Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  A high, narrow window looked out from it to the sea below, to the spot where she now stood.

  And someone was watching her. She was certain that someone was watching her.

  She raised her hands, trying to shield her eyes from the uncanny touch of sunlight that had suddenly seemed to stream down on her.

  "What is it, lady?" Howard asked her.

  "Why, I think—I think someone is watching me."

  "Hundreds are watching ye, lass."

  She shook her head. "Nay, Howard. From up there—"

  Howard shrugged, releasing her hand as he watched Kevin coming toward her. "A servant perhaps, but not likely, Lady Marina, for that be the laird's room—rather, the lady's room now, eh? Kevin will have seen that it be set for yer arrival. Perhaps the sun, playing tricks..."

  Nay, someone was watching her...

  She still felt the curious warmth, the heat that sailed down her spine. Did she see... something? Nay, nor could she give it any more thought, for cheers and waves were going up. "'Tis the MacCannan, Lady Marina, home at last!" came a cry.

  Then there was a shrieking sound, one she hadn't heard in a long time, one that truly wrapped around her heart.

  The pipers were playing. Playing a tune to welcome the MacCannan back to her home.

  Marina smiled and waved broadly to the players. Jesu! she thought. For those men, too, were proudly dressed in their kilts, and if she had heard right, the pipes had been outlawed along with the colors.

  Ah, but the Highlanders had never felt themselves bound to other men's rules. They had reigned supreme in their rugged hills and cliffs too long. The war that they really understood was the battle waged between clans.

  But we must take care, for this is a different world, and this German king a hard man! she thought. And she raised her chin, for she must lead them to fight, if the English thought that they could take a single man from the MacCannan clan a prisoner. Yet if peace could be met by lip service, then she would agree that the colors must be banned.

  The men would wear them when they chose, the moment the English threat was gone.

  "Marina!"

  Even as Howard released her and she waved gaily to her people, Marina was lifted from her feet, swept into her cousin's arms.

  "You've come!" he announced with pleasure.

  "You summoned me," she reminded him.

  He smiled, shaking his head, a man with hazel eyes when hers were green, with dark blond hair when her own was a startling, sun-drenched blond. He reached down, grabbing a handful of sandy shoreline and rock. Then he took her delicate hand and transferred the earth to it.

  "This summoned you. Our home. Our land."

  "This is cold sand," she said lightly. But the warmth had begun to sweep through her again, the excitement. Yes, this was home. She did love it, and she would fight for it' Like every fool man here, she would risk her head on a block to salvage it—and their right to their own way of life.

  Kevin waved a hand in the air, dismissing her words. He grinned broadly at her, then lifted her high and spun her around again. "Ah, Marina, 'tis glad I am to have ye home once again! And home safe through the lines. Walk with me to the fortress. We have the closest lads coming to dinner in yer honor, cousin, but ye'll have a minute to wash and change, if ye so wish." His whisper moved nearer her ear. "Look around ye, Marina. Feel them! They've been waitin'. Waitin' fer the true MacCannan to lead them onward! Feel the love they bear ye!"

  She felt breathless, unequal to the task. She had come home from France where the people had looked upon the plight of the Jacobites with some fair distance, though many French soldiers had risen to fight with the displaced prince. The French and the Scots had often been careful allies against the English.

  But they could see, as the Highlanders could not, that the English were completely and determinedly set on their German king. There would be no mighty revolution within the English kingdom itself.

  George was there to stay. Marina was certainly sorry for Charles, but the Bonnie Prince was doomed to wander his days away from foreign court to foreign court.

  "My lady!" Ccries went up. Kevin smiled to her and offered her his arm. She took it while servants scrambled behind her to bring her bags.

