Down the Rabbit Hole

by J. D. Robb

  She would show him. She would show all of them.

  * * *

  As soon as the plane from Laguardia to Edinburgh landed, Beth phoned Stag’s Head Lodge to report when she’d be arriving. She settled into the rental car and programmed the GPS, noting the estimated time before reaching her destination.

  As she steered the car away from the town and toward the Highlands, she went over in her mind all the information she’d learned about her formidable opponent.

  Colin Gordon had been educated like royalty. After attending boarding school at Eton, then moving on to Oxford and the University of Edinburgh, he’d returned to Stag’s Head Lodge, where his father had remarried after the death of Colin’s mother. Not long after, his father had died, followed shortly by his stepmother. As heir, Colin had taken the necessary steps to clean up an estate riddled with debt. It would seem his stern father had chosen to look the other way as his wife’s son and daughter by a previous marriage had partied like rock stars. Both were now married, but despite their established place in wealthy, titled society, rumors persisted that they were living beyond their means and were urging their stepbrother to sell Stag’s Head in order to erase their debt.

  At Darda’s insistence, Beth had already notified all parties concerned of her pending arrival, in the hope that the stepsiblings could add a little weight to the deal.

  Before leaving the country, Darda had given her niece her marching orders.

  “Our firm has authorized you to offer one hundred million.”

  Beth’s eyes widened. “So much?”

  “Too much.” Darda’s tone hardened. “Start the offer at half. That way you have some bargaining room if he balks. For every million you shave off his price, the firm will add to your bonus.”

  “Do you think that’s wise? What if he’s insulted by a lowball figure and flatly refuses to even deal with me?”

  “That’s all part of the art of negotiating. You need to know just how far you can push the client before he loses interest.” Darda clapped a hand on her niece’s shoulder. “But I should add that I’ve found a lovely villa in the south of France that could be ours for just under five million.”

  Ours. The very word registered as alien to Beth’s ears. Though Darda was responsible for raising her, she’d never felt any bond of kinship between them. In truth, Darda had always deliberately held Beth at arm’s length, sharing nothing but their name.

  “Not bad for a few days of having to put up with a stuffy Highland lord. Did I mention that the firm arranged for you to stay on at Stag’s Head Lodge?”

  “But why? If the negotiations should stall, don’t you think it would be a lot less awkward if I had a room in a nearby village?”

  “Awkward for you or the client?” Darda’s eyes narrowed. “Your comfort isn’t important. You always want to remain close to the client. That way, whenever the opportunity presents itself, you’re there to press him.” Darda’s carefully cultured voice played through Beth’s mind. “Let me remind you. Not only is your job on the line here, but my reputation, as well. I expect you to do whatever it takes to land this deal. Do I make myself clear?”

  Beth struggled to put aside any lingering guilt at the thought of separating a Highland lord from his ancestral estate. She knew she had to land this for the firm, no matter the cost to her conscience. After a lifetime of being told she was too tenderhearted, or, as Darda liked to say, too warm and fuzzy, to ever succeed in the hard-knock world of business and finance, she intended to finally win her aunt’s approval and guarantee a place with this new firm.

  While she finalized her mental strategy for dealing with her hard-nosed client, she peered at the gunmetal gray clouds spitting rain over the gloomy countryside. In a strange way she welcomed the bleakness of the day. She needed no distractions as she went over in her mind the moves that Darda had so carefully planned and plotted.

  As she drove through the village of Stag’s Head, she decided to make a stop, noting the clean streets, the smiling faces. It would be her last chance to be alone until the deal was finalized.

  Though she hadn’t planned this, she found herself drawn to a little shop offering late-afternoon tea and scones.

  The shopkeeper brought her order to a small round table for two and paused to pour tea.

  After a few pointed questions about her reason for the visit to his town, he smiled, giving him the look of an ancient, gnarled cherub.

  “Ye’ve business with the laird, have ye? A finer man ye’ll never meet. ’Tis thanks to him that I’m still in business. Most of the folks in town will tell ye the same. Unlike some who’ve inherited land and titles, our Laird Gordon truly cares about the lot of us. This town wouldn’t survive without the laird’s generosity.”

  Beth considered his words as she enjoyed the scone, still warm from the oven, and strong, hot tea. Fortified for the rest of her journey, she walked to the doorway where the old shopkeeper stood.

  “Thank you. I’m glad I made a stop here. The tea and scones were lovely. Now I’m off.”

  “Aye. It’s just up the road a bit, lass. No more than a few kilometers and ye’re there. Take care, now. It isn’t safe to be out of doors after dark, or . . .”

  A customer stepped between them, placing a hand on the old man’s arm and engaging him in small talk.

  Beth glanced at the old man, who waved a hand before continuing his conversation with his customer.

  Fortified by that brief respite, Beth settled into the rental car. She couldn’t wait for her first glimpse of Stag’s Head Lodge.

  As the car followed the twists and turns of the narrow road, she could just make out the stark outline of a fortresslike castle up ahead before it was hidden from view by ominous clouds.

  She smiled. Only the very rich would consider calling a castle of that size a hunting lodge.

