Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. There’s no way they blocked up the door and took off in the middle of the night in the middle of a dig!
Maggie took another small sip and then put the bottle away. She had already switched off her flashlight. The moonlight streaming through the holes in the ceiling lent quite a bit of light to the space, and she might need the flashlight later.
With a sigh, she sank down to the floor and pulled her knees to her chest, leaning her head back against the wall. Long tendrils of hair whispered around her face. She ran her fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp lightly, the pain in her head easing as she tried to think.
This was crazy. A joke? No one would pull this kind of elaborate hoax, not even her sisters. Okay, they probably would, but they were an ocean away. She leaned her head on her knees, her hair covering her like a cloak.
Calm down. She’d take the scientific approach and retraceher steps. She’d been restless and come to the cairn, where she discovered the holes in the ceiling, and the stars lined up in them. Maggie lifted her head from her knees and watched the moonlight flicker across the triskele carvingon the floor.
The spirals! She straightened. Something had happened when she walked around one of the spirals! Stumbling to her feet, she moved to the spiral. She’d walked along the raised stone carving and had spoken the words of the ogham aloud. The rest of the memory flooded back. Yes! There’d been a flash of light and then—
Maggie began to tremble. She remembered being somewhere—terrible. Trapped somehow. Drifting from her body, her soul. She had seen herself in a bubble, but she couldn’t reach her own body. Maggie shook her head. It was all muddled and hazy and she forced her thoughts away from the horrible memory and back to the situation at hand.
Okay. The door to the cairn was blocked. She couldn’t get out. No one was coming to save her, so she’d just have to save herself. But how? The stones of the cairn were very solidly packed together, and besides, the archaeologist in her did not want to damage this find.
During the excavation of the cairn, Alex had discovered a place where the stones had either caved outward on their own, or been pulled out by someone at some point in the past. Maggie moved quickly to the north side of the cairn, and knelt down, expecting to see the hole. She sat back on her heels and the panic returned full force.
There was no hole.
Maggie stood up, hands on her hips, and glared around at the thousands of stones making up the cairn, stones that were keeping her in.
“Well, okay then,” she said. “I’ll just have to make a hole!”
Quinn got off his horse.
He walked toward the two men, swinging his sword back and forth, slicing the air. “If ye call me a bastard again,” he said, his voice as sharp as the blade he held suddenly to the taller man’s throat, “I will split ye from here”—he lifted the aristocrat’s cravat with the tip of the blade and then slowly brought the point of the blade down to rest against the man’s crotch—“to here.”
The bald man gulped and shuddered, his eyes round with fear, as the shorter man beside him apparently found his nerve.
“The duke will not stand for this treatment of his guests!” he said, his mustache drooping from the rain, his words laced with terror. “Do you know who I am? I am the Earl of—”
“Ye are the Earl of Nothing,” Quinn said flatly, his gaze never moving from the terrified eyes of the man in front of him. “Ye are in Scotland now, and we dinna care what titles an Englishman may hold.”
“I am sorry, my lord,” the tall man said with a distinctiveScottish accent. “I promise that the duke will not allow this to go unpunished!”
Ian had circled his horse around the carriage, and now came back to Quinn’s side. “I have a fair bad feeling, lad,” he said. “And the clouds are passing from the moon.”
“Gentlemen,” Quinn said, as he walked back to his horse and mounted, sliding easily into the saddle, “your wallets, please, and the Queen’s gift, before things become. . . unpleasant.”
“Scalawags!” said the taller man, pulling out a velvet bag and a small box.
“You bloody bas—” The bald man swallowed the word hastily. “Ye bloody black weasels!” he shouted as he tossed his wallet to the ground. “The duke will have ye hanging on the gallows by Hogmanay!”
Saint pranced beneath Quinn. “Do you hear that, lad?” he asked Ian, and gave a short laugh. “The Black Weasels! I had hoped for a name slightly more intimidating, perhaps the Black Wolves or the Black Foxes.”