  They walked through the crowds. Children rushed forward to touch her skirts. The men jockeyed to offer her the deepest bows; the ladies strove to touch her hand. Aye, it was home, Marina thought. She spoke to Conar, the blacksmith who had always cared for her ponies, and she laughed, hugging the baker's fat wife, the woman who had sneaked her marzipan candies when she was a child. There was Gunther—named for a distant, Viking relative—aging now, but once the head of her father's guard. There were Elizabeth and Joan, her closest childhood friends, and Dame Margaret, her tutor. She hugged them and swirled around again to wave to the others. Exhilaration filled her. The wind suddenly picked up, wild and cold against her cheeks. Yes, she was home!

  She came at last through the crowd to the entrance to Fortress Glenraven. Built of brick, continually mended and altered through the centuries, it now had a gothic appeal, with tall slender spires and gargoyles, some handsome, some hideous, to stare down at her. Men-at-arms awaited at the entrance, all bowing to her as she came through the large doorways. She saluted in return and paused on the last steps to turn around. She addressed the people with a strong voice that carried well to all of them.

  "My dear friends, relatives, and all who live beneath the banner of the clan MacCannan, thank you for this welcome. Thank you for your loyalty to our island, and for your faith in me. We will survive this storm, as we have survived those storms that came in years past!"

  A vast cheering went up. It was wonderful. The sun touched her face, her people believed in her.

  She had not wanted to come...

  Because she had known. Known that she belonged here. Known that she was the MacCannan now, and that she was letting herself in for danger and tempest. But she could not shirk the duty. It was hers.

  Suddenly, again, she had the curious sensation that she was being watched.

  How very strange. Of course she was being watched. People were standing before her, cheering her on, in the hundreds.

  Nay...

  Someone was watching her from afar. She could almost feel the heartbeat, almost feel the danger.

  "Marina, come in now. I'll see ye to the lady's chamber, and Peg will see to yer needs, and then ye'll come down to dinner and a meeting with the chieftains."

  And so he escorted her in.

  As Kevin had promised, Peg was there to greet her, bobbing a quick curtsy and, to Marina's dismay, catching up Marina's hem to kiss it almost reverently. "Ye're home, m'lady, home!" Peg told her.

  "Indeed, yes," Marina said, lifting Peg up by the shoulders. She was a thin, pretty woman, with salt-and-pepper hair and bright, light blue eyes. Peg had been with her since Marina had been a little girl, and Marina hugged her gently. "I've missed you, Peg," she said sweetly. "Please, quit acting as if I'm royalty."

  "Ah, but ye are the MacCannan now, lass," Peg whispered. "Near enough to royalty here."

  Marina refrained from mentioning that true royalty might soon be seeking the heads of their finest young men. "Come up with me, Peg, tell me about your family. I must wash off some of the dust from travel and gather my wits about me for this evening." She grinned engagingly at her cousin and continued, "Kevin will have the lesser chieftains chewing my ears off with their proposals and complaints, and I must be ready for them."

  "That you must," Kevin agreed.

  Peg nodded, "Aye, lass, 'twill be a long night."

  Peg had already seen to it that she would be ready for the night. The big wooden hip tub that sat between the wardrobes in the great tower master room had been filled with steaming water. Sweet-smelling salts—French salts—had been left for her. The bath was the first thing that Marina saw when she entered the chamber. After she expressed her appreciation, she paused to look around.

  The mast
er's chamber, the room for the MacCannan. Until her uncle's death at Culloden, he had resided here.

  Marina's father, the second eldest of the previous generation, had been killed in a minor skirmish with the troops of George I. As their Uncle Fraser had left behind no children, Marina came next in line for the inheritance, for Kevin's father had been the third and last of the sons of the generation. He had died in a border feud. Their grandfather had been killed at the uprising of 1715.

  It was a pity that Kevin had not been next in line, Marina thought, for he was a fine young man and would have done well as Laird Glenraven. But the people here were incredibly strict about tradition, and since the days of Mary, queen of Scots—no matter how it might be seen that she had failed as queen—the MacCannans had followed the direct lineage for their leader, be the new MacCannan a laird or a lady.

  So it was her chamber now. "And perhaps it is for the best," she murmured softly. She would not face any of the British commanders in battle. When it came time to negotiate, she might stand in better stead.

