Glenmirril Archives, Present
Early the next morning, Amy studied the archives, taking in the long, raised tables, rows of file cabinets, and sleek modern equipment she couldn’t name. Nerves trembled in her stomach, hoping Angus and his friends had forgotten the matter of sources. Asking if they’d ever seen anything of Shawn’s mark in the ancient documents seemed a sure way to remind them, and here in an archives, there was already enough danger of them asking questions she couldn’t answer.
But Angus’s friend, Jack, spread his arms, encompassing the array of equipment and cabinets. “Impressed?” He beamed as if he’d built the place himself. “Temperature controlled, all the latest equipment.”
“It’s beautiful!” Amy’s words came out on a sigh of relief. He hadn’t asked about her sources. The ache in her stomach relaxed.
He handed them each a pair of white gloves. “The years you’re interested in are at the end. There’s not much left from then.” He clapped Angus on the back. “Marjory remembers a book that might be just what you want. We can’t find it, but we’ll keep looking.” He strode to the door.
Amy’s shoulders sagged in relief.
Jack stopped, his hand on the knob, snapped his fingers, and turned to her. “Angus says you have some great sources on Niall Campbell.”
The icy fist sank back into Amy’s stomach. “Oh, um, yes, I guess I found a couple things Angus hadn’t heard.” She avoided Angus’s eyes. “Just stuff on the internet. The professor’s books.”
“Do you have those sites, or the names of the books?” Jack asked.
What would Shawn do, she thought frantically. She patted the backpack holding her laptop and smiled, as Shawn would have. “It’s all in here. This thing takes forever to boot up, but I’ll look.”
“Great, then! I’ll see if I can’t turn up that book.” Beaming, Jack left.
Amy turned to Angus. He frowned. “Ready?” she asked brightly. “Where should we start?” She realized she was twisting Bruce’s ring. Forcing herself to stop, she strode to the cabinets Jack had indicated, her heart hammering, hoping Angus wouldn’t press the matter.
He joined her at the filing cabinet with another curious glance, but said nothing as they took folders full of documents to the tables. Amy battled within herself about asking him to look for the mark, for anything that would explain why Niall had used it. But she couldn’t face his questions. She assured herself he’d tell her anything he found about Niall. He recognized the mark. He’d mention it if he found it.
For the next two hours, they searched with gentle fingers through fragile parchments, Amy praying he’d forget about her sources, while she searched for any sign of the flattened S and entered his translations of Gaelic documents into her laptop.
“Shawn spoke Gaelic.” The words slipped out without thought. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about him.”
“No, you can talk about him.” Angus looked up from the vellum he’d been studying. “You should. He was a big part of your life, no?”
She stretched her back, taking a break from the parchments spread before her. “Three years. Two and a half we were seeing each other.” She studied Angus. She was coming to like her time with him more and more. But it seemed doomed if she had to keep lying. It was a tragic irony that the very things that brought them together—Shawn’s disappearance and their mutual interest in Glenmirril’s history—forced her to tell the lies that would drive him away.
“You’re frowning.” Angus’s stool was close enough that the hairs on his arm tickled hers. “You don’t like what you see?” he teased.
She blushed. “No. I mean yes, I mean, I don’t normally stick my foot in my mouth so much. My mind wandered. Yes, he was a big part of my life. We did arrangements together. His CDs, I helped arrange the music.” She didn’t know why she said it, except she felt, these weeks researching with Angus, much as she’d felt working side by side with Shawn. Close.
“Did you now!” His eyes opened wide. “You can do so many things!”
The words It was nothing, just some chords, popped into her head. She stopped herself. It wasn’t nothing. “Thank you,” she said.
“How did he come to speak Gaelic? Not many Americans do.”
“His grandmother was from Skye. And his dad was in a re-enacting group that spoke it.” She leaned over, studying the smooth script of the document in front of Angus. “Beyond mo gradh, I don’t recognize a word.”
“’Tis not quite modern Gaelic, even if you did read it.” Angus pushed the parchment over, pointing with his white glove. “It’s about a cattle raid in 1313. Two men injured, and see here, ech—our modern Gaelic is eich, almost the same—a horse was injured, too.”
She barely had time to wonder if Niall had been on that raid, before Angus started reading the next piece. She tapped on her laptop, entering as he translated. It wasn’t much. A few names, Roland, Alexander, James; a few dates. “Here’s one in English.” Angus slid a torn piece of parchment across the table. It appeared to be a receipt.
She typed in the information about a pair of boots made in October 1314. The cordwainer groused about the haste. His grumbling came through the centuries-old ink, complaining he couldn’t do his best work when rushed so.
“It’s like being in a different world,” Amy breathed. One that Shawn had lived in, if only briefly. The thought filled her with wonder.
“Exactly what I love.” Angus lifted his eyes, staring at the ceiling as if he saw beyond it, smiling. “Imagine if a man could actually experience it. What wouldn’t I give for such a chance!”
Amy’s head shot up. Her heart thumped hard.
He lowered his gaze back to the papers before him. “One more.”
She let out her breath, reassured he hadn’t meant anything by it, and leaned in with him over a yellowed and stained fragment. The scent of his soap filled her nostrils. He read aloud, in his gruff voice, “I saw the stone cross in the archers slot...I believe the cross...will be here.”
“Interesting,” she said. “But whoever it is just saw the cross. It’s already there. It makes no sense.”
“None. ’Tis half the fun, guessing what it might have meant.” Angus pushed himself back from the table, his stool scraping the floor, and grinned at her. “Speaking of guessing, I’ve a surprise! A little something Glenmirril likes to keep quiet, because we’ve no explanation and would like not to be a laughing stock. But it’s intrigued academics and historians for years.” He stretched his back, and crossed the room. “’Tis someone’s idea of a joke, sure,” he said over his shoulder. “What’s perplexed researchers is who could have found ancient parchment and made authentic medieval ink.”
“It was dated?” Amy followed him.
“It dates to medieval times.” Angus led her to a long table set against the far wall, on which lay the parchments. “Judge for yourself.”
Amy stared at the sketches. “Skyscrapers.” She sank onto a stool. “Cars.” She knew, as if she’d watched it happen.
Angus frowned. “You don’t sound verra surprised.”
“I am,” she assured him, but her words sounded flat and lifeless—not at all surprised—even to herself. Niall was honest. Did someone see two of ‘him’ on the field? Did he have to explain to the Laird? He’d have told the truth. The Laird was no fool. He’d have demanded proof, asked questions. And Niall drew the pictures.
“Humph,” Angus grunted.
She barely heard him, staring at the sketches. Her gloved finger touched the ink Niall’s hands had laid on the parchment.
“Look at this.” Angus slid another one over for her inspection. “See the splotches?” He pointed. “’Twas likely done by someone unfamiliar with a quill, as of course few people today are.”
Amy touched the drawings. Maybe Niall had done it while still suffering from his injury. There was no mistaking the airplane—a side view of sorts, and one as though seen from the bottom. The skyscrapers clustered together, a group of three. She leaned closer, studying one of them. “It looks a little like the Foshay Tower.”
“And what would that be?”
“One of the first skyscrapers in Minneapolis.”
“Where’s that?”
She blinked. “Minnesota. Where Shawn’s from.”
He frowned. “Well, that wouldn’t be possible, would it now?”
“Of course not,” she said.
“Unless our hoaxster is from there. It would seem a great coincidence.” He continued to study it, his head tilted, his frown deepening. Then abruptly, he cleared his throat. “We’re done here. Your laptop’s booted. Can you find those sources?”
