Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures

by Heather Graham

  She'd never even glanced at it. She'd had little time for the past then. Fraser had led the clan—she'd had no call to worry about it.

  The crypt had been dug high against the wall of the cave, protecting it against any encroachment of the water. A massive stone had been set before it, and marble had been brought and a massive cross created of it.

  Then there were the words. They were in Gaelic, and despite her knowledge of her native language, the spellings were very old and difficult to read. She touched the words "Our fair princess here shall sleep. One day with destiny, her tryst she'll keep. For he will come again, this lion among men, and stay when love meet him, not die if love will greet him."

  Marina stepped back, biting her lower lip. It was madness. All madness.

  "I am not Illora!" she cried out. She said it again, loudly, letting her words echo in the caves. "If that tomb were opened, her bones would be there,; her flesh would have rotted, but her bones remain! I know that they do!"

  She closed her eyes, clenching her teeth. She was so afraid.

  And then she was not afraid. It was as if tender, gentle arms had embraced her. He was there. In some presence. He was there; —holding her, caressing, assuring her. It was going to be all right. He loved her.

  Cuimhnich...

  Remember...

  "Nay!"

  She swung around, suddenly as desperate to leave the cave as she had been to leave the gallery. He was not with her, he could not be with her. He was flesh and blood, and he was out on the battlefield.

  She tore through the caves and found the mare. She was so frightened that she fumbled trying to remount the horse, and had to try again and again.

  Finally, though, she was mounted, and, once again, she gave the mare free rein, anxious to return to the fortress with all possible speed.

  She came back just as a messenger in her colors raced in from the opposite direction. The tide was rising, and he was soaked from the waist down, and his horse gave a mighty shake, throwing off a rain of sea water. Marina did not care. She urged the bay toward him.

  "What news? What has happened?"

  "My lady! Battle was quickly engaged! The English meant to have us by surprise, but my Laird Eric was the one to surprise them. And by heavens, my lady! They all rose as one! When the force of Laird Eric's troops was seen, the MacNamara came into the battle, too, with his own. As did Geoffrey, of clan Cameron."

  "Go on, go on! Quickly!" Marina urged him.

  "The fighting was fierce and furious, lady. The English wanted to have no quarter with us mountain heathens, as they call us. But as they began to fall like slaughtered sheep before our onslaught, their general sent a messenger to Laird Eric, and a halt has been called. I've a parchment now for your approval as the MacCannan of the Isle of the Angels. A truce will be signed. The MacCannan men will be granted their freedom and their lives, all who fought at Culloden pardoned. We will abide by the rules set down for the Scots, forsake our colors for the time, and live in peace. 'Tis all there, lady. It needs but your signature."

  Marina read over the long parchment she had unfolded carefully. It had all been laid out, step by step, in neat and legible script. Everything that they wanted would be granted them. Once this was signed, she had managed all that could have been hoped for after the dreadful defeat at Culloden. Her clan would survive. They would be left in peace on the Isle of the Angels.

  She had not managed it. Nay, he had done so.

  Did it matter who had done what? she asked herself furiously. Angus would live, Kevin would live. Her kinsmen had bravely and heroically found their way.

  "Come into the hall. I will set my hand to it," she told the young messenger.

  Thirty minutes later, the deed was done.

  And as darkness fell, the triumphant warriors began to return.

  Marina had prepared for them. There would be a feast in the fortress that night, one the likes of which the Isle of the Angels had yet to see. Lambs and sheep and cows were slaughtered; fowls lost their heads by the dozens and were stuffed with breadcrumbs and seasonings and prepared with fine sauces. Barrels of ale were brought up, along with the best wines in the fortress.

  And when the men returned, Marina was ready to greet them. She had chosen to wear a rich taffeta gown in the family colors, with a fine black velvet jacket over a soft chemise in white silk. She was very calm, greeting the lesser chieftains with handshakes and kisses on their cheeks. Angus she hugged fiercely, and Kevin she was loath to let go.

