Chapter Eleven

There was no doubt in Megan’s mind that Em Heatherington suspected Amelia of being the thief. The idea was preposterous, of course, but Megan had no choice but to recall the horrific moment when she herself had entertained the very same possibility not that long ago. Her legs gave way when she realized the seriousness of the present situation and she landed with a soft thump on the arm of the couch. She had to do something. Amelia obviously was in no condition to speak. Her desperate clutching of Gordon’s hand was turning the poor man’s flesh white. In the weighty silence that followed, Megan composed a line of defensive questions.

When she began, her voice was little more than a scared quiver. "Do you seriously believe my godmother capable of stealing The Rock Of Ages? Precisely how did she manage it? Tell me that."

Em clasped her hands behind her tweed skirt. "We have come to look upon this particular crime as a "Switch Act". Someone, probably in your godmother’s circle of acquaintances or employ in some form on another, would have acted as an accomplice. Yourself, for instance."

"Me?" Megan gasped. "You think...I...that I...?" Unable to ask any more of her formulated questions, she simply stared at the lunatic of a woman from the Triple I agency.

"Yes. You. Or someone like you," continued Em. "Trustworthy, reliable, intelligent. Close enough to the true genius behind the crime to be depended upon implicitly. You gave yourselves away, you know."

Megan knew her cheeks were a flaming shade of furious red. "What are you talking about?"

Em smiled benevolently and Megan itched to smack her, maybe hard enough to knock that bluebird of happiness off her lapel. Em took a deep breath. "Well, you made a special trip to Edinburgh, at quite the expense considering your financial situation. We, at Triple I, know everything about the people we are investigating. So, while in Edinburgh you just happen to visit the Museum of Antiquities where, lo and behold, the priceless Rock Of Ages happens to be on exhibition. And you came out in the very worst of weather. Raining, wasn’t it?"

Megan swallowed. This woman did know everything. Or thought she did. "So, it was raining. That doesn’t mean anything."

"Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t," said Em. "But what does mean something is that Amelia deliberately reached out and touched the glass case, setting off the alarm."

"But neither of us touched the Rock," argued Megan. "The glass case wasn’t even moved. You are all so terribly wrong about this."

"We don’t think so." Em picked up the Rock. "By setting of the alarm, you created a bit of a scene. All the attention became riveted on the glass case and not on the two of you."

Megan glared balefully at Em. "This is ridiculous! The curator himself escorted us away from the case."

"And where," asked Em with a pause between her words for effect, "did he take you?"

Megan’s eyes narrowed at the woman’s pretend ignorance. She likely very well knew the answer but Megan said, "Out. He escorted us out."

"Think again," said Em, bending down to stick her face into Megan’s. "Are you sure?"

Megan closed her eyes, rewinding her memory. "Well, he showed us the table where we could purchase the replica." She pointed to the Rock in Em’s fingers. "And we...Amelia bought that replica."

Em’s expression was smug. "That’s where the switch happened."

Megan’s temper exploded and she jumped to her feet, pushing past Em to stand in the middle of the room, arms folded. "I have no idea what you’re trying to say but I don’t like it one bit. What switch?"

"We reckon Miss Amelia here, and therefore you, know exactly what happened next," said Em. "But since you insist on playing this little game, I’ll tell you. Amelia only pretended to buy a copy."

"She did not pretend," snarled Megan. "Her records show payment of one hundred and twenty pounds on that day to the Edinburgh Museum of Antiquities."

Em’s eyebrows shot up. With deliberate slowness, she pulled Amelia’s cheque out of her tweed jacket pocket. "Yes. And here it is. However, it is our theory that she did not buy a replica. She bought the real Rock Of Ages. And she knew she had. It was all planned."

"What?" Megan couldn’t believe what stupidity, what nonsense Em Heatherington continued to spout. "Amelia! Say something! It sounds like you...like we are being...I don’t know...framed or set up. Tell this...this person...that the Triple I is wrong. Say something!"

"No," put in Gordon. "Amelia, don’t say a single thing. We’ll get you a lawyer."