“Oh.” She cleared her own throat, stalling, and forced her hand to stay off the ring. “Sure.” She prayed something would spring to mind. She could make something up, claim the information had been in the professor’s books. Her insides twisted like a coiled snake. She’d hated Shawn’s lies. She crossed the room, Angus following her, and tapped the keys. Maybe she could make the computer freeze up. Angus stood behind her, watching, silent. She scrolled up and down the list on the start menu. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just trying to remember where it is.” She tapped some more, her nerves jumping, selected the Documents folder, and scanned it, trying to guess which one she might pass off as sources on Niall.
The door flew open. With her nerves already stretched taut, Amy leapt half off her stool, slamming the laptop shut.
“It’s just me!” Jack stood at the door, looking a bit alarmed.
“Sorry.” Amy gave a nervous laugh. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry. I do have a bad habit of bursting in.” He turned to Angus, his face aglow. “The book! Marjory found it with a book doctor. She’s working on getting it back.”
“Thank goodness!” Amy breathed.
“The sources,” Angus reminded her.
“Angus, it’s late,” she protested. “I’m sorry, I shut the laptop and it’ll take forever to reboot. Let’s go see Glenmirril. Please.”
Dundolam, 1314
The ride inside the clean laundry was less than comfortable. It could be worse, Shawn thought, as he bounced in the dark under a load of bleached linens. At least Niall hadn’t struck up a friendship with the local peat-digger. He’d hidden in the innermost basket of the group Joan and her mother had loaded on their small pony cart, climbing in when her mother disappeared into the house for another basket. Joan covered him over, warning him to be still, especially when the wagon slowed at the castle gates.
He lay on his side in the dark, curled tightly, pulling stuffy air through the woven sides of the basket. He’d convinced MacDonald to let him go, making him see that he, of all of them, was in the best position to show Christina what they had to work with. It had taken no time to convince Joan, eager for excitement, eager to be part of Fionn’s life, and persuaded with a few kisses. Compared to Niall hanging, or himself being left alone in this world without the closest thing he had to a friend, Shawn felt little guilt for his tactics, and promised himself he’d make it up to her, if he could.
As the wagon slowed, his heart raced. A gruff voice demanded Joan’s business. She answered in muffled words. The pony’s hooves began their clop-clopping, jolting him inside the basket. The cart bumped along, jarring him over every cobblestone, while the ache grew in his legs and back. Finally, the cart jerked to a halt. Joan rapped the basket and immediately, the weight on him lightened as she hoisted the linens off, whispering, “Hurry now!”
He climbed out, tumbling the basket on its side, into a small, sheltered courtyard, and yanked the hood of his robe over his head.
“The chapel is across the courtyard,” she said.
He hurried to the church, as fast as he could go without raising eyebrows over a charging friar. There, he grabbed his knife, looking around as always for the thing that would most likely stand for seven centuries. With extra time, and the privacy of a silent church at dawn, he carved this one carefully, connecting the lines precisely, edging up the lip of the bell. He carved into it a second, a third, a fourth time, before slipping into the confessional.
He had only minutes to wait, uneasy in such close proximity to God, before he heard voices. A low and throaty woman’s voice said, “My Lord would surely allow you to respect the privacy of the confessional. Wait by the back door. You’ll see the whole church from there, and I’ve shown myself to be a good captive, have I not?” He heard the note of humor in her voice, and believed he liked this woman without ever having seen her.
The door of the adjoining booth opened, clicked shut again, and the tiny door slid aside, leaving a lattice work grill for them to peer through. Shawn verified the thick black hair he’d been told of, and deep blue eyes, before pulling his hood back. She looked hard, then spoke, a barely audible whisper. “Tell me why I should trust you.”
Shawn whispered, his lips pressed to the grill. “I’m here with the Laird of Glenmirril and his daughter, Niall’s betrothed. I want Niall out even more than you do, and right now neither you nor I has anyone else to trust. He’s already scheduled to be hanged. How can I possibly make that worse?”
“My husband will gladly hang me beside him,” she said. “Though ’tis perhaps not an unkind fate, compared to living with Duncan.”
“Look closely at my face,” Shawn whispered.
She peered at him through the lattice work and dim light.
With an oath, Shawn used his knife to slice through the delicate wood, and lifted the whole grill away. She gasped at the blasphemy.
“Save it. We don’t have time for delicacy,” Shawn hissed. “Look! I have Niall’s face.” As they studied one another, he saw her beauty was stained by a large bruise on the jaw. “Nobody knows this but MacDonald, his daughter, Niall, and me. And now you. I can walk through the streets like this so MacDougall will let ‘Fionn’ go.”
“And hang you instead,” Christina whispered.
“Yes, well, we’re looking for a solution to that problem. Just an idea. Or Joan will cut and dye my hair to look like Fionn, if we can think of a way to use that. You know the castle, you know the players. Tell us what to do, and we’ll do it. We have a dozen men with us. It’s not much.”
Christina studied him, long and hard. “I’ve a thought,” she said, slowly. “My father-in-law is a lecher.”
“A man after my own heart,” Shawn said. “But how does that help Niall?”
She smiled the slow, sweet smile of an angel, and leaned through the place where the latticework grill had been, whispering her plan.
“You’ll come with us?” Shawn said. “We could kidnap you.”
“Then who will get the keys to Bessie? No, MacDougall will not know I was involved. He’ll not hang me. First, we get Niall and Bessie out.”
“But....” Shawn stopped, searching his mind for an answer.
“Milady,” a deep voice called directly outside the confessional. “Surely your sins are not so great. Come out!”
Panic flitted across Christina’s face, and settled quickly into a mask of calm. She raised her voice. “Anon, sir. Might I receive absolution?”
“Aye, but be quick. Milord will have my head.”
“Do exactly as I’ve said,” she whispered to Shawn. “We’ll solve the rest later.”
He reached for her hand through the opening. “I’m honored to know you,” he said, and kissed her fingertips, with a sincerity he’d never felt in his life. She slipped her fingers from his and almost ran from the confessional.
Glenmirril, Present
It should have been a pleasant day, Amy thought, with Rose’s reassurance about Angus’s intentions. But his pressing for her sources took over where the worry about his intentions left off. It haunted her, as much as the ghosts of Shawn and Niall, through the halls of Glenmirril as she searched every placard and display for any mention of Niall; as she searched the walls for any sign of Shawn’s mark carved as it had been at Creagsmalan.
It would have been worse, she consoled herself, had the October sun not shone down so brightly, had laughing tourists not filled the place. A group of children in little doublets and flowing dresses and coned hats followed a costumed tour guide, hanging on his every word, now and again turning to one another to admire their medieval clothing and giggle.
Still, the hallways she’d walked with Shawn called him forth—the sound of his voice, the one eyebrow cocked in amusement, the warmth of his hand. The gray-haired tour guide, who had led them so many months ago, passed with a group of camera-wielding tourists, giving the same speech about Robert the Bruce.
Amy glanced at Angus, as he led her through the stone hallways, with high arched windows open to the autumn sky. Niall’s room pulled the breath from her lungs. She stood before the tapestry of Niall on horseback, laughing over his shoulder. It hurt to think of him dead.
“He must have been quite the character, aye?” Angus stood behind her, his presence a physical sensation though he didn’t touch her. “Mooning MacDougall—’tis my favorite image of him.”
Amy glanced at him, her heart fluttering. His words resurrected her fear that somehow, he knew, and was baiting her. He’d taken the police reports himself, after all. He knew the doctor insisted ‘Shawn’ had an arrow injury. He’d heard her re-tell the story, even though she’d stated it only as what ‘Shawn’ claimed. And he wanted to know how she knew what she knew. Rose couldn’t have possibly told him. He wouldn’t believe her even if she had. Still trying to settle her spinning thoughts, Amy ran her fingers down the red hangings on the bed.