  Yet all the while, she knew that he watched her. And that he waited.

  And she felt his eyes. Felt the searing blue send fire into her.

  She would not fall to him. Nay, she must take care, must keep her distance. Indeed, he had been triumphant. But this was the eighteenth century. Their courtship would be slow.

  She had to know him. She had to understand.

  "My lady," he greeted her, when it was his turn at last. And he offered her the deepest, most civilized bow.

  "Eric MacCannan. Laird MacCannan. 'Tis a title that you deserve in truth, sir, and one I readily hand to you," she told him regally. "The table is set, gentlemen. A celebration is in order, and so it will be!"

  "Oh, it will be more," he told her. "Much more. Where is the Reverend Sean Hamilton? Come forward, sir, and let the wedding come now." His steely gaze set upon her. "Then we may celebrate in truth!"

  A great cry went up from the chieftains all around them. Marina gritted her teeth, trying to keep her smile. "My dear laird, I am not ready for this!"

  "I am the victor, I have won the prize. The prize is mine. Not a man here would deny me."

  "But I am a woman, sir. And I deny you."

  "This wedding will take place. I will be laird in truth tonight."

  "But—"

  "I fought, my lady. I gave you all that you desired. Would you have so little honor that you would deny your own word now?"

  Marina gasped, furious. He was whispering, but the chieftains—her chieftains!—were all beginning to look at them. "Fine!" she snapped. "Have the wedding then. But my dear laird—almost husband!—remember that I deny you still!"

  "I am the victor," he repeated softly. Then his voice rose again. "Sirs, the wedding shall commence, and then the wedding feast!"

  Again there were roars of approval. And the reverend stepped forward, and before Marina knew it, Angus was at her side, and everyone was looking on, and Sean Hamilton was reading from his prayer book. Eric gave his vows in a loud, strong voice. He had to squeeze her fingers to get her to give hers at all.

  When it was over, when she was pronounced truly his bride, he kept his grip on her fingers. And they sat at the great table together while everyone ate and raved about the battle and celebrated in good stead.

  As soon as she could, Marina escaped the table. She hurried upstairs, leaning against the door to her chamber.

  Then she was half thrown and half leaping away from the door as it suddenly slammed inward. Her heart beat furiously as she spun around, staring at him as he came in, shutting the door behind him.

  "How dare you! How dare you come here like this. You know that I am not ready for—-for—-you!" she stammered.

  He smiled, slowly, wickedly. "Lady, were I to wait for you to bid me ready, I might well lose all my teeth, just like the MacNamara."

  "Oh! Joke then, sir, if you will. I still don't know who you are, or where you've come from. Or why so many seem to ride to battle with you when you are alone. I don't know anything about you. I don't—" She left off with a short cry as he started toward her. The pillow was on the bed. She threw it at him. "Stop now! I mean it, my laird, I swear that I do!"

  He had nearly caught her on one side of the bed. She tried to leap over it. His fingers wound tight around her upper arm, and rather than flying away, she was being lifted up, and then thrown flat, and before she knew it, her conquering warrior was straddled over her.

  She tried wildly to strike him. He simply caught her wrists. "M
ine the prize," he whispered softly.

  "Bastard—" she began.

  But his lips found hers. Found them, caressed them, parted them. Brought sweet magic to them. Her heart began to pound. The rampant thunder of longing began to weave throughout her. A cascade of rich, ardent crystals of fire danced throughout the length of her as she tasted the rogue's demand of his tongue.

  She ceased to struggle. She had wanted him. Wanted him so.

  "I am not a prize!" she whispered as his lips rose just above hers.

  "You are a prize. Cherished, beloved," he whispered in turn.

  His hands were on her. And her clothing was leaving her. A rustle of taffeta. A whisper of silk. The fire of his lips touched her bare flesh.

  "A man in truth, tonight, my lady. Flesh and blood. No longer a creature of dreams..."

  She did not dwell on his words. His lips lowered against her flesh. Her fingers played on the heat and ripple of his muscled shoulders.

