“Dinnae fash yerself, lass. I kent what ye meant and willnae say a word. On my honor.”
“Thank you…”
“Donell, lass,” he said, tapping his name badge with one thick, bent finger.
“Donell,” she nodded, reaching out to shake his hand. He was stronger than he looked, his handshake firm. “Might I head in, do you think? I’d like to take a peek before all the crowds enter.”
“Of course, lass. No’ a problem a’tall. Yer deserving of a break from all yer troubles, aren’t ye?”
Scarlett smiled and pivoted toward the entrance but paused when he cleared his throat. Turning back, she sighed inwardly as the man lifted a pen and paper suggestively in her direction. “I ken I shouldnae ask but… er, I was wondering, could ye…?”
Her smile wasn’t Oscar worthy but it was smile enough to please the clerk who beamed as she neared the desk. “It’s no problem at all, Mr…” she referred to his nametag again. “Donell. Shall I make it to you?”
“Nay, lassie,” he protested with an engaging grin. “To my granddaughter, Katharine, if ye please, lass. She’s quite keen on ye, ye see. An autograph would send her o’er the moon.”
Scarlett smiled at that, wondering when she had last been over the moon about anything. She was just so tired of it all. Well, not the fans, she rather enjoyed their enthusiasm, but the daily grind of fame. Fame she hadn’t done much to deserve.
“I think ye underestimate yerself, lass. Yer a bonny thing to be sure and sweet, too. No’ a’tall like the things they write aboot ye,” he assured her. Familiar enough with all the things, true and false, that had been written about her, Scarlett didn’t bother to ask what Donell might have read about her, but was confused by his initial statement. What did he mean that she underestimated herself? She started to ask but Donell rushed on before she might question him. “To Katharine, if ye dinnae mind.”
“Not at all,” she assured the odd little man with a smile and took up the pen and paper Donell pushed across the desk. “Katharine with a K?”
“Aye, lassie,” he beamed at her, his eyes twinkling as he watched her write a short note on the page to accompany her signature. “K-a-t-h-a-r-i-n-e…”
“Ahh, with an ‘a’,” she said softly and finished it off with a flourish. “How’s that?”
Donell scanned it, and if possible, smiled even more broadly. “Lovely, just lovely, Miss Thomas. You’re verra kind, lass, to do this. Thank ye so much.”
“I’m happy to do it.” Scarlett waited patiently as he stood grinning at her. “Might I go through then?”
“Of course, of course.” Donell fanned out several brightly printed brochures on the desk and pushed them toward her. “Some information on the different exhibits.”
“Thank you.” Scarlett thumbed through them, skimming over the bolded titles distractedly. Sir Walter Scott: Rob Roy and Beyond, The Great War in Dunskirk, Border Textiles, Flodden: 500 Years, and Pong to Playstation: The Infinite Lives of Video Games. Well, that might be interesting.
“Aye, well, will ye be needing a guide then, lassie?”
“No, I think I can make my way around this particular castle without one,” she said with a smile that had him nodding.
“Of course ye can!” The man hastened to assure her, sweeping an arm toward the sign that bore an arrow pointing in the proper direction. “Take yer time, lass. Be sure to mind the armory exhibit, lass,” he called after her as she turned to leave. “I’m sure ye’ll being interested in what it will show ye.”
“I’ll be sure to check it out. Thank you, Donell,” Scarlett smiled over her shoulder. “You’ve been very kind.”
“No’ a’tall, lassie. My pleasure. I hope ye find what yer looking for.”
Her sandals scuffed softly against the stone floors as Scarlett walked the long hall within the castle’s curtain wall in silence, flipping idly through the pamphlets Donell had provided but mostly just absorbing the calm nothingness of it all. There had been very few moments like that for her in the past decade and a sigh of contentment escaped her.
The hall was dimly lit with faux torches lighting the way. Backlit displays dotted the wall between the torches giving a historic overview of Scottish borders history along with a timeline. There were castles like Hermitage, Kelso and Jedburgh along with Dunskirk.
