herself against the grating and screamed. There was a figure there, a figure in the darkness, coming toward her. She screamed again. She was trapped, from within, and from without…
“My lady!” a voice cried out. The gate rattled. The grating was silenced.
“Lady Creeghan!” the voice repeated. She blinked, because a match was lit against the wall, and a lantern came ablaze. It was Hogarth, the lamp in one hand, the key to the gate in the other.
“Martise!” Elaina’s soft voice called out. And then, behind Elaina, she heard Bryan’s voice, breathless, angry.
“What in God’s name is going on down here?”
The gate swung open. She stepped out, and the mad pulse of her heart slowly subsided. She wanted to throw herself into Bryan’s arms.
He had been the last one to appear—after the grating sound had ceased. She didn’t know where he had been. She could only see in the shadows and the glittering lantern light that his ebony hair was tousled over his forehead, his eyes were aflame, and a furious pulse beat against his throat. And he was winded, as if he had come running.
“Bruce! I didn’t know you were back!” Elaina cried.
“What’s going on?” he asked again.
“We were looking for costumes,” Elaina explained. “How did the door get locked?”
“You didn’t lock it?” Martise said.
“Of course not!” Elaina protested indignantly. “Martise, how could you think I would play such a prank upon you?”
Hogarth cleared his throat. “Please, ladies, my Laird Creeghan. Forgive me—I locked the cellar. I’d no idea that the ladies were into the costumes. Forgive me, please. I should have called out first.”
Martise stared at Hogarth and felt relief flood through her. He smiled apologetically, uneasily, and she wondered if he was telling the truth.
Or if he was shielding someone.
Elaina shivered. “Let’s go up.”
“Aye, supper is ready to be served,” Hogarth said. “Early this eve so that the villagers might play.”
Martise turned and hurried for the stairs. Bryan set his hand upon her back to lead her up. She quickened her pace, avoiding his touch.
Ian and Conar and Peter were in the hall when she reached the top of the steps. “Aha, there’s the wayward bride!” Ian called cheerfully. “Holding up the meal,” he said, taking her hands. “That’s not the way to our hearts, cousin-in-law,” he teased.
“Martise was locked in the wine cellar,” Elaina told them.
“First the crypt—then the wine cellar?” Peter inquired.
“’Twas my fault, sir,” Hogarth quickly explained. “I brought out the wine and padlocked the gate.”
Bryan was behind Martise again. He pulled out her chair, and she felt the warmth of his touch. “They were acquiring costumes, Martise and Elaina,” he said. He took his seat at the head of the table. “And did you find something?” he asked her.
“Aye, wonderful things!” Elaina said. “Bruce, shall you dress?”
“I think not, Elaina.”
“I shall wear my colors!” Peter said.
“That’s no disguise!” Elaina protested. “All right, then, be boring, my beloveds. But we shall be magnificent. I found Martise the twelfth-century bridal gown. She’ll be exquisite.”
“The bridal gown?” Bryan said, stiffening.
“Aye, Bruce, wait till you see her! A bride yesterday, a bride today. But you canna see her till we’re ready. We’ll dress in my room.”
“Indeed?” Bryan said.
Elaina nodded happily. “And you really must wear something out of the ordinary. All of you.”
Peter snorted, and Ian laughed. And the conversation moved onward to the festivities and the treats. “Tomorrow should be endless,” Ian commented. “All those men today worthless from the wine and ale and whisky of yesterday. And now, after tonight! Why, it shall take those drunkards a week to recover.”
“Ian,” Conar protested sternly, “the villagers are hard workers and not drunkards.”
“No more so than yerself,” his father taunted.
There was an awkward silence, then Ian laughed. “Aye, well, that’s a fact. I did overindulge yesterday. But then, I gained a new cousin. And a delightful one.” He winked at Martise.
Elaina pushed back her chair and tossed her napkin on the table. “Martise, are you done? Shall we?”
“Yes, I’m quite finished,” Martise said. She rose. Bryan’s eyes were bright and probing upon hers. He smiled, and his gaze remained on her even as he spoke to his sister. “I do not mind my bride being stolen for a few hours,” he warned her, “but remember, all, that midnight is the witching hour this night above all nights, and I will have her back at that time!”
Elaina laughed.
Martise felt chills race down her spine.
“Of course, laird of Creeghan!” Elaina assured him, then hooked her arm in her sister-in-law’s and drew her toward the stairs.
As they entered Elaina’s room, Martise wondered if she shouldn’t find time to talk to Bryan alone. There was so much that she should tell him. About the whispers on the stairs. About her certainty that there was a passage behind the wine cellar.
