“This could be it,” he murmured, ignoring her words as he rose from the floor. “The ogham was good, but this could finally get me out of this dung heap existence.”
“What?”
His gaze was distant, almost feverish. “I’ve got to get to work!” With that, he hurried toward the doorway, stepping gingerly on the mysteries beneath the dirt, leaving Maggie behind.
“You’re welcome,” she said crossly.
In a matter of hours, Maggie was even more disgruntled when it became apparent that Alex planned on taking credit for what was probably the archaeological find of the century. The crew had attacked the floor of the cairn, armed with brushes and cloths, and now an immense stone carving lay exposed—one that would guarantee fortune and glory to the one who had discovered it.
The carving was a tri-spiral, also known as a triskele, the size of which had never been found anywhere in the UK, Ireland, or as far as Maggie knew, the world. In fact, only a few tri-spirals had ever been found, period, most at Newgrange. This particular triskele covered the entire floor of the cairn, its three arms curving outward from the center to create three separate spirals.
As she stood in the doorway of the cairn taking photos with her digital camera, she tried to control the irritation coursing through her. Of course, technically Alex had uncoveredthe bump that tripped her, but she’d been the one to bring his attention to the fact that it wasn’t just a lump of stone.
Whatever. She wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. After all, she wasn’t an archaeologist, she was a history teacher. This was just an interlude, so what did it matter if she got to share the credit or not? She’d be leaving Scotland in anotherweek and going back to Texas to get ready for anotheryear of teaching bored teenagers why they should care about history.
With a sigh, she went back to work.
Quinn was having fun.
While raiding the carriages of lords and ladies had been both exciting and lucrative, his decision to start attacking the duke’s personal shipments was much more satisfying.
So far he and Ian had taken a wagonload of expensive fabric, one filled with eight sacks of oats, a wagon full of vegetables, and a barrel of whiskey. Small things to a highwayman,but large to a Scotsman waiting for his porridge and his drink, and they also meant a great deal to the ladies the duke sought to entertain and entice.
Montrose was not amused by their attacks, but he was still running true to form. He’d assigned two guards to protecthis shipments and had put a price on the head of the mysterious “Piper.” Quinn was thrilled, even though the price was a mere fifty pounds.
Quinn and Ian had no trouble overpowering Montrose’s new guards, again and again. The highwaymen were making less money this way, but the satisfaction of duping Montrose and depriving him of his evening shot of whiskey made it all worthwhile. Besides, this night Quinn had learned that a carriage full of aristocrats bearing a gift to the duke from the Queen herself would arrive.
Now he and Ian lay in wait on the side of a rocky hill, listening for the sound of wheels turning over ruts and stones. The carriage was due to pass them after the moon had risen, but fortunately, the night was overcast and rain was in the wind.
“I have a strange feeling this night,” Ian said as they knelt beside their horses.
Quinn was watching the roadway, but something in his friend’s voice made him turn toward him. “What sort of feeling?”
Ian started to speak, then frowned and shook his head. “I dinna know how to explain it. It’s as if something—” He shook his head again. “’Tis nothing. Too many boiled turnips most likely.”
“Aye, well, I told ye that yer eyes were bigger than yer stomach.” He glanced up at the sky again, pleased to see more clouds gathering. “No one will recognize our faces this night,” Quinn said almost to himself.
“’Tis more to a man than his face,” Ian said absently, “and while the lassies like a handsome man, ’tis not the face they are most interested in, my friend.” He smiled at Quinn. “Nay, ’tis something much lower on a man’s body.”
The familiar sound of hooves and wheels interrupted his speech, and the two men fell silent, focusing on the plan. Quinn mounted his horse and looked down at his friend.
“Are ye ready?”
“Aye,” Ian said, swinging into the saddle easily. “I’m a MacGregor.”
“Dinna brag. Come on, lad!” Quinn vaulted into his saddle and drew his sword, then touched his heels to his horse’s sides and plunged down the hillside. Ian headed in the opposite direction, in order to come at the carriage from the rear.