Amelia’s lips quivered. Her eyes filled with tears and she began to sob. Stunned, Megan couldn’t move. Her godmother’s refusal to speak screamed her guilt, a guilt Megan could not bring herself to accept.

Megan cast questioning eyes at Gordon. "What’s your role in all this insanity? What’s your connection to the Triple What’s-it?"

Gordon released Amelia’s hand and came to stand before Megan. He reached into his coat, flipped his red scarf out of the way, and withdrew a small black pouch. "Police. Detective Inspector Lloyd Gordon."

Megan stared at the badge. Her brain railed against this latest piece of information. "You’re not a retired school teacher?" Her rising panic began to cut off her air supply and she felt herself getting lightheaded. "And I let you...you were in my house! You lied to us. Oh, I get it. You were sent here to spy on us, weren’t you? That’s despicable. How could you? And you still think we’re capable of stealing? After all the kindness we’ve shown you. You’re buying into this?"

He had the decency to lower his eyes. Megan turned on Em.

"I know from my research—."

Em interrupted. "Ah, yes. Your research. Very good cover that. Pretending you’re writing articles on ancient treasures. So of course you’d know all about which holy relic would be where at what time, find out it’s black market worth, and so on."

Megan couldn’t stop the hysterical laugh that escaped her lips. "This is incredible. How you people twist things around to suit your own means. Incredible! I was going to say that from my research I read that there were ten replicas made. I understand that those ten replicas had differences from the original. Perhaps you’d be kind enough," she drawled sarcastically, "to show me the differences, or lack thereof, on the one Amelia bought that day."

"With pleasure." Em motioned for Megan to join her at the desk where the natural light was better. "There is only one difference. Right here on the crown of thorns. Would you care to hazard a guess as to how many thorns there are?"

Megan felt a small surge of rebellious pride. "Sixteen. I counted them myself just the other day."

Em’s eyes lit up. "You have done your research, haven’t you? Very good. Well, my dear, on the replicas there should only be fifteen. Now, do you understand the dilemma you and Amelia are in?"

Megan rubbed her forehead. "I don’t understand. You’re telling me this is the original Rock Of Ages? It’s been here all the time? How did this happen?" She looked beseechingly at her godmother. "Help me understand, Amelia? Do you know how?"

Amelia’s sobs grew louder. Megan’s dismay mingled with her anger and confusion. She faced Marguerite Heatherington but pointed at Amelia. "She bought a replica from a table in a busy lobby. The curator was not more than a few feet away. If, and I say if, she did come home with the original it had to have been an accident. Someone in the museum goofed up somewhere along the way and put the original on the table thinking it was a fake." Megan reached for the telephone. "I’m going to call my lawyer. And Colin Spence. Him, I trust."

Em’s index finger came down forcefully on the hook switch cutting off the dial tone. "I wouldn’t bother. Sergeant Spence already knows all about it."

Megan replaced the receiver. She willed herself to breathe deeply and then asked, "Are we under arrest?"

At that Amelia let out a great wail. "Oh, I can’t," she said, getting up from the couch. "I can’t do this anymore. Megan, I’m so sorry. You should know everything?"

Gordon caught her mid-stride. "I don’t think that’s a good idea."

Amelia straightened her back. "Then I won’t continue this masquerade. It’s becoming cruel. I won’t do it. I’ll back out. Leave you to your own deviousness. Look, just look at how this is torturing my darling Megan."

Megan felt like her head would burst. She no longer knew what questions to ask. It was her turn to sink onto the couch.

Amelia knelt before her. "Can you forgive me?"

Megan drew back in horror. "You mean, you really did steal The Rock Of Ages?"

"No, she didn’t." It was Em’s voice that broke through Megan’s rapidly disintegrating self-control. "Let’s all just relax now, shall we? And be quiet. I need to think."

Being quiet was not a problem for Megan. She was too busy wishing she could read Amelia’s mind. How could she ever get herself so mixed up and messed up? This was her worst antic yet. Megan couldn’t even begin to understand it.

