by Candace Camp
“Perhaps the tombs that lie inside the kirk?” Coll ventured.
“That would narrow it down. Do you know how many there are there?”
He shrugged. “No. Several. Some beneath the floor. Stone vaults along the walls.”
“That seems a bit difficult, though. She couldn’t have pried up the paving stones or the stone lids.”
“The Roses have a grand tomb or two in the side yard of the kirk. Then there’s the castle.”
“They have graves there, too?” Violet asked in exasperation.
“Aye. The lairds of Baillannan liked to be remembered. The old castle had a chapel and small cemetery.”
“We can’t search all over the glen. Surely she would not have intended for her children to have to. There must be something we have missed.”
“It would have been more helpful if she’d just said, ‘I’m burying it half a foot deep between Annie’s grave and the wall.’ ”
“Perhaps a little too obvious to anyone who might happen to pick up the book.” Violet smiled.
“Let’s go back to the journal tomorrow.”
“Very well.” She was glad he had not suggested that they start tonight. Her nerves were too much at a jangle now, her body still too alive with passion.
This would give her time to steady herself. And she would manage it. She would. If not, she could not remain around Coll—and she could not bear to think of that.
16
Violet threw herself back into her routine the following morning. The days were easy enough. Away from Coll, surrounded by the work she loved, she could forget for whole stretches of time that her body defiantly ached for him. It helped that she was often distracted by Angus McKay, who had apparently decided to oversee the excavation. Every few days, he would pop in for an hour or two to needle the workers and cross verbal swords with Violet. He was there when their careful digging revealed a fourth wall, confirming Violet’s conjecture that the walls were likely the remains of a room or a shed.
“It could even be a house,” she told Coll over supper that evening. “Of course, that means that the rest of the rock walls in the area are probably other buildings, which is even more exciting.”
Coll nodded and asked a polite question. The progress of her dig was one of the mainstays of their stilted conversations at the dining table. It was impossible to go back to the easy relationship they had had before that afternoon in the Munro cottage. They had to pick their way carefully through whatever they said, avoiding any topic that might bring up the memory of that encounter—as if she needed anything to remind her! Just looking at Coll made it difficult to think of anything else.
It was easier, in a way, to be with him later in the evening when they sat at the huge library table, going through Faye’s journal. At least then she did not have to wrack her brain for safe subjects. Yet it was even more difficult because of their enforced closeness—Coll’s arm only inches from hers on the table, his leg accidentally brushing hers when he shifted in his chair. His scent. His heat.
She had trouble concentrating on the journal. She found herself listening to the sound of Coll’s voice instead of the words. Her gaze was drawn to Coll’s long fingers as he turned the pages or to the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek as he read. It was all too much. Violet felt as if she were constantly vibrating on some low level, a smothered fire not quite extinguished. The only sensible thing to do was to stay away from Coll. Yet each evening she rushed eagerly into the torment.
They went through the journal again, this time starting at the end and working backward. When they reached the first entry that mentioned the burden and the blessing her love had given her, Coll shut the book with a sigh, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his hands over his face.
Violet sneaked a glance at him. He looked weary, his eyes shadowed. Did thoughts of her disturb his nights? She turned away. Better not to think of that.
She opened the journal. “I think this is the most important page.” She tapped the entry.
“You think this is the day she hid it.”
“Yes. December sixth. It’s the only dated entry.” Violet went back through the pages. “I cannot find even one other date. And it sounds final, as if she has already placed it there: ‘May our ancestors guard it . . .’ ”
“I agree. So this would be the likeliest part of the journal for her to reveal the location.”
“Yes. Why make Malcolm or their child search the whole book? If they were the only ones who could understand the message, there’s little point in making it difficult to find.”
“Just difficult to comprehend.” He grimaced. “Very well. Let’s go over this page again.” Coll leaned back. “Read it aloud.”
“Beginning at the top, there is a remedy—a ‘protection,’ she calls it. She lists yew and something else—no, I think that’s a blot.”
“Yew?” Coll frowned and leaned forward to peer at the words. “That’s a strange remedy. Yews are poisonous.”
“Really?” Violet turned to him.
“Yes. Ma drummed the poisonous plants and mushrooms into me from the time I could walk. Almost everything on the yew is poisonous—seeds, foliage. I think you’re right; that next thing isn’t a word or is struck out. So she lists only one ingredient.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I never paid attention to the ingredients before. It does not say what it protects one from.”
“Perhaps that isn’t protection, perhaps it’s another long word that begins with a p. Like poisonous. Or . . .” Violet paused, looking thoughtful. “You know, if you guard something, that’s protecting it.”
“Aye.” He looked at her. “The ancestors are guarding the ‘burden.’ So the yew is another hint?”
“It could be a reference to the Munro graveyard.”
“But that would still indicate the entire cemetery. Even if you narrow it to the graves shaded by the tree, that would be near half of them. You looked inside the tree itself, and there was nothing.”
“Yes. You’re right. There must be something more.” She propped her chin on her hand and studied the page. “Coll . . . what if it’s the date?”
“What if what’s the date?”