Quinn pulled back on Saint’s reins, and came to a dramaticstop in the middle of the dark roadway, allowing his horse to rear up on its hind legs. The carriage rumbled to a halt.
“Throw down your weapons!” he cried in a perfect Englishaccent. The driver seated on top of the carriage tossed down a musket, and the man beside him a sword. The two guards were quickly disarmed as well.
A fine mist had begun to fall and Quinn had a sudden sadistic urge to expose the aristocrats within to the elementsthat every Scotsman outside of a castle had to face each and every night. Quinn sidestepped Saint until he was in arm’s reach of the driver sitting on top of the carriage. With one slicing move, he thrust the point of his sword to the man’s throat.
“Have the passengers disembark,” he said softly.
“Aye, aye,” the driver muttered. He slid down from his seat and jammed his shapeless hat down on his head a little harder before opening the carriage door. Quinn grinned as an immediate chorus of voices lifted in protest.
There were two men and two women, all wearing clothingin the latest fashions, made from velvets and silks. The men had cravats tied around their necks, and the low-cut necklines of the women’s dresses throbbed with flesh and the jewels strung around their chubby necks.
As they all gazed balefully up at him, Quinn had a momentof satisfaction in knowing that these luxurious garments—the cost of which would feed a family of six for a year—were now being ruined by the rain. The women were both young, dark-haired, and buxom, with a coarsenessto their faces that made Quinn surmise they were mistressesor whores, not wives.
Ian had stayed behind the carriage to make sure neither of the drivers intended to pull a gun or sword and strike against them, but once all four of the passengers and the drivers stood on the ground, he guided his horse over to Quinn.
“Sink me, Siegfried,” Ian said loudly in the same Englishaccent as Quinn, “but I do believe we have some soggy pigeons this night.”
“Aye, Bartholomew,” Quinn answered, “but look at how brightly these pigeons’ feathers shine. They simply beg for us to pluck them.” He pointed at the jewels around one woman’s neck.
“See here!” the stouter of the two men shouted, his soaked wig askew on his bald head. “We are guests of the Duke of Montrose and I demand that you let us pass!”
“Guests of the duke? Well, why didn’t you say so? In that case”—Ian tapped his chin and pretended to consider the request and then laughed and cocked his head to one side—“instead, I think that we shall have to kill you. What do you say, Siegfried?”
“Indeed,” Quinn said, as a rush of anticipation surged through his veins. “I wholeheartedly agree.”
The women began to scream.
Maggie couldn’t sleep. The little cot she’d been assigned was fairly comfortable, but she was freezing. She shifted to her side and shivered. Even in the summer, Highland nights were chilly, and apparently there was still no controllingthe twins and Rachel’s insane need to pull practical jokes on her.
The first night there she’d discovered that the heavy joggingpants she’d packed to sleep in at the camp had been replaced with her favorite threadbare pair of Hello Kitty pajamas. Very funny. Someday she would find a way to pay them back, and then she’d see who had the last laugh!
Maggie closed her eyes. Even with three pairs of socks on, inside her down sleeping bag, she was too cold to s
leep. Maybe she could count sheep. There were lots of sheep in Scotland. Or how about spirals? Yeah, spirals, count ’em, three. Being hogged by Alex MacGregor.
Maggie turned onto her back, releasing her pent-up breath in one long, slow sigh. Her dream had been to travel the world, exploring ancient ruins, studying under noted archaeologists. Now, after all these years, at the ripe old age of thirty-two, here she was, ready to finally go back to the Original Plan for Her Life.
A little rush of anticipation trickled through her veins, followed by a more solid flood of adrenaline. She was free now, really free. Not that she’d forget her sisters—she’d always be there for them—but they were adults, on their own! It was finally sinking in that she could do anything she wanted. Anything!
So why did she feel so hesitant?
The answer hit her with the impact of a rock to her solar plexus and Maggie sat up and shoved her feet out of the sleeping bag, swinging them to the canvas floor. Her long red hair, free of its braid for once, tumbled around her shoulders as she forced herself to face the truth.
She was afraid.
For the last ten years she had focused all of her energy on Allie and Ellie, and now that she had the chance to put the focus back on herself, she was just afraid, pure and simple. Maggie drew in a deep, ragged breath and dragged her hair back from her face with one hand.
