by Jeanne Rose
Caitlin only glanced behind her for a second before returning her attention to Bain.
But he was gone.
She stared into the empty fog, slowly regaining her faculties, her brain feeling as fuzzy as if she’d been hypnotized.
This time her hand shook as she inserted the key and let herself into the cottage, making certain not only the door but the windows were bolted. She switched on more lights and gazed about the room, brooding on Bain’s hollow voice and the distance he’d kept. Had she really been speaking with him?
Or had it been the trickster?
She thought of Professor Abernathy and the hard way he’d clutched her arm at the fair earlier. And just now his wife had been calling him. Could the professor have been pretending to be Bain? To get the ring?
Dead-tired, she headed for bed, jumping when she caught sight of the stranger in the mirror. Her tousled hair, her swollen lips, her disheveled green gown made her look like an earthy, lusty wench from another age. And her eyes seemed huge and startled and strangely wise . . . from seeing things few other humans had?
“Wise, phooey!” she snapped.
A smart woman wouldn’t have fallen in love with the likes of Bain Morghue.
HE WAS FURIOUS. Wandering through the mist, he picked up stray rocks and threw them as hard as he could at the smirking darkness. Ineffectual, the violent action nevertheless felt good. He was acting like a little boy, he knew, but he was too irate to care that he debased himself.
Nothing was going the way he’d planned. He couldn’t scare the stupid bitch into fleeing back to her own country with either dreams of fairy rades or nightmares of eerie storms. She wouldn’t give up the ring that protected her and connected her to his enemy, either. He had used his most commanding tone and she had still managed to disobey. She was strong and contrary for such a little thing.
Her strength posed a more terrible problem. If his enemy joined with such a mortal as Caitlin Montgomery, if his enemy made full use of her fawning love, he could be impossible to defeat.
He had to find a way . . .
Meanwhile, he would take care of the incompetent spy who’d been sniffing about on his trail. That one would be sorry he had ever stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.
NOT FEELING SOCIABLE when she awakened the next morning, Caitlin didn’t go to the manor house for breakfast. Instead, she boiled water for tea in the small automatic pot in her cottage and ate some shortbread cookies she’d purchased in Droon.
Working on her designs, she spent an hour or so trying not to think about Bain or whether she’d over-reacted to their tryst the night before. When she tired of drawing, she leafed through the small book she’d purchased at the fair, an illustrated guide to the local area’s history. She started at the beginning, reading about the bronze age and continuing through the eighteenth century war against England led by Bonnie Prince Charlie, pausing upon finding a footnote mentioning the name MacBain. The clan had lived on land near Droon some centuries before.
MacBain?
Could Bain be descended from that family? Had the clan inspired his name? Knowing she shouldn’t care, Caitlin tore through the rest of the history book but couldn’t find another reference. In frustration, she decided to talk to Alistair MacDonald. His extensive library would surely offer more information.
Unfortunately, the owner of the Bed & Breakfast was busy with Julian when Caitlin came in. Glancing into the study, she saw him pointing out the swords he had hanging on the walls above his bookshelves.
“I have three eighteenth century sabers but only one claymore,” said Alistair.
With some difficulty, he reached up to lift down the heavy sword. A wicked-looking weapon, it bore dark opaque stones rather than jewels in its pommel. And the twining metal of its hilt wasn’t half as bright or as beautifully crafted as Bain’s.
“Very nice.” Julian ran a finger along the sword’s blade. “I came upon a genuine claymore myself yesterday. It cost more than I wanted to pay, considering the hilt was in sorry condition.”
Alistair shrugged. “But what can you expect, if ’tis old and authentic? And you can have the stones replaced, the metal polished, the blade sharpened.”
“The blade was already quite sharp.” Then Julian noticed their observer. “Oh.” His smile was wide, his eyes cool. “Good day, Caitlin. Aren’t we the late riser?”
