Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  "I am the MacCannan. I—alone!"

  Her only answer now was the lonely wailing of the wind beyond the fortress walls.

  She was, indeed, alone.

  Chapter 2

  They were all arrayed before her at the grand dining table in the great hall.

  Like the tower bedchamber, the great hall had been there since the first crude earthworks of a castle had begun. Then, the flooring had been dirt, the table had been rough-hewn oak, and the surrounding chairs had been stiff and graceless.

  And no matter how the English—and perhaps even some of the city dwellers of Scotland—liked to mock the Highlanders, they had come far from those days. The laird's table in the great hall now was a masterpiece of polished mahogany. The twenty-two chairs that surrounded it were made of the same wood, yet all seated and backed with hunting scenes in a fine needlepoint. Great, plush chairs, covered in deep purple velvet, were arrayed before the fire, and the buffets and cabinets that held the family plate and silver were polished to a high and beautiful shine. Hospitality was prized here as greatly as it was across the sea in Ireland, perhaps because the people had been emigrating over the centuries from Ireland to these outward isles, bringing the name Scotia along with them very early in Scotland's recorded history.

  As she looked at the lesser chieftains seated down the length of the table, she was reminded of the many peoples who had come here to form the devoted and loyal natives of the Isle of the Angels. There were Lairds Cunard, Gunnar, and Ericson—proof of the Viking sweep of the island. Lairds deMontfort, Montpasse, and Trieste gave credence to the fact that some Normans had decided to travel forth from England, and brave the rugged mountains and coastline. There were seven men at the table carrying the family name, seven fine Sirs MacCannan, her cousin Kevin among them, then her second and third cousins, Jamie, Ian, Geoffrey, Gavin, Angus, and Magnus. The six other chieftains at the table were still members of clan MacCannan, though they bore other family names, for the island was their home, their forefathers having come to settle here by choice. Each gave his sworn loyalty to the MacCannan, and sitting at the table as all the great warlords had done before her, Marina felt overwhelmed.

  Uncle Fraser had had no right to go and get himself killed, she thought wearily. Then a deep-seated pain seemed to sweep through her, for she had loved Fraser MacCannan. He had been a father to her since her own had died, she had been bounced on his knee, and he had even told her wonderful fairy tales many a night to get her to sleep.

  But maybe he hadn't planned on dying himself. He had prepared her to manage a household, and he had seen to it that she spoke French and Latin and Spanish as well as English and Gaelic, the last well enough to deal with any Scottish or Irish dialect. He had seen to it that she could play the piano, the harp, and the violin, and that she could sing like a lark. He had taught her to dance with the wildest of the Highlanders, and with the most gracious gentlemen of Europe.

  He hadn't prepared her for this—this line of men staring down at her, awaiting her words for their own salvation.

  Kevin would have been the better leader, she thought.

  But even as dinner was served, Angus, second in command now, beneath Kevin, stood and addressed her. "As ye are well aware, Marina, we of clan MacCannan chose to fight for the Bonnie Prince, our Laird Charles, now a-running in sad and bitter defeat. The English gave no quarter then, chasing after the men who left the battlefield, weary and wounded and sore of heart. They still seek us out for vengeance's sake, and their orders are no quarter, no mercy. But we've a stronghold here at Fortress Glenraven. And though they seek the blood of the chieftains who led our men against them, no MacCannan can turn over his men to the likes of the English horde."

  "We'll fight, of course," Marina said. "But are we strong enough to do so?"

  Angus was much older than Kevin, silver-haired, gray-eyed, dignified—a survivor. He had fought during the uprising of 1715 and lived to tell of it.

  "We're strong," he said. He gazed down at Kevin, who shrugged. "We've a few marriage offers on the table to make us stronger."

  "What?" Marina said, pausing with her wineglass halfway to her lips.

  Angus cleared his throat. "Marriage offers, my lady." He rushed on. "The MacNamara of Castle Cleough has asked for ye. He's a mighty host of forces beneath him, and he'd then be honor-bound to fight fer our cause."

  Marina sat there in silence. The MacNamara of Castle Cleough was also nearing sixty if he was a day.

  "Go on," she said.

