If what the priest had just said was true, then Gavin knew this stranger had to be a peasant. The Lowlander had investigated what passages he could in the burnt out wing, but he had reluctantly put off exploring the tunnels leading below. He would need a torch, and preferably a guide, for that little expedition.
In fact, he thought, he could use a torch now. The chapel, dark and musty, offered little to refute the cleric’s words. The few long, thin windows provided hardly any light or air in the sanctuary. No ornaments of value adorned the altar. Only a cross of wood, studded with iron nails, hung on the wall above it. That was all.
Surveying the rest of the interior, Gavin nodded toward the steps leading down into a dark alcove. “The crypt?”
“Aye, m’lord.” The note of contempt in the man’s response was obvious, and, though Gavin was unsure what it was directed toward, he was tiring quickly of the little man.
“Get a candle.”
As the priest returned with a light, Gavin started down the steps into the crypt. It was a low, square chamber, with stone tombs lining the walls. Some were adorned with the effigies of knights, their carved stone swords beside them. As William kept up a running commentary on the relative superiority of past generations, Gavin discovered the low doorway into another area, and, taking the candle, led the way into the newer part of the musty chamber.
“Sir Duncan had this part built before my time here. That is his tomb, with the stone carving. His sons never had much opportunity to plan for their own burials.”
“Where are Sir John and his wife and daughter?”
William’s face looked yellow and quite unhealthy in the flickering light of the candle, and he seemed to hesitate before answering. He gestured with a toss of his head.
“In the kirkyard, m’lord.”
Gavin stared at the man a moment. “I want to see where you’ve put them.”
“Aye. This way.”
As he and the priest retraced their steps, Gavin considered what would be involved in reentering the previous lairds and their families in the crypt.
The sun that had broken through briefly in the early afternoon had once again been swallowed up by the clouds. As Gavin gazed out over the low wall that separated the kirkyard from the sheer cliffs above the loch, he could see the storm to the west sweeping in over Cairn Liath and Cairn Ellick, hiding their summits in a cloud. The wind had picked up considerably, and Loch Moray’s waters were now a churning mass of whitecaps.
Gavin followed the little priest to a large slab by the cliff.
“Here, m’lord,” Father William said brusquely. “We put them here. Close enough to Sir John’s brothers. They lie over there.” The man pointed at two other slabs not far away. Sir John meant to have his brothers moved inside the crypt. As you can see, the good Lord didn’t see fit to give him time for that.”
Gavin looked back to the large slab before his feet. “You say all three lie here?”
The awkward pause in the priest’s response was obvious, and the new laird turned his gaze on the man.
“Do they lie here?” he repeated.
“Aye, for all that we could tell.”
“The bodies were burned?” Gavin asked.
“Aye,” the priest replied with disgust. “Like hell’s own demons, they were. All burnt. All lost...” The man’s voice choked. “There were so many of them. The wing was filled with Sir John’s servants and the ladies’ maids...”
Father William faltered and came to a stop. Gavin crouched before the slab and placed a hand on the tomb. It felt strangely warm to his touch. In a moment the priest continued.
“We couldn’t tell one from the other. We found no one in the laird’s chambers nor in Mistress Joanna’s room. Most of the bodies lay in a heap at the stairwell. Some of the maids, we think, may have tried to leap into the loch.” The priest looked away at the turbulent waters. Drops of rain began to spatter the stones around them. “We found traces of blood and torn linen on the cliffs, but no bodies. It seems the rest all ran into the corridors. That’s where we found them. All charred and heaped together.”
“Where you able to recognize them?” Gavin came to his feet.
The man slowly shook his head. “Nay. The laird was a goodly sized man, though, so we could be fairly certain of him, and his body lay apart, with two women by him. So we wrapped those three and placed them here. The rest...the rest we buried there.”
Gavin looked in the direction that the priest pointed. A dozen or so graves with new grass sprouting on the dirt mounds could be seen in the corner of the kirkyard. The little man walked unsteadily toward the graves and stared down at one set slightly apart from the others. The rain was starting to fall harder now, but neither man took notice of it.
“Who is buried in that grave?” Gavin asked, following the other man’s gaze. “The one away from the others?”
“Who?” The priest’s head snapped around toward the other graves, his eyes avoiding the laird’s gaze. “Why, one of the servants.”
“Why is it separated? If they all died together, why bury this one apart?”
“Because she did not burn like the others,” William answered irritably. “She was one of Lady MacInnes’s serving lasses, and she broke her neck leaping from a window in the tower.”
“Perhaps a better way to die,” Gavin said quietly, looking intently at the carefully tended grave. “What was her name?”
“Her name?” The priest ran his hand over his eyes. “I cannot remember.”
A bolt of lightning lit the sky.
“Iris!” he blurted quickly. “That’s it. Iris, I believe ‘twas.”
Thunder rumbled after the earlier flash. A movement by the chapel drew Gavin’s attention. A woman stood holding folded linens in her hands. Gavin recognized her as Margaret, the mute sister of the steward.
The little man mumbled something Gavin thought must have been an apology and hurried over to the woman.
