Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  "They come around. Form ranks! Take heed!" she screamed.

  "Marina! Get ye far from here!"

  It was Kevin, racing up beside her. A sword flew—too close to her! Kevin slashed and fought, his horse dancing beneath him, the sea water foaming and flying. "Ride, lass, we see the bastard's cunning now!"

  He slapped her horse's haunches with the flat of his sword. The animal leaped, bearing her from the twisted melee of fighting men.

  Yet even as she came free of it, she looked up to see that a horseman was riding down on her.

  Geoffrey. Geoffrey Cameron.

  She spun her mount about. She could not head back toward the island. She was cut off by the bulk of the Camerons. She could strive for the cliffs of the mainland to the south.

  Her horse reared, and she gripped her reins tightly, holding dear to the mount with her thighs. Her heart sank as she caught a brief sight of the battle.

  Camerons were surrounding them.

  Yet, unarmed, here in the midst of her men, she endangered all of them. She had come, she had given them warning. She had done all she could do.

  Now she had to ride south, out of their way.

  Even as they were slaughtered there...

  Her mount's forefeet landed hard into the shallows. She urged her horse toward the south. Leaning low, she raced from the pursuit she knew was coming.

  She was startled as the sound of a new chilling and savage cry suddenly rang out on the air. Ducking low against her horse, she turned.

  The wind whipped her hair around her face, nearly blinding her. Her eyes stung. Yet, coming from the mainland now, bringing with him that awful, bloodcurdling cry, was a new combatant.

  Marina could see little of him, for she rode so fast and the spray of the sea cast up by the horse's hooves was all around her.

  But he was dressed in the MacCannan colors.

  Indeed, he was dressed very much as she was at the moment, in a frill-ruffled shirt, dark jacket, and kilt, his long limbs encased in tawny leggings, a cockaded hat on his head with a band of the colors, a brooch, and a dark flying feather. A sporan sporran lay against his waist beneath his scabbard, and a swatch of the colors was looped over one shoulder and held in place beneath that scabbard, too.

  Beneath his plumed bonnet, his hair was gold, a fierce, reddish-gold, a color that caught the sun like a banner.

  And his face...

  He was a clean-shaven man, striking. His features were rugged, as threatening now as a storm, wild, challenging, proud, and ever defiant.

  The enemy seemed to fall back, even as he rode. The stranger's cry itself seemed to promise death.

  Much as the sword that he swung above his head in a mighty arc as he rode into the battle.

  She did not know if he rode alone or with others, but somehow he was bringing about a turn in the tide of the battle. He entered into the melee with that awful cry still on his lips.

  She cried out herself, nearly unseated as her mount bore her out of the water and onto the rugged shoreline. Here, dangerous cliffs and rocks jutted out to catch the unwary. She reined in on her panicked horse and fought for her seat while the animal danced.

  She heard the sound of hooves crashing behind her and turned quickly.

  Geoffrey Cameron was behind her. Dark; a slow, evil smile curling his thin lips, he watched her. "So ye'd ride into battle, me pet!" He laughed. And his voice deepened. "And into me hands, lass!"

  There was nowhere for her to go on horseback with the cliffs before her.

  She knew them well. She had climbed them often enough as a child.

  She leaped down quickly, not bothering to give him an answer, and raced along the rock-strewn beach to the first slim trail that led upward into the cliffs and caves.

  "I'll have ye yet, Marina MacCannan! And at me mercy, it will be!" he shouted furiously.

  Panting, she ran. He would be fleet behind her, she knew.

  He was familiar with these cliffs and caves, too.

  She had to be fleeter. She had to know the terrain better.

  She ran nimbly, swiftly. She knew a place where the rock seemed to jut as one piece, but where there was a narrow space that led into a cave. If she could but reach it...

  She could hear his sword, clattering over the rock. She moved even more swiftly, gasping, inhaling desperately for breath. Her path grew harder and harder; the ground became more treacherous. Her heart pounded fiercely, and she scarcely heard anything else for the sound of her breath rushing from her lungs and the sea pounding against the rock.