She expected him to go on, to say something about staying out the night before with her boyfriend. She was certain he still resented her for not finding him as attractive as he seemed to find her.
When he didn’t continue, she said, “Actually, I’ve been up for hours. I had tea and cookies for breakfast while working in my cottage.”
“How industrious of you.”
She didn’t like Julian’s smooth, knowing tone. And she only wanted to ask Alistair some questions, not get into some lengthy three-way conversation.
“Thank you for letting me look at that claymore,” Julian said, surprising her by taking his leave. “It gives me an idea of how I could refinish one of my own.”
“Glad to have been of help,” said Alistair, still holding the sword.
Caitlin waited to be certain Julian was gone, then asked, “Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”
Laying the claymore across his desk, her host motioned to a chair. “Take a seat.”
She plopped down and showed him the history guidebook. “This footnote says that the MacBains once lived on land near Droon. But it doesn’t say what happened to them.”
Alistair merely raised his brows.
“I mean, they’re no longer here,” she went on. “They’re not listed on any of the clan maps I’ve seen. Something must have happened to them.”
Alistair glanced at a shelf, then rose to take a large book from it. “They were dispersed, driven out of this area by the English. Decimated, actually. That happened to many clans after Bonnie Prince Charlie, though there be some reason for it with the MacBains, if you ask me.”
“A reason to be decimated?” How unusual for a Scotsman to side with the English.
He opened the book and raked his finger down a page. “Aye, here it is. The last recorded Laird of the MacBains had a regiment of English soldiers buried alive on the grounds of Black Broch. An excessively cruel man.”
“So the legend is true?” Caitlin asked, a chill creeping up her spine. What else had she encountered that was based on actual happenings?
“Of course, the English took terrible revenge. They executed the Laird and all the followers they could capture. Who knows what happened to the survivors.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she complained.
He frowned. “You didna ask.”
Even as he spoke, Caitlin realized she’d never mentioned the tales she’d heard in Droon, partially because she didn’t want to be tempted into bringing up Bain himself. She smiled sheepishly. “Right, I didn’t ask you about the clan.” Or every detail of the ruins’ history. “And I discussed the regiment story with some of the townspeople. Do you know if the MacBains still own Black Broch?”
“I once tried to look up the deed, not an easy task with hundreds of years to account for. But I believe the latest owner is some corporation.”
That didn’t help. She’d already surmised that his operating through a company might be the reason no one had heard of Bain Morghue.
Alistair closed the book and gave her a thunderous look. “You aren’t still hanging about that place, are you?”
He sounded as tense as he looked, and she thought it best to keep her counsel. “I’ve gone there a few times to sketch.”
“Best keep your distance entirely.”
“So I’ve been told. I suppose there’s some myth about the ghosts of the murdered soldiers haunting the broch.”
“The ground itself is full of blood. The MacBains were cursed with a feud that went back generations. It started with two brothers, one misbegot.”
”Illegitimate?”
“Aye. And he was always wanting the leadership and recognition himself. The two branches of the family warred for years, for decades, the misbegotten line using any means, fair or foul. That line finally won and was in power when the regiment of soldiers was buried.”
“And then The Laird and his followers were executed,” Caitlin murmured thoughtfully. “Foul means finally got them their just desserts.”
Bain had mentioned that his father had an angry half-brother who’d once kidnapped him. But that had happened in recent times, not generations ago. Could Bain be descended from the dark side of the family? she wondered. He’d also said his mother could be cruel.
Alistair rose to replace the large book on the shelves. He surprised Caitlin by taking down another. She stared at the aged-looking black cover embossed with gold ink. Celtic and Faerie stood out in the long title.
“More myths and legends?”
He leafed through densely printed pages. “I’ve been doing research since the morning you said a rider had brought you back to your cottage on horseback.” His eyes flicked over her, then returned to the book. “Of course, Bridget is superstitious, like many of the old country families. To people like them, Black Broch is an evil place guarded by a demonic caretaker who watches over a treasure. The gold is cursed by the devil and means death to anyone who tries to find it.”
