by Karen Ranney
“I’m in the passage!”
Not one person turned to look toward the fireplace.
“I’m here!”
Another minute of banging on the door brought the realization that she wouldn’t be heard in the Clan Hall. But she could make her way back to the larder. There was a small door below the bottom shelf. Granted, she would have to crawl on her hands and knees, but she didn’t care. Right now, she very much wanted to be out of the passages however it was accomplished.
She turned back the way she’d come, following the passage as it sloped downward. The closer she came to the kitchen, the more she could smell the food they’d served tonight. Smells of salmon, claret-cooked beef, shortbread, cottage pie, and Gairloch cake, a confection filled with fruit and nuts, flavored the air.
Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten.
The moment she entered the larder, she’d prepare a plate for herself.
She felt the wooden framework of the door and slowly slid to her knees, all the while conscious of her pounding head. Blood had dried on her cheek, and it itched. She hadn’t used this door since she was a child, but the mechanism was the same.
Reaching for the latch, she pulled at it with all her strength. When it didn’t budge, she braced her shoulder against the door and pushed.
Nothing happened.
Too late, she recalled that they’d moved the barrels of flour and salted fish against the door. Sheer force would not open it.
What was she going to do if she couldn’t open one of the doors? What if she couldn’t get out?
Shona Imrie, calm down. She had at least eight more doors to try. Surely they couldn’t all be broken.
But was that the right word? It felt as if they’d been damaged on purpose, as if someone really didn’t want her to escape.
Had Miriam done this? Had the American woman not forgiven her after all, and this was some horrid joke at her expense? Was Miriam going to release her after a few hours when she was suitably chastened?
Miriam could release her right at the moment and she’d be grateful. She was cold, hungry, and didn’t like being in the secret passages when they were so dark.
But she was not going to cry. She was an Imrie.
Oh bother that. When had being an Imrie ever given her an advantage? When had being herself ever given her an advantage?
Shona Imrie, proud and arrogant. Look at Shona now, on her knees, fighting back tears. She pressed her hand against the clan brooch. Her heart and her head hurt. Her heart because of what she’d said and done. Her head because of someone else.
The dark, dank silence stretched until Shona could hear only the booming of her heart, its rhythm oddly worrying. Was it beating too loudly, too fiercely? Was it going to stop in fright?
For pity’s sake, Shona, you’re an Imrie. Be a little more courageous. But she couldn’t see anything, and courage was infinitely easier in the sunlight.
Something filmy and sticky touched her face and she impatiently brushed it away. She didn’t mind spiders, actually, as long as she could see them. Right now, she couldn’t see anything.
Wasn’t there a torch at each door? What did it matter when she had no matches?
She made her way down the passage, realizing that she was so disoriented that she wasn’t certain exactly where she was. Sitting down on the dirt floor, she drew up her knees.
Two choices faced her—to wait until morning when she was bound to be discovered, or find her way to the door to the loch. The journey was so familiar that she should be able to do it even in the darkness.
The idea of waiting wasn’t appealing at all, especially since she was growing colder by the moment.
“Where are you going, Anne?”
A shudder traveled through her.
Slowly, she turned and faced her husband. Magnus stood holding a torch, the passage door closed behind him.
“With a pack and your best dress on, and your hair fixed as it was the day we wed. Where are you going, Anne?”
“What are you doing here, Magnus?” she asked.
He advanced on her, his thin, cruel smile warning enough.
“Where are you going, Anne?”
“Why do you care?”
“You’re leaving with him, aren’t you?”
Once, he’d been a handsome man, but cruelty had marred his features, making them sharper. “Brian, the piper. The one man who owed me nothing but friendship.”
“He’s your friend, Magnus.”
“What kind of friend steals my wife?”
She was not his to steal. She wasn’t his possession, like his horse or his sword, but saying such things to Magnus would only result in a blow. Her husband cared little for her, except as a vessel for his seed, or a mare to bear his children. Once her duty was done, he’d discarded her.