  She found the opening and slipped within it, then leaned back against the rock, gasping. She held still for a moment, regaining her breath, then started forward.

  "So there ye be, Marina! Did ye think that I'd not know the fool's gap here as well as ye?"

  She spun around. Geoffrey was there, standing before her, legs spread apart, hands arrogantly on his hips.

  "What in the Lord's name is wrong with you, Geoffrey Cameron?" she demanded haughtily, tossing back the mane of her hair. "Your offer was on the table; it was being considered—"

  "Ah, but I knew ye, lass, and I knew ye'd choose that stooped-o'er old fox of a MacNamara long before ye'd choose me. And I've coveted the island, girl, just as I've coveted ye!"

  "Well, you'll not have me, or the isle, Geoffrey Cameron," she vowed bravely and indignantly. But who was there to stop him?

  He knew the thought that ran through her mind, for he stepped forward. "The MacCannans, bah! Always with their noses in the air, and now ye've come home with yer Frenchie ways about ye, lass. Well, I'll have them tamed out of ye, I will."

  "I'll never marry you, Geoffrey Cameron. The clan will not have it now."

  He started to laugh. "We need no blessing from the clan, lass. We've the rock we stand on, and when I've had ye beneath me, bearing a Cameron heir perhaps, the clan will be quick enough to agree to a wedding."

  She tried not to show the least fear to him, yet she felt the color flee from her face, and the thunder of her heart began to roar once again. By God, he meant to rape her, and she had little help to stop him. If only she had remembered to strap her little dirk to her calf, but she had dressed so quickly this morning, and with no thought of danger.

  The laughter left his face. Dark eyes narrowed as he strode forward with sudden urgency. "I'll have ye now, me great and fine lady!" His hands landed on her shoulders, wrenching her toward him. She was quick and furious and desperate, and she lashed out at him with her nails. She caught his cheek with them and drew thin lines of blood across his cheek, bringing a howl from him.

  "Bitch! Wretched, arrogant bitch!" he exclaimed in amazement, losing his grip on her in his astonishment as he touched his face. She turned instantly to flee, determined to escape now through the rock.

  His hand landed like a vise on her shoulder, throwing her back. She stumbled, then tripped and fell backward to the ground. Her head struck rock. Stunned, she lay motionless for several seconds.

  For a moment, he didn't move. Did he think her dead?

  Nay! Nor did he seem to care if she was dead or alive. His feet straddled her waist, and he started to lower himself down to her. "Bloody bitch, Lady MacCannan, ye'll pay now, and dearly."

  "Nay!" she shrieked, flailing at him. But he caught her wrists. He stared down at her with dark malice and evil intent, coming ever closer. Then, even as the blood seemed to freeze and curl and congeal within her, he suddenly yelled out.

  As if picked up by a giant's hand sent down from heaven, he was plucked off her and cast hard against the wall of rock to his right. Marina was able to see the incredulity and fury that touched his eyes.

  "Lay a hand on her again, Laird Cameron, and forfeit said hand! Threaten her with any other piece of your anatomy, and said anatomy will likewise be forfeit, sir!"

  Marina struggled to rise on her elbows, staring at the deep-voiced savior who had come to her aid. At first she saw only his back, the deep blue jacket, the wild head of sun-go
ld hair, the massive breadth of his shoulders. Then he turned, and the most awful and curious rush of fire seemed to rip into her and through her.

  Blue eyes, bluer than the sky, deeper than the sea, piercing, endless, stared into her own. His was a clean-shaven face, harsh and rugged, yet handsome, strikingly handsome in its cleanly defined planes and angles, the high-set cheekbones, the firm, unyielding jaw, the generous mouth, the high-arced honey-deep brows. She knew him...

  Nay, nay, she'd never seen him before.

  Not before this day.

  He was the warrior who had ridden across the shallows, come to their aid when the house of MacCannan was near to a fall.

