by Beth Trissel
Darkness had long since fallen and the brisk autumn night advanced by the time they’d reached Donhowel. Most folk were tucked in bed as they tended to the faithful horses in the stable. Other men in the party were seeing to their mounts, or had gone their separate ways to regroup later—for battle. Oh joy. Fergus was too tired to contemplate that now.
“Back in the ice castle again,” he remarked, referring to the pervasive chill of the MacKenzie stronghold situated on the shores of the frigid loch.
“I heard that,” Niall tossed over his shoulder.
Beezus proclaimed, “I, for one, am thrilled to be here. Feared we’d have to spend the night outdoors. Or on horseback.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m delighted we’ve arrived,” Fergus amended, “I just wish Niall had installed central heating while I was away.”
“Our circumstances are a wee bit challenging for that.” He waved his arm at the expansive room. “But a hearty fire, plentiful victuals, and snug beds await ye.”
Hal grunted his appreciation. “I could kiss the ground, or floor. Think my brains are scrambled from all the jostling around.”
Fergus snorted. “I gathered that after your Templar Knight revelation.”
“It’s a very distant memory,” Hal stressed. “I’m not embarking on a crusade.”
“At this point, distant memories are what happened BB—Before Beezus and all hell broke loose.”
“Thanks, buzzkill.” Lifting her head, she swept her gaze over the Great Hall. “Are you guys taking this in? It truly is magnificent.”
“Totally.” And hallowed ground for Fergus.
Across the chamber on the opposite wall stretched an enormous stone hearth casting an orange glow. But one must sit or stand quite near the fire to benefit from its warmth, as he recalled. Heraldic crests emblazoned the intricately carved wooden mantel above the fire.
“Awesome,” she murmured. “All so Scottish and Medieval.”
“I contemplated redecorating,” Niall said.
“Retro?” Fergus asked drily.
“Decided to stick with traditional.”
“Heck, Wrenie would Goth the place up even more than it already is.”
Niall turned, a fond light in his eyes. “How is dear Wrenie?”
“Into body disposal and assistant portal guardian in my absence.”
“Ah, well. Always was one fer changing professions.”
“Like the seasons. But seriously, I’m glad you’re keeping Donhowel as it is. The castle should be preserved.”
Appreciation in his face, Niall gave a nod. “’Twill be your job in the future.”
Assuming Fergus had one. He didn’t voice his thought aloud, but the mood in the gathering swiftly darkened. Niall’s expression told him his best friend and brother was fully aware what was at stake. Beezus also knew, and Hal grew solemn.
Avoiding their scrutiny, Fergus glanced away at the thick stone, three or four feet in depth and outlined with timber, that comprised the walls. Over these were hung tapestries depicting scenes from long ago. Knights on horseback fighting battles, ladies lamenting the fallen, the victorious with banners upheld…a celebratory banquet.
Overhead, blackened beams crisscrossed the rafters. How long they’d been there boggled the mind, and that somehow Fergus came from all of this. He dropped his eyes to the long table stretched across the center of the room. Ornately carved and upholstered chairs held place of honor at each end of the table. Benches provided seating on either side. Along one wall stood a massive hutch fashioned by expert craftsmen. The floor was made of cleanly swept wood.
Here and there were Tudor touches, engraved period chests and high-backed settles for extra storage and seating. But the reign of the Tudors had ended with the death of Elizabeth 1 and the Stuarts were now on the throne under James 1, who ruled England and Scotland together. Hard to believe Fergus was that far back in time.
The room was much as he remembered from before, but a new portrait caught his eye, a wonderfully fresh vision of Mora. Niall’s handiwork. His skillful brush had caught the inquisitiveness in her green eyes and the rich hue of her hair. Only one other woman Fergus knew could compete with this beauty and she wasn’t entirely trustworthy.
At least Beezus had fessed up about the map. A step in the right direction. Not bringing it in the first place would have been even better. If Hal were right about the treasure actually being under the sarcophagus, and he probably was, could it remain hidden away there forever?