The Lowlander turned his attention back to the graves at his feet. Death was something that he was no stranger to. As the laird gazed at the earthen mounds, it occurred to him that losing those he loved was something he’d been facing all his life. Strange, he thought, that some pain never ends.
He never knew his mother. She’d died bringing him into this life. His father and two older brothers had been rough tutors--they’d showed him a kind of love, one based on loyalty and strength and courage. But then, all three of them had been cut down in one day--fighting against the English at Flodden Field. He himself had been injured that day. He himself had faced death’s raw visage. And if it hadn’t been for Ambrose Macpherson saving his life--he would assuredly have had his throat cut by the battlefield scavengers.
Though that had not been his destiny that day, he wondered now--as he had wondered often since that day--if death held the only end to pain.
Gavin strode back to the slab, now nearly black with the falling rain. Small wisps of steam, like souls released, rose from the surface.
Staring at them, he thought of another grave. In his mind’s eye he saw Mary, her dark hair swirling around her pale skin in the summer wind. She had been the only woman he’d ever allowed to get close to him. Odd, he thought, he had spent almost all of his life in the service of his king. A man of action, a man of war. He had seen the world, and he had known the beds of many women. But with Mary, he had known something else. He had learned about the yearning of two souls, about the opening of hearts. But then she had died as well. Her life snuffed out before his eyes. Taken from him--like all the others he had ever loved.
The rain suddenly began to fall in earnest. Driven by the wind, it lashed at his face.
Again, looking down at the dark stone covering the grave, Gavin felt the dying fire in his heart and knew the cold misery of his life.
For death awaited anyone ill-fated enough to be loved by Gavin Kerr.
CHAPTER 5
She was cold. She was miserable. He was a hateful man. He had taken away her she
lter.
Cursing him, Joanna stepped out of the dark water of the underground lake. Shivering, she climbed the odd, stairlike rock formation onto the flat, stone slab where she had left her “new” clothes. Slipping into the shift, she held up the dress she had managed to steal from Gibby, the cook, earlier tonight.
Joanna glanced again at the dark stains on the rock, close to where she had laid her dress, and peered up into the darkness of the cavern ceiling far above her, wondering what could have produced such a mark on the rock. Shrugging, she turned her steps toward the small fire on the other side of the cavern, where she had made up a bed of rushes and straw stolen from the kitchens.
Picking up her old shift from the bed, Joanna tore a strip from it and tied it around her waist. Throwing her ragged cloak over her shoulders, she felt the warmth spread slowly through her, and a moment later, she pushed her long, golden hair to one side, wringing out the water out and combing her fingers through her tresses. Then, with a deep sigh, she crouched as close as she dared to the small fire.
Absently watching as the light of the flame danced against the roof and walls of the cavern, Joanna’s eye was suddenly drawn to what looked like markings on the cavern wall not far from where she sat. Taking a burning stick from the fire, she walked toward the wall and held the makeshift torch high. She could just make out figures--a cross and beneath it, the prone stick-like figure of a woman. Not far away, on a level with the woman, another stick figure could be seen clutching what looked like a head by the hair and, in the other hand, a large knife. Odd drawings, she thought, feeling a chill prickle along her neck and scalp.
Walking back to the fire, she seriously pondered who might have painted the figures. They looked like the work of a child. There were so few children anymore.
Seating herself again beside the small blaze, Joanna used more strips from her shift to wrap up her scarred hands. Then she let her mind drift back over all that had happened.
Late in the day, as she had crept as close as she dared in the concealing darkness of the tunnels, she had heard the sound of men in the south wing of the castle. The new laird seemed to have put every available hand in Ironcross Castle to work tearing away the wreckage. But in doing so, the damned Lowlander was taking away what little safety and comfort she had. The sound of axes chopping through burned wood and the ripping sound of plaster had filtered down to her. But then, at last, when it all had fallen silent for the night, Joanna had stolen back through the passages to her room in the tower in search of what she could salvage. All her meager possessions, even the rag she wore as a dress, had been cleared out.
Nothing had gone right since he’d arrived. Nothing. Joanna tried to ignore the rumbling growl of her stomach. Even her foray into the kitchen tonight had been a failure. Well, not a total failure. Gliding through the pitch black chamber, she had been lucky enough to stumble on this old dress, folded on a bench in the corner. At least she wouldn’t have to haunt the castle wearing only her shift.
Not a comforting image, she thought, gathering her knees to her chest. Her face clouded over. She had a bit more than a fortnight before the full moon. So few days to build her courage and finally go through with her plan of revenge. But until then, she wouldn’t sit back and let this Lowland usurper ruin her existence. Not one bit, she thought, brightening.
From the time she was a bairn, she’d been hearing about the Ironcross curse. She’d heard the women talk of its ghosts. Aye, she knew the truth of it now.
But as for the ghosts, this Lowlander must be hearing some of the same tales.
A mischievous glint crept into her eyes. Let the shadows rise, she thought. Let the ghosts of Ironcross teach this laird a lesson about disturbing a spirit.