  "Who the bloody hell are ye!" Geoffrey Cameron demanded, pushing off from the wall. Careful now, he circled the stranger. He stared at Marina, still on the ground. "Who is this impostor wearing yer colors, girl?"

  The stranger bowed in a mocking, courtly gesture to Geoffrey. "No impostor, sir. The colors are mine to wear, for I am a MacCannan; a cousin, if a very distant one at that."

  "And ye'd refuse me!" Geoffrey swore, staring down at Marina. "This man would have yer place, yer fortress, yer island. He's probably come from the king, come to steal into yer place and have at the brave MacCannan lads who fought against him fer the Bonnie Prince!"

  But the stranger was offering a hand, a hand with long, strong fingers. They touched hers and entwined with them as he drew her to her feet.

  "Nay, I've not come for her fortress or her title, Laird Cameron. Only for her defense." His ice-blue gaze shot to Geoffrey Cameron again. "And I say again, sir, touch her once more, and your life might well be forfeit."

  "Why, ye bloody rogue!" Geoffrey swore. "Ye'll not speak so cocky, man, once I've sliced the tongue from yer mouth!" And so saying, he drew his sword, already bloodied from his day's work.

  Yet there was no contest. Even as Marina gasped, stepping back, the stranger drew his own weapon, a heavy broadsword that he swung as lightly as if it were a thin rapier. Steel clanked against steel, sparks lit the air. But ere the swords could clash again, the stranger whipped his up with a strength that sent Geoffrey's weapon flying into the air and clanking down harmlessly on the rocks.

  "Why, ye bastard—" Geoffrey began again.

  But the stranger was angry, and angry in a way that brought a shiver even to Marina's spine, though he was supposedly on her side.

  His voice did rise; it deepened. It seemed to shake the earth, it came forth with such fury and such command.

  "Have done with it, my Laird Cameron, have done with it! I've let you live, you callous swine, for the sheer fact that you, too, need fear the German king, and 'tis likely you'll need to fight beside us for your own salvation when the English seriously come against us. So for now, Laird Cameron, I'll not kill you. Not if you can get from my sight within the next few seconds!"

  "I'll kill ye yet, I will!" Geoffrey swore in a rage. But he took no step toward the stranger. "By my word, ye rogue bastard, I'll find ye, and I'll kill ye yet! Take heed. And ye—lady!" He swung suddenly and fiercely on Marina. "Ye will suffer fer the both of yer sins!"

  Then Geoffrey was swiftly gone, pausing only for his sword. He gave no backward stare and left as quickly as he might.

  Yet when he was gone, Marina felt no greater comfort. She found the stranger far more frightening than Geoffrey, for she didn't know at all what she felt in his presence.

  "My lady—" he began, extending his hand to her once again.

  She stepped back warily. "Aye, my laird rogue! I'll have the answer that you failed to give Geoffrey Cameron. Who are you?"

  He hesitated, shrugged, and dropped the hand that he had offered to her.

  "Does it matter?" Brilliant blue eyes rose to hers, eyes filled with laughter now. "I came when I was needed. I fought well."

  "Are you a MacCannan?"

  "Oh, aye, a distant relative, surely."

  "I've never seen you before," she snapped out quickly.

  But she had seen him. Where? "Are you from the island?"

  "Nay, lass, not from the isle, but from this very mainland."

  "But—"

  "I have been away a long, long time," he stated softly.

  That was it, she knew. The end of it. She could question him until winter came and the snow fell, but he was done with giving her answers now.

  "All right, sir, so you've no intention of telling me the truth about yourself—"

  "I have told you the truth, my lady!"

  She waved a hand in the air. "But you haven't—"

  "My lady! I had somewhat expected a thank youthank-you rather than this barrage!"

  She felt as if the tiny gold hairs at her nape rose, and she gritted her teeth. "It is not that I am unappreciative, it's just that I am surprised to learn of the existence of a distant relative, and I'm even more surprised to find myself rescued by him. How did you know I was in danger?"

  His handsome mouth quirked upward in a grin. "I simply knew you needed me."

