by Beth Trissel
He bore on. “And I suspect that key in her cross, literally, unlocks the secret to all of this.”
She listened in stunned silence.
Neil loosened his divine hold on her. “But I found nothing missing in the house, and have no idea what this MacDonald was seeking or if he found it.”
“Either way, he’ll be back,” their host predicted, “because he doesn’t have the key.”
Chill fingers, like the icy grip of a banshee, clenched Mora’s innards. Instinctively, her hand went to the sacred relic at her throat. “And me wearing it round m’ neck.”
Neil held out his hand. “No longer. Give the cross and the key it holds into my care.”
Despite everything that had passed between them, Mora had to be certain. “Ye said I was to have its keeping.”
“But now I’m asking for its return.”
She looked long into his eyes. “Are ye the same Neil as him who did the giving?”
He sighed. “God only knows what’s going on.”
“And him alone,” Mora agreed.
Fergus gave a low whistle. “My research may be of some help. It seems in the fall of 1602 Mora Campbell married Calum MacKenzie. Their son had a son and so on until this Neil came along.”
Mora absorbed his words in disbelief. How could he know events that had not yet occurred?
Neil scrutinized his friend as though he were a lunatic—a distinct possibility.
“Just a minute, are you trying to tell me that Mora is my great-grandmother a zillion generations back?”
“Technically not yet.”
“What do you mean not yet?”
“She’s caught in a time warp where she hasn’t yet wed Calum.”
Neil flung up his hands. “What happens if she doesn’t?”
Fergus seemed stunned by his own admission. “You don’t exist.”
“Plainly I do. I’m right here.”
“What’s today?” Fergus mused, “November 3rd? She doesn’t wed Calum until the 5th. We’ve got two days to get her back where she came from.”
Mora didn’t want to marry Calum. Judging by the expression in Neil’s eyes and the way he’d held her, and kissed her the evening before, he didn’t want her to either. Was Fergus the most unlikely of prophets or insane?
“My mother might have some deeper insight,” he offered with a shrug of his slender shoulders.
“Great,” Neil muttered. “All our hopes rest with Psychic Betty.”
Mora lifted the crucifix. “And with the Lord. Surely, ’twas he who sent me to ye.”
Neil eyed her in what could only be confusion. “I assumed it was the airlines, but it seems there’s far stranger stuff at work here.”
And growing more so by the moment.
Chapter Eleven
With a hand on Mora’s arm, Neil walked with her up the pavement in front of his house. She staggered in the green stilettos. He steadied her before she fell or caught her pointed toe in the sidewalk crack.
The afternoon sky held that purity of light seemingly unique to autumn. Sunshine poured over Mora with the burnished glow of stained glass. Cathedral light, perfectly suited to her and reminding Neil of a painting by Vermeer. Even with her hair up on her head in that ridiculously overdone style, she was more radiant than ever, her skin dewy, eyes troubled but stunning. And her hair lent itself to that Renaissance look.
The southerly breeze was mild, yet Mora clung to the arisaid wrapping her like a child in a favorite blanket—a meld of the old and new. Beautiful and adorable, she was a lethal combination, her pulsing effect on Neil relentless.
The beauty of fall surrounded them, but Neil sensed a great deal of winter lurking ahead. A fist thrust into his gut couldn’t have laid him lower than Fergus’s latest revelation. His middle ached under the pummeling he’d taken.
Mora could not possibly be the same woman as his distant ancestor, he silently argued, wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms again and kiss her. What wouldn’t he give to cover that sweet mouth with his once more and linger there? He swore by all that was sacred he’d not bolt this time, and the consequences be damned.
Desire grew in him with the strength of the breeze swirling the red and yellow leaves in his yard and lifting her shortened skirts. Tendrils of auburn hair pulled free from her topknot and danced in the gusts. No woman had ever seemed more appealing to him, or ever would. And it wasn’t only her physical beauty striking sparks in his innermost being. She possessed a soul to match her outward form, borne of wind and fire. A spirit to match his.
Nothing that had happened involving her made any sense. It was all a freakish mistake. Had to be.
