by Maura Seger
Really, she had the most contrary mind. When life settled down a bit, she would have to get herself in order.
But first, the Reverend Theeler's book beckoned.
He spent a great deal of time talking about how he first became aware of the Wyndham treasure—courtesy of an earlier book she would have to try to find— how he journeyed to Innishffarin and thence to Wyndham Manor, where he was received by the laird, an unaccountably good sort, especially for a Wyndham, if he had managed to put up with the parson for several weeks.
At length, when he had exhausted even the subject of the excellent food he received while staying at the manor, Theeler got down to business. He had made daily journeys to the castle where various retainers and on one occasion the laird himself—definitely not the typical Wyndham male—had shown him around. With their assistance and thanks to his own skill at unraveling great puzzles, the parson had narrowed the possible locations for the treasure to one: the back passage of the castle.
Here Katlin sat up straighter against the pillows. The back passage, indeed. Just as she thought. Francis Wyndham had special reason for being seen there most often.
But alas, barely had he realized this than the good reverend ran up against a problem: he had exhausted all his clues and was still not within reach of the treasure. For the next fortnight, he explored the passage, testing every stone, tapping every inch of the wall and generally making what must have been a royal nuisance of himself. All without success.
At length, he was forced to admit failure but not without retaining his conviction that the treasure might—or might not—still be secreted within the massive walls of Innishffarin.
So much for Theeler. Katlin closed the book, turned down the lamp and burrowed under the covers. She closed her eyes and composed herself for sleep.
Five minutes later, she opened her eyes, sat up, turned the lamp higher and glanced at the book.
The back passage.
Theeler had failed, but that didn't mean she would, too. He might easily have overlooked something. Probably even something right in front of him.
She hesitated. The sensible thing to do was to wait for morning, and she was ever a sensible young lady.
Well, no, actually, she wasn't. If she was honest, she would admit as much, free herself of the need to pretend otherwise and get on with what she really wanted to do.
Wrapped in a warm robe, for she was not lacking in all practicality, she made her way downstairs. It was not late by London standards but the Scottish day seemed to begin sooner. The servants had wisely gone to bed.
Katlin was glad of that, for she wanted no one to observe her engaged in what, to some eyes, might appear foolishness, if not outright madness.
Lamp in hand, she reached the back passage and stood, looking cautiously around. It seemed longer in the slim light than it did by day, more shadowed and more ominous.
But that was plainly silly. She'd already met the ghost. What was likely to scare her after that?
"Are you here?" she whispered, wondering if Francis was about. If he was, he didn't answer. She continued alone.
To give Theeler credit, he had done a thorough job. If his account was to be believed, not a single stone had escaped his scrutiny. As there were several hundred, it was no wonder the search had required a fortnight.
She ought to have been discouraged, but Katlin refused to entertain the notion of failure. Besides, it wasn't as though she was mounting a full-fledged effort. She was just going to explore a bit, that was all.
Despite her warm robe, she shivered slightly. Francis had nothing to do with that; a chill breeze blew off the sea. Wishing she had put more than thin slippers on her feet, she resolved not to stay long.
Theeler had started at the end of the passage where she was standing. So far as she could see, nothing had changed since then. Perhaps the stones in the floor were a bit more worn, but that was all. Iron brackets stood at intervals of about ten feet, obviously intended for the torches that had blackened the ceiling above.
The reverend had tested each of the brackets to see if turning them might be a mechanism for revealing a hidden compartment. Indeed, he had exhausted endless permutations of one bracket, two, three in different succession, and so on. Katlin was not about to start on that.
She contented herself with pressing each of the stones along one side of the passage as she walked slowly along it. The blocks of granite were uniform in size, having been cut by master stonemasons. Each measured about three feet on a side. And each was solidly unmovable.
By the time she neared the far end of the passage, Katlin was cold and tired. She was also feeling more than a little silly. Her chances of finding anything were less than slim. Theeler and undoubtedly many others had crept and crawled over every inch of the passage without result. What could she hope to discover in only a few minutes?
Nothing, of course. But she could and did reach the end, where a small wooden door led outside. Anxious to return to her room, Katlin decided to make use of the alternate route. Such was the castle's design that it would take her less time to go outside, hasten around to the front and return through the main hall than it would to make her way through the warren of corridors and stairs that led to the tower.
She wrapped her robe more closely around herself and opened the door. The contrast between the coolness of the passage and the outside was not very great. If she hurried, she could be inside within minutes.
Regretting that she had left her warm bed on such a fool's errand, Katlin wasted no time. She shut the door behind her and proceeded around the castle to the side where the small garden was located. Skirting this, she was nearing the second corner when a shadow suddenly moved next to the garden wall.
Katlin did not see it, for she was already beyond it. Nor, in her haste, did she hear the footsteps that followed her.
Chapter Nineteen
Charles's mood had worsened. He had set out with grim determination, lightened in his own fashion by a certain anticipation. But now he was enraged.