  "But how—"

  Taking her arm, he interrupted, "Come, my lady, let us join your men on the beach."

  Marina's eyes blazed at him, but she said no more as he led her down the cliff. Just before they reached the rocky beach where the MacCannan clansmen were gathering, staring curiously up at them the blond stranger turned to her. "Allow me to introduce myself, my lady. My name is Eric. It's an old MacCannan family name."

  Chapter 4

  Eric.

  He was another Eric MacCannan, like the bold Highlander in the picture above the stairs in the gallery. His name—she knew that at least, for though he managed to avoid any of her determined questions, he had been quick enough to answer Kevin and Angus and the others.

  But then, they were treating him like a conquering hero.

  It was difficult sitting in the main hall that night, for naturally all the men who had not been injured in the battle were gathered around the table, intent on getting to know the man who had come to their rescue.

  Eric.

  At the swift rise of her brows when he had mentioned his name, he had smiled serenely and informed her it was a very old family name; that if she were to delve, she would discover any number of Eric MacCannans in their history.

  Somehow, she didn't doubt him.

  His explanations to her clan were no more satisfactory than any words he had given her, but not a man among them seemed to care.

  He had changed the tide of battle. He had ridden out, and the Camerons had been bested. That was enough. And he seemed to have proven that he was an extraordinary man in battle, for in the midst of the meal, Kevin and Angus and the others were forming maps of the area, pointing out their weaknesses and their strengths, and planning ways to fight off a larger army indefinitely. And they hung on his words as he explained why both the Camerons and the MacNamaras would fight with the MacCannans when the British came, for in their numbers they would find a strength that they had never found before.

  It had been one thing for the English horde to defeat them at the site of the previous battle. Now the Highlanders would be in a position to weary the Englishmen, for the enemy would have to come after a sheer wall of stone, time and time again, taking great losses for very little gain. Once they had done this, a negotiated settlement could be achieved, and that was all the Scots sought at the moment.

  The prince was still in the Highlands, but he was not at Fortress Glenraven, and his cause was lost, truly lost, in the bloody field at Culloden.

  Marina maintained her place at the table, listening to the man and watching the faces of the others around them.

  She was at the head of the table. She was the MacCannan. And despite the fact that he seemed to know very well what he was doing, she was determined to question him sharply at every turn.

  Angus and Kevin, it seemed, had been ready to hand the fortress over to him the moment they saw him climb from the cliffs with her safely in his company. But then, they had already fought with him. And they were men.
Show them a good warrior, and they would ask no other questions, just gladly accept him.

  Marina was not so certain. She sat out the meal, and she was careful to keep her tone level and her words civil as she spoke with the blond intruder. But there was something about him...

  Something that both angered and excited her. Something that made her want to lash out at him...

  And something that made her want to touch the handsome, clean-shaven lines of his cheek. The mere sound of his voice still created a slow-burning fire within her. The flash of his eyes on her could make her feel a simmering in her blood, a fire deep within her center.

  And each time he looked at her, it was as if he knew her so well. As if he could read her mind. As if he saw into her soul, and even into the secret, intimate places where she burned and wondered. And he was amused, so it seemed.

  With the meal barely over, she rose in a sudden and swift determination to be away from him. She stared straight at him while she excused herself, explaining that she was bone weary.

  As she left the room, she could hear Angus complaining that she had entered into the battle herself and must not do so again.

  She could also hear the stranger answering Angus.

  "Oh, aye, she'll not do anything so foolish again, Angus, I shall see to it, I promise."

  He promised, did he? Well, he had best learn to take grave care regarding his promises!

  She had thought that she was exhausted, but when she reached the second level, she did not proceed up the steps to the laird's—or lady's—bedchamber. Rather, she found herself in the upper gallery again, striding along the length of the room, idly gazing at the pictures.

  Aye, he might well be a distant MacCannan, an Eric MacCannan at that. With his eyes so fierce a blue and his hair so bright a reddened gold, he might well fit in with many a MacCannan male.

  She had walked down half the length of the hallway when a curious feeling crept over her.