“Even the Black Hounds would be better,” Ian agreed, casting a glance over first one shoulder and then the other. Quinn had known his friend long enough to know when he was growing anxious.
The women giggled. “Nay,” said one, “they call ye the Piper. Which one of ye is he?”
Quinn and Ian exchanged glances and grinned. “We take turns,” Quinn said, and glanced at the moon, now peeking out once more from behind the skittering clouds. It was time to go. He directed one of the women to gather up the items on the ground, and when she handed them to him, she smiled. Quinn took the bag from her and bowed from the saddle.
“We do apologize, ladies,” he said, “but we do assure you that your jewelry—which no doubt these good fellows will happily replace for you—is going to a good cause.”
“And what cause would that be?” the stout man demanded.
Quinn smiled. “Making me rich.”
Suddenly Ian straightened in the saddle and turned his horse around, moving next to Quinn. “We’d best be away.”
“Aye.” Quinn sheathed his sword and bowed to the ladies. “Remember that this night ye were spared by the Piper!” He wheeled his horse around as the sound of suddenthunder shook the earth.
Saint reared back, as did Ian’s horse. “That is not thunder!” Ian cried as he tried to bring his mount under control.
“Nay, ’tis at least two dozen men on horseback!” Quinn kicked his heels into Saint’s side. “Ride, laddie, ride!”
After painstakingly examining the curved surface of the cairn’s wall, Maggie finally found a weak spot where a few stones had crumbled and left a small hole. It took about an hour, but Maggie finally managed to push enough stones out of place and was able to squeeze through to the outside. Once free of her tomb, she stood and took a deep breath of fresh air. It was dark outside, at least as dark as it was likely to get. She could see shapes in the shadowy twilight, but she switched on her flashlight and started down the hillside,slipping and sliding in her haste to reach the bottom.
Her head was pounding again as she struck out toward the glen that had been an ideal spot to pitch their tents. It had rained, of course, and only a few clouds were left in the sky, drifting across the face of the moon.
“Alex, my darlin’,” she muttered as she hurried around a copse of bushes, “you are in such deep—” Maggie stopped in her tracks. She flashed the light around the meadowlike clearing where the “archaeologists” had slept for the last week. The tents were gone. Her head began to throb and the world spun around her.
“Alex! Damn you, Alex! Where are you? Where is anybody?!” Her words echoed back to her as she looked around, arms spread wide, the twilight sky above, the deep green below, and no one, not a soul to answer her.
What had happened? The tents had to be around here somewhere. She’d just gotten confused and gone in the wrong direction. She retraced her steps to the bottom of the hill and looked up at the cairn, shivering. No, she’d come down the right way. Obviously the tents had been taken down and everyone had left!
Maggie groaned out loud. Now she’d have to walk into the village, which was about fifteen miles away. Or she could spend the night there and hope Alex showed up in the morning. She turned away from the cairn. There was no way she was going back in there tonight.
The sensible thing to do would be to just sit down until morning, but she was too restless. She had to keep moving. Maggie walked toward the rising moon and climbed
up anotherrocky hill. At the top, she stopped to stare out over the Scottish countryside. The moon was peeking out from behind the clouds, but more were gathering above her.
Maggie stood for a moment, drinking in the sight before her. Scotland was a mystical place at midnight, she thought, as she gazed at a world of silver stones and ebony shadows below. For a moment, she felt as if she were in some other dimension, a fairy realm filled with magic.
She shook her head at her whimsy and moved the beam of her flashlight to trace the stony slope stretching down. At the bottom was what looked like the tracks of wheels in the mud.
A road—or what passed for one in the Highlands. Reliefswept over Maggie. She could follow the road and at least eventually get somewhere!
An owl hooted from somewhere nearby and Maggie turned toward the sound, just as a strong wind swept down from the north and blasted against her. Her thick jacket protected her on top, but her thin pajama pants were like paper. Then the skies opened up and the rain poured down.
“Great!” she said, lifting her head to glare up at the storm clouds. “Perfect! So now I get to be abandoned, cold, and wet! Alex MacGregor I am so going to kill you.”