“The clue. I assumed she hid the treasure on this date, but why would it be important what date she buries it? Maybe the date is the identifying mark.”
“So she hid it in a tomb or a grave of an ancestor who died on that day. Or December sixth of any year, I suppose. She doesn’t even put the year on it.”
“It could be the date someone was born. But the death date seems more important, and the death date’s more likely to be on all of them.”
“Except the Munro graves.”
“What do you mean? They don’t date them?”
“They may have, but you saw what most of those markers are like—wooden and weathered till nothing remains, even the names. Only the last few are legible, and none of them are December sixth.”
“Then she couldn’t have meant the grave site with the yew tree.”
He shrugged. “It’s been almost sixty years. The date could have been worn away since.”
“In that case, we shall never be able to find it.” Violet sighed.
“Aye, but we dinna know that. It’s more likely that she left it somewhere else. She thinks Sir Malcolm will know it, and how familiar would he have been with the Munro graves? Maybe the yew isn’t important. Or maybe it’s some other yew. Graveyards often have a yew tree, do they not?”
Violet nodded. “Yews have long been associated with religion. Eternity. In pagan practices, they were regarded as symbols of death and rebirth. They live for a remarkably long time, so they would be perfect for—” Violet stopped. Coll was regarding her with a smile hovering on his lips. “I’m sorry. I am lecturing again.”
“Nae.” He curled a hand around her wrist. “Dinna apologize. I like to listen to you.” His eyes dropped to his hand, and he released her. “Well, then, perhaps we have our clue. We should try the kirk in t
own.”
“Yes.” Violet nodded, trying to forget the feel of his long fingers encircling her wrist. It was difficult when her flesh still tingled from the touch.
“Tomorrow? You could take a day off digging.”
“Yes. Of course.” Violet’s spirits rose. “I am sure the men would welcome a respite.”
“Good. Then I’ll tell the McKennas to return to the gardens tomorrow. Maybe the head gardener will stop complaining.”
They set out early the next morning. Violet was surprised to see that Coll had ordered the carriage. At her questioning glance, he pointed to the leaden sky. “It looks like rain. I dinna think you’d like another drenching.”
His words took her back to their escape from the rain the other day and the passion that had flared between them. From the look that flitted across Coll’s face, she knew his thoughts went down the same path. He pivoted away to open the door, and Violet climbed in before he could offer his hand to help her up.
They sat facing each other, the silence in the vehicle stifling. It was easier when they reached the small kirk, and they put several feet between them as they walked through the graveyard. Two yew trees were near the church, though neither was as large and imposing as the one that graced the Munro graves. They began their search at the rear, where the yews grew.
No graves close to the two trees bore the date they sought, so Coll turned to a large tomb with a winged angel atop it that, unsurprisingly, held several sepulchres of the lairds of Baillannan. Around them were a jumble of more markers and monuments, many bearing the name Rose.
By the end of the morning, Violet’s back ached from the tiring, tedious work of bending down to examine the headstones. Many markers were worn and spotted with lichen, making them difficult to read. Some were cracked or broken; a few showed nothing but the name. None bore the date they sought.
“Perhaps that date is important because no one ever dies here on December sixth,” Violet grumbled. She straightened, her hand going to the small of her back, and twisted to look over at Coll.
He was squatting down beside a stone a few feet from her, his eyes fastened on her—more specifically, on the unmentionable part of her anatomy so prominent in her former bent-over posture. Coll glanced away immediately, a flush rising in his face. Violet felt her own cheeks warming as she moved to the next grave, this time squatting to read the marker. She stared at it sightlessly, waiting for the sensations tumbling in her to subside. It was absurd that just catching him watching her could bring such a rush of heat and confusion.
But, no, it wasn’t his study of her that set off the explosion inside her. The expression on his face—the primitive, undisguised hunger—had been as potent as if he’d run his hand down her body.
Behind her, she heard Coll yanking up weeds and tossing twigs and pebbles, tidying one of the graves. A loud crack made her jump and she sneaked a glance. He snapped a downed branch into small pieces as he walked away, then hurled them with unnecessary force into a pile of leaves and twigs.
He returned to the plot where Violet worked. “We’ve finished the Roses. And the area near the yews.” He glanced around the remainder of the cemetery. “It will take us a while to search this whole place.”
“Mm. We’ll need more than one day.” Violet stood up with a sigh. “I keep thinking that we have missed something important.”
“She was damnably cryptic.”
Violet put her hands on her lower back and leaned backward, stretching her spine.
“Perhaps we should stop for the day,” Coll suggested. She turned toward him, surprised. His face was shuttered, his voice toneless. “Start afresh another time.”
“No doubt you are right.” Violet, too, was growing tired of the unproductive work, but she could not quell a pang of disappointment at cutting short her day with Coll.
They walked to the waiting carriage. Coll opened the door for Violet but did not follow her inside. “You go ahead. I have, um, some business in Kinclannoch. Supplies and . . .” He made a vague gesture. “I’ll walk.”
“But the weather—” She glanced toward the sky. “It may rain. We can wait for you.”
