“The wind,” Boswell growled and grabbed Meg’s arm. “Keep moving.”
Rapid heartbeat, sour stomach, veins stretched, unhealed abscess on left foot, poorly healed shin bone on left leg, clot in deep vein of same leg. The infinitesimal details about Rowland Boswell’s physical conditions poured into Meg upon contact. She blinked hard as he released her. The clot. Big and dangerous. If it were to break free and travel through his body, much like the clot in Angus or the leaves in the creek…Meg swallowed hard. The clot could kill him. I could kill him.
Meg’s cheeks filled with heat as she faced the flickering darkness. How could she kill someone? She wasn’t a witch who killed with her powers, a witch like the one Boswell had accused her mother of being. She was a healer with a gift from God. Her fears chewed at her heels, fed by years of denial, years of trying to subdue and ignore her powers. What would she become if she gave way and killed a man?
She heard one of them stumble behind her, the torch light shifting sporadically as Boswell cursed. He was winded, probably not used to such a climb. His elevated blood pressure could loosen the clot on its own.
“Perhaps you should rest your left leg. The break in your shin didn’t heal well,” Meg said into the darkness, her voice swallowed down the cave’s throat.
The torchlight halted, but Meg continued, fading farther into the black, her hand against the wall.
“Hey, where’s the light?” James called.
Meg stopped for fear of running into Gilbert’s lackey.
“You will burn like your mother, witch,” Boswell said.
“Where are ye?” Gilbert called, leaping forward and holding onto Meg’s wrist. “Boswell, keep us in sight.”
Another breeze moaned through the cave. Meg’s curls moved as if an unearthly hand threaded through it. A chill raised gooseflesh on her neck. The same gooseflesh prickled up in Gilbert, along with a leap in his heart rate.
“The cave is inhabited by restless spirits,” she said in a soft voice and sensed Gilbert’s increasing sweat production and clenched bladder.
James halted at a fork in the tunnel. “Which way?”
“Meg?” Boswell asked.
To the right, Meg thought. Colin’s finger had stopped at the end of the farthest right path and all of her mother’s clues mentioned staying to the right.
“Left,” Meg said and cast her eyes downward as if they’d dragged the answer from her and she harbored guilt over it. “My father said to go left at the fork.”
Boswell frowned but flicked his fingers at James. “Continue.”
James hurried off into the darkness, the torchlight barely keeping up with him. Meg hung back, not knowing exactly what lay ahead, wondering if she’d been wise or foolish to lead them down a wrong turn.
Pebbles skittered as James shuffled past larger boulders. Meg heard his hand grazing the wall. “Perhaps there is a treasure chest at the end.” He laughed over his shoulder. “With the letters. Seems like a perfect place to hide—”
James’s words transformed into a gasp and a guttural scream cut through the tunnel. Meg froze. As James’s voice grew fainter and fainter, energy to hold herself up drained out of her body. She sagged against the rock wall. Boswell stepped past her, holding the torch high. The light slanted across the sharp angles of stone walls to reveal a sheer drop, so far down into the mountain that the light couldn’t reach the bottom.
“Cac!” Gilbert cried. “James!” he hollered, as if the man would reply.
The wall supported Meg as she tried to control her breathing, her wildly pounding heart. Gilbert turned on her, fury transforming his face into that of a nightmarish monster. “Ye bitch!” He advanced. Meg had tricked one of them to their death, but would it lead to her own?
“Halt, Davidson,” Boswell said, and the angry bull actually stopped. “You can deal with her later. For now, she will lead us through the rest of this maze. I need her alive.”
Boswell glanced at Meg. “Thank you for showing me the perfect place to forget a body.”
His dark meaning was not lost on Meg. She swallowed hard.
“Now take us the correct way,” Boswell finished and shone the light high. “You in front this time.”
Meg led them back out to the main tunnel and turned them down the correct path. There were only two more divergences, and she continued to steer them right. She picked up her pace, straight ahead and into the dark. The three of them trod through the tunnel in the small circumference of light. Footfalls and tumbled pebbles echoed with their breaths.