"The only true connections Amelia has to this whole charade," said Gordon, matter-of-factly, "are that she did got to school with my sister, Anne, and that she was in Edinburgh where she purchased The Rock Of Ages."

"Purchased," emphasized Megan. "Not stole. And why are you contradicting your story?"

Em placed her hands under Amelia’s elbows and guided her gently to the nearest armchair. "Your godmother was getting stage fright."

"Stage fright?" echoed Megan. "Look here. If someone doesn’t come clean and tell me what’s going on, I’m going to scream!"

Em sat beside Megan. "We didn’t want to involve you, dear, really we didn’t. We felt we had enough players on the stage already. But Amelia here was beginning to bow under the strain. We needed to test our little ruse, our trick to foil the criminal. You see, how shall I put it, we know the real thief is hot on the trail of The Rock Of Ages. It is quite possible he is on Arran already, just biding their time. He or she is likely to have staged the switch in Edinburgh, planting the real Rock in some unsuspecting tourist’s bag, that is removing the replica. The tourist would never know the difference. It isn’t common knowledge that there are only fifteen thorns on the copies."

"But anyone with the Internet can see a perfect picture of the Rock," said Megan, her stomach unknotting slowly, her foggy brain clearing.

"You’re on the Net, then?" asked Em, the bright eyes registering approval.

Gordon added, "Yes, she got hooked up just the other day."

"So," Em went on, "you’ve no doubt seen the police bulletin, with its orange square."

Megan nodded. "It didn’t say much. Just that there were differences between the real and the fake Rocks."

"Good, good," exclaimed Em. "The plan is working well. And you could count the number of thorns off the computer screen, I hope?"

Megan thought about the Ogham script. "Yes, and did you know about—."

But Em seemed bent on her own course. "Oh, this is excellent. I love modern technology. This thief is very smart. Highly educated, maybe even gifted. He’ll be tracking the Rock down through all possible means, including the world of the computer. He’ll be aware of the fifteen thorns because he’ll have studied the ones on the table in the museum as well as the real one." Her eyes took on a distant look as she voiced her thoughts. "The thing I find most amazing, and extremely annoying, is that he could well have been in the museum at the same time as Megan, Amelia, plus our best agents, and a whole swarm of policemen and still slipped out of our net. We’ll get him now, though. I can taste it. We’re close. My gut reaction is that he’s nearby."

Gordon beamed. "Em has a nose for this stuff. It’s always a pleasure working with her."

"Thank you, Gordie," Em replied. She turned to Megan. "This is where you and Amelia come in. We were going to try to carry out our little subterfuge with only Amelia but, well..." She took a dramatic breath. "It will be up to the two of you to make sure that as many people as possible find out you possess The Rock Of Ages. They must however believe you think it is only a replica. Hold meetings with your guests in here with the Rock prominently on display in the cabinet just as before. Invite new acquaintances in to this room for tea or a drink. That sort of thing. All very casual. The thief will definitely show up if he hasn’t already. Watch for anything suspicious. Report everything to me. Or Gordie. Or Sergeant Spence. But don’t tell anyone else about this." She made a circle with her finger indicating the intimate players, Gordon, Amelia, Megan and herself. "And don’t, for heaven’s sake, confront him in any way. We don’t want to lose him this time. This criminal is one of the best. We’ve been all over the world after him at one time or another. Some of the stolen treasures fortunately have been returned to their rightful places but he eludes us. A brilliant mind."

Megan screwed up her face to show what she thought of the plan. "Won’t the thief just walk in and steal it then? I mean, what’s to stop him from chucking a brick through the glass door of the cabinet and disappearing into the night?"

Em shook her head. "Not his style. Not one of the riff-raff burglars. No ma’am. Never breaks anything, other than locks on occasion. Never takes anything other than exactly what he’s after. Very classy operator. No, this one won’t arrive in the middle of the night with a sack and a flashlight. Chances are the ordinary person wouldn’t even know they’d been robbed until a few days after. I’ve known him to lift precious gems from highly secure vaults and nobody’s had a clue until the wife demands to wear the family emeralds at Christmas or some such thing."