Scarlett grazed over the words on the wall absently. She hadn’t been joking out there when she said she wasn’t a historian. Dates and places meant nothing without the emotion that they evoked in the people of the time. That was why she’d majored in English Lit. It was words that touched her and held her attention.
Once she reached the pele tower, the oldest part of the castle, the hallway widened into a brightly lit gallery dotted with displays on Mary, Queen of Scots. Paintings, jewels, and a reproduction of her death mask. An elaborate gown that looked like it was spun from gold.
Following the path lights to the second floor, she found the armory exhibit Donell spoke of. Pacing slowly around the perimeter of the vast tower, Scarlett studied the paintings on the walls as she circled the room. Most were scenes of the Battle of Flodden done in different styles from the simplicity of the medieval era to the thick oils of the impressionists. Watercolors, drawings. Even a Burne-Jones marble relief. All depicting different aspects of the battle. The glory. The gore. So much red.
Like literature, art had more impact on Scarlett than all the history books in the world’s libraries. She could almost see the battle. Touch it. Feel it.
One large oil bore a scene of rugged, kilted soldiers attacking a more tidily-garbed army with swords and pikes. Between the art displays were battle axes, long bows and long pikes fifteen feet in length. On pedestals dotting the room, smaller artifacts from the battlefield – like cannonballs, an Englishman’s plate armor, and a Scotsman’s broach – were set under Plexiglas. A cannon dominated the center of the room.
One round pedestal bore a heavy sword held up by a Plexiglas stand. Unlike the no-nonsense weaponry on the wall, this one was a Scottish claymore with an ornate grip of dark wood with a swirling grain inlaid with metal filigree that looked like gold. On the hilt and the ends of the pommel and cross guard were huge, smooth stones of amber almost as large as chicken eggs. It didn’t look like the sword of a soldier to be sure.
Scarlett leaned in to read the tiny brass plaque on the side of the pedestal: Scottish Claymore, found on the battlefield of Flodden.
Running her fingers lightly over the engraved inscription, she pondered the implication of those words. Found on the battlefield of Flodden because its bearer had died there, most likely. Found because there was no one left to pick it up. Unexpected grief squeezed Scarlett’s chest. Sorrow too great for the mere mention of some long dead Scotsman, but it gathered heavily in her heart, nonetheless.
Scarlett lifted her fingertips to the sword’s edge. Though it looked dulled with age, the blade was unexpectedly razor-sharp and sliced the pad of her forefinger. Flinching back, she watched blood well through the narrow cut and her head swam unexpectedly. The darkness that should have normally accompanied such a head rush was overwhelmed by a blinding gleam of light. Blinking, she found the sword’s afterimage burned into her lids.
“Why can’t you ever just play along, Scarlett?” She turned to find Grayson Lukas assembling through her still spotty vision as if he were held in a Star Trek transporter beam. “It’s publicity. Just publicity.”
“It’s not just publicity,” she argued, sucking the sting away from her fingertip. “It’s my life as much as yours and I won’t play these games anymore with you. There are people out there who think they know what happened between us when nothing did. People… men who have treated me differently than they should have because of things you’ve said to the press. I don’t want that kind of attention.”
Grayson Lukas scowled down at her with none of the boyish charm that had been on display for the crowds outside. The sight wasn’t surprising. This was the Grayson she knew. “Bullsh
it! We all want the attention. It’s why we do what we do. We all want it.”
“I don’t. Especially not that kind of attention.”
“No, you’re the big, high fashion model now, aren’t you, Scarlett?” he sneered, grabbing her upper arm and pulling her close. “Too good for the rest of us?”
“No, just too good for you,” Scarlett told him and not for the first time as she swatted at his hands. “We’re not teenagers anymore to play at relationships, Grayson. I am not your toy, damn it! I never was and I refuse to lie for the sake of your career anymore.”
“You refuse?” His grip tightened painfully.