“Ridiculous,” she said aloud. “There’s nothing to fear but-but—Alex MacGregor.”
Silly. There was nothing to be afraid of. She just needed to make a new plan. She always felt less afraid when she had a plan. Suddenly the little tent felt claustrophobic. Her life felt claustrophobic.
She leaned forward, unzipped the tent, and took a deep lungful of the cold night air. Shivering, she reached for her heavy jacket and pulled it on. Too bad it was too bulky to sleep in. A walk was what she needed. An envigorating walk in the brisk night air.
Maggie dragged her Doc Martens from under her bunk and put them on, laced them up over her thick white socks, and picked up her flashlight and backpack. She’d go up to the cairn and look at the ogham and spiral again. It had been hard to concentrate with Alex making his not-so-veiledinnuendoes. He was cute, but hopeless.
Maggie ducked through the tent opening and straightenedinto the Scottish night. The moon was just rising and she took a moment to gaze up at the sky. It never really got dark during the summer in Scotland. Tonight there were no clouds—an amazing fact in itself—and stars studded the grayish sky above her like dazzling diamonds.
The rising moon combined with the not-quite-dark sky had already made her flashlight unnecessary, and she put it away to climb the craggy hillside toward the cairn at the top. But when she reached the summit, the thought of goinginside the structure alone made her feel suddenly uneasy.She shook her head over her own foolishness.
“Don’t be silly,” she said aloud. “There are fifteen peopleat the bottom of the hill. Besides, who do you expect to find in there, Freddy MacKruger?”
But it was still creepy.
She paused at the doorway and swallowed hard, then laughed. “Come on, Maggie, it’s just a big upside-down bowl that’s been around for a really long time. Nothing scary. Cap’n Crunch container gone bad.”
It would be dark inside. She needed her flashlight. A quick rummage in her pack produced it once again. She ducked under the low doorway, planning to turn on the flash-lightas soon as she entered the cairn. But inside, the hollow structure was already glowing, and Maggie’s fear disappearedas the scientist inside of her kicked into high gear. There were holes in the “roof” of the cairn. Moonlight poured through them and created a trail of lights, marking one of the arms of the triskele on the floor.
“Wow.” Maggie moved toward the ogham stone, but stopped beneath the streaming moonlight and looked straight up. Through each of the holes, she could see a star, lined up exactly. What could it mean? Something to do with the summer solstice? Maybe this was some kind of observatory!
She grinned, mentally hugging the discovery to herself. This was a find she wouldn’t share with Alex MacGregor! Maybe she could write a paper about it!
After gazing her fill for several long minutes, Maggie moved to the ogham stone and ran her fingers over the grooved lines. “Follow forward, follow back, ages lost, ages found,” she said aloud.
Maybe that was really the crux of her problem. Maybe she just didn’t belong in modern times. Maybe if she’d lived in the days of—oh, say—Rob Roy MacGregor, she’d have already found happiness with a hunky Scotsman. As Maggie turned, still musing over the cryptic message, she froze in place.
For a moment, it was as if she had stepped into some other world. The moonlight streaming through the holes had collided with dust particles in the air, making them glitter and dance like fanciful fairies. It was all so surreal. Maggie took a step forward, drawn to the three stone spiralsjoined at the center. Choosing the one beneath the moonlight, she began to walk beside the grooved “path.”
As she followed it, she wondered if anyone had known about this cairn during the days of Rob Roy. “Follow forward,follow back, ages lost, ages found,” she muttered. Something sparkled in her peripheral vision and she jerked her head toward it, her breath catching in her throat. The ogham, the lines carved into the standing stone in the wall of the cairn, were glowing.
“Follow forward, follow back,” she whispered, and beganto walk beside the spiral again. She took one step, and then another, reciting the words Alex had translated. “Ages lost, ages found.”
Maggie reached the end of the single spiral and stopped, mesmerized by the conflicting sensations coursing through her body. She was dizzy, elated, scared, amazed. Light flooded in from above, and she looked up again to find one of the “star holes” directly in line with her gaze.