  She was still smiling when, without warning, her car’s engine suddenly died.

  Puzzled, Beth tried the ignition. Nothing happened. She sat for a moment before trying again.

  The engine was completely dead.

  Darda’s first rule popped into her head: Punctuality. In order to impress her clients, it was necessary that she reach her destination on time.

  Annoyed, Beth slung her bag over her shoulder and dug into the backseat for her small overnight case. The rest of her luggage would have to remain with the car until she came back for it. Locking the doors, she started on foot, determined to walk the final mile. As she trudged, she questioned the wisdom of having worn such fashionable heels. She’d wanted to make a good first impression, but her choice had been frivolous. Still, her walking shoes were in her suitcase. There was no time to turn back to the car and rummage around for them.

  She pushed aside her doubts. She’d walked much farther than this in the city. What woman hadn’t sacrificed comfort for style, especially when the stakes were so high?

  Dusk was settling over the countryside, and she had begun to accelerate her pace when she suddenly stumbled. The weight of her overnight bag added to the momentum. With nothing to grab on to, she fell face forward. Instead of hitting the ground, she could feel herself continuing to fall down a long, dark tunnel.

  As the darkness rushed by she let out a piercing scream before landing hard and hitting her head, causing a shower of stars to dance through her brain.

  Such pretty, spinning stars, in bright neon colors.

  It was her last thought before losing consciousness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Well now. What have we here?”

  At the strange voice, Beth opened her eyes.

  Standing over her was a plump little groundhog wearing a chef’s hat and a long white apron, and peering at her as though she had two heads. In the animal’s front paw was a giant wooden spoon that could have easily served as a paddle for a boat.

  How was this possible? A talking g
roundhog? Dressed as a chef? The fall must have been much more serious than she’d thought. Her brain was muddled.

  Still . . . she’d seen his face somewhere before, though she couldn’t recall where. “Who are . . . ?”

  “I have baking to see to. Bones and phones to add to my scones.” He abruptly turned.

  “Wait. Please don’t leave me.”

  “I mustn’t be out at the start of a new moon or I might encounter . . .” He never even gave her a backward glance as he hobbled away.

  She was left alone, with only silence.

  Of course she was alone. She’d only dreamed her visitor.

  She eased to a sitting position and felt her head swim. Touching a hand to the spot, she could feel the sticky warmth of blood.

  Very slowly she picked up her purse and overnight bag before getting to her feet. She started walking in the direction the funny little groundhog had gone, though she had no idea where she was, or what might lie ahead. Dream or no dream, that creature was her only guide.

  Why was the countryside so dark? Where were the street lights? Had the fall affected her vision? And where had she been headed? Oh yes. Stag’s Head Lodge. Thank heaven she had enough brainpower to remember that much.

  As she came up over a rise she spotted a light up ahead. A light that seemed to be swaying, before abruptly moving away. Alarmed that she would be left behind in the dark, she started running and stumbling until she could make out the figure of a giant stag up ahead.

  Hearing her footsteps, it turned, and twin beams of blazing red light were fixed on her with a look so fearsome, she covered her eyes and looked away.

  When she looked up she realized her mistake. It wasn’t a stag, but a horseman holding a lantern as he headed away from her.

  “Wait. Stop.” Dazed, confused, she began to run after him. “Can you help me? I seem to have lost my way.”

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” In the darkness, the heavily accented Scottish voice was low with anger.

  “I’m expected at the lodge. I’m Beth Campbell from New York.”

  “A Campbell? On Gordon land? How dare—”

  “I phoned to say I was on my . . .”

  Feeling herself fading, she began to sway as the sky above her slowly circled.

  The man was out of the saddle and managed to catch her before she hit the ground. With little effort he swung her up into his arms and mounted his horse.

  “Thank y—” Her throat was so dry, she couldn’t seem to make her mouth work.

  His breath was hot against her cheek. “It’s not thanks I want. I’d much prefer to see the back of you as you take your leave of my land. But for now, I suppose, I have no choice but to take you with me.”

  He flicked the reins, and the great black horse started toward a darkened fortress in the distance.

  Beth found herself in a most awkward position, being held in the strongest arms she’d ever known, her face nearly buried in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. She breathed in the scent of forest and evergreen, making her think of a wild, dangerous, primitive creature. She felt small and insignificant in his arms.

  A feeling of sheer terror rose up and had her by the throat, but she couldn’t make a sound.

  He was dressed in a rough woolen cloak, with the hood lowered, allowing his shoulder-length hair to flow out behind him.

  As the horse’s hooves ate up the distance, he spoke not a word, leaving Beth to hear nothing but the pounding of her own heartbeat mingling with his. A strong, steady drumbeat that had her own pulse speeding up.

  At last they arrived in some sort of courtyard. A dozen hounds swarmed around the horse, setting up a chorus of baying until the man gave a single command. At once they dropped to their haunches and remained still as statues, tongues lolling. He dismounted, still holding Beth in his arms as easily as if she weighed no more than a feather.

  In the blink of an eye the hounds disappeared, to be replaced by a cluster of men, all dressed in similar fashion to her rescuer, in rough woolen cloaks, hair and beards long and unkempt.

