“No. I’m going to look for Iain. It would be more fun to eat with him.”
The young woman looked uncomfortable. “Pardon, Miss Harper, but Lord Ross is gone. Left about an hour ago, he did. Said he left you a note. I’ll be driving you home when you’re ready to leave.”
Billie stared at her. “Gone?”
“Aye. Did you no’ get his note?”
“No. I’ll look for it.”
“I could help.”
“No.” Billie was still trying to digest the fact that Iain had left without telling her directly. “No. I’ll find it myself.”
“And breakfast?”
“Just coffee. Up here, if you don’t mind.”
Billie waited until she was alone again before she began to search. She ignored the crutches and limped around the bedroom looking for the note with no success. She finally found it on the bathroom sink. Iain had gone to find Martin Carlton-Jones. She was to go back to Flora’s and not to worry. He would be certain she came to no harm.
She had read grocery lists written with more warmth.
Billie told herself not to read more or less into the note than was there. Iain was concerned with protecting her.
Just as Ruaridh must have tried to protect Christina.
“No.” She shook her head. Last night was already a stunning memory, but there were spaces in it, distant, fragrant wisps that made no sense to her. She had made love to Iain on a sofa in front of a smoking fireplace.
And he had whispered endearments in Gaelic, a language he didn’t speak or understand.
Something like fear edged along her spine. At the very height of pleasure, she had called out Ruaridh’s name. The legends of star-crossed lovers and the curse had seeped so far into her consciousness that at that moment of total fulfillment, both she and Iain had stepped over the line between reality and fantasy.
There could be no other explanation.
She clutched Iain’s note in her hands and prayed that history would not continue to repeat itself.
* * *
After a night at Fearnshader, Flora’s cottage seemed like a dollhouse, but a warm and welcoming one. Flora took one look at Billie, sat her down at the kitchen table and plugged in the electric kettle for tea. “Ye’ll drink it strong and sweet, and ye’ll drink plenty of it.”
“You won’t get an argument from me.” Drinking tea with Flora seemed like such a normal, natural thing to do. Billie reminded herself that most people spent their days this way, going about their daily lives without curses or crises to fuel them.
“Ye’re certain that Dr. Sutherland said you could be out and about?”
“As long as I don’t put weight on my foot or get too tired.” She watched Flora busying herself with the tea tray. There would be scones and fresh fruit as well as the usual pot of Earl Grey tea. She hadn’t realized she was hungry until now.
“T’was a close call ye had, lass. Far too close, to my way of thinking.”
“There’s no doubt the fire was set. And by somebody who knew exactly what he was doing. I don’t think I would have gotten out alive if Iain hadn’t rescued me.”
“But it’s the next time, Billie, that must concern ye.”
For a moment Billie didn’t understand. Then she realized that Flora wasn’t looking at her, Flora who could meet the eyes of the devil and send him cringing back into the bowels of the earth.
The door buzzed before she could respond. “More for tea,” Flora said. “Practice with yer crutches, lass, and go answer it for me.”
Billie got to her one good foot and reached for the crutches, which Flora had stationed close by. She swung her way to the front door with distaste. The crutches were easy to manage, but she hated anything that slowed her down. Balancing precariously, she opened the door. Mara and a giggling April were waiting on the other side.
Hugs were exchanged, and explanations. “Aye, it was a glorious holiday,” Mara explained. “But we thought it was time to be back.”
“And you, April?” Billie asked.
“I missed Uncle Iain and Uncle Andrew!”
“They spoil her at every opportunity,” Mara said with an indulgent smile. “It’s no wonder she misses them.”
“Mum said you hurt your ankle running from a fire,” April said.
“Mum?”
“Because Mara’s my Scottish mommy.”
“Terrific choice, short stuff.” Billie ruffled April’s hair before she turned to Mara. “How did you hear about my ankle? Is the gossip that detailed already?”
“I did no’ hear about it from anyone.” Mara made her statement with no subterfuge or apologies. “I had Duncan drop us here so we could check on you. He would be here, too, but I asked him to leave us alone.”
“I see.” Billie knew where Mara’s information had come from. She was beginning to accept things that would curl the hair of the very proper scholars on her doctoral committee. “You have something to tell me, don’t you?”
Flora spoke from the kitchen doorway. “April, I’ve seed for the birds. If ye spread it on the ground, then sit as quiet as can be on the bench in my garden, ye can watch them fly up and take it.”
Mara bent and fastened the top button of April’s coat. “Pull your hat over your ears. That’s right.”
“I’ve a scone for ye, as well,” Flora said. “To eat while ye’re watching.”
April let Flora guide her into the garden. Mara and Billie followed and installed themselves at the kitchen table. “What I have to say, Flora can hear,” Mara said. “Although I suspect that nowt I say will surprise her.”
“Why not? Is it common knowledge? One of those things I’m always the last to know?”
“No’ common knowledge at all. But I think that Flora knows more than she tells.”
“Ye would be the one to know, Mara Sinclair,” Flora said, coming in through the kitchen door. Billie could see April huddled motionlessly on the stone bench under Flora’s willow tree. Accustomed to Flora’s generosity, the birds had already begun to find the seed.