She cringed as Gilbert’s huff brushed her hair from behind, but as long as she continued quickly, Gilbert couldn’t touch her. A sweat broke out along her spine despite the chill swirling around them. The farther they moved into the heart of the mountain, the milder the air became, as if the summer-warmed cavern still retained its heat.
The belly of the beast. Black nothingness and heavy rock pressed in on her, making her breathing shallow. Meg pushed the panic back into her stomach. The thought that her mother had found happiness here kept her trudging forward at the very fringe of the torchlight circle.
Time passed, the only evidence being the ache in her legs. She spent the time hoping and praying that Caden was alive. Minutes heaped upon minutes.
“Bloody long tunnel,” Gilbert swore. “We must have hiked halfway through the mountain by now.”
“Halt.” Boswell held the torch high. Sweat covered his face. He wiped it with a handkerchief and tucked it back in his vest. He took a drink of water from a bladder he’d brought. “Carry on.”
If this rapid hike hadn’t dislodged the man’s clot, then the hope of it occurring naturally was dim. Meg placed her hand against the slope of her belly. The babe was growing, elongating, protected below the layers of her muscle and skin. Alive, healthy, trusting her to keep it safe.
Her lips tightened into a thin line as she stared ahead. She wasn’t an evil witch, plotting to take a man’s life at will. Caden had called her a warrior. She was a warrior—a woman warrior with a purpose greater than her own life. And she must use all the weapons available.
Meg rounded the corner. Without the torch glow she could only detect the immense space with an intuition born to her gender. Her arm floundered out to the wall, but only waved in the emptiness.
“Meg!” Gilbert yelled and stepped around the corner with Boswell right behind him. The light flickered around the cavern walls as Boswell held the torch high.
She turned in a circle. Several fist-sized holes of light filtered down near the center where the ancient remains of a fire sat.
“Huh. Could have dug down to it,” Gilbert said, staring up at the small holes.
Tears stabbed at her eyes as she surveyed the room. A folded wool plaid sat near the fire. Her mother and Colin had handfasted here in the heart of the mountain. The wind howled along the tunnel, tumbling around the three, chilling the space. Meg crossed her arms and shivered. The wind whipped dried pieces of debris from the fire pit and funneled them upward into mini tornados.
Several large boulders sat around the perimeter of the cavern like ancient monoliths. As Meg stood before the dead fire, directly beneath the holes, she noticed the boulder to the right. Could it be? She squinted in the poor lighting. Yes, a heart. God had molded the large granite stone into the shape of a human heart.
“A cold cave with a warm heart,” Meg mumbled, and wiped a stray tear that had escaped her control.
“Where are they?” Boswell tore about the cavern. He flipped open the neatly piled blankets and kicked at the ashes in the fire pit as if attacking the place her mother had at one time been happy. “They’ve got to be here!”
“Perhaps it was a ruse,” Meg said softly. “Perhaps she didn’t hide any letters at all.”
“No, she took them!” Boswell yelled. “They never arrived or Henry and his little Mary would be dead.” His gaze flew about the room. “They must be here.”
Gilbert began to kick at the monoliths, scatt
ering stones and sending up dust. Meg spit out the grit in her mouth and shivered as the temperature seemed to drop.
She averted her gaze from the heart stone and prayed Gilbert would stop, but he didn’t. With a brutal drive of his heel, Gilbert toppled the heart-shaped boulder. The two halves of the heart slid apart, showing that it had actually been two smaller boulders placed together. A packet of parchment fell out of the rubble.
“There!” Boswell snatched up the dust-covered bundle.
Gilbert picked up a single leaf of parchment, loose from the others. He broke the wax seal and scanned the script.
Boswell plucked it from his fingers and read it himself. “Seems that whore hoped you’d find these,” he said and threw the letter at Meg’s face.
She grabbed it.
“She always thought of herself as more clever. Her quiet disapproval even when she pretended to be obedient.” He laughed with barely concealed insanity. He fingered through the letters. “Thought she’d stop me from proving my greatness.”
Meg leaned back against the wall out of Boswell and Gilbert’s way. She unfolded the parchment but the torchlight was too far away for her to read what it said. She ran her finger over the brittle paper.