Suddenly Maggie had no breath, no words, no thoughts. She had only that one star above, suspended in space, holdingher in some kind of mindless limbo as the spiral below her feet began to slowly turn—just before everything explodedin a dazzling blaze of light.
three
The rain had stopped. The two women beside the carriage looked like bedraggled hens and were crying and screaming,begging for their lives, while the men with them, their wigs soggy and ruined, shook their fists and shouted at the highwaymen.
Quinn shot Ian a grin. “I believe your threat to kill someone has upset the ladies,” he told Ian.
Ian feigned horror. “A pox upon me! Surely not!”
Quinn bowed toward the women as he explained, “’Twas a jest, ladies,” he said. “Do forgive us.”
“In any case, dear ladies”—Ian tossed a cloth sack to one of the women, and she caught it against her generous bosom with a gasp. He smiled again and gestured toward the sack with his sword, falling into his usual brogue—“if ye would be so kind as to fill this bag with yer jewelry, it would be much appreciated by those less fortunate. Us, to be exact.”
The women lost their tentative smiles and began to whine again.
“Scottish bastards!” The bald man shouted. “I knew you could not be Englishmen!”
“And I dinna think ye could be any kind of man,” Quinn said. His eyes narrowed. “Dinna push me, for I am known to push back.”
A harsh wind swept suddenly across the glen and Saint whinnied, moving restlessly beneath him. Ian’s horse and the horses tied to the carriage began to shift their feet and snort and Quinn glanced around, suddenly uneasy.
“And which one of ye possesses the gift sent by the Englishqueen to Montrose?” he asked, his voice falsely cheerful again.
“She is your queen, as well, you Scottish bastard!” the bald man cried, shaking his fist again.
Quinn lowered the point of his sword to the man’s throat. “I have no queen,” he said.
Maggie’s eyes flew open. She lay flat on her back on the floor of the cairn. Her head ached and her mouth was dry and she stared up at the roof of the mound blankly.
What in the world had happened? Her heart was beati
ng rapidly and a cold chill swept down her body. Why was it so cold? She blinked and took a deep breath, relieved to find that she was still alive. For a minute, she’d had her doubts.
Don’t panic. She was in the cairn. Everything was fine. Just because she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there was no need to panic. Suddenly Maggie felt as if the cairn was closing in on her and she began to tremble. She had to get out of there—now.
It took a minute before her legs would cooperate with the orders her brain was giving, but finally she was able to stand. She crossed to the opening, aching all over, only to suddenly stop in her tracks. Her eyes widened. The openingwas sealed. With stones.
Maggie stumbled back a step. “What in the world?” she whispered. Disoriented, she turned in a circle, gazing at the narrow stones forming the inside of the cairn. Everything looked the same—dusty floor, standing stone with the ogham engraved, the raised tri-spiral on the floor.
Her backpack lay crumpled on the floor on the other side of the cairn, her flashlight beside it. A moonbeam played across the dirty leather surface of the backpack, and she watched as a dozen other dots of light danced across the floor. Glancing up, she saw moonlight streaming through the “star holes” she’d discovered last night.
Last night. No. Tonight? A wave of dizziness rocked her. How long had she been unconscious? She glanced down at her wrist and realized she’d left her watch back in the tent. Maggie walked to where her pack lay and bent to pick it up, along with her flashlight. Okay, no problem, her practical side said. Someone had sealed up the opening, not knowing she was inside. She switched on the light and let it play around the empty cairn.
“Right,” she said aloud. “In the middle of the night, someone sealed up the cairn, right after Alex made his big discovery. That makes sense.” She shook her head. “Somethingis very, very wrong.”
She slid the strap of her backpack over her shoulder. “Alex?” she called. Her voice broke in the middle of his name. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Alex! What’s going on?”
After thirty minutes of screaming her lungs out, Maggie was exhausted and thirsty. Luckily she had the bottle of water she always carried in her pack. She took it out and unscrewed the lid, taking a small sip as her heart pounded. Who knew how long that water might have to last her?
Highland Rogue Page 4