***
Still clothed in his wet garments, Gavin gazed out through one of the small open windows into the pitch black of the moonless night. During the day, one could see the loch from this chamber, as well as the trail of hills leading southward toward the abbey. On a night such as this, one could not even see the boulder-dotted gorge below, and the only sound was the pattering of the rain and the occasional echoing rumble of far-off thunder.
He was not to be disturbed, he’d said before retiring to the master’s chamber of the Old Keep. In the morning, Andrew would ride north to Elgin and collect enough carpenters to rebuild the south wing of the castle--and a stonemason to build the tombs for the family of his predecessors.
Aye, for you, he thought, turning to the portrait of Joanna MacInnes, propped up on a chest by the fire.
Gavin tore his gaze away from her alert, vibrant eyes and stared at his dinner, untouched on the small table beside the fire. Of all that had happened that day, his visit to the kirkyard had been the most troubling of all. So many fresh graves. And so many who had died so young. He couldn’t shake off the melancholy that had descended on his soul as he had stood in the wind-driven rain.
Stripping off his wet tartan, shirt, and kilt, the laird heaped the clothes on the hearth. He gazed into the fire for a moment, but as he sat down and kicked off his boots, Gavin’s eyes were again drawn to the face of Joanna MacInnes. What was it about this woman that haunted him so?
Gavin drew back the blanket from his bed and climbed in between its linens. Lying back with a hand propped behind his head, he stared across the room at her face. He was glad, now, that he had told his men to have the painting brought here, rather that having it immediately wrapped in preparation for the journey back to Lady MacInnes. It was selfish, he knew, to delay the old woman’s request. But staring at the portrait, he realized how dazzling a creature Joanna MacInnes had been.
And he realized how easy it would have been to fall under her spell.
There was something much more powerful than her beauty that captivated him. Nay, he had known many bonny women. There was mystery in the violet blue depths of her eyes, in the hint of a question that hung on the edges of her full lips. Of a secret locked in her heart.
And then there were the alluring ivory shades of her skin. He caressed with his eyes the gentle swell of firm, young breasts that rose above her brocaded dress. Suddenly, Gavin felt the stirring in his loins as he imagined the feel of his lips on her...
“Are you mad?” He started, tearing his eyes from the portrait and rolling away from the light. He must be out of his mind, indeed, he decided, clenching his teeth. Aroused by a woman long dead.
***
Joanna paused quietly in the wedge of open panel and listened carefully to the sound of his breathing. He was asleep--she was sure of it--lying on his stomach on the great bed, the curtains drawn back on the summer night. His face was turned toward her. Even knowing exactly what she wanted to do, she still could not bring herself to move. Not yet.
Wisps of black hair had fallen across his eyes. His handsome, chiseled face was stern and troubled, even in sleep. Joanna’s lips parted and her breath caught in her chest as her eyes roamed over the rest of him. The blanket only managed to cover the lower part of his back and one of his legs. She felt the heat rising in her face at the sight of the sinewy muscles on his broad back and thick, scarred arms. Deep in her belly, another heat began to emerge, a wild, molten heat that frightened her with its suddenness and with its power. Joanna quickly tore her eyes away.
Stunned that she should respond this way to the mere sight of a man, Joanna found herself growing angry and chided herself silently. That’s just what you need now, she thought reproachfully. Some momentary lapse of sanity. Shaking her head, she looked across the chamber.
The painting was there. Somehow, she knew it would be. Stepping quietly onto the woven rush mat that covered the floor, she paused after each step. Deliberately, she put out of her mind any thought of the consequences of being discovered. As she moved toward the fire, she thrilled at the sense of danger that now gripped her. Playing the ghost, for some reason, seemed worth the peril of capture.
As she reached the hearth, she spotted the full platter of food and cringed at the sudden
growl emanating from her empty stomach. Throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder, she stared, waiting. But he didn’t move.
Well, first things first, she thought, wrapping the bread and beef in the linen cloth from the tray. The smell of the food made her mouth water, but she fought off the urge to eat it immediately. She had a task to accomplish, and the cook’s dress was clearly designed for practicality rather than fashion, so Joanna tucked the dinner, as well as the empty goblet, into the huge pocket.
Her two hands free, she reached for the painting and quietly tucked it under one arm. Glancing cautiously in his direction again, she started to back up, but nearly tripped over a pile of wet clothing.
Balancing the portrait against her leg, she picked up the articles of clothing and spread them, one by one, over the table and chair to dry. Amazing, she thought wryly, how living without the comforts of a home for half a year can change one’s perspective on the privileges of day to day living.
And besides, she mused, picking up the painting and starting again across the room toward the panel, in the morning he wouldn’t think entirely ill of his ghostly visitor. True, she had taken the painting and his dinner. But she had, at least, done one good deed.
As she reached for the panel, she froze in her tracks as the black-haired giant rolled onto his back. Joanna was only a step away from the panel, but she didn’t dare to move. The smell of warm, wet wool wafted across the chamber, and she watched, petrified, as the man’s hand started slowly moving over the linens. From the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, Joanna knew he was still sleeping, and she prayed that her stomach would not growl now.
But before she could slip through the panel, the sleeping giant kicked restlessly at the blankets, and Joanna’s heart stopped.
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