She was Mrs. Dannon’s niece and just confused from that knock on her head. Mrs. Dannon must have described him in detail to Mora, likely even sent her a photograph, and she’d developed an attraction to him based on that. As for her other peculiarities, well, she’d been unnaturally sheltered. And any memories Neil thought he’d had of the past were simply his imagination running away with him. That was all. Fergus’s finds were coinci—
“Why does yer house bear the numbers of the year?”
Jerked from his internal tirade, Neil stopped with Mora in front of his large Victorian home and stared at the black numbers stamped above the paneled door.
Damn. 1602. Why hadn’t he put all of this together before?
He lifted his eyes to the chocolate brown gables and ornate gingerbread work set against the creaminess of the house. This was more than a little uncanny. His spirits dipped and that fist drove back into his gut.
“I haven’t any idea. Come on. Best go inside.” He walked with her up the steps to the door.
No need for his key. Mrs. Fergus already awaited them inside. She’d requested time alone in the house before their arrival to feel its energy, do a spiritual cleansing, and Lord only knew what else. If she had any fears The MacDonald might return, she’d concealed them. Besides, Betty Fergus could cope with demons of his ilk better than anyone Neil knew.
He sniffed the spicy fragrance before he even cracked the door open. “What the—”
Mora inhaled. “Gum Olibanum.”
He glanced down at her, arching an eyebrow.
“Frankincense,” she said.
“Of course.” He squared his jaw and muttered, “We are not sitting through any séances.”
A look of befuddlement further clouded Mora’s eyes.
“Trust me, you wouldn’t approve,” he said.
Closing his fingers around the white porcelain knob, he opened the dark walnut door and ushered Mora ahead of him. He stepped behind her into the entryway and closed out the sunlight. What had Mrs. Fergus done to his home? It seemed to have been transformed into a temple or chapel, depending on one’s perspective. He preferred chapel.
Aromatic smoke wafted from a cobalt blue burner on the small drop-leaf table standing against the wall opposite the stairs. Lotus blossoms embellished the ceramic piece, one of Mrs. Fergus’s many artistic acquisitions. Beside the circular burner, a white pillar candle dispensed yet more scent as well as illumination.
Fortunately, Neil wasn’t asthmatic and Mora didn’t appear to be, or the smoky fragrance might’ve triggered an attack. Perhaps Mrs. Fergus hoped to overpower The MacDonald with incense.
Who could say? Their resident psychic wasn’t readily apparent.
Mora turned her head from side to side and gazed up the hazy hall. “Is the good woman at her prayers?”
“Of sorts.” Hooded Monks chanting Gregorian chants would seem a fitting touch.
They passed the place at the base of the steps where poor Mrs. Dannon had lain. After Neil’s effort to clean up the blood, he’d covered the area with a white sheet. The stained boards would have to be replaced. For that work, he’d need a skilled carpenter. Not available overnight.
For now, the flame from the candle flickered over the shroud reflected in the ornate mirror on the landing. The filmy light touched the crystal in its natu
ral state that had sprouted on the newel post. Raw gemstones lined the edge of each step. A spray of red roses lay on the sheet at one side of the impromptu memorial.
“Beauteous roses, and to be had even in late autumn,” murmured Mora, clearly surprised by the presence of flowers she must think bloomed only in summer.
“Yes, a thoughtful gesture from Mrs. Fergus. Mrs. Dannon would approve the flowers. Though not necessarily the crystals.”
Mora lifted puzzled eyes to his. “Sech precious stones. Whyever not?”
“Crystals weren’t a part of her religion, or mine for that matter. Or yours, either.”
Mora gave a slight shake of her head.
“However, Mrs. Dannon would be forbearing of Betty Fergus’s efforts, as the two women were fond of each other. I suppose I should be too.
“For all kindness she shows us, Neil.”
“Right. Mrs. Fergus is somewhere in this cloud.”
He led the way down the hall over the red and blue Oriental carpet. The weave muffled their tread. Pausing outside the parlor, he poked his head inside the dim room, shadowed by the heavy drapes.