  "A man in truth. Flesh and blood..." she repeated.

  "Tell me to love you, my lady," he commanded her.

  "Love me," she whispered.

  "Aye, I will love you." Again his lips seared hers. Traveled down the length of her throat. Brushed and burned and fed on the hardened peak of her breast. Cries left her lips, soft cries of longing, of desire.

  He rose above her, naked, determined. A golden warrior of any age.

  "I will love you," he vowed softly. "Forever..."

  Chapter 6

  The waves rushed out into the sea with the pull of the tide, and Marina laughed, running out with them, then running in again before the cold water could wash over her bare feet. She turned and saw that Eric was stretched out on the linen sheet she had laid on the sand. Leaning on an elbow, he watched her, a slight smile curving his lip as he idly gnawed on a blade of grass.

  Marina left the waves behind, compelled to be at his side again. She lay down on her stomach, propped on her elbows, too, her chin held up by her knuckles as she met his gaze.

  Why had she ever, ever thought to deny this man? she wondered. In the days after their wedding, she had come to know him so much better. They had laughed, they had talked, they had spun dreams for themselves and dreams for the clan. She had learned that he was hard, but fair. She had seen that men followed him instinctively.

  She had discovered that she was sensual and passionate herself, just as she had discovered the fire and passion in him. Dreams faded away as reality eclipsed all else. He was a demanding lover, a demanding man. But he had his quirks of humor, too, and he could make her laugh. And when she was weary, the strength of his broad chest was marvelous. No man could be more tender, she thought. No man could hold her quite so gently, sleep with his arms curled around her quite so protectively.

  And still...

  "Where did you come from?" she asked him.

  His eyes met hers with their startling, deep blue color. He rose up, walking out to watch the waves. "I was born on the mainland, not far from here," he said.

  "Then where have you been?" she pressed.

  He turned to her, a smile curving his lips. Then he walked back to her and sat at her side, smiling. "Ah, my love. I know what you're hinting at. That I rose up from the sea. That I came here first as the Viking Ulhric, and perished on this shore. That the gods were merciful and kind and sent me back last century. And that now, while the isle and my princess lay threatened again, I returned."

  She flushed. "That's absurd, of course."

  "Aye."

  "But is it true?" she appealed.

  He didn't answer for several long moments. Then he turned to her, and she felt a chill snake along her back. "Would it matter if it were true? Would it be so horrible to discover that you were Mora?"

  "I am not Mora," she said flatly. "And..."

  "And what?"

  She stood suddenly. "Aye, it would be horrible if it were true. For if it were true, it would mean—" She broke off abruptly.

  He stood, too. "It would mean what?"

  "It would mean tragedy," she said. "Ulhric died, that Eric died, their wives died," she added quickly. "And I can't begin to understand—"

  "Understand what?" he demanded, waiting, watching her.

  She was suddenly cold. She hugged her arms about herself. "I don't know."

  "Marina—" he said softly.

  He was going to come to her. He was going to put his arms around her and hold her, and she wouldn't care anymore.

  She had to care. She had never been so desperately happy, or so desperately afraid that she was going to lose the happiness that she grasped.

  "Nay! Come no nearer!" she implored him. And backing away, circling, she let the words spill from her. "I knew from the moment I came back that I was being watched. Someone was in my room with me. Someone came at night."

  "Dreams," he said, meeting her eyes.

  "You're lying!"

  He threw up his arms. "Marina, let it be—"

  "I can't! There was more. The paintings in the gallery. They are part of this, too. First the Viking was so real. Just as the portrayal of Eric at battle. And now you can scarce see the color of the eyes in the pictures."

  "Marina—"

  "Then there was the old woman."

  "The old woman?" His voice hardened, his eyes sharpened narrowly on her.

  "I met her here. I came to Illora's tomb, to read it. You were supposedly in the midst of battle. But I felt, I felt as if you were behind me—" She broke off, closing her eyes, now so very, very chilled. "Are you real?"

  She opened her eyes. He was still standing there. And standing there so silently.