  A stooped, furry groundhog, a twin of the one in the chef’s hat and apron, caught the reins and led the horse away. The men formed a circle around the man holding Beth.

  “What have ye here?” one of them asked.

  “A Campbell. She seems ill or wounded. Possibly demented, by the odd way she speaks. I’ll have Maura see to her.”

  Her rescuer carried her through a doorway and into a cavernous room lit only by the roaring flames of an enormous stone fireplace. The log ablaze on the grate was as big as a tree trunk.

  The man lowered her to a fur-covered chaise set in front of the fire.

  A plump gray rabbit hurried toward them. “Ye’ve need of me, m’laird?”

  “Aye. This female seems to be in distress. See if she is injured, and minister to her needs.”

  “Aye, m’laird. Will ye have ale?”

  “I will, Maura. It’s been a long journey.”

  The rabbit hopped away.

  Minutes later Beth felt a cool, damp cloth on her forehead. She opened her eyes to see an old woman kneeling beside her, holding a bowl of steaming broth and a goblet of something warm and red.

  “Are ye strong enough to drink this, lass?”

  “What is it?”

  “A bit of broth and some mead, lass. They’ll ease yer pain and give ye strength.”

  Beth managed to sit up, taking several sips of broth before tasting the sweet, pungent, fermented mead. She managed only a few swallows before setting it on a side table. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be all right. My car’s engine died, and I started walking when suddenly I tripped and fell down some kind of black hole.”

  The woman was staring at her as though she’d just spoken gibberish.

  “Could you contact someone at Stag’s Head Lodge and ask them to send a driver to fetch me?”

  The woman began to press her backward against the chaise. “You lie down now, lass, and rest a bit until yer mind clears.”

  “My mind is clear. My name is—”

  The old woman gave a quick shake of her head. “The laird told us yer name. Ye’d be wise not to speak the name Campbell here at Stag’s Head Lodge.”

  “This is Stag’s Head?” Beth was up and on her feet, visibly swaying. “Then they’re expecting me. I phoned and told them I was on my way.”

  The old woman glanced across the room. “Ye can see she’s not herself yet, m’laird.”

  Beth turned and saw the man who’d carried her standing in front of the massive fireplace, holding a tankard of ale.

  The men standing in a cluster around him were talking in low tones until he waved a hand, dismissing them. They walked to the far end of the room, where they stood watching and listening.

  The man had shed his cloak and now wore a length of plaid tossed over his shoulder in a rakish manner and tied around his waist like a kilt. On his feet were leather boots. Other than that, his legs and chest were naked.

  On any other man this whole pose of an ancient warrior would look phony. Like some cover model or actor hoping for his fifteen seconds of fame. But there was something about this man. Something dark and rough and dangerous that had him looking like the real thing, and had Beth’s breath backing up in her throat.

  He shot her an angry look. “Now you’ll tell me what a Campbell is doing on Gordon soil.”

  “I have an appointment with Colin Gordon.”

  He set down his tankard with enough temper to have the ale sloshing over the rim. “I am Laird Colin Gordon, woman. And I’ve never before met you.”

  Beth swallowed and decided to try a reasonable approach. “I can see that I’ve crashed your masquerade party. I’m truly sorry. But my firm arranged this meeting, and nobody told me about the party.” She tried a tentative smile. “If you’d
rather, we can certainly postpone our meeting until tomorrow, at your convenience.”

  The man looked beyond her to the old woman. “It’s as I feared. Demented, she is. Take her above stairs and see that she’s made comfortable until I figure out what’s to be done with her.”

  “Aye, m’laird.”

  As the old woman began to lead Beth away, the man added, “And, Maura, see that she’s not left alone.”

  “Aye. I’ll see to it, m’laird.”

  Stung by his insults, it was on the tip of Beth’s tongue to protest, but she realized she didn’t have enough energy for even that small effort.

  As she began to sway and drop to the floor, she was once again lifted in those strong arms. She heard the man’s muttered oath as she was carried up a rough, winding staircase and into a room with massive wooden beams overhead and a long balcony offering a view of a midnight sky sprinkled with millions of stars.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Her voice sounded strange in her ears, like a child whispering down a long, hollow tube. “I’ve never fainted before.”

  “’Tis the bump on her head, m’laird.”

  “Let’s hope so. More likely, she’s escaped from some poor fool’s tower, where she’s been hidden away because of her affliction.”

  “I’m not mad.” Beth wanted to stomp her foot, but being in the man’s arms, all she could do was thump her fist against his shoulder.

  He looked down at her, and she could see a glint of humor in his eyes.

  Was he laughing at her? That thought only added to her fury.

  “Ah, Glenna.” The man spoke to an orange-and-white kitten who was busy setting a fire on the grate. “Fetch a nightdress for my . . . guest.”

  “Aye, m’laird.” The kitten hurried away and a young, red-haired serving lass returned with a soft woolen gown with a high, prim neckline, long, tapered sleeves, and a skirt that fell to Beth’s toes.

  The man stood facing the fire, allowing the lass and housekeeper to minister to Beth until she was settled into a soft pallet. Then he walked to her side.