“I don’t understand,” Billie said. “What are you two talking about?”
“Flora’s mum was Margaret Henley.”
The name meant something. Billie had heard it mentioned before, but the nearly total recall that had always been her greatest gift seemed fogged by the events of the past weeks. “Margaret Henley,” she repeated, hoping it would trigger a chord.
“Aye. She was known far and wide for her visions,” Flora said. She brought the tray to the table and set cups in front of each of them.
“Bingo.” Billie was flooded with references now. Margaret Henley had been dead for two decades, at least, but the villagers, particularly the older ones, still spoke of her. Only no one had ever mentioned that Flora was her daughter.
Billie turned to Flora. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Flora poured tea into each of their cups. “And what would have been the point?”
Billie considered that. There was more here than just Flora’s Scottish reticence.
“I believe that Flora has no’ told you because she remembers certain things her mum said before she died, and she did no’ want you to suspect. Is that right, Flora?”
Flora smiled and set the fruit and scones on the table.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight. Flora’s mother could see the future. You can see the future. I’m getting flashes of the past….” Billie’s voice trailed off. She hadn’t intended to reveal that.
“Aye,” Mara said. “I know.”
“Any moment now I’ll wake up and find myself back in Kansas, my ruby slippers mysteriously turned into tennis shoes….”
“There’s a long tradition in the Highlands of peeking through the veil that separates the present from that which has passed before and that which has no’ yet passed.”
“Einstein would have had a field day here. Hand in hand with Freud.” But Billie’s mind was seriously whirling, despite her words.
“I
dinna think that we have more people inclined this way, only that it’s more accepted here that such a thing is possible,” Flora said.
“Would a Perlman or a Heifetz have excelled if no’ for the recognition and reverence of musical talent by their families and teachers?” Mara asked.
“You’ve spent your entire life learning to cope. There’s been little respect for your abilities,” Billie reminded her.
“There is respect here. And understanding. It’s just taken time for me to find it.”
“Tell me what all this has to do with me.”
Flora was the first to speak. “I’ve kept things from ye, lass. I’ve been afraid to tell ye what I know. I had to be certain….”
“Of what?”
“Certain that you were committed to staying, Billie, to seeing this through,” Mara said.
“Are we talking about the MacFarlane curse?”
Mara sat back in her chair. “Then you’ve learned of it?”
“She does no’ ken it all,” Flora warned Mara.
Billie frowned. “Alasdair translated exactly what was on the stone.”
“There’s more.”
“What?” Billie hesitated, then she held up her hand. “You know, I’m not sure I want to hear the rest. If it gets worse…”
Flora shifted in her seat, as if she were settling in. “The stone was inscribed hundreds of years after the curse was first uttered. Christina’s father, in his grief and despair, uttered the words and sealed them for centuries. But later, when he realized that he might have doomed his own future kin, just as he had shamefully doomed his beloved daughter, he added a bit.”
“He could no’ change his words,” Mara said. “So he added some. But that addition was never inscribed on the stone.”
“Why? What was it?”
“As to why? We dinna know. As to what? There is no record,” Mara said.
“None,” Flora agreed.
Billie sat quietly for a moment. “But you know? One or both of you knows anyway?”
“On the day that Iain Ross was born, my mother had a vision,” Flora said. “She told me that Iain’s birth would be the end of the curse that had haunted the Ross family for eight hundred years.”
“How?”
“That she did no’ say.”
“A rather important omission,” Billie said.
“The future can be glimpsed but never exactly predicted,” Mara said. “Nowt is set in stone.”
“Especially the end of the MacFarlane curse,” Billie said. “Too bad.”
Mara smiled sadly. “Especially that.”
Billie leaned forward in her chair. Her tea was untouched. “So far you’ve both told me pieces of a legend, pieces I hadn’t yet heard. What do you know that others don’t? What does the sight tell you?”
“I could no’ share this with ye before,” Flora said. “Because I did no’ know if ye were the one….”
“The one to help put an end to the curse,” Mara continued.
Billie was torn by how preposterous all of this was, and despite that, how much respect she held for these two women. “And now?”
“Do ye love Iain Ross, Billie?” Flora asked. “And does he love ye?”
Strangely, Billie felt that Flora had a right to know. “Yes.”
“Despite the curse and despite the danger?”
“Yes.” And despite a genetic inheritance that might destroy his life and hers. “Yes, I love Iain Ross. And I think he loves me.”
“When Christina fell in love with Ruaridh, he protected her from that love,” Mara said. Her green eyes were almost translucent. They were fixed on Billie, but Mara seemed to be looking far into the past. “Their families were enemies, as you know, and Ruaridh was certain that an alliance between them was impossible. Christina was to be married to a distant cousin, and Ruaridh was about to be betrothed to a woman with property that adjoined his own. Despite his feelings for Christina, he made certain no’ to see her again. He traveled Scotland and beyond to avoid her.”
Flora took up the story. “But one day, despite his great care, Christina and Ruaridh met by chance in the woods that bordered their lands. When Christina realized who the lone man on horseback was, she managed to escape her escorts to be with Ruaridh, and in good conscience, he could no’ leave her alone without protection. Thrown together, the spark between them kindled.”