The MacDougalls wair red; the MacDonalds wair blue. Niall’s voice had frothed with indignation, that first day behind the castle, at the thought of wearing red. His hangings would have been blue. But she couldn’t explain to the historical society why they should change the bed curtains. She saw him onstage in Inverness, telling a crowd of thousands, I am Niall Campbell, born in 1290, heir to Glenmirril. Having been on Shawn’s case, Angus must have watched Niall speak those words on stage. There was no way he could believe it, she reassured herself. But he wanted her sources. And she had none to give.
She swallowed, shut her eyes, with the velvet of the red hangings soft under her fingers. Yes, he was quite a character all right. He’d died seven hundred years ago, possibly on MacDougall’s gallows. She felt ill.
“Are you all right, Amy?” Angus’s voice, deep and gruff, came out gently.
She opened her eyes. “Fine, thanks.”
“We’ve covered the whole castle,” Angus said.
“Every placard,” Amy agreed. She’d read every word of every display and searched the walls, but found nothing to explain his use of the mark or tell her if he’d left Creagsmalan alive.
“Except the tower.”
Of all the sprawling complex of Glenmirril, the tower was the one place she absolutely didn’t want to go. But if Niall’s use of Shawn’s mark had anything to do with her, the tower might be exactly the place he’d think she’d return to; exactly the place he might leave it.
Creagsmalan, 1314
Niall’s small cell became busy. MacDougall and Duncan appeared twice each at the door, staring through the bars and grunting. Niall avoided praying on his knees, pacing the cell restlessly instead, and fighting his rage at God that he was going to die without having married Allene, without even seeing her one last time.
It only fanned his anger that praying, of all things, had condemned him!
Ellen appeared at the grate looking down from the street in the morning. “Milord’s father is raging over rumors you’ve been seen in town!” she hissed. “What is amiss, Fionn!”
Niall rose on his toes, stretching his fingers up to her. He didn’t know what it meant or what would come of it, but if people had seen him in town, Shawn was near. “I walk through walls!” he said, hope lightening his heart.
“You think this cause for jest?” Her fingers clutched his, the very tips he could stretch up to her. Her touch was warm after weeks of no human contact. “D’ ye know Milord’s father says you are someone else and talks of hanging you?”
“That’s why he’s been looking in on me,” Niall said.
“Aye, most likely. He talks of magic, Fionn. Surely not.”
“Surely not.” Niall’s jaw hardened. The man would find a reason to hang him, one way or another. He hoped the lack of a scar had at least bought Shawn the time he needed to stop it.
“Someone is coming!” She dropped a bundle through the grate. Her feet scuffed away, a soft brush of leather on the cobblestones above. As heavy boots sounded in the street, Niall scrambled to the floor, and found a kerchief tied around bannocks.
He’d barely finished eating them, when the key turned in the lock and MacDougall burst in, flinging the door wide before the jailer could remove the keys. They clanked angrily in the lock, a rough ostinato to MacDougall’s rage. A look of maniacal glee accompanied his stream of invective. “I don’t know what you’ve done, Campbell, but you’ll not play me for a fool again. Have you got that chit lying for you, saying she’s seen you in town? Or is she mad?”
A steady, muffled thumping began outside. MacDougall grabbed Niall’s chin, yanking his face this way and that. “I don’t know why you’ve no scar, but I know Niall Campbell’s face and voice, here in my son’s castle where Bruce told you to be. That’s the sound of your gallows being built. You swing tomorrow, and a not a day too soon!” And he stormed out again, leaving Niall’s heart pounding faster than the hammers outside. He wanted one more sight of Allene.
He returned to pacing the small space and praying, his words falling into a steady rhythm with the hammering in the courtyard. As the sun once again waned, he prayed and paced until his legs ached, unable to sit still with the pounding. It was late evening before the sound finally stopped. Shortly after, another voice whispered at the grate, a woman’s voice low and sultry. “Bessie will free you just past dawn. Be ready to flee.”
She stretched long, white fingers through the bars high above. He reached up, desperate for a human touch. “He’s hanging me tomorrow!” He wanted to have faith in Shawn, in MacDonald, in Christina, but tomorrow sounded uncomfortably close.
“Not till noon,” Christina said calmly. “When she comes, do exactly as she says, move fast, and above all, give the lass courage. I’ve only barely convinced her her lot cannot be worse. The poor thing has been shaking with fear these past hours.”
“Tell me your plan,” Niall pleaded. “Fear will drive it from her head.”
She told him quickly. “And make her go with you. It should work if you do as I’ve said.”
Should. He wished for a stronger word.
Her fingers slid from his. Her hooded form disappeared, leaving him once more alone in the dark, but for a rat snuffling at his toe. He slid down the damp wall, felt for his carved notches, and made another one. He still had his knife. He could fight the guards when they came. He clung to that hope.
After a moment, he forced himself to his knees in the straw. “Give them wisdom,” he prayed. “Give Bessie courage. My Lord and Savior, work a miracle and give that frightened mouse courage.” If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, mountains will move. That seemed more likely than Bessie finding some pluck. “I pray for absolution,” he said. “I pray I’ve lived a life worthy to meet You at noon tomorrow, if I must, and that You’ll watch over Shawn and Allene all the same.”
He sank down, after two hours of prayer, into fitful sleep, curled in his cloak and the one Ellen had given him, the sound of hammers pulsing through his dreams.
Glenmirril, Present
Amy’s dread mounted as they left the living quarters and crossed the courtyard, through a stiff breeze, to the northern tower. But her reluctance would be hard to explain to Angus. He believed Shawn had disappeared at the re-enactment, not from the tower. And she needed—wanted—to look for the mark.
“Cold?” Angus glanced down at her.
“The wind has picked up.” She tugged her long blue coat close. The tower rose ahead, a massive block of gray stones, spewing memories and fanciful images. The mist had been thick that night, snaking around her in the courtyard as she’d shouted up to him. In her dreams, the fog twisted into ghostly shapes of men and horses, the past coming to life around her. She wondered again if she would have disappeared, too, had she stayed. The thought scared her. She wanted nothing to do with Niall’s brutal world.
A teenage girl brushed against her, looking back with a laugh and quick apology and rushed to catch up with a gangly boy, and Amy realized Angus was staring at her. “The tower bothers you,” he said.
She nodded. There was no way to explain, without sounding crazy.
“We don’t have to go. Though I think ’tis the best part of Glenmirril.”
She forced a laugh. “It’s got a beautiful view. I’m being ridiculous.”
“No, it’s where you went....”
“With Shawn,” she finished. “It’s okay.” A group of tourists chattering in German pushed toward the tower, engulfing them for a moment, and squeezing in twos and threes into the arched opening at the bottom of the tower stairs. She’d just follow them. She gave Angus a bright smile. “Come on. Last one there….” Shawn had always said is an out of tune oboe.
Angus grinned, his dark eyes shining with pleasure, and they ran the last twenty feet to the door. It was just a tower, she told herself, as its shadow swallowed her.
The chill of the day cut through her coat, crept in around the white scarf. Her foot landed on the flagstones at the bottom of the tower stairs. Angus swooped in behind her, laughing, saying, “You won!” just as the costumed tour guide burst up the stairs from the lower level. Schoolchildren in tunics and leggings and tall coned princess hats with fluttering veils swarmed around him, chatting and laughing, and carrying her in their wake up the curving stone stairs. She’d just do a quick search for the carved symbol and it would be fine.
Angus’s hand fell on the small of her back. Two steps. A chill clutched her arms. Another step. Children flooded the small space, a boy squeezing by and scampering ahead of her. Iciness prickled her scalp. Another three steps, children shouting about the basement storeroom, and Angus saying something she couldn’t hear.