“Yes, I’m done. With all of it.” Scarlett pushed him away harder. Taken unaware, Grayson’s hold slipped and she stumbled backward. Her nemesis was close behind, latching on to her jacket to pull her back. It dragged down her arm and Scarlett shook it loose, gaining a few feet of freedom.
He yanked hard and she rotated, freeing the other arm but the jacket caught on her tote, keeping her within arm’s length. Her many necklaces were swinging back and forth, then cutting into her neck when Grayson latched on to them and tugged. “What do I have to do to get through to you?”
“Well, this isn’t helping your cause,” she bit out. Bending, she felt the necklaces slip over her head, heard them clatter to the floor. Grabbing up her skirt, she straightened and brought her foot up hard between his legs. With open scorn, she glared down at him as he curled protectively over his groin. She wasn’t afraid of him, merely sickened. “Too bad the paparazzi can’t see you now, huh?”
“You bloody bitch!” he yelled, his fist snapping out and catching her on the side of the head as he reared up.
Careening sideways with only one of the pedestals to break her fall, the crash of the column to the floor and the clatter of the ancient sword as it met stone echoed through the tower. With Grayson advancing menacingly, Scarlett tried to right herself but bells were tolling sickly in her head. He grabbed for her again but she managed to block him and twist out of reach. The motion made her head spin dizzily and darkness clouded her vision. She stepped back. Her sandal raked against the hem of her maxi dress and her bottom painfully met the stone floor.
Scrambling backward like a crab, she tried to put some distance between them so that she might defend herself as her self-defense instructor had taught her but her sandaled feet slipped on the floor and again caught on her skirt. She would have to wait until he was upon her to do anything now.
Back farther. Her fingers grazed the warm steel blade of the claymore and curled around it. Bright white light flared once more as she dragged it closer and found the hilt but the sword was too heavy for her to lift.
Somebody, please…
“What are you going to do, Scarlett? Slay me like one of those bloody CGI dragons from the film?”
“I will if you come a step closer. Just leave me alone!”
With a laugh, Grayson knocked the sword away. It clattered across the floor and Scarlett closed her eyes in dismay then…
Silence.
3
Shouts sounded from outside, breaking the blessed silence, and Scarlett opened first one eye, then the other in surprise. Grayson was gone.
A metallic clang rang out, and then another followed by a hoarse scream. Still dazed from his lucky punch and more than a little confused by his disappearance, Scarlett scrambled to the window and looked outside. The yelling grew louder, sounding as if it was coming from directly below.
The window was sealed shut but Scarlett pressed close to the wavy bullion glass trying to look directly downward but there was nothing to see.
She frowned.
No wait! There was really nothing to see!
No cobbled drive. No canopy. No crowd. That was odd. Perhaps she had gotten turned around and that was the rear of the castle? She had taken quite a blow to her noggin. Brow still furrowed, she backed away from the window and into a solid object. Cold metal against her neck sent a chill wracking through her as a hard arm wound around her waist.
“Who are ye, lass?” A rough voice asked in a brogue so deep she could feel the man’s chest rumble against her back. “What are ye doing here?”
Who was he? A security guard? She doubted it. Unfortunately, she’d had a few stalkers in the past who were far more dangerous than Grayson. “What am I doing here? Just who do you think you are?” Scarlett asked a question of her own with false bravado. In many cases, stalkers wanted her fear as if seeing her cringe or recoil gave them some power over her, but Scarlett Thomas wasn’t about to cower before this new threat. “Take your hands off of me! Don’t you know who I am?”
“Nay, that’s what I’m trying to find out so tell me true, lass, who are ye? What are ye doing in my keep?” There was a sharp prick at her neck and Scarlett realized that the metal touching her wasn’t a gun barrel but a knife. He might be nearly unintelligible but he meant business.
“Your keep? Are you crazy?” she bit out, wrapping her hand tightly around his thick wrist. Grayson might have gotten the best of her with that one punch but she wasn’t about to become a victim twice this day. “Now take your hands off of me or else!”
“Or else what?” he asked, sounding more confused than challenging with that typical response and the blade at her neck tipped downward as his tight hold slackened.