And still…
She didn’t know! Damn, but she didn’t know. What if he had caused the grating? What if he had become her lover, and even her husband, just to give her as a bride to the castle, her blood to feed the stone?
She almost groaned aloud. She was going to have to see him later. What was she to do at midnight? Grow frantic and say that she would not sleep with her husband? Disappear in truth into the night?
She needed to see him.
“There we are,” Elaina said, pointing to the gowns on her bed. “I gave these to Holly when I left you so tha
t she could freshen them. Oh, Martise, when I ran up the steps, I’d no idea Hogarth might lock you in by accident. I am so sorry.”
Martise shook her head. “It’s all right, Elaina. Really.”
But was it? Had Elaina lured her there?
She was losing her mind, suspecting everyone. She forced herself to smile and began to disrobe. “We can’t wear these petticoats,” she muttered.
“Nay, we canna!” Elaina agreed with laughter. “Martise, ye must not wear anything beneath that gown. The silk is to hold and to cling.”
Martise arched a brow at Elaina, but her new sister-in-law laughed and indicated the dressing screen in the corner. Martise strode behind it and hesitated as the gown came flying over the screen. Then she slipped the silk over her shoulders and marveled at the feel of it.
Surely, the Creeghans had always been wealthy. But this gown was truly exquisite for its day. The material did seem to fall around her, to caress, to fit as if molded and formed for her alone.
“There’s the crown, remember!” Elaina called to her.
Martise stepped around the screen. Elaina was gorgeous with her dark hair and light eyes in the elegant gown. Martise smiled and applauded.
“Aye, thank you, but you must see yourself!” Elaina told her. And she excitedly caught her arm and led her before a gold-rimmed floor mirror. “Now wait, mind you, for the crown!”
It was perfect, Martise thought. She didn’t seem quite real, or real to this world. Her hair flowed out like soft wings of fire over the sweeping white folds of the gown.
“A Greek goddess, that’s it!” Elaina whispered. And with a flourish, she set the jeweled crown atop Martise’s head. “’Tis glorious!” she pronounced.
She had never looked better, Martise knew. More enticing, and more innocent, perhaps. The jewels danced with her eyes, and the silk train from the crown enhanced the luster of her hair. The material molded beautifully to her form, and yet moved with her. There seemed to have been some magic spun into the thread, for the gown shimmered when she moved.
“I cannot wait for the laird to see you!” Elaina declared, delighted.
Martise made a quick decision. “And I must not wait,” she told Elaina suddenly. “I’ve got to speak with him for just a minute—”
“But you must make a grand entrance down the stairway!” Elaina protested.
Martise smiled. “Elaina, I will. For Conar and Ian and Peter—and Hogarth!” she promised. “But right now, I must see my husband.”
Martise hurried out of Elaina’s room. Her teeth chattered, but she wanted desperately to see Bryan. She had to meet the fear within her.
Or else she would have to run from him at midnight.
Hurrying along the corridor, she passed her old room and the library, and started across to the master’s tower. She was nearly running.
And then she stopped, a scream forming against her throat.
Someone was there. A figure was there, at the door to Bryan’s room, clutching something against its chest.
Clutching something…
What? She couldn’t see, she couldn’t tell. The figure was in shadows. It was clad in black. In a black cloak with a hood.
It turned and saw Martise. And for a moment, it held. She could not see its face, or its eyes, but she knew that it was staring at her.
And then it turned and fled.
“Wait!” she cried, and she started to run after it. “Wait, please, wait!”
But the figure had reached the stairway, and in the absolute and total darkness, it disappeared.
Martise paused at the head of the steps, staring down. She could not follow. She would be a fool to do so. She bit her lip and ran back to the bedroom doors, throwing them open. “Bryan! Bryan, where are you! Oh, please, damn it, where are you?”
There was no answer—except that he wasn’t in the room, that was for certain. She sighed with frustration and sat down at the foot of the bed. “Laird Creeghan, where in God’s name are you? Never about when I need you, only appearing in erotic dreams!” she muttered.
Then an eeriness seemed to steal around her. She was sure the room was empty, and yet … she suddenly didn’t want to be alone in it. She leapt back up and left the room and started walking along the corridor.
And then she was running.
She came back to Elaina’s room and knocked on the door. Elaina was there, smiling expectantly.
“Was he duly impressed?” she asked Martise.
“He—he wasn’t there.”
“Then I imagine he’s gone down already. He is the laird, and must greet the revelers,” she said. “Come, we’ll get to make a grand entrance, after all.”
They walked to the stairway together, then Elaina prodded her. “Go down with you, now. Alone. And slowly!”