Not if Morley got wind of it. Cripes. Beezus knew of its existence, along with the false site marked on the coveted map. This only made her all the more useful to him. At least she’d renounced all aspirations to a dig in the crypt. That hell hole really must’ve creeped her out.
“Fergus! The saints be praised. Ye have returned to us, and brought yer bonnie friends.”
The greeting breaking into his thoughts came from Niall’s elderly Aunt Margaret. The Scotswoman was the very image of his late housekeeper from Staunton, Mrs. Dannon, who’d kept the old Victorian home immaculate until her brutal murder at the hands of Red MacDonald. Fergus hadn’t noted Margaret MacKenzie enter the room. Maybe she was already there, hidden like a cat. The orange flames played over her slight form draped in a green and blue arisaid, a length of it wrapping her head. This older woman was wise and had that same uncanny sense of things his mother did.
She beckoned to them. “Get ye to the fire and warm yerselves.”
The troupe gladly stepped closer to the hearth. “Sit, sit,” she invited, gesturing at the chairs pulled in close. “Rest yer bones. I’ll see what cook has keeping in the kitchen. But first—” Holding out her arms, she wrapped them around Fergus. “’Tis glad I am to see ye.”
He embraced her in turn. She felt frailer than he remembered. “And I you, dear lady.”
She released him and gazed up, scrutinizing him with a long look. “Ye’ve grown. Ye are a man now.”
He smiled.
“There’s more.” Her lined face furrowed more deeply. “Ye are in danger.”
A chill hand snaked through his gut. “Yes.”
“And ye are home.”
She knew.
Chapter Sixteen
Roast pheasant, fish, bannock, small cakes, apples, cheese, a steamed pudding that might be haggis, pitchers of ale, and silver tankards were spread before them in a late night supper. Unwilling to be parted from the weapon Mrs. Fergus had entrusted to her, Beezus slid her bow and quiver of arrows under the table. And she retained her blade.
“Jumpy?” Fergus whispered.
“A little.”
“We’re among friends,” he reminded her.
“You never know when an attack might come.”
“I don’t think Morley will storm Donhowel.”
“No? He’s crazy, remember.”
“Can’t argue with you there, but Margaret MacKenzie is a seer and will give us notice.”
“Unless Morley is blocking her, too, in which case we don’t know what he’ll do. How many cannons does Niall have?”
“Why stop there? Let’s pop back for a rocket launcher.”
Their hostess beckoned to them from her place at the end of the table. “Stop twittering, the pair of ye, and sit ye down. Yer friend is eating hardy.”
Fergus waved at the eager diner. “Nothing gets between Hal and his food. Battle, plague, mere trifles when it’s dinner time.”
“Says the coffeeholic. Ask him how many chocolate covered espresso beans he’s munched today,” Hal said between bites.
“No need.” Niall grinned.
Beezus had crunched a handful herself and knew Fergus carried enough coffee in various forms to last them a year, even though they might not see out the week. Weary beyond words and not especially hungry after all her snacks, nonetheless she obeyed the older woman’s summons and settled in between Fergus and Hal on the wooden bench along the table. Wishing for hot mulled cider, she sipped her ale. Burr, it was cold in here.
She hugged her cloak around her, glad now for the added layers Mrs. Fergus had supplied beneath it. Fergus was right about the chilly castle; the blustery wind battering the walls whistled through any available chink.
Their host sat at the head of the table and his elderly aunt at the opposite end. Apart from the long-suffering cook and some harried servants serving the night owl shift, everyone else was asleep. A pity. Beezus had wanted to meet Mora, the beautiful woman in the portrait, and Niall’s mother Anna MacKenzie, reputed to be a fine lady. But those introductions must wait until morning.
Any men who’d accompanied them back to Donhowel were eating in the kitchen so Niall could have a private visit with the new arrivals. No one seemed to care as long as they were amply fed and had plenty of ale to wet their throats. If they drank too much, they might snore by the kitchen hearth or stagger to quarters for male guests. It was a big castle.