Megan found the topic fascinating, or she would have if it had been happening to someone else, in a distant country far away from her lovely island of Arran. "He sounds like some James Bond nemesis."

Em nodded. "A good comparison."

Gordon heaved a weary sigh. "Well, if we’re finished our practice run, I could use a drink."

"Hang on a minute," cried Megan angrily, getting to her feet. "I’m having just a teeny bit of trouble with all this. You’re telling me that what happened here a few minutes ago was a kind of rehearsal? You put me through that dreadful experience as an exercise. I find that inexcusable. Isn’t anyone even going to apologize?"

"Oh, we’re all very, very sorry," added Em. She sounded anything but sorry. "But sometimes these things are necessary. Had to eliminate you from our list of possibilities, Megan. And you are eliminated. Don’t worry. All in a day’s work, wouldn’t you say, Gordon?"

"Not every day, thank goodness," he replied.

Em put the Rock in its stand. "Let’s get this precious commodity back in the cabinet." And she stood back to allow Amelia to turn the key in the lock. Amelia slipped the key into her pocket as always.

So, thought Megan as a sunbeam glanced off a golden serpent, that is the real Rock Of Ages. Unbelievable. Megan had a whole new appreciation for Amelia’s preoccupation with keeping the cabinet locked and always making sure she got the key back. And for her godmother’s battle with the growing stress.

Gordon leaned close to Megan. "Em’s the best. We have to trust her methods even if they seem a bit odd."

"Odd?" screeched Em as she turned from the cabinet and ushered everyone from the room. "We’ll see who’s odd after a few double gins."

Megan couldn’t bring herself to traipse leisurely over to the bar with the same apparent ease as Gordon and Em. Even Amelia managed one of her tinkling little laughs as she ordered a drink.

The emotional trauma of the last hour threatened to overcome Megan. She needed time alone to process everything that Gordon and Marguerite Heatherington had divulged. She let her gaze linger on the patrons. Every customer in the lounge could be the thief, a criminal, albeit with a brilliant mind, but a criminal nonetheless. She shivered at the notion, suddenly uncomfortable in the friendly atmosphere of The Monk’s Hood which she’d always thought of as her second home.

She went through the swinging doors into the dimly lit kitchen, intent on making herself a mug of hot chocolate. Francois was finished for the night and likely in bed. Rory, Marion and Jean had left everything ready for the morning. The sounds of the lounge diminished. Unlike during the day when it was the most productive room in the hotel, the kitchen was blessedly peaceful and quiet. She took a few seconds to let the stillness settle around her, to shut her eyes and bring her nerves into some semblance of calm.

As her body relaxed, her brain came up the image and the name of Ben Scofield. Flashes of moments in time snapped and fired in her over-stimulated mind. Why was he so interested in her article on the Rock Of Ages anyway? Why had he inspected the Rock so closely in Amelia’s office that day, and blanched visibly as he held it in his hand? Wasn’t he also a computer genius? And intelligent, charming, well-spoken?

Megan slid down the side of the upright freezer until she sat on the floor. Her worst fears and suspicions were becoming her awful reality. Ben, her magnificent Ben, was nothing more than a classy burglar, hunted ferociously by police all over the world. She moaned and hugged her knees to her chest.

One last image erased any lingering hope that she was wrong. A small piece of paper on which had been scribbled some letters. COTXV. She knew what it meant now, with terrifying certainty. Crown Of Thorns, fifteen. Ben had known all along.

Megan wondered what she should do. She did, after all, still have to get her key back. The key! She moaned again. What a dope! What an easy mark she had been. She’d taken him to Cameronia, with all its treasures and artifacts. No wonder his eyes had popped out of his head when he’d walked in. By retaining the key, he could’ve returned to Lochranza at any time, taken whatever he pleased. And because, as Em said, he didn’t break anything or steal anything other than his prime object, Megan realized she wouldn’t have had a clue when she’d inspected the cottage this morning, if Ben had helped himself or not.