  She gazed around the huge room. When the first laird had claimed this land, his men had often gathered here to plan their battle strategies. There had been nothing but a rope bed against the far wall, and mats for all the lesser chieftains. And there had been the windows. The circular chamber was surrounded by windows, so that the laird might see every angle of attack.

  The windows remained. The mats were gone. A handsome Tudor-style bed, big and comfortable with massive posts and a high flat canopy, was positioned between two of the windows. The dressing section was set on a dais. A large full-length mirror stood to the left of the stairway, and numerous trunks and a very handsome dressing table accompanied the wardrobes. It was a beautiful chamber, no matter how old—and drafty upon occasion!—it might be. It was beautiful because, at those rare times when the MacCannans were not embroiled in some war or another, the windows looked upon scenes of startling, wild magnificence, the sea in all its splendor, and the rugged, wave-slashed cliffs of the mainland far beyond.

  "Indeed, I am home," she said softly.

  "What, lass?"

  She shook her head. "Ah, for that bath!"

  Peg helped her with her fashionable French skirts and bodice, corset and petticoat. Down to her silk stockings and soft chemise, Marina sat on a small chair to peel the stockings from her calves. A curious sensation stirred within her once again, that sensation of being watched. She looked around uneasily, wondering if things were not even worse than she had imagined, if some nearby clan had not chosen the English side of the issue and come to spy on her.

  Here, in her own chamber!

  Outraged, Marina rose and looked around the room. Peg, carefully laying out a fresh gown from the traveling trunks that had been delivered, looked over to her, startled.

  "What is it?"

  Pressing a finger to her lips, she threw open the door to one of the wardrobes. Nothing greeted her but rows and rows of the family plaid, white ruffled shirts that had been her uncle's, and a fine array of gentlemen's frock coats and boots.

  "There is someone—watching me!" she whispered.

  "Nay, lady!" Peg protested. "Ah, Marina, do ye think yer cousin Kevin would allow fer ye to come to danger? Nay, lass, the wolfhounds were brought here; I set the flowers on the stand meself. There is none to harm ye here!"

  Marina had to agree with her. Ruefully, she smiled. "It must be the travel."

  "It must be the king's reckoning," Peg muttered. "'Tis said he's sworn to behead the whole of Scotland if he don't have what he wants from it."

  Maybe that was it, Marina thought. Indeed, the days that loomed before her were threatening ones.

  She cast aside her chemise and stepped into the tub. The heat of the water seemed to sink deliciously into her body. She had not realized just how chilled she had been from the boat trip across the water. Maybe it was the cold that had given her the shivers.

  "Ah, I could die here in delight," she said softly.

  "Nay, Marina, don't say such things!"

  "You've just assured me that there are no king's men awaiting me in the wardrobe!" Marina said, laughing. "It is wonderful, Peg, the water. I could lie here forever, that is all I meant."

  Peg sighed softly. "I'll bring you tea here, then, lass? Some hot, sweet tea, laden with cream and sugar. That will warm ye more."

  "I'd love it," Marina assured her.

  Peg left her. She leaned her head back against the wooden rim of the tub, her hair creating a pillow for her. She closed her eyes. The steam rose all around her like a gentle, encompassing blanket.

  It was a wonderful, comfortable feeling. She tried to luxuriate in it. She tried to forget that Lord William Widager was still in the Highlands, seeking out the troops who had fled Culloden, seeking to cut them down, slay them all, or bring them to London to rot in the Tower and die at the whim of the headsman's axe.

  "Tea, lass, is at your side."

  She dimly heard the words. "Thank you," she told Peg softly.

  What could she do?

  They would have to fight again. If not, as Kevin had written her so urgently, she would be forced to turn over Kevin as well as the lesser chieftains. Oh, God...

  If they could not hold the island...

  But we will hold the island...

  She almost started, for it seemed that she had been answered in the softest whisper. It wasn't Peg, she knew.

  It was in her own mind.

  She sighed softly, leaning forward, burying her face in her warm, wet hands. Her hair cascaded damp around her shoulders. Then she felt it lifted.