He shook his head. “No need. I’m accustomed to it.”
“Very well.” Clearly that was a dismissal. Violet sat down, turning her attention to straightening her skirts. She did not raise her head until she heard the click of the door closing.
The carriage turned and rumbled down the street. Violet leaned her head against the plush back of the seat and contemplated the empty afternoon ahead of her. She could go to the site. But the men had been assigned elsewhere today, and as Coll had said, it would probably rain. She could catch up on her notes for the site or her letter writing; she had been neglecting them both while treasure hunting with Coll. There was the journal, of course, but she was reluctant to examine it on her own.
She decided to look at the books she had brought with her. The symbol etched in the small knife Coll had shown her intrigued her. The mark reminded her of the Norse runes, and she had been meaning to research it. Though she doubted it would shed any light on their quest, it seemed a good way to spend a rainy afternoon.
Violet found two books on Nordic history as well as a scholarly paper on the Viking invasions of Scotland, and she settled down on the floor to look through them. She was elated to discover that one book contained drawings and explanations of the runes, but unfortunately, the symbol on Coll’s knife was not among them.
Violet pulled out the drawing she had made of the knife to study it again. Part of the symbol on the hilt resembled one of the runes. Perhaps the original mark had been changed over time or two different runes had been used together. However, she could not find a rune that resembled the top part of the emblem, which was simply a straight line with five shorter lines crossing it.
She could write one of her uncle’s colleagues to inquire about the mark. Unfortunately, most of the antiquarians she knew focused on Roman and Greek times, with only a small smattering of scholars interested in ancient British history. She could not think of any who had studied the Vikings.
Perhaps she would have better luck with a history professor. That Oxford don, O’Neil. His interest was Celtic history, but something about him made her think of runes. Were there Celtic runes as well?
Intrigued, she pawed through the trunk again. Finally, near the bottom, she found O’Neil’s history of Ireland and the Celts. She flipped through the pages. Yes, here it was: Ogham. Why hadn’t she thought of this earlier?
Running her finger down the page, she stopped short at one of the symbols. She read the words below it, her pulse beginning to pound. She jumped to her feet, sending the book tumbling to the ground. “Coll! Coll, I found it!”
17
Coll prowled through his cottage, unable to settle to anything. He had hoped the walk home would calm down the riot within him, but it had been a futile effort. He could not settle down to draw, and trying to tally the account books or decipher Damon’s latest letter was beyond question. He could think of nothing but Violet and the pounding need inside him to be sheathed in her, her body clamped hot and tight around him.
He let out a low growl and picked up the iron poker to jab viciously at the smoldering peat. Sparks shot up from the dark bricks, mirroring the leaping sensation in his belly. He sighed, dropping the poker onto the hearth with a clatter, and roamed over to the window to stare out at the dreary afternoon. He turned to the table and picked up the sketch there, incomplete because he simply could not get her eyes quite right. He moved on to the wooden carving beside it. That, he thought with a new spurt of frustration, looked nothing like her. Coll was tempted to hurl the head across the room. He would like nothing better right now than to break something. But of course he could not, for it also looked too much like her. Coll smoothed his thumb along the cheekbone.
What was the matter with him? Cursing softly, he resumed his pacing. He had never before been so tied up in knots over a woman. Even as a green l
ad, he had not been led around by his basest hungers. But now, it seemed, he was permanently poised on the knife edge of lust. He spent his sleepless nights—and, truth be known, far too many of his days—imagining taking Violet everywhere and in every way imaginable. It alarmed him how the blood pumped hot in his veins when he thought of sweeping her up and carrying her off to his room, of grasping her gown and ripping it open, of shoving up her skirts and thrusting himself deep inside her. Never before in his life had he ached so to possess a woman, to bend her to his will.
The devil of it was that she had offered herself to him on Sunday. She had been soft and willing, even eager, pressing her body into his and returning his kisses. More than that, Violet had been furious with him for his holding back. He had had to struggle against her as well as himself.
Every day he became more certain that he had been mad to do so. Any other man would have taken what Violet offered without a moment’s thought. Indeed, some other man would surely do so in the future, an idea that sent anger like a red-hot spear through Coll.
It was one thing to respect a woman, to not stain her reputation or take her virginity without a thought to the consequences. But, blast it, if she wanted him, wasn’t he an utter clunch not to take her to his bed? Especially a woman such as Violet, so independent and sure of herself, so decided in her opinions.
That she did not know the reality of a shredded reputation, that she was innocent and untouched—which, God help him, turned him rock hard as much as it weighed on his conscience—even the intense need he felt to shield her from harm, did not give him the right to make the decision for her. And why, he wondered, did he feel so strong an urge to shelter a woman who had as little interest in being protected as Violet Thornhill? That, he supposed, made him just as contrary as she.
He gripped the mantel, staring down into the low flames, thinking of the way Violet looked this morning as she made her way through the churchyard. The thrust of her breasts when she stretched to ease her cramped muscles. Her firm, ripe bottom as she bent to peer at a marker. He thought of curving his hand over that luscious roundness.