Her lungs tightened. She drew in air, pulling in hard against the iron band shutting off her breathing. Something had happened in this tower, some strange magic. She’d abandoned Shawn and he’d been sucked into a brutal world that had killed him. She drew in another breath, but it flew back out in short, sharp puffs of air. Children pushed from behind. Pressure grew at her temples. Her leg muscles seized up. “I can’t.” It came out as a weak rasp, like sand paper on skin. She vaguely noted the arched window with the stone cross set in it, felt the stone wall pressing against her back. The children’s laughter turned to a dull roar like ocean waves; their bright colors blurred into a kaleidoscope swirl brushing past her.
A man in a medieval hood stared at her. She yanked back, her heart pounding furiously.
“Amy, Amy, let’s go down now.” It was Angus’s voice.
She must appear insane to him. She struggled for air. The chill deepened in her arms. The children swept away up the uneven slate stairs, and he was pulling her down, his grip strong on her arm, pulling her back to reality, pushing against a knot of middle-aged English women going up.
They emerged into the sunshine and stiff breeze of a clear October day, laughter and smiles in the courtyard, no mist, no ghosts.
And no way to explain to him why this tower should upset her so.
Creagsmalan, 1314
Christina waited in the stables. The sun silhouetted the eastern hills, a glorious burst of blood-red rising behind them. She wore a riding gown of her favorite sapphire blue, a basket clutched in her slender hands, praying for God’s blessing on the venture, and for forgiveness of anything she might do to free Niall and Bessie. She’d loved Duncan. He was rich, handsome with his black hair, and kind when he wished—as he had, before marriage—romantic, witty, courtly, flattering. She’d been hurt at the news of the first woman, but such was marriage. She just hadn’t expected it so quickly.
She’d swallowed the pain and continued to be a good wife. She’d been more hurt at rumors of the second, and shocked at his first rage when he threw her against a wall. She’d been disappointed in him the day she rode to the washerwoman’s, and heard Joan’s tale of his cruelty. But she knew him well enough by then to believe he could be so callous. She’d given Joan a coin, held her hand, and listened.
Back at the castle, she’d opened her ears and asked careful questions, and learned that Bessie, at first flattered and giddy, had quickly been disillusioned, and soon frightened, by the Lord’s attentions. So began the jealous wife act. When she could, she sat with Bessie, clutching hands with one another before the Blessed Sacrament, unable to answer the girl’s question: Why? “Courage, Bessie,” she’d soothed time after time over many months. “Something will bring this to an end. We must pray.”
MacDougall appeared now, filling the doorway of the stable. She lifted her chin, pulling herself from the past and willing the chill of fear away. MacDougall liked to believe he was more honorable than he was, or at least that others saw him as such. It was her only hope, that he would keep his end of the bargain. She reached for the reins of the big bay. He put his hand on hers, stopping her, and lowered his lips to hers. Every nerve shook. The image of the yellow teeth repulsed her. She forced herself to wait, before pulling away. “My Lord.” She used the calm voice she’d perfected with Duncan. “You gave me your word.”
“And I’ll honor it,” he whispered against her cheek. His breath smelled of venison and ale. “Before or after.”
She didn’t want to cut it any closer. The man, Shawn, would be waiting. “I want to get the food to the widows early.” She hoped he interpreted that as a promise. “It means a great deal to me.”
“Duncan does complain that you wish to give away the whole castle.”
She lowered her eyes to the stable floor. “They’ve but little, My Lord. Duncan throws more to the dogs each night than what I ask for his people in a week.”
“Why now?” he asked. “What changed your mind? ’Tis unlike you.”
Her nerves kicked up a notch. He was a lecherous old man. She must not mistake that for slow wit. “I crave kindness.” With trembling fingers, she lifted her skirt over the top of her short riding boot. She lifted her eyes to his, and saw what she’d hoped for, as he stared down at the ugly, puckered skin left from the poker Duncan had pressed into her leg the night Niall had tried to take Bessie away.
He swallowed. “My son did that?”
“Aye.” She dropped the skirt, satisfied he believed her motives. “He was angry I spoke to Bessie. My Lord, the girl is young. I understand ’tis the way of men, and meant him no harm, but only to comfort her.” The quivering in her arms grew, fearing he’d spot a hole in her story she had not foreseen. Stick as close to the truth as you can, Shawn had told her. “You’ve been kind to me, My Lord,” she continued. That, too, was true. He’d been kind hoping for repayment, but it was true. “You’ve no idea....” She let the sentence hang. He was a soldier. He had ideas aplenty. “I crave the companionship of one to share my love for these people, sir.” She knew MacDougall had agreed to the outing only to spend time alone with her, hoping it would lead to what he really wanted.
“I thought you were angry with me for ordering the hanging.”
She lowered her eyes. “I’ve been foolish, My Lord. Forgive me. I was blinded by my ladies giggling over his fair looks. I’ve since heard how he tried to take advantage of Bessie, how he tried to take her to the gardens when I called for her to be sent to the upper kitchens.” She let anger flash on her face and blaze in the depths of her blue eyes. “Has the girl not suffered enough!” She judged it sufficient anger for now. Shawn would add fuel to her supposed ire. Her heart pounded, willing MacDougall to mount his horse. She felt no braver than Bessie, fearing to find that what she thought was a skillful weaving of truth and lies would prove less sturdy than she hoped.
He bowed low over her hand, kissing her white fingertips. “You’ve a kind heart, My Lady. My son is a fool.” She inclined her head in humble acknowledgment of the compliment, hoping Duncan had gotten at least a little of his foolishness from his father. With laced fingers, MacDougall boosted her onto the bay. She pulled on her leather gloves, and took the reins, waiting. He placed a boot in his own stirrup and mounted.
“My Lord.” She stopped him as he twitched the reins. “Speaking of the prisoner, I’ve had reports the guard is drinking on duty and lax. You’ll look into it when we return?”
He nodded, his face darkening. And taking the basket from her, they set off to feed the poor.
Glenmirril, Present
Demoralized by her failure, Amy stood silently before the life-sized crucifix. She’d wandered the chapel, searching half-heartedly for Niall’s—Shawn’s—mark, before stopping at the cross. Even hanging in a side shrine, it dominated Glenmirril’s chapel. The wood was deep amber, with the bright sheen of old age. Christ stared up to Heaven. “I shouldn’t touch it,” she said.
Angus chuckled. “It has that effect. Go ahead. Touch it.”
She put her hand on the leg. Wooden flesh shimmered, warm under her fingers, satin grown in a long-ago forest and aged to perfection. She closed her eyes, letting the sensation of honey-smooth wood sink into her fingers.
“Something else, aye?”
She opened her eyes, turning to him, but unwilling to take her hand from the wood.
“It’s centuries old.” Angus stood alongside her, touching the knee of the carved figure, just above her hand. “Nobody knows where it came from. It was found in a cave under the castle in the sixteenth century and brought up. Though the chapel itself has been in use continuously since the 1200s.”
Amy looked around the chapel. Silver-gray stones lifted a restored roof a story and a half over their heads. Great crossbeam timbers arced above, matching the shape of the windows. A dozen wooden pews faced the raised stone altar, and one stained glass window shone down candy-colored bits of light through a shepherd holding a lamb. She wondered if, at this very moment seven centuries ago, Niall or Allene stood in the chapel with them, maybe in their last moments together before he ended up in MacDougall’s dungeon, on MacDougall’s gallows. Hairs rose on her arms, imagining them beside her, smelling the same candles, wax and incense, seeing the same sunlight shooting, a translucent bolt, through colored glass. She wondered if he’d touched the leg of Christ, too, if even now, his hand lay beside hers separated only by the thin veil of centuries. She wished the crucifix could speak to her, tell her what it had seen so many years ago, what had become of Niall, why he’d used Shawn’s symbol.
But the cross had only been found in the sixteenth century.
She shook away the fanciful thoughts.
Angus touched her shoulder. “Will we sit down? You look pale.”