Then she heard it—voices shouting. It had to be Alex and her group. Maybe she’d been too hard on Alex. Maybe something bad had happened. Maybe something bad was happening right now!
“Hang on, Alex!” she cried. “I’m coming!” She half slid, half stumbled down to the bottom of the slope, her momentum carrying her forward several yards across the flat ground, and straight into the middle of the narrow, muddy road.
As Maggie stood still, trying to regain her equilibrium, the world spun around her again, making her feel nauseatedand disoriented. Then a shot rang out, and she turned, startled, to see a man on the back of a huge black stallion riding straight toward her. The problem was . . . she couldn’t move.
Quinn was ahead of Ian by several furlongs when the rain began pelting down again and shouts came from behind. He looked back through the rain to see Montrose’s men gaining on them, swords drawn. A shot rang out and he put heel to his horse.
The rain was turning the ground to slush, and Quinn could only hope that their Highland ponies could keep their footing better than the nags the duke’s men rode. He glanced back again, to make sure Ian was all right—and saw a figure standing directly in the path of his friend’s horse.
For an instant, Quinn thought he imagined her, that the ancient magic of the land had reached out and twisted his mind. She looked like a faery, or a moon goddess, but no, she was real. Slim, small, the woman stood in the path of the charging stallion as if she were frozen, her long hair dancing in the wind as it whipped around her with a frenziedhaste. Only her eyes revealed her terror, glistening in the summer twilight as Ian rode straight toward her.
“Ian!” Quinn shouted.
The woman jerked her head in the direction of the horse and rider pounding toward her, her mouth open in wordless fright. But Ian was looking over his shoulder and didn’t see her. He would unknowingly ride straight over the lass, and apparently she hadn’t the sense to get out of the way.
Quinn wheeled Saint around and headed back across the muddy expanse toward Ian. He cut across his friend’s path and, without stopping, scooped the woman up and dumped her across his saddle before whirling his horse around and heading the other way, almost colliding with Ian’s mount.
His action spooked Ian’s horse, and as Saint carried him forward, Quinn looked back to see Ian’s mount rear up on its hind legs, slip in the mud, and go down with Ian still on its back.
“Ian!” Quinn shouted again, this time a cry from his heart. His friend staggered to his feet and stumbled toward Quinn as Montrose’s men bore down on him.
“Go on!” he cried. “Ride on!”
But Quinn spun Saint in a half circle and charged back toward his friend. In a matter of moments, Ian was surroundedby the duke’s men, and for the second time that night, Quinn had to make a split-second decision. He pulled up, making Saint dance back and forth as his mind raced. There were too many of them—over twenty by his count—and to try to free Ian would probably mean the end of them both. He tightened his jaw. He would have to take that chance.
At that moment, the woman facedown across his saddle moved, pressing her hands against the side of his horse, lifting herself, turning her head to look up at him, her bewilderedgaze colliding with his. Suddenly Quinn could not breathe, could not move. He fell into the depths of those almond-shaped eyes and plunged downward into an ocean of confusion and fear.
“Where am I?” she whispered.
“There’s the other one!”
Quinn jerked his head toward the shout, shaken from his stupor.
“No!” He heard Ian’s shout, and watched as his friend threw himself against three of the guards, taking them down. He got in a few good punches, and then staggered to his feet and shouted again, “Ride on!” before pulling a gun from the holster at a fallen guard’s side.
“Ian, no!!” Quinn heard his own cry, as Saint danced beneath him, but the words came to him from far away, as if in a dream.
The next thing he knew, another guard had drawn his pistol and fired it at his friend. Ian collapsed to the ground. With a roar of outrage, Quinn dug his heels into Saint’s side and sent the horse plunging forward, toward the enemy.
“No!” It was a woman’s protest—the woman across his saddle. He’d forgotten her. She was in the way—he needed to draw his sword, to avenge his best friend.