Of course, he should have realized that being at the back end of civilization where all decent society came to a screeching halt, there would be no one about. Not a light shone on the main floor of the castle. Its walls loomed up before him ominously as though inviting him to try to scale them—and perish in the process.
Had it not been for the full moon, he would have been blind. As it was, he was once again cold and damp. Katlin was to blame for his discomfort, as she was to blame for everything else. His need to punish her rose.
But how? He could hardly bang on the door in the hope that some lazy sot of a servant would happen to hear him and let him in. Nor could he risk opening it and setting the massive iron hinges to creaking.
His original plan had been to scout around outside until he found a secluded entrance. The staff was sorely limited, as he had already observed. He would remain unseen but within sight of the main staircase he had noticed, until Katlin inevitably revealed herself when, eventually, she made her way to bed. Then he would pounce.
But within scant minutes of reaching Innishffarin, he realized his plan wouldn't work. He couldn't find his way inside. The door he did manage to find led to a garden, which in turn gave way to a door to the castle. But that door was solidly bolted from within.
Frustrated, he went back outside, only to see as he did a pale shadow passing. Fear gripped him. He had heard tales of such things, ghostly visitations of long dead beings. This one was female, he could tell that. She seemed surrounded by a nimbus of white with her pale hair tumbling down her back. A spasm of sheer terror shot through him as he beheld the spectral vision. Perhaps she was a suicide doomed to repeat her plunge from the nearby cliffs on a nightly basis. He wouldn't put it past Innishffarin to have such a thing.
But wait, the ghostly being held a lamp and by it he could see that the white nimbus was no more than an ordinary wool robe. Nor was the hair unfamiliar; it was the exact shade of Katlin's.
F
ear fled, and in its place came a steely sense of justice. How right that he should encounter her like this. She had walked into his hands.
Charles did not hesitate. The sight of her alone and utterly vulnerable aroused him as nothing else could have. Even as his breeches swelled, he hurried after her.
Katlin paused as though listening. He was sure she had heard him and would react in another moment. Rather than let that happen, he quickened his pace. She was just in the act of turning when he seized her, slamming a hand hard over her mouth as he gripped her around the waist.
The lamp fell to the ground and went rolling away, the flame quickly extinguished as it made contact with the wet grass. Katlin tried to scream but she could hardly breath. She did the next best thing and kicked out, catching her assailant on the shin. Charles grunted, and in that instant she realized who it was.
So shocking was the discovery of his identity that it froze her in place momentarily. Feeling her resistance ebb, the baron took advantage of the opportunity and began pulling her toward the nearby wood. When she swiftly recovered herself and dug her heels into the ground to prevent him, he felt perfectly justified in delivering what was obviously a much needed lesson.
With relish, he took his hand away from her mouth, tightened it around her throat and said, "The more you fight me, the worse it will be for you. I am going to enjoy this, dear Katlin, but I assure you, you will not. However," he added in what he imagined to be a concession to chivalry, "be assured I have not changed in my original intent. You will be my wife, albeit a chastened and obedient one."
He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen with shock and a satisfying surge of fear.
He was mad, Katlin thought with dawning horror. This was the man she had known for more than a year, the courteous, congenial companion of a dozen routs, balls, teas, theater parties and the like. The heir to a proud name and an even prouder fortune. The man London society had dubbed supremely eligible and the catch of any season.
And he meant to rape her. She could feel his arousal hard against her buttocks as he put her in front of him with his forearm across her throat and shoved her in the direction of the wood. The innocent and admittedly naive miss who left London would not have immediately comprehended what the pressure against her lower body signified. But Katlin had awakened to passion and with that to the awareness that it could hold unexpectedly dark corners. In one of them, Charles dwelled.
She was alone with him in the night with no one to hear her screams. For an instant, that realization threatened to paralyze her. Only by the greatest act of will did she refuse to let it. She was a Sinclair, standing on her own land within the shadow of her own keep. Damn Charles Devereux to hell!
The pressure on her throat was enough to keep her breathing ragged but it did not prevent the swift working of her mind. The farther they got from the castle, the worse her danger became. At best she could hope to incapacitate him long enough to give her a chance to escape. Safety lay in regaining the sanctuary of those thick stone walls. Every foot away from them meant more peril.
That being the case, she would have to stop him now. Abruptly, she sagged against the restraining arm, allowing all her weight to fall on it. Her knees buckled and her back bowed, drawing him slightly off balance. It wasn't enough to make him fall but it was sufficient to loosen his grip.
Before he could respond, Katlin ducked under his arm. She was sorely tempted to run at once but she knew she wouldn't get far. Better to stand and fight where she was. She spared a quick glance around for anything that might serve as a weapon.
In the moonlight, the rock gleamed whitely. It was slightly larger than her hand, and when she lunged for it, it came readily from the dirt. Charles was almost upon her, cursing virulently. She took a deep breath, half closed her eyes and smashed the rock against his head. He reeled as blood gushed from his brow.
"You bitch!" he screamed. "I'll kill you for that."
