She followed, listening to the yeoman’s continuous spiel. "Of course, one of the more gruesome uses for a castle is to imprison your enemies. With great regularity, it is said, the enemies of the MacAulay’s were jailed, including many thought to be witches or other poor souls in the wrong place at the wrong time."
As the yeoman ducked under an archway and the group followed, Alenna felt a surge of apprehension. Sick of her wayward emotions, she tamped it down and continued with the tour. She put the tea shop idea on the back burner.
As everyone passed through a wooden doorway, the blackness beyond seemed to swallow them.
She was the last one in the line, and as she went through the door a cold draft rolled up from the darkness and flowed around her. She stopped. A series of small stone steps led downward in a sharp spiral. Weak light from a narrow arrow slit window scarcely illuminated the way.
Although unnerved, she proceeded. The steps were few, and when she emerged into the cluster of people huddled around the yeoman, she suddenly realized where they were. The cavernous area, dimly lit by torches placed in wide spaced intervals, had four cells with bars. Each cell was small and offered nothing but a dirt floor. Tiny barred windows at the very top of the high ceiling allowed minimal light to come into the dank, dark dreariness.
This was the dungeon.
As she stood at the back of the group she turned around slowly, looking at the solid blocks of stone in this subterranean hellhole. While a tourist could have seen more if the room had been better illuminated, the torches seemed all the more effective for atmosphere. Stale, thick air settled into her lungs as she drew in a breath. As people milled about and kicked up tiny particles, she thought she could smell the dust of the ages.
Although the yeoman had been speaking, she realized she hadn’t heard a word. She was too absorbed in her mental meandering; her surroundings and the fact her nerves hopped liked Mexican jumping beans.
Prickly.
Hyper aware.
Her heart pounded with a slow, stirring dread against her chest. A sharp, dull throb started in her skull. She closed her eyes against the pain in her head. Leaning against the wall for support, she hoped the strange disquiet would pass. Alenna tried to draw a steady breath. It felt like very little oxygen reached the barren prison.
The yeoman moved toward the center of the large room and continued with his tour speech. "The castle was put under siege in 1318 by a Baron Ruthven who hated Baron MacAulay, the lord of this castle. It was during this time that a knight by the name of Tynan of MacBrahin betrayed Baron MacAulay and the two men came to blows over a woman. Tynan was killed."
"What happened to the woman?" a man in the back asked.
"No one knows," the yeoman replied.
Fear, like the tiny touches of a spider’s legs, flitted over Alenna’s skin.
Get out. She had to get out.
She ascended the stairs swiftly, her heart slamming as if she’d been running a marathon. Once outside she slowed her walk. Beyond grateful, she smiled. She was out of the heinous place.
The tremors in her limbs subsided with the exercise, and she wondered if the strange claustrophobia was yet another ailment sent to plague her.
She hurried down the lane. She’d go back to the test pit and do a little more digging before everyone else got back from their break.
When Alenna reached the pit, she didn’t bother to remove her fanny pack. She stepped into the pit and reached for her trowel.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Clink.
She’d know that sound anywhere. Her trowel had hit metal.
Carefully she reached out of the pit and grabbed a brush. When she looked around to see if anyone would witness her discovery, she noted there wasn’t a soul in sight. Gingerly she brushed at the area until she saw the dull gleam of gold.
"I’ll be damned," she whispered. "I’ll be damned."
She used the brush to quickly remove the remainder of the dirt from the metal. A gasp left her throat. A ring! A wide gold band, scratched and dented, lovingly cradled a large, pitted oval garnet stone. Without thinking about procedure, excited by her extraordinary find, she lifted it out of its dirty grave and slipped the piece on the ring finger of her right hand.
"Damn," she said to herself when she realized what she’d done. Instead of leaving the ring as is and recording the find like a professional, she’d acted like an impulsive amateur. In other words, she acted exactly like what she was.
What the hell … she’d just put it back and no one would be the wiser. She’d have to be more careful next time. The ring was too big and slipped sidewise on her finger. She turned it around so the garnet faced up again.