Martise started down the stairs. She could hear many voices, and surmised that there were a lot of people in the hall. Then suddenly the voices faded away and stopped altogether, and Martise realized that everyone in the room was staring at her. Then she heard a hoarse male cry. “Martise!”
Bryan came to the bottom of the steps, his features tense. He reached a hand to her and led her into the room, eyes condemning as he stared at her. Then he turned around. “The bride of Creeghan anew, my friends!” he announced, and an uneasy laughter arose, and then a puppet show which had apparently already begun was resumed. Martise tugged upon his hand, demanding of Bryan in a heated whisper, “What is it? It is as if you had seen a ghost!”
“’Tis nothing,” he said. “You simply surprised us all.”
“Why?”
“Because one of our ancestresses—the bride married in that gown—threw herself from a balcony to the rocks below. There’s a painting of her in the smaller hall beneath my room.”
“Oh!” she cried, startled. And then she looked back at Elaina, who had also made her entrance, and now stood laughing beside her cousin Ian while she watched the puppet show.
“But it is stunning upon you, Martise. Truly stunning.”
She pulled away from him. He was in black. Black breeches, black silk shirt, black frock coat. And then, looking around the room, she gasped.
Many of the men were dressed in cloaks. Cloaks like those worn by the figures that day in the forest.
“What is it?” Bryan demanded sharply.
“The—the cloaks,” she murmured.
He did not reply, for there was thunderous applause when the puppet show ended. The front doors were cast open and the people went spilling out to the courtyard. Bryan caught Martise’s hand and dragged her along.
Outside, there was a large pole set up with gaudy streamers depending from the top. Twelve of them. The end of each was held by a girl who danced with it. No holy dance, and no Highland fling, but something far more subtle and sensual. Decadent. Erotic. Each girl was clad in white, with sleeves and shirt cut and slashed as if the gowns were elegant rags. The bodices were low, the skirts slashed, and young flesh much in evidence.
Twelve … the number of a coven, Martise thought.
The girls let go of their streamers, and they ran into the crowd. One of them sidled against a masked Roundhead, and another paused to press a kiss on the cheek of a fat Punch. One of them—Cassie, the fisherman’s wife—came before Bryan, and cast her arms around him, and came shimmering down the length of his torso and limbs.
The girls raced back to their streamers, and the dance began again, reaching a frenzied crescendo. The music died, each girl fell to her knees, and again, the applause was thunderous.
“I thought May Day was for fertility,” Martise murmured sweetly to Bryan.
His eyes caught hers and he smiled. “This is the harvest, you must recall, my love,” he said. And then suddenly, pipes were playing and a fiddle was strummed, and beneath the full moon, dancing had begun. Bryan was swept away by an unknown girl, and Martise found herself in the arms of a young sheepherder with a handsome face—but the scent of sheep still about him.
Then
Hogarth appeared, dressed in one of the dark cloaks. He made a wonderful figure of death, Martise decided, watching as he threw out the marzipan candies to the crowd. There was laughter and chaos as the candies were caught, and then one by one and in pairs, the people began to drift away toward the carts and wagons and horses that awaited them along the road.
The clock began to strike. Twelve tones.
“Midnight, the witching hour,” came a husky voice behind her. And Bryan’s warm hands slipped around her. She turned to face him.
He now wore a dark cloak about his shoulders, though the hood was pressed back from his head. He smiled, the devil’s smile, and he swept her up into his arms.
“No!” she said.
“Ah, but I demanded you back for this time!” he reminded her. “Good night, all!” he called to his family, and strode back through the double doors and to the stairway.
Panic seized her as he mounted the stairs. Her eyes met his, and she desperately sought the truth in them.
They reached the second floor and the corridor. He swept her forward still, into the darkness. She began to tremble and shake within his arms, and still she could not speak.
And still his eyes burned into hers.
He kicked open the double doors and carried her to their bed, then left her there to stride back and close and bolt the doors.
Her lashes fell over her eyes and clamped tightly. In the dream she lay upon a cold slab and he came to her. And then he brought the chill of his knife against her throat…
She opened her eyes. He was striding toward her, the cloak flying from his shoulders. “No!” she screamed.
He sat at the edge of the bed and pulled her against his shoulder. She kept trembling. His kiss fell upon her forehead and upon her cheeks and upon her lips. She wanted the kiss, she despised the fear. Hungrily, desperately, she kissed him in return. Her tears bathed his hands where they stroked her cheeks. “My God, what is it?” he asked huskily.
“Bryan, dear God, tell me again that you’re innocent, I beg of you!” she gasped.
He pressed her back against the bed. “I am innocent,” he told her intently. He touched her shoulders and pressed his kiss against them. “Tell me, what has happened?” he whispered against her flesh.
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