Niall looked up from his flowered china plate, a silver spoon engraved with the family coat of arms partway to his mouth and a frown at his forehead. “I regret m’ brother is not present to greet ye. Seems Calum is away seeking information of Morley’s whereabouts. He regards any directives from me, sech as staying here and keeping watch, as mere suggestions.”
Beezus also regretted Calum’s absence. She understood he was the moody sort and didn’t take orders from his older brother well. But his safety was paramount.
Fergus exchanged somber glances with Niall.
Dear God. If Calum fell and she lost Fergus—it didn’t bear thinking about. She bent anxiously toward Niall. “Should a search party be sent out to look for him?”
Breath escaped Niall in a hiss. “Confound that Calum. The hour is late for searching and we are all dead tired.”
Dead is what Beezus was afraid of.
“Do not fret, lass,” Margaret MacKenzie soothed, ‘do not’ sounding like doo na. She waved lined hands as if to calm her. “Calum is tucked down fer the night. Ye need not fear fer him jest now.”
When, then? Beezus wanted to ask. If she weren’t ready to fall asleep with her head in her plate she would demand a search party be sent out ASAP. Even go herself.
Hal stopped chewing long enough to say, “If you will direct me to a room after supper, I’ll grab a few zzz’s then set up my equipment to monitor Fergus and Beezus, and the portal.”
Niall’s gaze brightened. “Certainly. We have a private chamber for ye to share with Fergus. None should trouble ye there. Beezus, ye have yer own room.”
She would really rather not be alone.
A smile hinted at Niall’s lips. “Unless ye’d prefer to share a bed with m’ aunt?”
What Beezus preferred wasn’t socially acceptable, and she suspected their host knew that.
Niall returned his mild amusement to Hal. “What are ye running yer equipment off of?”
“For this mission, the longest battery life known to man and solar chargers.”
“If there be any sun.”
“And wind chargers,” Hal added.
“Hamster on a wheel,” Fergus quipped. “If you can get a chip into Morley, Hal can monitor him too.”
“Seriously?” Niall sounded more 21st century with that query. “He’s tracking ye like a pet dog?” His own dog, a big reddish deerhound named Kiln, snoozed by his chair.
“Sure is. Hal’s got a laptop, energy detectors, readers, you name it. He brought the lot.”
“And modified some of these gizmos himself.” Admittedly, Beezus was impressed.
“Not that I’m unprepared,” Fergus added.
Hal rolled his eyes. “Perish the thought, Boy Wonder.”
Niall smiled. “Our Fergus adheres to the Scout’s motto, ‘Be prepared.’”
“A worthy creed.” Her head cocked to one side like a contemplative feline, Margaret MacKenzie looked on. “Yer clever friends are a boon to ye, Niall.” She peered unblinkingly at Fergus for a lengthy moment. “But this one is not only yer friend, is he?”
“No. I only jest learned he’s m’ brother.”
“The news rather took me by surprise too,” Fergus said. “I don’t even look like you.”
“A bit,” Niall attempted.
Fergus gave him a look. “I’m 5’10” in my shoes. Or were you thinking of my long chestnut hair and broad shoulders?”
“The MacKenzie spirit burns strong in yer breast. Mightier men than ye have quaked when courage was wanted.”
“Aye,” Margaret nodded. “The strength of a man’s spirit lies not in his girth.”
“Thank you kindly, Ma’am,” Fergus offered in his best cowboy drawl.
Lips twitching, Niall raised a silver goblet to him. “Ye are still the same Fergus who faced the Red MacDonald in the crypt, even though he towered above ye.”
“Before you start comparing me to Frodo, and I prefer ‘Young Skywalker,’ we might want to ponder our quest.”
Beezus couldn’t agree more and Hal grunted his assent.
“Ye have scant time fer schemes,” Margaret cautioned, as if Beezus needed reminding.
Niall sighed. “No doubt. Have ye a plan to defeat Morley MacDonald?” he asked Fergus.
“Not carefully worked out. Mom has an idea that might work. It’s risky, though.”
“You think?” Hal said drily.
Niall was grave. “Anything yer mother suggests must be taken very seriously.”