  "Aye. Then there's Geoffrey Cameron, laird of Huntington. He's made it known that he's willing to battle the MacNamara fer yer hand."

  "For the island," Marina corrected sharply. Lord! Geoffrey was not old. Some even said that he was handsome with his fire-red hair and dark eyes. Perhaps he was handsome. He also had a reputation for cruelty that had spread far abroad. Even in France, the young women had heard that his first wife had died mysteriously, yet it was suspected that the mysterious cause had been Geoffrey himself.

  "Why not the English lord general, my fine counselors?" she demanded lightly, her bitterness barely touching her words. "That might give the English host pause before decimating the island."

  She had spoken in ironic jest, of course. She was astounded to see that Angus seemed to give her words grave concern.

  "Nay, ne'er an Englishman! '''Twould not do," he responded, after pondering the question.

  She gazed down the table at Kevin. Her wine seemed to have formed a knot in her stomach. He wouldn't look at her.

  Well, then, they might have been just as glad to rule the clan themselves. She wasn't so important for who she was. She was important for who she could be married to.

  She hadn't protested; she knew where duty lay. Yet they obviously knew what they were doing to her, for Angus suddenly spoke passionately, and from his heart. "Lass, lass! None of us would ever do ye ill, ye must know that! But how many men can we lose before the hangman or on the block? How many women must weep and wail?"

  And why hadn't they thought of that before rushing out to do battle for a fool prince? she wondered, feeling a pounding in her head. Not a one of them, she was certain. They were Highlanders, impetuous, and passionate to a fault.

  She rose, her meal untouched. "Do I have time to think about this?" she asked.

  "Aye, Marina!" Kevin said, rising, finding his tongue at last. "Surely we've several days, I think."

  "Days," she murmured. She stiffened her shoulders. "All right. Then I will think. My lairds..." She inclined her head. The men at the table stood quickly to a man, bowing in return. She swept from the dining hall, shaking.

  She hurried from the hall to the stairway and swept fleetly up the steps. But when she reached the second level, she paused before going the next set of steps to her tower room. She wandered into the gallery that sat above the dining hall. Once, guests had been received here. When she had been a child, entertainments had often taken place here. Numerous narrow windows looked down on the rocky cliffs below. A minstrel's gallery was at the far rear, and a set of large regal chairs stood at the opposite end—one for the laird, one for his lady.

  There were paintings here, too. Paintings that traced the history of Fortress Glenraven, from the first laird to travel over with the Scotia to the uprising of 1715, and all the wild and reckless border wars and feuds in between.

  Candles burned in sconces along the wall. Marina walked slowly along. There were the portraits with which she was very familiar. Her Uncle Fraser on horseback, the proud Scot, kilted in his colors. There was the portrait that had been done of her parents together, down in the great hall below. There was the one of herself that Fraser had ordered the summer before she left home. She was different now, she thought. Perhaps she had changed just today. The girl in the painting was young, with clear, passionate green eyes that seemed to believe in love and life and magic.

  Marina kept walking, pausing before a painting of a great battle that had taken place during the time
of Mary, queen of Scots. Those had been treacherous times indeed, for it was said that the young queen's husband had one of her favorites murdered, and that Mary was involved in the plot when Lord Darnley was murdered in turn. Soon after, Mary married Bothwell and fled to England, but the Scots fought one another then, too, some wanting to bring back their queen, some wondering why it took so long for Elizabeth Tudor to sever her cousin's head.

  The battle painting, though, was intriguing. Marina moved closer to it. There they were, the clan MacCannan, riding forth. They were dressed in their colors, many in half armor, some just in their kilts and shirts, their legs bare against the flanks of their horses. At their head was a blond man with a red-gold beard. Like the others, he was kilted, standing high in his stirrups as his sword swung above his head. He was young, he was indeed passionate—a strikingly handsome man. And his battle cry could almost be heard on his lips. He could nearly leap down from the painting, Marina thought, he was so very real. A tribute to the artist.

  She kept walking, smiling as the paintings and artworks took on a far more medieval flair. She paused before a grave etching of Angus James MacCannan, laird in the early 1300s. He wore armor and held his sword stiffly at his side. His eyes closed, he seemed at peace—even if his jaw and body were just a bit disproportionate.