“You’ll not leave me, Anne.”
He grabbed her arm, but not tightly. Such kindness was not like him.
“Where are you meeting him?”
When she didn’t speak, he shook her. “Tell me.”
“I’ll stay with you, Magnus. Just leave him alone.”
“How sad you sound, Anne. Do you love him so much?”
She knew better than to answer that.
“Where, Anne?” His grip was tighter, and his smile had disappeared.
She shook her head, then closed her eyes when he twisted her arm behind her.
“Tell me.”
She would hold out as long as she could. Hopefully, Brian would wait for her only so long. When she didn’t come, would he return to Rathmhor? Or would he leave, as he’d planned?
Please, God, she thought, make him leave before she told Magnus that he was waiting for her at the end of the passage, where the door opened to Loch Mor.
By the time Magnus carried her, broken and bleeding, through the passages and into the cave, Anne no longer felt any pain. All she could think about was that she’d betrayed the one man she’d ever loved.
If there was a God, let Brian escape before Magnus and his followers found him.
Pride propelled Magnus forward, not love.
She and Brian had sinned, though, and because of that, she didn’t struggle when Magnus wrapped the chains around her wrists. When he spat in her face and told her, in words that reeked of blood and vengeance, what he was going to do to her lover, she only stared up at him weakly and wished him tormented to death.
When they brought Brian to her, only a spark of life left in his body, she curved herself over him, wept, and welcomed heaven.
Helen couldn’t sleep.
A few minutes later, she crept into Shona’s room, her heart lurching at the sight of the empty bed. She returned to her chamber, dressing slowly, wondering if she dared do what she felt most compelled to do.
She might cause a scandal if Shona was with Gordon.
But what if she wasn’t?
She finished dressing, plaiting her hair and attaching it sensibly in a coronet. Smoothing her hands over her bodice, she stared out at the view. Fog skirted the ground, obscuring the dawn as well as the path to Rathmhor.
She’d be wise to simply remain at Gairloch until the morning was well advanced.
But something was wrong, a feeling that had been creeping up on her as the hours progressed. After settling the bonnet on her head and tying the ribbons with firmness, she nodded to herself just once.
For good or ill, she was going in search of Shona.
The cold woke Shona.
She was sitting with her back to the wall. Blinking didn’t make the darkness any less absolute. She’d had time to acquaint herself with the blackness, but familiarity made it even less tolerable.
How many hours had passed since she’d been trapped in the passages? Enough time to deduce that six of the doors she’d found had been tampered with so they didn’t work.
Enough time for the party to dissolve? If she could find her way back to the Clan Hall, perhaps someone could hear her now.
&
nbsp; If she could find her way back.
She’d finally collapsed hours ago, when, despite how long she walked, she couldn’t find the door to the loch. Nor could she find her way back to the pantry door.
Had she ever been in this part of the passages?
She rose to her knees, brushing her hair away from her face. Slowly, she stood, wishing she wasn’t so confused. If she turned left, the ground sloped upward, but not necessarily to the Clan Hall; she’d discovered that a few hours ago. If she turned right, the ground sloped downward, but she’d learned that this passage didn’t lead to the loch. No doors opened in this section of passages. Nothing was familiar.
She had never been here before, and it was all too evident that she was, like it or not, on her own. Alone.
She was Shona Imrie and she was terrified.
Chapter 31
“I do beg your pardon,” Helen Paterson said, her plain face contorted with worry.
She glanced toward the housekeeper, and Gordon nodded to Mrs. MacKenzie that he would handle their unexpected—and early—guest.
“Some tea, perhaps?” Mrs. MacKenzie asked, and he shook his head. This was not, he surmised, a call to discuss pleasantries.
“What is it, Helen?” he asked, when his housekeeper left the room.