“Tell me about it.” Fergus sounded a little annoyed. “It involves getting close enough to Morley to snag the stole and set it ablaze. Mom says fire is the only element that will destroy it.”
“Flames are purifying,” Margaret affirmed. She shifted her catlike gaze to Beezus. “This bonnie lass can get ye as near to Morley as ye like.”
Fergus bristled. “We are not using Beezus as bait to snare that madman.”
“Then he will come to ye in his own time and in his own way,” Margaret predicted.
Horrific images of cannon balls and battering rams pounding Donhowel, ladders thrown up against the stone walls to allow access to the keep, and Lord only knew what other mayhem ran through Beezus’s mind in a fearful jumble. “I’ll do it.”
Fergus swung his head toward her. “You will not.”
“You can keep watch over me. And Niall can have his men waiting at the ready to spring out in a second.”
“We may not have even that long. If Morley seizes you, we can’t be assured of getting you back. Not with that blasted stole giving him superhuman powers. There’s no way I’m letting you face him alone. Not even for an instant.”
“Morley has men watching Donhowel. They know she’s here,” Margaret warned.
Fergus was adamant. “Then she is not leaving my side.”
“Suits me,” Beezus said. “Are we bunking with Hal?”
Hands folded in mock prayer, Hal entreated, “Please God, no.”
“Save your prayers. I know you need your beauty sleep,” Fergus scoffed. “We’ll gather some blankets and bivouac down here in front of the hearth with Kiln. Mom wouldn’t care,” he added, as though to justify himself to the elderly Scotswoman regarding the propriety of their sleeping arrangement.
“Nor do I, but yer both nearer the door,” Margaret pointed out.
“All the better to keep watch.”
Niall raised both hands in the air, palms up. “I make no objection to your camping before the fire. But don’t be surprised if ye have company by early morning.”
Beezus stiffened. “Morley?”
Niall smiled. “M’ wee Maggie.”
“Ah, that’s OK then.”
A more serious air crossed his handsome face. “With any luck, Calum will soon return.”
Beezus ventured, “Does he, by any chance, have a special woman in his life, a particular girl—” she faltered under Margaret’s unwavering regard. “To—”
“Procreate with,” Fergus finished for her.
“No one he desires as he did Mora. Though he might take a fancy to you.”
A flush he
ated her face at Niall’s jibe.
Fergus shook his head. “Over my dead body.”
“Again with the dead. Stop with the dead!” Beezus burst out. “That is precisely what we’re trying to avoid.”
“Except for Morley. One of us has to run him through the heart,” Fergus informed Niall.
“His mom has me in mind,” Beezus added.
Niall eyed her in astonishment.
Hal feigned nonchalance. “Better Beezus than me.”
“Some Templar Knight you are,” Fergus thrust back.
“That was a very long time ago.”
“Use those spidey senses. You handled a blade once and could do it again if worst came to worst.”
Beezus had the uneasy feeling it wasn’t if the worst came, but when.
“Fine,” Hal agreed. “If Morley’s smudgy brown aura appears before me, I’ll impale him. Scout’s honor, and I really was one.”
“So now you’re a Templar and a Scout?” Fergus tossed back.
“Eagle.”
“Hold on,” Niall broke in, “I’ll gladly run Morley through.”
Hal applauded. “Bravo. A willing volunteer.”
“As long as it’s not Calum who gets run through,” Beezus stressed. “Or we’re screwed.”
“You mean I am,” Fergus argued.
“No. I meant exactly what I said. And will hunt Morley down if I must.”
Niall gave a low whistle. “Ye also have the MacKenzie spirit burning within ye, lass.”
“Only, I’m a MacDonald. We’re a spirited clan as well.”
“Smoking.” Fergus’s approving gaze loosed a host of butterflies in her midriff. “And I’m fully willing to have a go at Morley myself.”
“Get in line,” Beezus challenged.
Chapter Seventeen
Was it real? Could Fergus be curled up before the massive hearth at Donhowel, bathed in its orange glow, with Beezus Mac? This was definitely the stuff of fantasy.