She would tell Gordie and Em right away. Filled with vengeful energy she scrambled to her feet, ready to re-enter the lounge, but when faced with the possibility of turning Ben in, she discovered she wasn’t ready. The memory of his kisses stopped her. She felt betrayed by the remembrance of warmth and strength of his touch, the smell of his aftershave, the honesty of his soul as she’d seen it on his face.

"Well, that was the ultimate con job," she snarled to herself as she went to the fridge. "Boy, was I taken in! Em was right. He’s good. Brilliant in fact."

She’d have that hot chocolate and then approach the Chief Inspector and the best nose in the Triple I agency, Marguerite Heatherington. Going to the fridge, Megan poured milk from a bottle into a saucepan, set it on the stove and was about to turn on the heat when the swinging door creaked, causing her to leap in fright.

"Sorry, I startled you. You came in here quite a while ago and didn’t come out. I wondered if you were okay which you seem to be. You wanted to talk to me?"

Megan recognized Ben’s voice coming from the dark figure in the doorway. Panic gripped her but in spite of everything she now knew about him, she was still not afraid of him. He could have easily harmed her during any of the times they’d been together. And he hadn’t. Her fear was in the confusion brought on by his sudden appearance. As she was no longer sure how to act in his presence, she gave into her instinct. That and her abject need to hear him hang himself with his own words.

"I found out something very interesting today," she began, amazed at how calm her voice sounded, and how distant, as though she was someone else.

"Really?" he said, coming to her side. "About the Rock Of Ages?"

Those powerful ripples he exuded wrapped around her. She steeled herself against them. "Yes. I discovered a pattern in the crown of thorns." She didn’t dare look at him. "There are sixteen thorns but when you stretch the crown out in a straight line it is easy to see the design is not in keeping with the precision of the others. The thorns form letters from the Ogham script. Do you know what that is?"

He answered without hesitation. "An ancient linear form of the written language used by the Celts. That’s incredible. What does it say?"

She took a few steps sideways, putting the table between them. "S-I-B-H-E-L."

He let out an enthusiastic, "All right! That proves it then. Sibhel created The Rock Of Ages. A woman in the midst of all those men. Surely The Tablet will back that up. And won’t that knowledge raise the already high value of The Rock to new heights. What an article you’re going to have!"

Ben moved quickly around the table and caught her in his arms. Knowing she would be lost if she lingered against his broad chest, she pushed him away. No small feat for his muscles were like iron. "What’s wrong?" he asked. "You don’t seem too happy or excited."

"I’m tired, that’s all," she said, and she wasn’t lying. "It has been a bad day."

His enthusiasm remained undaunted. "I’m so glad you wanted to tell me about the thorns. I was real worried you hated me, or something. Does this mean you’re okay with us being friends for the remainder of my stay on Arran?"

Megan didn’t even try to control the wry laughter that exploded from her throat. "No, it doesn’t mean that at all. I hadn’t actually planned to tell you anything about the Crown of Thorns. I wanted to ask you to give me back my key to Cameronia."

He smiled sheepishly. "I returned it this evening. I hope you don’t mind."

"You were at my house this evening," she said through tight lips. "When I wasn’t home?"

Megan reminded herself that this man, however devastatingly handsome he may look, was a consummate actor.

"I’d forgotten I had it," he said, with a shrug of his wide shoulders which all but blocked off her escape route through the swinging doors. "Marion probably told you I rented a car today. It was a pretty beat-up old piece of metal. The darn thing broke down at a place called Lagg. Got the lads from Greg’s to tow the beater in. They gave me a newer model. But first I had to catch a ride which came along soon enough. The guy let me off just outside of Whiting Bay. That’s when I shoved my hands in my pocket and found the key and figured it probably belonged to you. I had to walk right by your house anyway and you weren’t home."

"You were in my house?"

"I just—."

"Stop. I don’t want to hear!"

"But, if you’ll—."

Megan felt invaded, violated. Ben Scofield, dangerous man, international criminal mastermind, had been in her house! She would have to buy a deadbolt first thing in the morning. No, she wouldn’t, she argued internally, because by then Colin Spence would have Ben behind bars. Her innocent part, and that of Amelia in Ben’s whole twisted scheme sickened her.