“I didn’t know quite how to ask,” she said. “If she was here, asking might have caused a scandal. And if she wasn’t, just implying that she might be here might be shocking as well.”
“Are you talking about Shona?” he asked patiently.
She nodded, her bonnet bobbing up and down fervently.
“She isn’t here. Did you expect her to be?”
The bouncing bonnet was joined by flaming cheeks.
“She isn’t at Gairloch, you see, and I thought she might be with you.”
He grabbed her arm, and the bonnet abruptly stopped. “What do you mean, she isn’t at Gairloch? Where is she?”
“That’s it, Sir Gordon, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since she left the Clan Hall. I believe you followed her, did you not?”
He nodded. But their encounter had lasted only a few moments. Where had Shona gone, then?
“If she isn’t here, Miss Paterson,” he said, returning to the reason for her call, “where could she be?”
She blinked at him. “I don’t know, Sir Gordon. But I’m very worried.”
That simple statement from the eminently practical Helen Paterson concerned him more than anything else she’d said.
Shona turned left at the crossroads, the disorientation making her hesitate. This couldn’t be correct. The floor of the passage was sloping uphill now, but she didn’t see the light from the Clan Hall.
Stopping, she placed both hands flat on the walls on either side, forcing herself to calm. She closed her eyes, took several deep breaths, and pushed back the panic. She wanted to race down to the loch, open the door, and breathe deeply of the chilled night air. She didn’t want to ever smell the sour tinge of old earth again. Or the dusty air of the passages.
Opening her eyes, she faced the blackness, retracing her steps mentally. Right now, all her earlier travels through the passages counted for nothing. She was truly lost.
Something skittered across her left hand. Jerking her hand back, she gripped her skirts, pulling them upward so as not to drag on the floor, and turned, going back the way she came.
Where was the crossroads?
How did she lose it?
Oh, dear God, was she doomed to walk Gairloch’s passages like the ghosts were said to do? Right at the moment, she wouldn’t mind a ghost of two if, for no other reason than to keep her company.
As if hearing her thought, a plaintive sound hung in the air. The last, lingering notes of the pipes, or a ghost’s sigh.
She flattened her back against the wall, knowing that she was holding onto her courage by a thin hair, a filament as fine as the spider’s web that clung to her cheek. She brushed it off, repeating the words that hadn’t brought her any strength so far. I’m an Imrie. I’m Shona Imrie.
Perhaps she was simply a foolish woman, one who’d been guilty of too much arrogance in the past. Gairloch, after all, had not been an accomplishment of hers, but that of an ancestor. Being the Countess of Morton was only a title acquired through an effortless marriage. What had she earned by virtue of her own effort?
She’d survived these past two years, handling circumstances that would have tried anyone. She’d cared for Fergus and Helen and kept a roof over all their heads, never mind that it looked as if she would be tossed into gaol for not paying her debts. Still, every morning she’d attempted to look on the bright side, and find a way out of her predicament.
There, an accomplishment of her own, but one about which she could hardly brag.
Her entire life was going to perdition, and she was tired of pretending that it wasn’t. Her marriage to Bruce had been a disaster, a polite, mannerly, boring disaster, because she’d been desperately in love with Gordon the whole while.
She’d been wrong. Love was necessary. It wasn’t separate and apart from other emotions. Instead, it wound itself through a person’s heart and mind and soul. She’d felt jealousy because of love, done stupid things because of love, risked everything because of love.
Once, she’d said that she, Shona Imrie, would be no man’s charity. She, Shona Imrie, would not go begging to any man. So she’d said seven years ago. So she’d said a few weeks ago. So she’d said a day ago. And now?
Gordon, save me.
When Gordon and Helen arrived at Gairloch, Mr. Loftus was holding court at breakfast over a pile of rashers, scones, and what looked to be colcannon. The subdued clink of silverware on china, their murmured voices seemed normal, commonplace, and wrong to Gordon.