Amy nodded. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess today.” She followed him to the pew, breathing in the scent of wood polish.
“It often helps to talk about it,” Angus said. Their arms touched, side by side on the hard bench.
She gave a short bark of a laugh. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Because I’m the police?”
“Because you’d think I’m crazy.”
After a silence, he said, “That’s where you left him. In the tower.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t…I shouldn’t.…” She reminded herself he thought Shawn had disappeared at Bannockburn.
“The best way to overcome fears is to face them.”
“I left him. I have nightmares about that tower.” They sat while the angle of the sunbeam lengthened.
“He attracted trouble,” Angus said. “He got the wrong sort angry. It was him, not the tower.”
Silence fell between them, as warm and full of life as the honey-colored sheen of wood before her. Her thoughts drifted back to Niall. “It’s amazing to think he probably sat right here in this chapel,” she said. “Probably hundreds of times.”
“Aye.” Angus followed her thoughts. “It’s what I like about these old places. Feeling they’re still here, all around me. I feel I’m soaking up the wisdom of their lives.” After a minute, he added, “Let’s look around a bit, and try the tower later. If you don’t want to, we won’t, but I think you’ll feel better if you do.”
Angus was right. Even apart from the search for Shawn’s symbol, she had to face her fears. She stared at the tiny candle flames flickering under the crucifix. “Maybe when it’s not so crowded?”
“We’ll come after it closes,” he promised.
She thought of the climb up the bramble-covered path with Shawn the previous June, scaling the crumbling wall and the drop down to the other side. It wasn’t something to be doing when she was pregnant. But it was the only time the place would be deserted. “Okay.” She nodded. “After it closes.”
The Glen Beyond Creagsmalan, 1314
Shawn waited in the cover of forest just past the last hut. Niall’s sword hung at his side, ready to use. Lachlan and Owen flanked him, a bow and arrow apiece dangling in relaxed, deadly hands. A glen stretched north before them, toward the castle, full of soft mist, hills rising on either side, purple in the rising sun. Smoke drifted from the chimney of the little hut a furlong away. Christina’s plan was simple and elegant, with a brutal willingness to take advantage of MacDougall’s Achilles’ heel. “He desires me,” she’d stated bluntly, forgoing the blush that would blaze up most women’s faces in this era at the statement.
“You can’t do that,” Shawn had objected.
“Whisht!” she’d said derisively. “I’ll find a way out of it.”
The horse danced under him—a big and powerful stallion this time, ready to carry him far out of MacDougall’s reach, should the man give chase. The archers at his side made that improbable. He missed his own small hobbin.
His head felt light, even bare, with the shoulder length hair cut short, and the beard removed under Joan’s skillful hands. She’d exclaimed again over how quickly it had grown, and he’d reminded her to cut it not quite so short, maybe an inch longer than last time. She’d dyed it, leaning him over the tub, rinsing with hot water and impressive views that left no doubt what she wanted in exchange. He’d held her hand, torn, and settled for kissing her fingers and touching her cheek with a heartfelt thank you. And now, he worried again he’d followed Christina’s directions poorly, was waiting on the wrong side of the hill, or at the wrong hut.
Lachlan nudged Shawn. “Niall, over there.”
Christina and MacDougall rode into the far end of the glen, coming around the foot of a hill, tiny at this distance, her riding habit a flash of blue.
Adrenaline shot through Shawn. The time had come. He could die in this venture. Niall could die.
He watched silently, fighting the quiver of nerves. The far-away couple reached the first hut and dismounted. Their horses waited, heads down, while they disappeared inside. Shawn’s own horse pawed, restless, and let out a whinny. It settled again, with a pat of his hand. Lachlan’s horse sidestepped and danced back, nudging the other animal’s nose, and returned to grazing in the dewy grass.
At last, with Shawn’s nerves keyed high, MacDougall and Christina came out, mounted, and rode toward the small group under the trees. Lachlan and Owen pulled their hoods up, shielding their faces. Shawn stroked his horse’s neck, trying to calm his own adrenaline rush.
Glenmirril, Present
“You’re kidding.” Amy stared at Glenmirril’s modern sidewalk, curving from a small, unlocked gate down across a broad lawn. An arched bridge crossed the grassy ditch that had once been a moat. Floodlights lit the massive walls, a powerful fortress etched against the dark blue of the eastern sky. The moon hung there, a silver orb in the dusk. “It’s not even locked,” she said in disbelief, as Angus opened the gate and walked through.
“Well, we’ll have to climb over the other.” Twenty feet on, a second gate, no more than a waist-high pair of beams with two diagonal crossbars, secured with a small chain and padlock, blocked their entrance.
“Shawn must have known this.” She felt her irritation with him grow.
“I imagine so.” Angus stepped up on the gate, swinging a leg over.
“So climbing a bracken-covered hill and scaling a stone wall was totally unnecessary?” She shook her head in disgust. “Typical of him, having to throw in a little feel of danger and forbidden trespassing.”
“There are no no-trespass laws in Scotland,” Angus said. “And no police here. Except me, of course.” He offered his hand, helping her over the gate.
She smiled, liking his quiet humor. His touch sent electricity shooting up her wrist. “I feel really stupid, not going up before.” She tried to ignore the tingles as she clambered over the gate. He dropped her hand as she landed on the other side. “I’m not usually like this.”
“You’ve been through a trauma,” he said. “You’re sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
She hesitated. But her gut and Rose both told her he was a friend, not a cop. She lowered her head. “He wouldn’t listen. He was so arrogant.” They ambled down the sidewalk, across the lawn. “Something just snapped in me.” She fell silent, walking to the bridge, thinking how strange this modern sidewalk must have looked to Niall. “I felt if I didn’t stand up for myself finally, he’d grind me into dust.”
They crossed the bridge, into Glenmirril’s courtyard. The tower rose ahead on their left. Tendrils of mist floated, ankle high in the evening shadows, as they crossed the bailey, past the kirk. She spoke softly. “I really felt I’d disappear, just cease to be at all, if I let him push me one more time.”
“Then something good happened here.” Angus stopped in the arch leading into the tower, the open air of the courtyard behind them, the cool, dim interior and the stairs, smooth and sunken in the middle of each tread with centuries of use, before them.
She shook her head, clutching her arms around herself. The tower had taken her child’s father. It wasn’t good; it was terrible.
Angus touched her arm for only a second. “Nothing that happened is your fault. Can you do this?”
She nodded. They climbed past the window with the stone cross in its aperture. The stairs darkened, as they had that night. At the top, evening light poured over the parapets. Far below, the last rays of the western sun sparkled off the water.
Amy wandered the ten by ten square tower, running her hand over the stone walls in search of Shawn’s mark. As she touched each wall, as each rough stone grazed her fingertips, she felt she could see everything at once, herself and Shawn and Allene and Niall, and all the tension. She closed her eyes, and felt an irrational rush of gratitude that she hadn’t brought bluebells, as if they were to blame. She wondered who, seven centuries past, might be in the tower with her and Angus. She wondered if Niall came up sometimes. Did he—had he—ever come up after getting back to his own time? Or did he avoid the tower, not wanting to disappear into another century again?
Because there was no mark.
“Is it all right now?” Angus asked. “I’ve always loved it up here. Look at the sun on the water and the mountains.”
She did so, feeling she could see exactly where Niall had lain with his cloak that night, irritated with Allene. Same place Shawn must have slept, probably after drinking all the beer and whiskey in the basket. But she felt no danger this time. Just two angry women storming away, two irritated men throwing themselves in the corner to sleep. They just woke up in the wrong times, that was all.
“You shouldn’t feel so much guilt,” Angus said. “’Tis unfortunate, but when people live recklessly, things tend to happen. You can’t blame yourself.” His voice was low, gravelly, close to her ear. He stood so close she could feel the warmth of his body, though he didn’t touch her.