  Cry out! she wanted to command him. Tell me that I am mad, that of course you are real!

  "I ask you again, Marina, does it matter? Not because of the past, but because of the present. If you love me, truly love me, what difference does it make?"

  She did love him. She loved him with all her heart.

  Not because of any legend.

  She loved him because he had swept her off her feet. Because he had stormed across the sand on a giant black war-horse and saved her kinfolk and her world. Because he had kissed her and stolen her soul. She loved him because he could make her laugh, and she loved him because she never felt as wonderful as she felt in his arms.

  "I am not Illora!" she whispered fiercely. "So you tell me, my laird. Do you love me?"

  He moved at last, striding for her. And though a protest formed on her lips, he would not allow her to speak it. He caught her arms, drawing her close against him. "I love you. I love you, Marina. Before God, I love you. For now, for this life, for always."

  She started trembling, and could feel the chattering of her teeth. "She said that I must take the blow."

  "What are you talking about?" he demanded harshly.

  Marina shook her head. Now she was losing her mind in truth! She couldn't tell him the words of a madwoman. He would think someone in her household meant to betray her. He was just, but he could also be merciless, she was certain.

  "Marina! What—"

  "Nay! Let go of me! Perhaps you are laird of this fortress, of this isle now, but I am lady here still!"

  "You're my wife," he declared, his jaw locking. "Tell me what is troubling you now."

  "I'm afraid."

  "Nay, nay, don't be afraid, my love," he told her softly. "Marina, think on it. If I were this ghost you claim me, then perhaps the promise is that of happiness. Twice he has come, twice he has awaited his love. Now, this time, perhaps he is to be given life."

  "You said—"

  "Marina! I'm trying to make you happy, nothing more. Give us a chance."

  Give us a chance...

  Nay, she could not think of it so simply. The old woman had warned her. She must take the blow.

  But that, too, would separate them. She would be the one to die this time.

  Dear Lord! She was losing her mind.

  "Marina, my love." He tried to pull her close, tried to set his arm
s around her. But she was so torn now that she could not bear it, and wrenched away from him hard. Startled by her force, he let her go. Barefoot, she raced across the sand for her horse and leaped on it.

  "I am going to have her disinterred!" she called to him.

  "What!" Hands on his hips, he stood watching her in amazement.

  "Illora. I am going to have the rock moved away, I am going to have her dug up. I will know whether she truly rests in her tomb or not."

  "You'll not do such a thing," he protested, eyes flashing.

  "Mora's story is legend here, and I'll not have it."

  "I am the MacCannan!"

  His eyes narrowed. "You were the MacCannan."

  "Oh!" she exclaimed in fury. He was coming quickly toward her, ready to stop her, she knew. She waited until he was nearly before her, then shoved her heels against her mare's flanks. Sand spewed behind her as her horse gave flight.

  Men! she decided.

  Yet he could catch her. Catch her so easily, if he desired...

  But when she reached the cliffs and looked back, he was still standing on the sand. His hands remained on his hips. His chin was high; his golden hair shimmered beneath the sun like a banner.

  If he had wanted to, he could have caught her. He had chosen to let her go.

  She returned to the fortress, her heart in a whirl. In the great hall, she peeled off her gloves and stood before the fire.

  Peg hurried in. "Lady Marina! Why, I thought that ye and yer laird were out fer the day. What can I bring ye, lass?"

  Marina spun around. "Nothing, Peg. Wait, no. I'll take tea upstairs. In my room. And a steamy hot bath, please. Set the lads to it, if you will."

  Peg nodded, as if she had decided herself that the best thing for her mistress's tempestuous condition might be a soothing cup of tea and the even more soothing feel of a long hot bath.

  Within minutes it was done, and Marina was upstairs, her body warmed by the water, her eyes closed, her head resting on the rim.

  Once, she had heard whispers when she rested so.

  Whispers. As if he called her name...

  She heard no more whispers. Because he was a ghost no longer? Because she now held him in the flesh?