“I love you, Mama,” she whispered just above a breath. As she spoke, the tip of her finger began to glow, just enough to light the words. Where was the magic coming from? Not from her.
Meg swallowed hard as the room turned even colder and in contrast the sweet smell of honeysuckle surrounded her. She breathed in the lush scent and read the delicate slanted script.
My Sweet Meg,
May God keep you from harm. I send these letters into hiding with my true husband, your father, Colin Macleod. The letters hold proof of Rowland Boswell’s treachery against King Henry and his chosen bride, the Catholic Queen Catherine, in his plans to assassinate his heir, the Princess Mary, and the king himself. Use these letters, your father’s support, and any weapons that you have to survive Boswell’s wickedness.
Remember that I love you, Meg.
Isabelle Macleod
The pain in Meg’s chest forced her to release her breath. Her finger traced her mother’s words as the blue light faded away. Any weapons that you have. The chilled air blew about the chamber and flickered the torchlight.
Gilbert eyed her from the other side of the cavern. He grinned, his lips shining wet in the fire glow. “Do ye even need Meg now that ye have the letters?”
Boswell glanced at her. “She still must be baptized by fire.”
“Och, but not before I have a bit of fun,” Gilbert drawled. “Maybe even before we leave this cozy little cave. Ye could even have a go of her, seeing as she isn’t yer daughter.”
Meg swallowed against the bile in her throat. Blessedly, Boswell didn’t seem interested in her as he pored over his old words.
“No wonder the plan didn’t work. None of my letters got through,” Boswell murmured. He held the parchment toward the flame. “Although King Henry has turned into an easy man to manipulate. Luckily, he will never know.” At the first lick of fire against the paper, the honeysuckle wind whipped about the room, bending the flame backward, away from the brittle sheet.
The coldness froze the air around them. Meg wrapped the cloak tightly around herself. “Mama,” she whispered into the breeze.
“Damn wind,” Boswell said and shoved the parchment onto the end of the torch.
Gilbert strode over to him. “Bloody hell, don’t put it out!”
Too late. The flame snuffed out, crashing down the wave of darkness.
Move… Run… The words sang by Meg’s ears on the wind. She leapt up, her legs full of energy.
“Get her!” Boswell yelled.
“Where is she?” Gilbert’s voice filled the void as Meg skirted to the right around the edge of the cavern. She pulled her gown tight in one hand and with a push off the wall with her foot, she ran toward the spot where the tunnel had been. The wind nudged her from behind, slightly to the left, and she followed, never doubting that it led to freedom.
“Catch her!” Boswell ordered.
Meg ran through the opening into the tunnel. She stumbled into the wall at the first sharp turn, her heart hammering up her throat with each frantic breath. Cursing and stumbling sounds followed. Did she dare? Would they see? Perhaps if she kept the light low and focused toward the ground.
Meg lit a small ball of blue and held it before her stomach in an attempt to hide it. She could see the narrow tunnel and ran forward as the wind surged around her like a wave. She sprinted down the tunnel, afraid to glance behind, afraid to make the light bigger. The curses and shuffling sounds grew fainter. Perhaps she was outrunning them. The thought opened up her chest, allowing for more air.
She wasn’t sure how long they had walked in but running out, with death or worse snapping at her heels, made the tunnel seem like an endless path. Her feet pounded against the damp rock and moss until the cramp in her stomach made her stop for breath. She leaned against the rock wall, allowing her little ball of light to go out. Darkness weighed in on her, making her chest tighten with a need for sky and fresh air. She closed her eyes and imagined the open sky above, and slowly, her breathing normalized.
Once the thudding in her head quieted, the thudding on the rock bed behind her grew. Like a monster out of the dark frightening children into staying in their beds at night, the sound solidified into the thunder of footfalls.
Meg shrank back against the wall and crouched. Better than outrunning them, let them pass. Her eyes stared out at the darkness as if she might see the monster coming. Her ears focused on the thuds, just one pair. Gilbert? Boswell probably scurried behind like a rat along the wall.