She nodded. “Gold in the cairn.”
“Wouldna be surprising if archeologists turned up such a find some day. Might be jewelry, as well as ancient Celtic armor, such as helmets and breastplates.” He paused in riffling pages. “Hmm, here it is. A fairy legend that could pertain to Black Broch.”
“It could pertain to it?”
“The legend doesn’t specify Black Broch in particular, but it bears much similarity to The Guardian and gold story.” He moved closer to peruse the tiny print. “Once upon a time, it seems the queen of the Tuatha Sidhe took a liking to a mortal man, a chieftain who was a great warrior. She stole him away.” Alistair gazed at her. “You know that fairies weren’t always pretty little Disney characters?”
“I’m aware of that.”
“When you study fairy lore, you find hundreds of varieties, both evil and good, unseelie and seelie. Some had wings, some did not. Some were tiny, others were human-sized.”
“Like the Tuatha Sidhe.” Gaelic words which were pronounced toona shee. Caitlin pointed out, “And some of the supposedly good fairies could be pretty bad themselves.”
Alistair nodded. “Quite capricious and fey, not always friendly to humans. Some refer to the beautiful ladies and brave warriors of the Sidhe as the elder race.” He stared off thoughtfully. “Anthropologically speaking, the myth could have begun as an explanation for a people who inhabited the British Isles in the earliest of ancient times.”
Instinctively feeling Alistair was building up to something, Caitlin was growing impatient. “What about the queen who stole away a mortal lover?”
He returned to the book. “Right, the queen. Let’s call her Mab or Morrighan. Her British and Irish names are easier.”
Morrighan . . . similar to Morghue?
“She is also called the Queen of Air and Darkness,” Alistair continued. “So Morrighan and the chieftain had a son, a man who was only half mortal, able to visit, if not live in the invisible world. The Prince of Air and Darkness was condemned to guard the entrance to the place and was given a suit of golden armor that granted him both immortality and invincibility.”
“That does sound like the guardian Bridget was talking about.” A warrior dressed in gold and black . . . like in her dream of the fairy rade.
“This guardian was also a demon lover of sorts. Seems he seduced women from time to time, carried them off body and soul.” His words shot chills up Caitlin’s spine as she realized her body and soul were Bain’s . . . and he did not want them.
“But what can you expect of a man who was probably tortured and unhappy,” remarked Alistair.
“Someone who didn’t belong to either world.” Bain? Is that why he acted as if she were doomed?
Alistair slammed the book shut, making her jerk in her seat. He affixed her with a cold eye. “Strangely enough, there have been many suicides . . . or murders connected with Black Broch.”
She swallowed. “Women?”
“Aye, mostly. No one knows what happened to Janet Drummond, and at least two other women leaped off the promontory . . . or were pushed. Then a young woman was found raving in the courtyard one winter, wearing only her nightshift. She died a few days later.”
Caitlin asked, “These deaths you’re talking about actually happened, right? You didn’t read about them in that book?”
“They were real. The mad woman in her nightshift died in 1931 according to some newspaper clippings I found.” He picked up the claymore, examining its blade. “You’d best be careful, or you might become the next statistic.”
And the way he was staring at her, unsmiling and grim, gave her the heebie-jeebies.
She rose. “Thanks for the information.”
“No more questions?”
“You answered them all and then some.” Except the one she couldn’t ask – who was Bain Morghue? “I think I’ll be going.”
As she left, Alistair stood and picked up the claymore, giving the air a couple of vicious pokes with the sharp tip. Already nervous, Caitlin couldn’t help wondering if he could mimic voices.
Was Alistair MacDonald the trickster the fortune teller had warned her about?
FORTUNE TELLERS. Basing her opinions on the reading of divination sticks was almost as ridiculous as believing in fairy tales, Caitlin decided by the time she’d had a light supper of fish and chips in Droon that evening.