Mora peered around him. “No one’s about.”
“But she’s been here.” He nodded at the stones.
Various sizes of quartz had materialized on ponderous pieces of furniture, in the antiquated bookcase beside leather-bound volumes, and in the curio cabinet alongside nineteenth century porcelain figurines. An amethyst cluster kept company with the stuffed owl on the mantelpiece. Whitish, pink, and bluish gray crystals dotted the room and probably the entire house, like rock formations from the deep grottos of a cavern.
Mrs. Fergus must have brought a trunkful of the multifaceted stones, reminding him of the gem exhibit at The Smithsonian Museum. A sight she must relish. All of this would make an excellent contribution to the museum’s collection.
Neil’s faith, such as it was, resided in his heart. He had no need of outward manifestations. Just now, though, he was grateful for any help Psychic Betty could give them. Despite her kooky ways, she was a goodhearted woman.
Maybe it was partly the scent permeating his home, but it seemed to him that Mora was right. Magic was at work here. Anything might happen.
Chapter Twelve
Mora hadn’t gotten a good look at Neil’s home on her first visit, before being taken away to the hospital. Her immediate impression was of finely crafted furnishings, rich carpets, and upholstery a duke would be proud to possess. Certainly, a Hielan chieftain.
Costly cloth hung in folds at the windows, and the walls were papered in a gold pattern. She turned her head from side to side as he led her through the house, pausing at each room. There were no shining arms, such as the claymores she was accustomed to seeing, or the stately heads of stags and ferocious boars on display, but the house possessed a grandeur all its own. Fine statuettes and gaily costumed figures, urns of dried flowers and iridescent feathers, more books than she could imagine and myriad other marvelous things lined shelves, sideboards, and overflowed handsome cabinets.
By no means were the house and rooms as large as the castle in which she’d resided. Neither was this a cottage and she was suitably impressed, but how empty the rooms seemed. Ancestral portraits graced the walls, yet there were no people within them.
“What became of yer family?” she asked in hushed tones.
He gazed down at her, his eyes cloaked with the black look he’d worn ever since Fergus made that shocking revelation.
“War took many of the men. Disease and accidents account for the rest of the dwindling ranks.”
“Plague?”
“Might as well have been. We’re a sickly lot,” he said between tight lips.
“Nae, yer not. The MacKenzies are a brawny clan.”
“Were, you mean.”
She wanted to take his hand and try to soothe him, but hesitated. His true feelings for her were unfathomable. While he’d shown her affection and praised her beauty, he’d made no declaration of love, nor any vow of marriage as Niall had. And yet, it seemed Neil’s regard for her strengthened with each passing moment. If only he would speak his heart, if she could be certain. But he had so much else to occupy his thoughts.
“Back here, Neil!” a woman’s voice rang out.
He cupped a hand to his mouth. “What are you doing in the kitchen?”
“Come see.”
At least Mrs. Fergus was here and might be of some aid to them, Mora hoped. She instinctively warmed to her greeting.
An orange striped cat trotted up to Neil, mewing, its tail held high. A faint smile at his lips, he bent down to tickle the feline under its chin.
“Hello Sebastian,” he crooned. Glancing up, he said, “This is my family.”
She considered reminding him that he had abundant kin mourning his loss in the Hielans, but doubted he’d believe her. Nor did she want to darken his expression, momentarily lightened by the cat.
Was there any earthly way she could become his family, his wife? That seemed as unlikely as escaping this miry maze she—they—were trapped in. She didn’t belong here, but how could she prevail upon him to return with her to his rightful home? Even if they found a way.
****
Neil discovered the matronly figure bent over the oven, pot holder in hand, removing a tray. The spiciness of oatmeal raisin cookies washed over him in a wave of nostalgia. His mother, grandmother, and Mrs. Dannon had been avid bakers. He took in the brown mixing bowl on the counter with the scrapings of dough on the sides and the long handled wooden spoon that had stirred up countless batches of cookies.