"Get out of this kitchen," she hissed. "Get out and leave me alone."

He reached for her. "Megan, have I done something wrong? I’m sorry about the key."

"Don’t touch me!" She found herself backed against the sink. "I don’t need your apologies. I don’t need your kind of friendship."

He did not come towards her but his words were clipped. "What do you mean by my kind of friendship? Are you talking about how you think I’m not answering your questions?"

"We could start with that, but I don’t want to know anything about you," she retorted. "Not now. Not anymore."

He did not stop her as she stepped around him. "Look, I truly am sorry about the key. I hate upsetting you."

"Oh, you’re good. You are really good," she said unable to believe his unmitigated gall. "I’d like you to get out before I scream for Archie."

"If you don’t mind me saying so," he said, following her to the swinging doors, "I think you’re over reacting."

"Over-reacting!" She pushed the door open for him to leave. She made sure her voice was icy cool and bitter and threateningly low. "Believe me, buster, I’m hardly reacting at all. So, do us both a favor and steer clear of me from now on."

He paused in the doorway. "I’ll be happy to avoid you. Coming into contact with you, Miss Cameron, is probably the worst thing that could ever happen to me at this time. I can’t wait to get off this horizon-less island and away...from you."

Megan was aware of the staring, surprised faces of the customers as well as those of Em, Amelia and Gordon, as Ben marched through the lounge.

Gordon called out. "Ben! Come join us!"

Ben’s voice lay heavily in the air. "Not for me, Gordon. Thanks all the same." He took the stairs two at a time without so much as a fleeting glance over his shoulder.

Furious, Megan returned to the silver and black of the kitchen. She poured the milk down the drain and flung the pot across the room. It landed on the metal counter with a deafening clank.

But she didn’t care. All she felt was misery. Misery in the knowledge that she’d been soundly duped. Misery in the realization that she’d likely never see him again. Misery when she acknowledged he was a crook and not worth the agony. Misery in the painful shattering of her romantic illusions. Misery in her loneliness.

Amelia crept in and wrapped her arms around Megan.

"It’s your fault," Megan cried, shrugging off the hug. "Ben and me. Everything. Why did you have to get yourself tangled up in this insane investigation? Our lives were going along just fine. We didn’t need this sort of bizarre excitement. You have no idea how badly this whole fiasco has hurt me. If you’d stayed out of it, none of this would’ve happened. No Rock Of Ages, no Gordon and Marguerite, and most of all, no Ben Scofield."

Megan didn’t know why she stopped short of revealing the fact that she believed Ben was the thief. It was as though the words wouldn’t form themselves, wouldn’t allow her to utter them.

Amelia tried once more to embrace Megan. "He’s a lovely man, darling. I’ve been trying to get you to see that. I’ve noticed how he looks at you."

Megan held up her hands to stop Amelia’s advance. "Don’t! Please don’t say another word. There is nothing between myself and that lovely man and there never will be. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home."

"Wait. There’s something you should—."

Megan hauled open the back door. "Good night. And don’t worry. I’ll be back here at work in the morning."

The back door slammed behind her cutting off whatever Amelia had been trying to say. Megan’s tears spilled onto her cheeks where they mingled with the light drizzle. The beam from the Holy Isle lighthouse swung its arc through the misty clouds illuminating the rain droplets that for the fleeting moment resembled a curtain of tiny glass beads.

Megan trudged up the road to her house, uncaringly aware of the moisture soaking into her hair and clothes. With any luck, she thought with a sniff, I’ll catch pneumonia and have to stay in bed for a week. Then if Em’s right, all this mess will be over by the time I’m well again. She wished that she hadn’t told Amelia she’d be at work in the morning. It would’ve been nice to remain beneath her covers until news reached her that Ben had been caught. It would’ve been nice to be away from the scene of the crime and from seeing him in handcuffs. But, she realized with jolt, it won’t be because of me. I can’t turn him in. I love him. Despite everything, I love him. I just have to find a way to get over him.