  Felt a touch on her flesh, a gentle but firm touch on her shoulders, kneading against them. Ah, the touch was both strong and tender, easing away the little aches. She kept her eyes closed. Peg was so good. So quiet and kind a servant. So talented! Ah... it was good.

  Lean hack...

  It was a whisper. A whisper in her mind. Peg hadn't spoken.

  Nay, this whisper was...

  Husky. Masculine. Seductive.

  I am losing my mind! she thought briefly.

  Lean hack, it said, yet she felt as if she were floating. Ah, it was the mist, and the comfort, in a world of tumult.

  Illora...

  She could have sworn that she heard the whisper then again, in a curious gathering of syllables. She hadn't the strength to raise her head, though. The feel of her massage was too compelling. Too sweet to her weary heart and soul. Too...

  Tender. Seductive. The fingers moving over her flesh with such expertise. Like a masculine touch, not Peg's at all. Sensitive, sensual, sweeping over her nakedness...

  It was suddenly gone. She felt bereft, cold.

  And startled.

  "Peg?"

  Her door opened and closed. "Ah, sorry it is, m'lady, but I went down fer a brick to be warmed by the fire fer yer bed tonight, lass. I didna mean to be gone so long."

  Marina started violently. "You haven't been here?"

  Poor Peg seemed very concerned. "Nay, I'm sorry, I didna mean to distress—"

  "Someone was here!"

  Peg shook her head. "Marina, by the cross, I swear to ye, lass, none has come here. I left young Thomas at the door, knowin' how ye were worried. Now, young Thomas be a scamp of a boy, but a lad more loyal to the MacCannan clan, I cannot imagine."

  Marina took one look at Peg's pale but passionate eyes.

  No one had disturbed her here.

  Then...

  Had she dreamed it all? Had she been far more exhausted than she thought?

  The water suddenly seemed to go cold. Icy cold. A shivering set into her.

  "Ah, lass, I'll bring yer bath sheet," Peg cried, and she hurried to Marina, ready to wrap the large linen sheet around her. Her teeth nearly chattering, Marina gladly stepped from the tub, thanked Peg, and hurried over by the fire, kneeling down beside it.

  "M'lady, are ye all right?"

  She nodded slowly. Nay, she was not all right. She was weary, she was worr
ied...

  She was losing her mind.

  Ah! This was home.

  "I am the MacCannan," she whispered softly to herself.

  "Lady—"

  "Peg, I am still Marina. Just Marina. Please, call me by my name."

  "Aye, then, lass, if that's what ye wish."

  "It's what I wish," she said. She turned and smiled at Peg. "And I'm really all right. I need some privacy, though, if you don't mind. A little time for myself."

  Peg nodded, but she still seemed worried, as if Marina had gone to France and become quite daft.

  Well, maybe she had.

  "Young Thomas will stay just beyond the door, should ye need him."

  "Thank you," Marina said.

  Peg left her. She laid her head down on one of the needlepoint chairs that faced the fire. "I am the MacCannan. I, in truth, alone."

  She closed her eyes. She was weary. She felt she was ready to doze even as she closed her eyes.

  She did sleep, she thought. Yet if she slept, could she still think?

  But she must have slept. Long, powerful fingers touched her hair. Cradled her head.

  Nay, not alone, lass. Never alone. Illora...

  She could see him, coming toward her. He was tall. Taller than the sun in the sky. He was like the sun, for his hair seemed to be a blaze of golden fire, and likewise his beard. And his eyes... they were brilliant blue, a startling blue, the deepest shade of blue that she had ever seen. He walked with long, arrogant strides, as well he might, for his shoulders were broader than those of any warrior she knew, his limbs were longer, muscled like oak. He came toward her, walking through fog and mist...

  A log cracked in the fire.

  With a violent start, Marina awakened.

  There was no one with her. No one striding toward her. She leaped to her feet and swirled around.

  And still, she spoke aloud to calm her own fears.