Of all the rooms in the house, he liked the kitchen best. The cheery periwinkle tile floor and counters, yellow checked curtains at windows that looked out into the back garden bronzed with late mums…all left from happier days. The scarlet geraniums on the wide sills made a splash of color. Lovingly tended by Mrs. Dannon, these plants were his now, along with everything else.
Too much inheritance ached in his already battered heart. Maybe he should just sell up. And go where? Back to Scotland and rediscover his roots?
Betty Fergus dressed in a peach flowered skirt and blouse of the same hue, turned, and a smile creased her plump face. Graying, sandy hair cut in a bob only accentuated her round cheeks. A supporter of struggling artisans, she wore a beaded coral necklace and earrings made by Wrenie.
This congenial mother hen didn’t appear the least bit psychic. Not that Neil was certain what such a gifted being should look like. He supposed psychics, like anyone else, were not always as they seemed.
Placing the tray on the white stove top, she set the worn oven mitt aside and wiped her hands on a red checked tea towel. “Neil, so good to see you again.” She tilted her cheek for him to kiss.
He bent down and obliged her with a fond peck. She smelled of lilac talc powder. “Good of you to come, Mrs. F.”
She patted his arm. “Where else would I be?”
She turned to Mora and looked her in the eyes. “This lovely young lady must be Mora.”
It didn’t take a seer to discern that fact, but they both nodded. The rounded matron enfolded Mora in an embrace. “At last,” she said, leaving Neil to wonder what on earth she could be referring to.
Mora lifted startled eyes to his, but said nothing.
“Oh I knew you’d be along, dear girl, just not the exact time of your arrival,” their unusual hostess explained. Then, as if she’d merely commented on the weather, she went on, “I thought we’d have tea.”
With that, Mrs. Fergus motioned them to the round kitchen table set with the green cloth covered in tiny chickadees favored by Mrs. Dannon. The white porcelain teapot with ivy swirling over its handle and spout sat in the center, ringed with matching plates, cups and saucers.
Neil had psyched himself up to wage some sort of battle against the dark side, and now, he was having tea. He just stopped from smacking himself on the forehead for a wakeup call, in the event he was asleep. “You shouldn’t have troub
led.”
Mrs. Fergus met his downcast glance with empathy in her pale blue eyes, so like Fergus’s but with more depth. It was here, in her far-reaching gaze, that the seer shone forth.
“There’s nothing like a dose of old-fashioned comfort after the frightful shock you’ve both had. And me, as well. A dear woman was Margaret Dannon. Tea will do us all good.”
She brushed aside his protest and ushered Mora into a red cushioned chair on one side of the cozy table and Neil into the chair across from her. She sat at the end. Steam rose from the spout as she poured an amber stream into their cups. The genteel clink of spoons followed while they stirred in the cream and sugar she offered. He sipped and ate the warm cookie while wondering, what next?
“Delicious.” Hardly aware of what he said, he murmured small talk.
Mrs. Fergus kept up her end of the polite exchange, her watchful gaze on them all the while.
Looking dazed, Mora sipped and nibbled.
After their hostess apparently deemed them suitably refreshed, she leaned on her elbows, a cup of tea in hand. “What you seek lies in this house. I’ve sensed it.”
Neil pressed his palms on the edge of the table and bent forward. “Have you any idea what it is?”
“Some things are meant for you to discover.”
Frustration churned in him along with his tea. “Can’t you give us a tiny hint where to search?”
“Oh, yes. It’s hidden among the eaves.”
Mora clattered her spoon on her saucer. “Is Neil to climb up upon the roof?”
“Only if his grandfather would have done so. I find it more likely the relic is hidden on this side of the eves.”
A thought struck Neil. “The attic.”
“I should think that an excellent place to begin.”
But where would all of this end?
****
More than an hour later, Neil and Mora still hadn’t located the much sought-after antiquity. Their hands and clothes were grimy from searching every trunk, box, and battered suitcase in the clutter accumulated over several centuries. Nothing was in any particular order and everything dusty and disarrayed. He should have cleaned out this jumble years ago. But it was a large attic and filled with enough memories to drown several generations of MacKenzies. He felt engulfed in the tide.