Katlin needed no further urging. She turned, picked up her skirt and ran for her life. Stark terror burned the back of her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She got around the corner of the castle and was racing toward the main doors. Sanctuary was within sight, almost within reach, when Charles caught her.
The blow knocked her to the ground. She screamed and rolled onto her back as he came down on top of her. He managed to get hold of one of her arms, but she kept the other free. Her fingers curled, she clawed for his eyes but missed.
Charles cursed again, balled his hand into a fist and struck her in the midsection. The breath rushed from her into darkness splintered by whirling lights. For a terrible moment, she thought she would faint.
Only the realization of how totally helpless she would be then kept her clinging to consciousness, if barely. She heard him grunt with satisfaction, gather both her arms together and begin hoisting her over his shoulder.
With the last of her strength, Katlin stuck. She wasted no time trying to use her arms, but swung her feet back and then forward in an arc that caught Charles near but unfortunately not in the groin. He groaned harshly but did not ease his grip.
The effort had exhausted her. Dark despair threatened. He was moving quickly away from the castle and toward the woods. In a moment, she would be lost to all hope.
***
But in that moment, the man on the black stallion turned up the last part of the road to Innishffarin and saw what lay ahead. Man and horse alike were wreathed in darkness and virtually invisible. Angus's night vision was superb. Aided by the drifting moon, he saw everything.
Saw, understood and acted, all in a lightning flash. Pounding hooves tore clods from the earth as he urged the stallion to an all-out gallop. The spirited animal, bred from uncounted generations of war-horses, responded at once.
Charles looked up to see several hundred pounds of fighting animal coming straight at him, topped by a sight that looked torn from another time—an enraged warrior in the grip of blood lust and intent on mayhem.
It was a fearsome sight. A courageous man would have been struck dumb with terror. Charles was anything but. His soul shriveled as he stared into the face of death.
But the instinct for survival had not entirely deserted him. He dropped Katlin, who in that moment went from delectable prey to no more than a burden standing between him and escape, and sprinted for the trees.
Under other circumstances, it might have worked. A chivalrous man would have stopped to see to the distressed damsel. But Angus wasn't that. He was a leader, a warrior, and at that moment the outraged laird of Wyndham responding to the very real threat to what he regarded as purely his own.
Besides, Katlin was no simpering miss. She was a woman after his own heart and he trusted her to take care of herself, at least for the next few minutes.
He had other things to do, such as rending Charles Devereux limb from limb and leaving him a bloody pulp to nourish the good soil of Innishffarin.
The stallion pounded on, narrowing the distance between them. Charles cast a terrified glance over his shoulder as he plunged into the trees. Angus drew rein sharply, slipped from the saddle and said a single word of command to his mount. Instantly the horse was still, waiting for his master to return.
Without hesitation, Angus plunged into the forest. He had not passed that way since boyhood when he had sometimes played and hunted in the wood within sight of the castle. It had been a small gesture of defiance against the Sinclairs and one Isaiah had borne with surprising good humor. Indeed, that had been the beginning of their acquaintance.
Years had passed and the boy had grown to a man, but Angus still knew the woods in the very fiber of his being. He moved easily, listening to Charles thrash and struggle not far ahead.
There were brambles among the oaks. Angus knew how to avoid them, Charles did not. He quickly became enmeshed in the clinging vines, a hundred prickling needles digging into his flesh.
A howl, almost animal-like, tore from him. He struggled desperately, which only had the
effect of enmeshing him more deeply. The real danger was slight; at worst the needles would draw blood. But in the dark and the terror, their grip seemed like a hundred clawing hands holding him remorselessly.
Angus waited, watching. Clouds cleared the moon, which showered its silver light on the scene. The contrast between the serene night and the struggling, fear-filled man was stark. At length, Charles managed to tear himself free. His clothes were in tatters and he was bleeding from innumerable scratches. In addition, the wound at his forehead left him dazed.
Free of the brambles, he breathed a sigh of relief and looked around for a direction in which to go. He could hear nothing and see little. The hope surged in him that he had escaped.
At that moment, Angus moved. He came out of the darkness so swiftly that he was no more than a blur of speed. The blow he landed on Charles's jaw sent him reeling into the thicket. Angus gripped the front of his jacket and pulled him upright. He struck again, a blow that rendered the baron's nose a shape nature had not intended. The thought was still in Angus to do far more, but the abject terror of his enemy filled him with disgust. This was no honorable foe to be defeated in battle; it was a cur willing to prey on those weaker than himself but cowering in the face of greater strength.
Abruptly, he dropped him into the thicket. His voice was thunder in the night as he said, "Hear me, Charles
Devereux. Come near me or mine again and life will become a burden from which you will beg to part. Stick your tail between your legs and fly back to London at all speed, for if morning finds you anywhere near my land, you are a dead man."
Satisfied that the warning had its desired effect, Angus turned on his heel and strode out of the glade. The stallion waited precisely where he had left him. He mounted and was at Katlin's side in scant minutes.