She paused at her gate and waited for the lighthouse beam to swing around. It came through the mist, bringing with it thoughts of the Holy Isle, Ben’s arms and lips. It carried in its light the memory of him standing like a sentinel, facing the sea. Fresh tears blurred her sight of the spot on the beach where she had listened to him tell of his childhood and where he had draped his arm across her shoulders and worried if she was warm enough. It had been Ben who had unknowingly shown her the deeper meaning behind her father’s water and rock riddle. Ben was the rock and she, herself, was the water. The ripples would go on for eternity. But at least water covered back in on itself, reformed its outer layer, eventually returning to its calm, unbroken surface. The idea comforted her only a little.

She approached her house with a certain amount of trepidation and tentatively pushed her hand against the door. Ben had been in earlier that evening. What would she discover to be missing, if anything? She shivered. Had he snooped in all her drawers as she had seen burglars do on television? Had he rifled through all her undies? Or assessed each of her possessions to deem them good enough to filch?

The unlocked door swung slowly open on its creaky hinges. She reached around and flipped on the light switch. On her initial quick inspection, everything seemed untouched. But it would, she thought, wouldn’t it? She’d have to take a very close look or else she’d not be able to settle down for the night. She bent to remove her shoes.

There on the floor, wedged between the door jamb and the mat, was a square of yellow lined paper. She picked it up, opened it and caught something as it almost fell out. A key! Her key to Cameronia!

Megan withered inside. Two inches would be too tall for how she felt when she recognized the fact that Ben had slipped the key under the door. He had not been in her house when she hadn’t been home. The Ben she loved would never be so intrusive. She gave herself a mental shake. The man was a wanted criminal.

Rain dripped from her hair onto the paper. She held it from her to prevent it from getting any more wet, and read what Ben had written in his big scrawling letters.

On fair Lochranza streamed the early day,

thin wreaths of cottage smoke are upward curl’d

From the lone hamlet, which her inland bay

And circling mountains sever from the World.

The sun ere he sunk behind Ben Ghoil, the mountain of the wind,

gave his grim peaks a greeting kind and bade Lochranza smile.

(by Sir Walter Scott, from The Lord of the Isles)

Megan turned her tear-filled eyes to the ceiling. "He knows poetry, too. Not just poetry in general but Scottish poetry! How can this be happening to me? It’s not fair. It’s not fair."

She made her way to her bathroom where she hauled off her wet clothes without letting go of either the key or the poem. She read it and reread before putting both on the cistern and stepping into the shower.

Two words stuck in her mind. ‘Ben’ and ‘mountain’. Ben meant mountain in Scottish dialect. Her Ben was more like a mountain than a lighthouse, she decided as she lathered the shampoo into her hair. A strong, solid, dependable rock. Maybe if she worked hard enough on this thought, the other Ben, the thief, would disintegrate and, after Marguerite Heatherington had dragged him off the island, Megan would be left with her own image of Ben Scofield. The man who was her mountain, her rock.

As the hot water poured over her chilled body, she dwelled on the emotion that was love. Love itself was a kind of rock. And people had been searching for hundreds of years for the true meaning of love, believing love to be something almost concrete, something they could build on, while encasing it tenderly within all things beautiful. The hymn Rock Of Ages was often sung in the church Megan attended. A lovely, moving piece of music with strong words that stirred the heart.

Megan turned off the water, dried her body and wrapped her hair in a towel, before buttoning on her cozy pink flannel nightgown.

Strange how love, religion, and rocks were often tied together. Megan found her mind reaching deep within itself. A bubble of knowledge floated in the darkness. Waiting for her. She could almost see her hand stretching out, and the bubble coming to rest in her palm. An insight. The knowledge that Sibhel not only loved God. She also loved Molaise, the man behind the saint. That is why she created and had The Rock Of Ages made. What a romantic story!

Megan held the paper and the key more reverently than she had before, reading the words of Sir Walter Scott aloud and stopping at ‘Ben’ and ‘mountain’.

Everything ran together in her mind. The Rock Of Ages, Ben’s smiles, his eyes, his touch, and she knew Ben could be her very own Rock Of Ages. If only!

Megan curled up on her bedspread and wept until she thought her heart would break.