Along the wall! Which wall would Gilbert follow with his hand so he could maneuver through the dark? Meg stood. Should she move to the center of the tunnel and hope he followed close to the wall? Her ears trained on the sound as it increased. The tunnel wasn’t wide enough. If she stood in the middle, he’d hit her. Which wall would he follow?
His dominant hand would make sense. The rapid sound echoed. He was almost upon her. Right side. He’d be following the right side. Her heart leapt at the sound pounding toward her. In a silent leap born on hope, she threw herself through the black width against the left wall, and crouched.
“Damn dark. Bloody damned witch. Used her black magic to blow the light away.” Gilbert’s curses panted out on each hard exhale as he thudded past. She winced as the edge of his short coat brushed her head, but he didn’t stop. She held her breath for long seconds before she dared to exhale. Now what? One had passed and the other crept stealthily behind somewhere. She stilled her breathing and listened to the darkness. No wind, no movement, just her own heartbeat and shallow breaths.
She stood noiselessly and leaned into the jagged wall. She didn’t dare illuminate the passage and she didn’t dare stumble along making tripping noises. The darkness began to close in on her again and Meg squeezed her eyes shut. Her mind drifted to the blue sky and to Caden.
Please be alive, she pleaded with such intensity that stars sparked behind her eyelids. Find me! Meg’s hand moved to her belly. Find us! She yelled in her head so loudly that she thought she heard a sound.
Her eyes snapped open, the blinding dark mocking her. A voice. She shrank in on herself again, pulling her skirts close, crouching down. Boswell’s voice.
“Do you think you can hide from me?” The words came faint from back down the tunnel’s throat, like bile rising up from a dank belly. As the voice grew in volume, Meg could distinguish more and more of his calm, precise words, words without exhale. He was walking toward her, slowly searching the corridor. “I will not miss you, Meg.” He kicked a loose pebble with his step. She couldn’t hear his footfalls, not like Gilbert. His words stopped as if he listened.
“You may not know this but I have an uncanny sense of smell,” he continued. “Your mother smelled of flowers. A shame she had to die. She had the loveliest breasts.” Hi
s laughter crept along Meg’s spine, pushing her slowly away from the wall. She grazed the solid rock with her fingertips as she walked, gingerly, picking her feet up high and setting them down without sound. If she continued to walk ahead of him, perhaps he wouldn’t find her.
“And I know what you smell like. You smell of that Highlander. However, right now you stink of…fear.” He paused to listen.
Meg halted her step until he began to speak again.
“I’m right behind you, Meg,” he said, his voice louder.
Her heart raced until she thought she might faint. Would his long cold fingers suddenly touch her hair, wrap around her neck? She held her skirts and walked on, concentrating on even breaths.
“You are making me angry, girl, with this hiding. I know you are out there,” he said, his voice quieter now. “If you make me too angry, Meg, I will lose my patience and kill you here, in this black hole where no one will find you. Perhaps I will just throw you down that perilous drop. You can land on that broken Scot at the bottom. Of course, Gilbert will insist on fucking you first.” He laughed. “I’ve thought of you so long as my daughter that the thought of raping you myself turns my stomach.”
Although he had the stomach to throw her into a black hole to her death.
Meg listened to his words fade and grow as she walked. She tried to block their meaning. Twice she plugged her ears with her fingers, but pulled them back out. Hearing was the only sense that told her his distance.
“I’m closing in on you now,” his words came with a puff of exertion. He inhaled dramatically. “I think I just caught a whiff of your terror.”
Her eyes widened. He’d started to walk faster. She kept her feet high as she walked but increased her pace.
“There really is no place for you to go. Gilbert will be waiting for you at the mouth of the cave or I will find you along this tunnel. Either way, I will have you.”
Panic skittered between her shoulder blades, down to her wildly beating heart. Run…she had to run! The thought of his hands grabbing her from behind in the dark was overwhelming. Meg couldn’t pull in a full breath of air. Her mind tumbled and the corridor seemed to close in. She had to take control, if not of the situation, then at least of herself.
Captured Heart Page 30