Before she could remove the ring, she heard the sound of animal hooves clamoring on the cobblestones behind her.
No sooner had she heard the sound than she noticed a strange mist had settled around the immediate area. A solitary patch of cold, cloaking fog. She couldn’t see beyond the mist. Perplexed by the bizarre phenomena, she didn’t move.
Seconds later a shout and the harsh whinny of a horse sounded right on top of her. She whirled in time to see a huge black destrier rear on its hind legs. Simultaneous impressions and emotions bombarded her in milliseconds. The horse, which hadn’t been there three seconds before, was going to crush her under its hooves. She would die here in this castle, far from home.
Lastly, she had the impression of a man, cloaked in black, riding the powerful horse like a demon upon its back.
She didn’t have time to scream or to dodge out of the way. The horse’s hooves came down, and the world went black.
* * *
CHAPTER 2
A hand, rough with calluses, brushed Alenna’s forehead. She knew she must be in heaven because she felt no pain.
But she changed her mind. Heaven wouldn’t be this cold, nor as uncomfortably hard. Dazed, she lay unmoving, amazed she had somehow survived being trampled.
Now that was a story to write home about.
"Is she kilt, sir?" the voice of a young boy, accent as thick as oatmeal, asked.
"Nay. Damned silly wench appeared in front of Dragon. Where did ye come from, taet taupie?"
His question rippled over her skin like a physical touch. Deep and husky, the man’s voice was easier to understand than the boy, but not by much. Certain peculiarities to his accent, unlike the Scottish inflection she was used to, baffled her. Some of his words were totally unfamiliar.
He pushed a hand under her shoulders, and she was borne aloft by strong arms. A scratchy texture like heavy wool rubbed against her cheek, but beneath it lay warm, hard muscle.
Wonderful. Run down by a horse, now being lugged around by who—a yeoman? One of the people who enacted scenes from the past? She tried to open her eyes, but a deep lethargy weighed down her eyelids.
"Are you sure she is no goin’ to die, sir?" the boy asked.
"Clandon, have ye nothin’ to do but plague me with clishmaclaver? Dragon dinna run her down. I think she has fainted. I willna ken until I have had a look at her."
Dragon? The man had been riding a dragon? God, she was dreaming. Only dreaming. In that case, she’d just wake up. Forcing her eyes open, she saw nothing but fuzzy shapes. Grey sky and a man cradling her to his chest. Light dazzled and hurt her eyes, so she closed them quickly.
"Sorry, sir. ‘Tis just that she is as strange as anythin’ I have seen before me eyes. Be she a witch then, or a kelpie? Caithleen said there has been a sightin’ of the clootie on the berm this fortnight."
"We are too far from a loch for Caithleen to be seein’ a kelpie, lad. And ye think if she was a clootie she wad be lyin’ in my arms this minute and not damnin’ us both to hell?"
Clootie?
The boy thought she was a kelpie, a witch and a devil wrapped in one? A pretty tall order.
"Her clothes are strange, sir."
"Mayhap she is from the south."
"Sassenach?" the boy asked, awe and a little disgust in
his voice.
"Aye."
"Will his lordship have her kilt then?"
"Nay, Clandon. He doesna slay mere women and children."
What the hell were they talking about?
Moments later the man said, "Open the door."
The groan of hinges long in need of oiling grated on her ears. Seconds later she caught the woodsy scent of smoke.
"Stoke the fire," the man said.
There was the clank of metal and shuffling feet, and the man laid her upon something lumpy, smelly, and uncomfortable.
"I will see to Dragon. Watch over the woman until I get back," the man said.
"Are ye goin’ to fetch his lordship?" the boy asked.
"Nay, Clandon. If she be an unimportant wench, do ye think his lordship wad concern himself with her?"
"The steward, then?"
"Nay. For her safety, we best tell no one she is here. Let no one in these chambers until I return." She felt his heavy, warm hand upon her forehead again. "She has a wee fever. Bring the fur from the chair."