Her insides melted the way they had with Shawn.
The guilt melted away with it. She had done nothing wrong here.
Angus cleared his throat and stepped back. “Shall we go for dinner?”
She nodded numbly, sad and relieved the moment had passed. Her mind skipped from the lack of Shawn’s symbol to her other problem. She had to tell him she was pregnant. At dinner, she promised herself. She had to tell him she was pregnant. At dinner, she promised herself.
Creagsmalan, 1314
Christina fought her fears as they left the hut, only a few minutes’ ride from the castle. Shawn may not have found the place; MacDougall might give chase, catch him, and put an end to it all right there. The test would come in the next moments.
MacDougall boosted her into her saddle, smiling promises into her eyes. “Are you cold?” he asked. “You’re trembling.”
“There’s a chill in the air.” She tugged her cloak tight, reviewing her lines, reminding herself she was outraged at ‘Fionn,’ at the guard. She told herself the story, as MacDougall mounted his horse, convincing herself, feeling the anger. She smiled at MacDougall. He snapped his reins, and they rode, their knees touching, toward the wooded southern end of the glen.
She couldn’t see them. Her heart pounded. If this plan failed, she’d need to think up another to save Niall, and there was no time. The horses’ hooves plunked softly in the misty grass, now and again striking a rock in the soil. Smoke curled up from the second hut. They were close now, so close. She couldn’t see him!
And then her heart pounded harder, faster, and fear shot up her arms. A great bay pranced out from under the trees, tossing its head. Niall—no, Fionn—no, Shawn—the likeness was uncanny!—sat boldly astride it in a forest green tunic. He lifted his chin arrogantly, grinning.
“MacDougall!” His voice rang down the glen. He threw his head back and laughed. “Give my thanks to your drunken guard.”
MacDougall’s face darkened. He made to kick his horse, but in that instant, two glistening chestnut stallions pranced from the wood, each with an archer astride, faces in the shadows of their hoods, arrows nocked, ready to fly. MacDougall’s spurs fell, impotent.
“Make my day, MacDougall,” the man Shawn yelled. “A step closer, and you’ve two arrows through the heart.” He motioned with his head at the archers, and the three of them backed up, step by step, watching MacDougall, back under the fringe of oaks. “Let your dolt of a son know I’ve got Bessie!”
“You bring her back!” Christina shouted. “Milord, stop him!”
Shades of rage thundered across her father-in-law’s face, above the heavy beard. He bared his yellow teeth. “Get back here, Campbell! Fight me like a man!”
“Campbell? My name is Fionn.” Shawn grinned. “Milady, tell your husband his mistress already thinks I’m more man than he ever was! Shame I couldn’t show you, too.”
Christina gasped. She rose in her saddle, screaming at MacDougall. “Will you let him insult me so! And bite his thumb at you? Turn now for your men! They can’t go far!”
MacDougall turned in a spinning flash of horse beyond her greatest hopes, leaning low over the animal’s neck, whipping it, screaming for guards long before they rounded the hill out of the glen. Christina egged him on, bent over her speeding horse. “Did I not say the guard was lax! Get him up from the dungeon!” Her cloak whipped behind her. The horses snorted and frothed. She clung to her animal’s mane. Wind bit her face. “Bessie is paying the price for his drunkenness!” She threw every rage she’d ever felt at Duncan into the act. “The guard! I want the guard!” They galloped into town, hooves striking cobblestones with sharp reports.
“To arms!” MacDougall roared.
“Every man!” Christina screamed.
Men streamed from inns and taverns. Women yanked children from before the thundering horses. MacDougall’s soldiers poured from a pub, pulling on gloves as he bellowed instructions, still riding hard. “Give chase! South through the glen!” he shouted over his shoulder.
MacDougall and Christina blasted through the castle portcullis, neck and neck, throwing themselves to the ground as the horses whinnied and skidded and pulled up short, snorting and stamping in the shadow of the gallows. “Bring me the jailer!” MacDougall hollered. Blood flushed his face.
A man scurried to do their bidding, his curly toed shoes slipping on smooth stone, grabbing a wall to right himself, and running in fear, yelling. She grabbed MacDougall’s arm. She must keep him moving, keep his anger high, lest he think. “He’s let the poor girl into the hands of a villain!” She spun him around, his back to the dungeon stairs. “What will Duncan say!” Morning sun burst over the parapets.
Men hauled the guard up the stairs from the dungeons, thrusting him into the shadow of the gallows. Christina stepped forward, keeping the drama high, keeping every eye on herself—MacDougall, the guard, the men who had brought him up. She slapped the jailer. “You fool!” Her hands trembled as she grabbed the keys at his waist, hoping, praying, and tore with all her might. They came free with a satisfying rip of the belt, more than she’d hoped for. She flung them with all her strength, as if she didn’t know they skidded toward the dungeon stairs, rattling down a step or two. She blazed blue-eyed fire into his face, giving no one time to think. “Do you know what you’ve done!”
“No, Milady.” He was bleary-eyed from night duty. Red rimmed his eyes. He looked confused. His breath stank from last night’s meal, and she suspected his clothes had not so distantly been in a tavern, giving him enough smell to make it believable.
“Look at his eyes!” She swirled the skirt of her riding habit, stomped in a circle around the cowering man. She dragged him around the corner of the gallows so when MacDougall stormed forward, gripping his chin and peering into his eyes, he saw nothing of the stairs. Christina prayed no one would see the frail white arm reach for the keys. And she prayed Bessie would summon the courage to reach for them.
MacDougall bellowed, covering any jangle Bessie might let slip from the heavy ring. “They’re red! ’Tis true! Have you ale down there?”
Christina covered her panic with rage. Had Bessie been brave enough to leave the wineskin at the man’s side? But they couldn’t go down to look now. She snorted. “No need to look! Can you not smell it? Can you not see how he gapes as if he’s addled even now? Take him to Duncan!” The faster she could clear them from the courtyard, the better. Though Bessie knew the other way out of the kitchens, Niall did not. She couldn’t risk Bessie panicking, perhaps bumbling up the stairs, in front of everyone, dragging Niall into plain sight. She pushed the guard. She seized MacDougall’s arm. She turned on the tears. “How could you have?” she cried, careful not to tell the poor man what he’d done. The longer she avoided saying it, the longer before he insisted the prisoner was still there, the safer for Niall and Bessie. She berated him, browbeat him, begging God to forgive her, and drove him before her, the force of her anger swirling everyone in her wake, up the opposite stairs, to Duncan’s chambers.
Inverness, Present
Angus had a small home, one in a row of attached homes. As Amy’s thoughts jumped from her failure to find the flattened S to the news she had to give him, he opened his front door to reveal a house like her own. Stairs ran up on the left side, and a hallway raced back to the kitchen. Her eyes landed on the crucifix on the wall. Bisque-colored palms fanned out behind it. Pictures of Mary and Christ hung on either side of the fireplace in the living room. He’d never mentioned God or religion. He would, even more than other men, dislike learning she was pregnant, she thought with regret. She’d felt close to him in the tower, alive with possibilities—and hope. Telling him would end everything. She tore her eyes from the pictures. Her palms felt clammy. She strove to keep her voice light. “Something smells great. Did you make dinner?”
“Oh, well, no. I mean, I always put something on.” His ruddy cheeks turned a shade darker. “But I’ll take you out for a bite.”
“No, you don’t have to. It smells great. What is it?”
“A bit of a specialty of mine.” His concern relaxed into a smile. “Nothing fancy, now. I just threw some things in the slow cooker. Would you like a drink? What do you Americans do? Beer, wine, a cocktail?”
Her hand drifted to her stomach. “Water’s fine.” She smiled, touched at his eagerness to please, and feeling guiltier, still, because of it.