Helen made a sound of disapproval after a glance at the American’s plate.
“Rashers are not good for you, Mr. Loftus,” she said, making a clicking sound with her tongue. “Really, Elizabeth, have you no concern for your patient?”
“I’m afraid Elizabeth has resigned her position, Miss Paterson,” Fergus said, standing. “She has agreed to marry me.”
Gordon felt as if he were split into two people. One was standing there in the doorway to the dining room. The other was clapping Fergus on the shoulder and congratulating him on the news he just announced.
The bruise on his jaw still hurt, so he doubted Fergus would welcome his good wishes. His old friend surprised him by standing, saying something quietly to Elizabeth at his side, and rounding the table. He tensed, more than willing to fight him if that’s what the other man wanted, but later. Right now there was another, more urgent matter.
“Have you seen Shona?”
That stopped Fergus in his tracks. He frowned, and said, “When?”
“This morning. Or last night,” he said with a look at Helen. “Anytime.”
“She seems to be missing,” Helen said. “Her bed has not been slept in.”
Fergus didn’t say anything for a minute, then turned back to the dining table. “Has anyone seen Shona since last night?”
Miriam was picking at a piece of toast. “No, but I do hope something hasn’t happened to her. After all, that was a very expensive dress I loaned her.” She smiled up at them guilelessly, “She did realize it was just a loan, didn’t she?”
Fergus didn’t answer, moving on to Mr. Loftus whose attention hadn’t veered from his meal. Helmut wasn’t present again. Neither was Old Ned, but that was to be expected given his nocturnal habits.
“Sir,” Fergus said, “have you seen my sister?”
The American only shook his head.
Fergus turned and looked at him. He could almost hear the question Fergus didn’t voice in front of the ladies. Did you take Shona home? If she’d agreed to come home with him, he would’ve taken advantage of her willingness. Hell, he would’ve kept her there, and to perdition with the gossips and the whole of society.
He only shook his head.
“
Then we should do a thorough search of Gairloch,” Helen said. “I’ve only looked in the public rooms, Fergus.”
“I’ll take the second floor,” Elizabeth announced, standing.
Fergus nodded, moving to her side. Evidently, he had plans to accompany her.
Miriam didn’t bestir herself to offer to search. Neither did anyone ask her. Gordon didn’t have the patience for her apathy.
“It wouldn’t hurt to look through the public rooms again,” Helen said. “I might have missed her.”
He doubted that was the case, but smiled at her in reassurance. “Then do so, by all means. Perhaps Cook and Jennie can see to the third floor while I go search the outbuildings.”
“Where could she have gotten to?” Helen said.
He patted her on the arm, a touch to substitute for words he didn’t have.
Perhaps Shona had gone to Inverness to sell the clan brooch, an idea that had occurred to him on their walk back to Gairloch. He wouldn’t put it past her. Sometimes, Shona’s pride was almost a living thing, an entity of its own.
After reaching the stable, however, he realized that she couldn’t have traveled to Inverness. She didn’t have a carriage and the American’s coach was still in the stable.
An affable Ned was smiling and singing as he was mucking out one of the stalls. He studied the man for several moments. Ned wasn’t entirely sober. Instead, he teetered on the edge of drunkenness.
“Have you seen Shona, Ned?”
The older man whirled, pitchfork raised in front of his chest like a weapon.
“It’s like to scare a body to death when you come up on a man like that,” Ned said. “I thought you a ghost, I did.”
“A ghost?”
“The Gairloch ghosts, sir. The piper and his lady, wandering the passages trying to find each other.”
He only nodded, hoping he wouldn’t have to endure a drunken soliloquy. Ned’s addiction to the bottle had to be addressed before he drank himself into an early grave.
“Where’s Helmut?”
“The German?”
Ned walked to the door of the stable and pointed west. “Out riding one of the horses. He don’t like Gairloch, mostly. Dark days do him in, and he hates the rain, he do.”