A heavy material settled over her body and was tucked about her shoulders. Alenna barely suppressed a gag at the stench.
"Is she hurt bad?" the boy asked.
"I dinna believe she is hurt. Fetch some ale for her if she wakes and see that she no leaves here."
The clatter of the door announced his departure. She heard the boy moving about the room. The fire crackled as sparks spit off the wood. Sooty scents rose to her nostrils, stinging. She shivered; her feet and hands felt like blocks of ice.
More shuffling, the clank of metal.
Curious sounds … a shout … bustling activity from outside.
She had to see what was happening.
And this time, with startling clarity, Alenna could see her surroundings. The ceiling above her was soot-stained stone. She lay on some sort of wooden pallet about the size of a twin bed, piled high with furs for a mattress. She wrinkled her nose and tried to ignore the odor. They might be warm, but the scent wasn’t helping her physical sensibilities. She propped herself up on her elbows.
The room wasn’t large, but she could see another somewhat bigger room off to the side. Besides this small pallet, a well-worn chest of black mahogany sat in one corner, and a large, square, knotty wood table sat in the middle of the room with three chairs around it.
A young boy sat near the fire in a rickety-looking chair. Thin and not particularly clean, his face was a study in poverty and neglect. His short, dark hair looked greasy and lay limp and straight against his small head. He couldn’t be much more than nine, if that. A ragged, torn, dirty white shirt covered his gaunt torso, and rough looking brown pants protected his stick-like legs. His brown ankle boots had seen better days. He looked like a little guttersnipe.
He chose that moment to turn and look at her. His dark eyes widened, looking large in his small face.
"Zounds!" he gasped.
"Hi," she said, testing her voice. She licked her dry lips.
His brow furrowed, and as he stared at her, he slowly stood and reached for a pitcher. He poured liquid into a small wooden goblet and headed for her, still wide-eyed.
Alenna sat up and took the goblet from him. She sniffed the contents of the cup. "Ale?"
"Aye."
Like a frightened crab, the boy skittered back from her, bumping into a chair and almost tripping.
She attempted a smile, though she imagined it looked feeble. "It’s all right. You don’t have to be afraid of me." She took a sip of the ale, and choked on the sour taste. A small coughing fit seized her, and a full minute passed before she could talk again. Maybe it would be better if she didn’t drink the stuff.
Open-mouthed, the boy continued to stare at her.
What was wrong with him? Wasn’t he taking his little act a bit far?
The door opened with a loud creak. She started, spilling a little of the ale down the front of her jacket.
The door slammed shut. She opened her mouth to speak, but the sound strangled in her throat as she caught her first sight of the man standing inside the door.
"Aye, so I see ye are awake now," he said, in the husky deep voice that belonged to the man who had carried her.
It was her turn to be speechless.
Nothing, in her wildest, most fantastical dreams could have conjured a male like this man.
He was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous man Alenna had ever seen. She knew, if she’d been asked what made him so beautiful, she would have had a difficult time explaining.
Unfastening the broach at his shoulder, he allowed his heavy brown cloak to fall open. Under the cloak was a dark shirt of rough material opened at the throat to reveal a bit of muscled chest sprinkled with dark hair. His trousers were black.
Taking off the cloak, he settled it over a chair. Crossing the room, he stood next to her makeshift pallet. A few inches over six feet, his sheer size seemed to swallow the small room. Broad of shoulder, his powerful frame dominated and demanded attention.
"Are ye deaf, then, lass? Or mayhap a mute?"
"No," she said softly, her throat feeling as parched as if she’d crossed the Sahara. His strange questions threw her, and she couldn’t think of a good retort.
His brow crinkled, and she noted a deep scar ran down the right side of his forehead, as if he’d been given a severe blow at one time and it had never been stitched properly. He shoved a hand through the thick, tumbling black waves of his hair, and it fell about the top of his shoulders.
Turning to the skinny boy, he said, "Clandon, ye had best get back to yer duties. And visit yer sister at the donjon to see how she fares."