In a secluded glen, beside a thicket of blaeberries and under the scented shade of a hundred pines.
“Billie, are you all right?” Mara asked. She leaned forward, concern shining from her eyes, and touched Billie’s arm.
The shrill whistle of Roman candles exploded in Billie’s ears. Her hands tingled, and her eyesight dimmed momentarily.
“Put your head down.” Flora stood and pushed Billie’s head toward her lap, narrowly missing the table’s edge.
“I know the rest,” Billie whispered. “You don’t have to tell me.” She rested her head on her hands and closed her eyes. She clearly saw a man who almost exactly resembled Iain, but a man from another era.
She knew the rest. In more of a flash than a vision, it had become as clear to her as if she had lived it herself. She saw a woman with hair the color of her own. Long, braided hair and brown eyes, just like Billie’s, shining with love. She wanted to deny it all; she wanted a one-way ticket back to the United States. Tears clutched at her throat and denial at her heart. But she could not deny what she knew.
Her voice was wooden. “They made love and pledged themselves to each other. They were married that night by a kindly old priest who bypassed all ecclesiastical authority and tradition. And then Christina went alone to tell her father, believing that as much as he loved her, he would not harm her for her disobedience. Ruaridh insisted that she not go, but she believed that she knew what was best. She believed that she could reconcile the two families, and that they could live peacefully the rest of their days. So she slipped away, while he was sleeping….”
“Aye.” Mara stroked Billie’s hair.
Iain had told Billie the rest of it, but it was clearer to her now, as clear as a video unfolding. She shuddered and sat up, despite the dizziness. “Their ghosts still haunt Cumhann Moor.”
“They must be put to rest,” Mara said.
“How?”
“The legend is being played out again. Can you no’ see that?”
Billie didn’t know what she saw. Everything she’d thought and felt could be attributed to an acute suggestibility. And yet…
“There have been two attempts on Iain’s life…or mine. But I can’t see a connection to the story of Christina and Ruaridh. We survived the fire on Cumhann Moor. We were in the very place where Christina and Ruaridh died, but we survived.”
“Ye’ve yet to meet your final test,” Flora said.
“Is that what you meant earlier, when you said that it’s the next time that should concern me?”
“Yer love must be strong.”
“And how do I accomplish that for both of us? I love Iain, and I think…know he loves me. But he’s so afraid I’ll be hurt. There is a curse in his family, and whether or not it has anything to do with the Middle Ages and some ancestor of mine, it’s still very real. And he wants to spare me pain.” A tear slid down her cheeks, even though she was angry for allowing it.
Flora didn’t attempt to comfort her. “Yer love must be strong.”
“What was the last part of the MacFarlane curse? You both know more than you’re telling, don’t you?”
“It established a way to end the curse forever,” Mara said.
“How?”
Flora shook her head. “Yer love must be strong.”
“My love is strong.” Billie looked from woman to woman. Their expressions were as tortured as she knew her own to be. “But I’m afraid that Iain’s fears are stronger.”
CHAPTER 14
Martin Carlton-Jones and Nigel Surrey owned an office building in London’s fashionable West End. Built of granite in chunky, m
atronly lines, the building had settled into the role of stately dowager well before the arrival of Queen Victoria.
On his first visit Iain had expected something brash and contemporary, or at least something inappropriately pompous. Instead, the building guaranteed respectability and confidence before the two men even shook the hands of potential clients.
Iain had neither confidence nor respect for either of the men or what they intended to do. Both Martin and Nigel considered themselves magicians who could transform their chosen corners of the globe into playgrounds for the rich and famous. They had already been astonishingly successful. They owned a Maharajah’s palace in Jaipur, a cattle station in Queensland, and an expansive chateau and vineyard in Bordeaux. Now they wanted something closer to home, something British, but suitably quaint and distinctive. They had first contacted him nearly a year ago, and slowly over the past months they had revealed their plan for the future of Druidheachd. He had purposely led them on, even courted them, because enemies without secrets were far less dangerous.
But they were dangerous still.
It was late in the afternoon before he walked through the door of Martin’s private offices. He had driven to Prestwick, flown to Heathrow and driven a rental car to the West End. Had Martin known he was on his way, he would have sent a limousine, but Iain wanted no part of that. The game had ended, and when he walked back out the door, he wanted his own car at his disposal.
Martin’s offices whispered proper British taste. Leather chairs just old enough to be interesting rested in quiet conversational groupings. Rosewood panelling harbored a series of hunting prints, most of which were variations of a setter holding a bloody pheasant between its teeth. Martin’s secretary was a porcelain blonde whose dark red lipstick outlined a haughty smile. The smile softened to something vaguely come-hither when she realized who had entered the room. “Lord Ross, is Mr. Carlton-Jones expecting you?”
“No, but I suspect he’ll see me anyway.”
When Iain didn’t smile, hers faltered. “Well, I’ll have to check, you know. He’s not always available, even to you.”
“He had better be.”
Her complexion grew paler. “I’ll just check.”
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