  There was a beautiful gold leaf drawing of the hall with the Latin descriptions beneath it from the twelfth century.

  Then there was a painting of a blond woman at one of the tower windows up above.

  And then there was...

  Him.

  Marina paused, forgetting that her own life was in awful turmoil. This painting was by far the most intriguing of the many in the room. She couldn't tell the time, or the place, for he stood against the blue sky, one foot planted on a rock. He looked to the sea, and the wind swept by him, catching the gold of his hair. Face forward, he met the wind. His features were handsome, strongly crafted; a hard, determined jawline met with high, wide cheekbones. He stood as if he defied the world and would meet any threat with that same arrogance and defiance.

  He was dressed in some sort of short tunic. His arms and most of his legs were bare, the taut, hard muscle of his calves crisscrossed with sandal straps. Whatever laird he was, Marina determined, he had ruled here long, long ago.

  "Ulhric, the Viking," Marina heard. She didn't need to turn to know that Kevin had come to find her here.

  "Ulhric, yes," she murmured vaguely. She'd heard the name before. He'd been born on the Scottish mainland, but his father had been one of the Norse invaders to settle the area, so they had called him the Viking. He'd been fierce and heroic, so she had heard. All manner of legends surrounded him. He had stormed the fortress and taken it for himself, and then saved it from a more hostile clan.

  "I'm sorry, Marina," Kevin said.

  She turned to him, forgetting the portrait for a moment. "Kevin, is there no other way to turn?"

  He opened his mouth, shut it again. "I think not, Marina. " He paused again as she stared blankly at the pictures before her. "With such men as those you have chosen, the MacCannan name will die out on the isle."

  "And worse," Kevin agreed glumly. He set his arms around her like a brother. "Ye should have married that French marquis when he asked, Marina. Ye'd not be in this position now."

  Aye, she should have married Jacques St. Amand, and she would have been a marquise now, residing in his fine palace outside Paris. He had been charming, with his dark eyes and flashing smile, and he had loved her. And she should have said yes, and heaven help her, she had certainly flirted enough with the young man, but in the end...

  Had she known that she wanted to come home? As barren and wild as the rock might have been, as backward as their society was compared with that of the elegant French, had she been unwilling to spend a lifetime away from it all?

  Or had it been Jacques himself? Had she liked him tremendously, but not loved him well enough? Something had been lacking. She didn't know what right now.

  But she had made a mistake. Jacques would have been decidedly preferable to either of the men set before her now! And if she had been married already...

  "The one doesn't have any teeth, and the other comes laden with fangs," she said sorrowfully.

  "Now, ye don't have to marry either of them, Marina—"

  "Right. We can lose even the fortress itself, and the English can carry away half of my clan, and slice off their heads on Tower Hill. Aye, Kevin, I will live with that easily enough!"

  "Perhaps..." Kevin began.

  "Perhaps what?" She was ready and willing to leap on any form of hope.

  "I shouldn't have spoken."

  "Well, you did, so continue."

  "Perhaps, before they come against us here on the isle, seeking the king's vengeance, some other form of rescue will arrive."

  Her heart seemed to fall. What other form of rescue could there be? Only another Highlander would so recklessly place himself in battle against men who already—and with proof of their triumph behind them!—claimed victory.

  "What we need is a hero."

  "Indeed," Marina murmured. She was exhausted. She wanted to hold her shoulders square and her chin high. Both were drooping.

  "Stranger things have happened here, for clan MacCannan," he said. He was staring at the battle painting that had so caught her attention earlier. The scene in which it seemed the horses' hooves moved in truth. The scene with the kilted blond chieftain waving his sword high in the air.

  Kevin seemed caught up in the painting. Marina stared at him.

  "Eric MacCannan," he said, pointing to the blond giant on the horse. "They were coming once before to decimate the island when he came riding in with four score horsemen. They fought off an army of near to five hundred alone, pushing them back to the sea."

  ^ Marina stepped forward, staring up at the blond man. "'Tis a pity we've no long-lost cousins to come our way now," she said with a sigh. Then she frowned. "Look Kevin! Look at the resemblance! See, there, Ulhric the Viking, Eric the chieftain. They are incredibly alike!"