Continuing to look at her as if she might bite him, the boy nodded. He scrambled up from his chair and started for the door.
"She must be a witch, sir," the boy said, his voice squeaking in his excitement.
The man smiled slightly, a twinkle leaping into his eyes. Before the boy could open the door, the man clasped his arm. "Tell not a soul about the woman."
Tell not a soul about the woman.
A curl of apprehension wandered along her body.
"Aye, sir," the boy answered in a whisper, and rushed out the door as if the devil were on his heels and fast closing. Maybe the boy knew something she didn’t. She looked at the door with longing. It really wasn’t far, and Alenna wasn’t that ill. She could dash by him and make a run for it.
No. The man had planted his solid bulk in her way. If he caught her, she knew she wouldn’t be a match for him. No doubt he could snap a person’s neck like a chicken bone.
"Why did you send him away?" she asked.
The man turned back to her. "His sister worries about him."
As he stared at her, Alenna shivered and realized that although her stomach no longer lurched about like a drunken sailor, she felt hot. She pushed the pungent fur off.
"I wadna try to stand," he said, pinning her with a hard look. "Yer no well enough."
"I’m fine," she said, aware her statement sounded lame. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to let this man know her vulnerabilities.
"Fine?" he asked, looking confused by her choice of words. "Ye no sound Scottish or English."
Hadn’t the man ever talked to an American before?
"I’m American."
"American?"
She sighed. "Look, I don’t know what game you’re playing here, but I’d really—"
"I dinna play with ye," he said softly, with a hint of menace lacing every word.
"Then will you please tell me if you have a nurse or doctor here at the castle? Or maybe a first aid station?"
"Nurse? Ye have a child that needs a wet nurse?" he asked.
"No, no. I mean someone who helps the ill."
"Father MacDougald helps those that are poorly. And Elizabet helps those she can."
He squatted beside the pallet and stared at her as if she’d sprung from the floor like a hydra and he was a scientist sent to explore the oddity. Confusion lent sharpness
to her feelings, and she was in no mood to play whatever game this man had in mind.
"Thanks for your help, but I think I’d better go," she said.
She shifted on the pallet again and he reached out for her, his grip on her forearm tight enough to restrain, but not enough to injure. She looked down at the multitude of white, thin scars crossing the back of his broad hand.
"Stay," he said.
"Let me go," she said, hoping her tone would convey how serious she was.
He removed his hand, but he didn’t back away.
Despite her wariness at his close proximity, she had an unhindered view of how kind nature had been to him. Sculpted with an artist’s hand, his nose was strong, but not overly large. The cut of his mouth looked designed for kissing … not too full … not too thin. More disquieting than the unabashed way he stared at her was the smoldering, dark-as-night quality of his eyes. Framed by thick, black lashes, his gaze penetrated with an intensity that unnerved her down to the bones, and made her feel as if he could read her every thought.
"What is this aid station?" he asked, once again bending the words awkwardly.
"You know. First aid." When he continued to stare at Alenna as if she’d lost her mind, she became irritated. She twisted at the waist so she could prop herself against the wall. "If you’re worried I’ll tell someone that your horse hit me—"
"Dragon dinna hit ye." His tone wasn’t harsh, but certain, clipped, and brooked no argument. "Ye fell in the path of my war horse."
War horse. This man played his part a little too close to that broad, muscled chest. "Look, I’m not out to sue anyone."
The man sighed. "His lordship willna listen to anything against me, lass. He trusts my word above all else."
Who was this lordship? She recalled the guidebook said the castle belonged to the National Trust. For over twenty years no lordship had been in residence.
Every second that passed cemented her belief that this guy was a few bricks short of a load.
Too bad. A man this good looking, and he was loony as hell.
A ripple of caution twisted in Alenna’s gut. If she got out of here in one piece, she’d contact security and let them know one of the reenactment people had gone south on them. But obviously this man was in no mood for her to pop up, say "ta ta" and high tail it out the door. She’d have to make a run for it.
A Bridge Through The Mist Page 2