Scarlett took her chance, throwing back her head and catching him unexpectedly in the chin while at the same time she brought her heel down on his instep. With a vile curse, her attacker released her and she seized the opportunity to pivot out of his hold while twisting his wrist down with her. Pain zinged up her arm as the heel of her other hand caught him in the nose but triumph whisked the sting away.
Spinning away, she started to run but he caught her by the wrist and dragged her back. She was ready for him. With a sharp tug toward his thumb, the weakest point of his grasp, she pulled away and jabbed a kick into the side of his knee. Cursing with pain, he reached for her again.
Damn, but he was fast! This time he held her around the neck and pulled her back against him. Sensing that the same tricks wouldn’t work twice with him, Scarlett caught his hand in hers, and sidestepping, brought her other fisted hand down hard into his groin. As he doubled over, she used her shoulder and his own momentum to force his arm upward, rotating it behind him. With one hand, she locked his elbow in place and used the other to force his thumb back to meet his forearm. Triumphantly, she planted a knee between his shoulder blades to keep him down.
Before she could get too cocky though, he reared up almost knocking her off of him but Scarlett used all her weight to pin him until she was practically kneeling on him, adding pressure to her hold on his thumb, forcing it down. Any attempt on his part to lower his arm would only increase that pressure, bringing him more pain.
She had him… for the moment.
With another pained expletive, her assailant stilled. His head whipping around, his eyes filled with icy rage before his gaze met hers. His pale silver eyes widened with surprise. Then drifted slowly downward.
Her expression as she stared down at him couldn’t have been any less stunned than his. His appearance was so startling Scarlett almost unwittingly released him to step away. The man radiated anger and savagery from a face so sublime he must have either had the love of one overly benevolent God or the blessing of one rather diabolical devil.
It was a face designed to captivate, to enthrall. There was no doubt in Scarlett’s mind that he had used his looks as an effective weapon against women in the past. What man wouldn’t when he looked like that?
He was the devil’s own with shaggy dark hair framing his carefully hewn features: the square jaw, enviable cheekbones, aquiline nose and smooth broad forehead. He wore a short, scruffy growth of beard that seemed to enhance rather than hide the hard granite planes of his cheeks and that chiseled jaw. Beneath low, thick brows, his eyes were by contrast as pale grey as a shark’s underbelly. His expression just as deadly.
Then she realized that it must have been his shock at being conquered more than anything that kept him on his knees and at her mercy because Lord have mercy! He was huge! Given the bulging biceps and traps of his arm, the thickness of his neck and shoulders, Scarlett was willing to bet that under that linen shirt and bulky kilt was a body of pure muscle. Without a doubt, the enormous, scarred hand she held in hers could break her neck easily.
By the look in his eye, he was considering it.
Thinking of the pistol weighing at the bottom of her tote, Scarlett deliberated whether she might manage to retrieve it, release it from the holster and point it at him before he had time to kill her.
Not likely.
A tremor spiraled through her leaving icy terror in its wake but Scarlett wasn’t an actor for nothing and managed to keep her expression cool and confident as she glared down at him. “Enough of this now. I want you to leave me alone. Do you understand?”
The man lowered his head, shaking it slowly. His shoulders jerked and she realized in a flash that he was laughing. Laughing at her. “You think this is funny? Are you nuts?”
“Nuts?” he repeated curiously in that deep, thick brogue, lifting his head to look at her once more. “I’m going to forgi’ ye, lass, for clearly ye’ve been ill and are mayhap still a wee bit maddened wi’ fever.”
If he looked mildly baffled by her words, she was utterly perplexed by his. “Ill? Maddened?” She wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. She wasn’t the one who looked crazy. He was the one wearing the kilt. Not even a nicely pleated kilt but a mangy dirty one… and was that blood? Then what he said sunk in and her calm slipped. “Wait. You’re going to forgive me? Did you really just say that? Forgive me for what? You attacked me, remember?”
“And yer people attacked my hold,” he shot back with a blood chilling growl.
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