He led her down the short hall.
Behind him, her smile subsided. He was investing time in her, standing close, making meals. She had to tell him.
“Dinner.” Angus stepped aside, revealing a small kitchen. A round table, covered in a navy blue cotton cloth, frayed at the edges, held two place settings of beige stoneware plates, and dull, battered forks and knives. She bit her lip, holding back a smile. Shawn would have had fine linen, bone china, crystal, and silver, on his large mahogany table in his oversized dining room. He would have laughed this to scorn.
She liked it. It felt genuine.
She breathed in the smell of roast chicken, lemon, and pepper. “I didn’t know you cooked.” She didn’t volunteer that Shawn had loved to, also.
Angus beamed. “If a man’s going to eat, he may as well enjoy his food.” He glanced at the table. “I just threw an extra setting on, before I left, that’s all. Just in case. Sometimes my sister stops by.”
She smiled. “Does she?” Her stomach gave an odd little flutter. If Rose hadn’t assured her, his behavior did. Angus really liked her. Trying to get information wouldn’t leave him so flustered.
“Not that I don’t want you here,” he added hastily. “If she stops by, I’ll not kick you out.”
Amy laughed. He was as nervous as she was. Shawn would have a heyday watching the two of them. Nothing had ever made him nervous. But she had to tell him. Instead, putting off the moment she dreaded, she asked, “Do you want help with anything?”
He waved her off, already yanking the plug on the slow cooker and lifting the pot over to the trivet waiting on the table. He turned back, a quick step across the small room, and took a bowl of salad from the refrigerator. Seated, he bowed his head in quick prayer. When he finished, he heaped chicken and potatoes on her plate. They sent up curls of steam.
It was a lousy time to mention she was pregnant. She’d work it in during the meal, as they talked. She cleared her throat as she lifted her fork. “I’m at a disadvantage. You knew plenty about me before we ever met. Tell me about your family.”
“I’ve two parents, a sister, and a brother,” he said. “Eight years on the force.” She was right, she thought, in guessing he was eight to ten years older than her. “My life has not been so interesting as yours.”
She cocked her head. “You think my life is interesting?”
“Playing with an international orchestra, dating….” He stopped.
“Yeah, him.” She poked her fork into a potato, and took a bite. “Delicious. I told you I broke up with him. What I didn’t say is, it’s because he cheated and lied. It’s not interesting. It’s painful.”
His fork dropped to his plate with a soft chink. “I’m sorry.”
“His other antics got out. That part never did. Which makes me wonder if I’m crazy after all.”
His hand stretched across the small space between them, touching her fingers where they rested at the edge of her plate. “Is that why you said I might think you’re crazy?”
She frowned. “No.” Her words, on the drive to Creagsmalan, and in Glenmirril’s chapel, came back to her. She gave a nervous laugh and grabbed his explanation. “Yes. He always said I was seeing things.”
Across the table, Angus let out a breath. “Of course. It protected him. In eight years on the force, I’ve found women have a good instinct. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t speak ill of him.”
He was apologizing! Shame burned in her. While she withheld a thing like being pregnant, he was apologizing. She set her fork down. “Angus, I have to....”
The doorbell rang, a sharp peal. He swiped at his mouth with a napkin as he rose. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Bad timing.”
“No, it’s okay.” She laughed nervously. “Maybe it’s great timing.”
Several more thuds landed on the front door, and two young voices shouted, “Uncle Angus! Mam says sure you’re home but we can’t walk in this time!” Amy bit her lip, holding back a laugh. Color climbed up Angus’s cheeks. Without a word, he headed down the hall.
The door flew open. Two small boys and a large black lab burst in, enveloping Angus, jumping into his arms. The dog leapt up, woofing and licking his face. Amy watched from the doorway, smiling. Moments later, a bright voice rose above the din in the hallway. A dark-haired woman erupted from the crowd at the front door and rushed into the kitchen, hauling the boys with her. “You’re Amy!” She let go of one of the children to push a flop of dark curls out of her eyes. Before Amy knew it, she was wrapped in a warm embrace. “Oh, what beautiful hair!” She lifted a lock of the hair falling to Amy’s waist. “Angus did say so.”
“He did?” Pleasure flushed Amy’s cheeks. She looked to him.
Angus kept his eyes on the children jumping around his knees. One of them bumped into the kitchen table, rattling the plates and silverware. “Uncle Angus, have you sweets for us!”
“This is Mairi,” Angus managed to gasp as the children dug in his pockets, toppling him half off balance. He caught himself against the counter. “My wee and verra intrusive sister.” The dog woofed, wiggling through the forest of legs.
“It’s nice to meet you.” Over bouncing heads, Amy shook hands.
“Get out of there, you two,” Mairi scolded. “You’ve too much energy for this small kitchen!” Her cheeks were as ruddy as Angus’s. “Your Uncle Angus’ll not give candy to bold children. I’m sorry,” she said to Amy. She noted the half-eaten meal. “Angus, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You did indeed,” he said, but he sounded amused.
The dog woofed again, nosing Amy’s hand, till she scratched its ears.
“No, really,” Mairi insisted. “I just came to leave that magazine you wanted.” She handed it over the boys’ heads. Angus took it with one hand, while reaching in his pocket with the other, producing candy for the children.
They fell to tearing at the wrappers even while shouting a chorus of Thank you, Uncle Angus! as loud as the girls that used to scream for Shawn.
“Gavin and Hamish.” Angus introduced them to Amy. They smiled shyly and ducked behind his legs. The dog plunked itself on its rump, its tail swishing furiously across the floor. The younger boy’s hand reached back out, offering her his stick of hard candy, already sampled.
She squatted down, meeting his dark blue eyes, and accepted it. “Thank you. Are you Gavin or Hamish?”
“Hamish.” He ducked back behind Angus’s legs.
“Off with you now.” Mairi shooed them down the hall. “Go show Uncle Angus your new dog.” The boys yelled, their shyness forgotten, and raced ahead, dragging Angus, one on each hand. The dog bounded behind them, barking loudly.
The front door slammed, dropping silence around them. Mairi gripped Amy’s hands. “He did say you were lovely. Since Julia eight years ago, he’s dated a bit, but his heart was never in it. We’ve worried about him so, but he can’t stop talking about you. He’s the loveliest man, the kindest you’ll ever meet.”
“Yes, he’s....” Amy had no time to say more before the front door burst open again, Angus trying to enter as the boys and dog jumped in front of him.
“He’d give the shirt off his back!” The whirlwind that was Angus’s sister squeezed her hands, kissed her abruptly on each cheek, and hurried out after the boys calling, “Thank your uncle and tell Miss Amy it was nice to meet her.” And in the same flurry in which they’d arrived, they were gone. Amy was left with the sticky candy in her hand.
In the doorway, Angus grinned. “You needn’t eat it.”
She smiled. “It’s a shame she didn’t stay.”
“’Tis a verra good thing she didn’t stay. How much did she manage to tell you when she had her minions drag me out?” He put a hand on her shoulder, guiding her back to the table.
“You know her well.” Amy looked uncertainly at the candy in her hand before placing it on the plate beside her chicken. “She said you’re lovely and kind.” She paused. The issue of pregnancy burned on her mind. But so did Mairi’s comment about Julia. “You know all about my boyfriends. What about you?”
“I’ve had none,” he said.
She blinked, then laughed. “Girlfriends.”
He sat down. “One in high school, a couple in college. One a few years ago. I’ve dated a bit since then, but none struck my fancy.”
She pushed at her potatoes.
“She told you about Julia, didn’t she?”
“She mentioned the name.”
“Yes, well, I hope I don’t come across as less than honest. ’Twas a long time ago, sure. I suppose my family regard her as a bit like Shawn. She fell in love with someone else and didn’t like to hurt me.”