She stared, wild-eyed at the meleé in front them, soldiersand guns and smoke and death. Quinn welcomed it. Ian had died like a man. Quinn would not disgrace him by turning tail and running like a coward. But the woman looked up at him, pleading in her voice and her shimmeringeyes.
“Please,” she said, “please don’t let me die. I’ve just begunto live!”
Her words struck him in the heart and, without conscious decision, Quinn pulled back on the reins, his arms shaking from the task. Saint fought the abrupt stop and almost went down, but quickly found his feet again. Quinn laid the rein across his neck and turned him. The black horse stretched into a long, lean gallop that carried Quinn and the woman away from danger, leaving Ian behind, without even a piper’s lament.
four
Quinn gripped the flask of whiskey and took another drink, closing his eyes as the burn trickled down his throat. He and Ian always had a drink together after a job well done. Now that heady pleasure would never take place again. Ian was gone. He opened his eyes and turned his gaze to the woman responsible for his best friend’s death.
She lay silent on the ground, sleeping or unconscious, he didn’t know and didn’t care. Dispassionately, he watched her lie there, his plaid beneath her and draped around her— he couldn’t let her freeze—curled on her side, her hands folded beneath her head like a child. She wore the strangest clothing—a heavy, short coat on top, and thin, odd breeches on the bottom.
Her long hair waved along her back and over one shoulderlike a waterfall at sunset, red gold and glorious, and her long lashes made dark crescents upon her porcelain skin; the few freckles dotted across her nose and cheeks made her look almost childlike, but the lush curves of her body he had inadvertently felt as he carried her proved she was no child.
She was beautiful, and Quinn hated her with every fiber of his being.
Ian’s death was her fault. His hand tightened around the whiskey flask. And it was his fault, as well. If he hadn’t riddento her rescue, if he had just let Ian run her down, none of this would have happened. He put the flask down beside him and reached for a large leather bag at his feet. He lifted it to his lap, drawing a cumbersome object from the depths of the satchel. Ian’s bagpipes.
When the two had first met at MacCrimmons School of Piping, Quinn, along with everyone else, had immediately assumed the son of a wealthy landowner was a rich, spoiled brat. All had heard that the ten-year-old boy was something of a prodigy on the pipes, and expected h
im to be vain and arrogant. Quinn had fallen right in with the general consensus, basing his assumption on his resentmentof aristocrats, something his father had instilled in him from a young age, and also on Ian’s somewhat foppish appearance.
Ian had been tall for his age and thin, with shadows under his long-lashed blue eyes and waving blond hair pretty enough for a girl. But during the second week of school, everything changed. Four of the bigger boys had jumped Ian after finding him walking through the court-yardalone.
Or so they had thought. Quinn had been practicing his pipes in a secluded corner of the commons and when he heard the commotion, ran to join the fray—until he saw the terror in Ian’s eyes. Instead, he came to the younger boy’s rescue, and after the fight had been broken up by two of the school’s instructors, Ian had vowed his undying loyalty to his new friend.
In the days that followed, Quinn found he had been completely wrong about the rich man’s son. Ian was actually a down-to-earth, good-natured boy who had been ill most of his life. The two quickly became friends, and as their common love of music bound them closer together, Quinn taught Ian how to defend himself and how to hold his own in the rough-and-tumble sports the boys liked to play. In return, Ian taught Quinn more than one of his amazing techniques on the pipes. Ian’s frail muscles began to strengthen and the shadows beneath his eyes faded. Soon the lad became one of the most well-liked students in the school.
They had both planned to be pipers. Music would be their lives. But in the days that followed their last year at MacCrimmons, the two friends had lost that dream, along with everything else they’d held dear, except for each other.
And now, because of a stupid woman’s blundering, Ian was gone.
As Quinn fought the new wave of sorrow sweeping over him, along with the need to shout out his loss and his anger, he realized he was very drunk. He dragged the back of his sleeve across his eyes and picked up the bagpipes. For the first time in a very long time, he began to play.
Highland Rogue Page 5