She was altogether too nerved up, needed to unwind and relax. For the first time since arriving in Scotland, she wished she had access to television, something the MacDonalds didn’t own. They thought travelers should enjoy the country’s ambiance without the drivel of electronic entertainment. But a silly sitcom or two would help her forget about Bain Morghue and the strange fancies she’d entertained since meeting him.
Not that she could see him as an evil man who lured women to their deaths. Not in the farthest reaches of her imagination. He wasn’t that cruel. She’d told him to stay away from her and he had. He hadn’t chased her down or strong-armed her like crazy Neil Howard.
Catching the flash of colored light through a pub window as she passed, Caitlin peered in. But the group of men clustered about the bar were watching a soccer game, not anything humorous.
Truly desperate for diversion on the dark drive back to the MacDonald’s, she ran over the plot of one of her favorite old BBC comedies. She started laughing aloud when she remembered the part where the hotel manager and his ditsy bellboy tried to hide a dead body from the rest of the guests. They’d packed the poor man into a big laundry basket filled with dirty clothing.
Clothing. The headlights of the car lit on something pale in the ditch as Caitlin drove by, something that looked like a shirt or jacket.
Odd. Country roads in Scotland weren’t litter-strewn like American highways. Perhaps someone had lost something. Nearly at the driveway of the B&B, she stopped, glanced behind her at the empty expanse, then reversed the vehicle. Parking the car on the narrow shoulder, she kept the lights on and got out to investigate. She soon realized the jacket she’d seen was being worn by someone . . . a man who lay very still.
Caitlin recognized the stocky figure, the meaty back and silver hair. “Professor Abernathy?”
Good Lord, had he had a heart attack?
“Professor?” she called again, running toward him, hoping she remembered her CPR training.
Face down, he didn’t so much as twitch a muscle as she knelt beside him. The back of his jacket was stained with a rusty substance and she felt something sticky as she turned him over. His eyes stared up, slightly glazed over.
Speechless, she then saw his chest, matted and caked with blood. A de
ep wound gaped at her.
Horrified, Caitlin inched backward, struggled to her feet and ran for the car.
Professor Abernathy had been murdered.
CHAPTER TEN
PROFESSOR ABERNATHY had been killed by the thrust of a powerful sword.
So said the authorities who questioned Caitlin, the other guests, the owners and the staff at the B&B’s manor house. Constables searched both manor house and cottages. A violent crime of this sort hadn’t been committed in the area for decades and the police wanted to be thorough.
“I tell you it was the city crazies,” complained Alistair angrily after several hours. “You could have done something about them long ago.”
Sergeant Cooke, a big man with a sandy mustache, shook his head and sighed. “And what could we have done? ’Tisn’t the middle ages – you canna drive someone out of your territory because you want to.”
A constable added, “You’ll have to turn over your sword collection, Mr. MacDonald. The weapons must be checked against the entry wound by a forensic laboratory.”
Which only incensed Alistair the more. “I’m to be considered a suspect?” His rugged face flushed. “A good, tax-paying citizen? While those city punks go free?”
Mary, her eyes reddened by tears, placed a calming hand on her husband’s arm. “Now, Alistair. ’Tis only procedure.”
Julian nodded a sober agreement. Caitlin had noted he’d seemed truly shocked by the murder and had been supportive toward the MacDonalds and helpful with the police.
“Not that we won’t be looking for those city crazies,” said Sergeant Cooke. “Meanwhile, you will all stay in this vicinity and be available for further questioning . . . except for Mrs. Abernathy, of course.”
The widow had gone hysterical at the sight of her husband’s body. Sedated, she still was weeping quietly. She insisted she wanted to pack up and take a taxi to Glasgow, expensive though that would be. She had friends to stay with in the city and could no longer stand the sight of the cottage. Since the police seemed certain that a small, fiftyish woman wouldn’t be strong enough to run a man through with a broadsword, they had no problem with her leaving the vicinity.