“She cheated on you.”
He shrugged. “’Tis no matter now. I’ve dessert when you’re done.”
Amy lifted her fork, her stomach resuming its churning with the need to tell him.
“Is the chicken not good?” he asked.
“It’s wonderful,” she said. “It’s just...I have to....”
The door bell rang. “That’s the last time I tell them anything,” Angus muttered. The door flew open before he reached it, and a short, barrel-chested man with thin brown hair burst in, wearing denim jeans and a dark blue t-shirt. “Angus!” He pumped his hand and slapped his arm. He peered over Angus’s shoulder, jumping at sight of Amy. “Why, you didn’t tell me you had company, or I’d not have burst in!”
“No doubt Mairi told you which is exactly why you burst in,” Angus grumbled. “Clive, Amy. Amy, me mate, Clive Chisolm.”
“We’ve met,” Amy said.
Clive pushed past Angus, taking Amy’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “A pleasure, Amy. And I do apologize if I seemed to be badgering you, at the hotel. I was only trying to do my job now, you know. Now it just so happens I brought a bottle of some very fine Scotch. Nice and smooth, aye?” He steered her into the front room, calling over his shoulder, “Angus, get us some glasses. Now, then.” He ushered Amy onto Angus’s leather couch. “Did you know Angus was on the telly just this past summer?” He seated himself beside Amy. “Has he shown you his awards? Has he told you about being written up in the paper?”
“No.” Angus came in with three glasses. “We were just after eating.” He glanced from the bottle in Clive’s hand to his watch. “I’d say the Scotch will last an hour and a bit, so is my brother scheduled to show up in two? Or do my parents come first?”
“Now, you’ve an awfully suspicious mind.” Clive took a glass and poured the Scotch, a smooth waterfall of amber. It reminded Amy of the crucifix in the chapel. Clive handed it to her, ignoring her protests. “Finest Scotch out there,” he said. “You should see Angus swim. He was awarded a medal....”
“’Tis my job.” Angus accepted a glass of Scotch. “Perhaps you’d like to hear what Amy does.”
“We know all about Amy. Why, didn’t we watch her come in with the orchestra on the telly just last June?”
Amy raised her eyebrows at Angus. “You watched me on TV?”
He sipped his drink, not meeting her eyes. “The telly was on at the station, that’s all.”
“And didn’t Angus look up when you and your man came through the gate and say, ‘Now there’s the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen.’”
“Amy was quite taken with Glenmirril’s crucifix,” Angus said loudly.
Amy smiled. Her thumb tucked under her fist, feeling the ring on her finger. “Very,” she said. “It’s stunning workmanship.”
“The woodworking equivalent of Angus’s rescue work,” Clive declared. “You’ve never seen such wind blow up on the loch, and out of nowhere. We got a call at the station, three boys out in it, and their mothers in a panic now, and the chief says, if it’s water, send MacLean.”
“And I did my job. Amy, you don’t like Scotch?”
“It’s fine,” Amy said.
“He was awarded a commendation,” Clive added. “D’ you mean to say he told you none of this?”
“Amazingly, I did not.” Angus set his glass on the end table. “Thanks for stopping by. Let my brother know we’re going for a drive, so he’ll be ringing the bell on an empty house. Help yourself to dinner if you like, and there are some movies on the shelf there.”
Tucking her mouth down against the laughter bubbling up, Amy took Angus’s outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you when you’re not a police officer, Clive,” she said, and followed Angus into the cool night.
Creagsmalan, 1314
Niall rose early, too agitated to sleep. Yesterday’s hammering of the gallows had echoed through his nightmares, jarring him awake as he dreamed of jolting to the end of a rope. Today, he left his dank, cold prison and the rats, by low road or high. He tried to pray; worries preyed on him instead. His restless mind leapt from one fear to another. What if...what if...what if?
He paced the small cell, told himself the guard did not need unusual activity to alert him, and forced himself to his knees. He wanted his crucifix to calm his mind; he prayed for Allene, hating the thought of her left alone, grieving. Anger flashed up in him, like the Beltaine fires high in the hills, flaring to life in an instant, crackling and burning. He’d been promised her hand in marriage, and one thing after another had prevented it. He wanted, at least, to die having known all the love between them, maybe with a child to carry on his name and memory. He vowed if he got out of this, there would be no more delays. None.
With fiery claws of anger digging in his gut, he tried to slow his breathing. He pushed his thoughts to praying for Amy and her child who would not be born for seven hundred years. It helped. He took a steadying breath, and prayed for Bessie, murmuring over and over, “Grant her courage, My Lord, please! Grant her courage!”
He rose again, felt his legs tremble, and added, “Please, I need courage, too.” His heart cried out to see and touch Allene one more time. “Please, God, just let me see her!”
The tiny bit of the world outside the grates turned gray. Mist hovered beyond the bars. A pair of feet and a sapphire skirt swished at the grate. “All will be well,” Christina’s throaty voice breathed down, and she hurried by. He clung to the hope. Anything could go wrong.
He prayed Aves and Paters and Glorias while the mist outside turned from gray to pink, and finally white as the sun rose higher. He wrapped his two cloaks around him, determined to be ready, and peered through the bars on the door to see the guard snoozing peacefully. Squinting, he made out a flattened wineskin by the man’s feet. Hope struggled higher, a weak flicker in the shadow of his anger of moments ago. The wineskin had been Bessie’s job. Though a small thing, it helped the overall picture. More importantly, Christina had hoped, it would give Bessie courage to see she could do one small thing.
A voice beckoned him back to the grate. Ellen pressed her peaked face against it, forcing biscuits and a wineskin through. “A dozen ladies are in the chapel praying for you, Fionn,” she whispered. Her voice trembled, tottering on the edge of tears. “It must come aright.” She reached down thin fingers to touch his, her head pressed against the bars. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Go pray with them, Ellen,” he finally told her, though he hated to be left alone. When she had gone, he ate and drank, despite the stone in his stomach. He must have strength. He thought of Allene, of her angry words to him, only months ago in the tower, telling him how awful the waiting was. He knew now. He understood, helpless here in the dark, with nothing to do but wait, blind and deaf to events unfolding outside. He crossed himself. “My Lord, my God, forgive my impatience with her. I didn’t understand.” He wanted to wrap her in his arms, apologize, and swear he’d never again be angry with her, if he could just get out of this and marry her as they’d planned for so long.
A clattering rose, far from his small window, a far-off stampeding of hooves on cobblestone. He ran to the door. The guard still slept. All the better. He crossed himself, begging, “My Lord, give Bessie courage.” From outside came shouting, a woman screaming, a man bellowing. Hair prickled the back of Niall’s neck. He gripped the bars and peered through. The guard slept on. From the street, the voices grew louder. “To arms!” someone shouted. Townspeople yelled. A flurry of feet raced past his cell window. Niall paced, trying to out-walk the frosty grip of nerves.
Another several agonizing minutes, every muscle taut, and he heard the voice he’d waited for, a man bellowing down the hall for the jailer. Niall backed up against the wall next to the door, out of sight, in case they looked in. He swallowed, forcing himself to stand still, begging, God, don’t let him check the cell. The guard mumbled, yelled back.
“I’ve no notion what’s wrong!” the first voice shouted. Niall pressed himself more tightly against the wall. “Milady’s in a rage and wants ye ten minutes ago. Move!” The sound of feet running through the dark hall buoyed his heart. He spun, knowing he shouldn’t touch the door, and gave it a sharp rattle of desperation, anyway. He strained to see through the torch-lit flickering shadows of the hall. The guard was gone! He gave the bars another hard shake, knowing he should stay back, too desperate and scared to do what he should. “Bessie!” he hissed into the empty hall. “Let me out!”
The hall remained silent and empty.