  Kevin studied the paintings, then smiled in agreement. "Perhaps the artist of the later painting borrowed from the artist of the first. This battlescape was surely done after the fact."

  "Aye, I suppose," Marina murmured.

  "Speaking of likenesses, little cousin, come here," he said. She frowned and followed him down the gallery. They came upon a scene of a far earlier time in which a woman sat before a fire, her hair hanging in long plaits behind her, her fingers held lightly over the strings of a small instrument that resembled a lute. Rich lashes fringed her eyes, but their green color was still apparent, as was a curious twist of sadness in them.

  "She could be ye," Kevin said.

  Marina did not see the striking resemblance here as Kevin did, but she shrugged. "I suppose they are our ancestors."

  "Ah, but so far removed!" Kevin said. "Generations upon generations!"

  Marina shrugged. "Why do you suppose she looks so sad?" She shook her head. "Perhaps she was given a choice similar to mine for a marriage partner—one with no teeth at all, and one who has fangs as long as a wolf's!"

  "Nay, lassie!" came a voice from the entryway. Marina spun around. It was Angus, and the sorrow in his eyes as he studied her was so deep that she promised she would never let him see how dismayed and horrified she was over her own future.

  "That fair damsel, so they always told me, was the Lady Illora. And the sorrow in her eyes was for her laird, the Viking Ulhric."

  Marina tried to smile for Angus. "But he was a great warrior. He fought for the island, and for Illora, and saved it from the upstart nobles who would have kidnapped her and flattened the fortress."

  "Aye, but those very barbarians came back. Illora was threatened once again, and Ulhric was forced to ride against them. Dying, he was placed up in his saddle, and there he commanded his men. Even as he died, he carried with him any number of the enemy. He had been betrayed, so it was said, by thos
e within his own house." Angus walked closer to the picture. "He was cast out to sea in his funeral bier, as was the Viking way. The bier was set afire, yet as it drifted into the sea, it did not burn. Legend has it that Valkyries, Viking goddesses, appeared at either side of the bier. And some say that they came to the Lady Illora at night and swore that he would come again, in times of darkest need."

  Well, the way that Marina saw it, they were in the midst of darkest need now. If a dead Viking was going to rise from his funeral bier, now was the time for him to do it.

  "'Tis a wonderful legend, Angus," she said lightly. She kissed him on the cheek, for he was still studying the painting, that haunting sadness in his eyes. "I am exhausted. Perhaps I shall better be able to choose between the two lairds by morning!" She tried so hard to speak lightly.

  "Perhaps we should all turn ourselves in to the English authority," Angus said.

  "Never, Angus, never!" she told him passionately. "Don't you fear. No man shall ever have the best of me, I promise you." Brave words, she thought. But no man would do so, she decided. Fortress Glenraven was her birthright—that was why she was now condemned to defend it and her people.

  "Good night to you both," she said, determined that she would still be cheerful. She waved to Kevin and left the gallery behind her, then climbed the remaining steps up to the tower room that had now become her own.

  A tire fire was blazing comfortably. Peg had fallen asleep before it, awaiting her. Marina patted her lightly on the shoulder. "Peg, I'm for bed now. You must go and get some sleep yourself."

  Peg's eyes only half opened. "Let me aid ye, lass—"

  "Nay, I've no need of any aid. And you just as weary as you might. Go on now, for I will need you in the morning."

  "Aye, lass, I'll bring ye yer tea early. With a big pitcher of cream and big lumps of sugar and the very best of me scones!" Peg assured her a bit sleepily before she left.

  Marina began to disrobe. Peg had unpacked her belongings. Her dresses were hung, her dainty French underthings had been neatly placed in drawers and trunks. She had to look about for a nightgown, and as she did so, she discovered that the room had been well stocked with the MacCannan colors in various forms for her to wear: a floor-length skirt, a sweeping sheath for a banner across her chest, and several scarves. A tarn sat high atop the wardrobe! cockaded back with a MacCannan pin bearing the coat of arms and a parcel of the wool plaid.