by Diane Darcy
They completely ignored him, which told him exactly nothing.
His jaw set. “The thing is, if you could see your way clear to letting me go, I’m sure that...”
They stumbled out of the woods and into a clearing and Jerry’s voice trailed off as he took in the four horses. Horses? He’d never ridden in his life. Amid multiple unheard protests from him, they mounted, secured him behind one of the men, and took off. For at least two hours he held on for dear life until they reached a village and castle up ahead, the setup eerily similar to where he’d left Samantha.
He hadn’t realized the Scottish lived in such straitened circumstances. He’d have expected regular housing, stores, cars—not thatched roof huts, horses, and other animals roaming about. Simply archaic. But the thriving fields surrounding the village proclaimed this a farming community, so maybe things were different out in the country.
Regardless, hope lightened his spirit. There were people down there, which meant he’d have a chance to appeal to other, hopefully more rational, folk for help.
When they made it to the village Jerry was too shocked to speak. The people lived like dogs. Dirt, mud, animals roaming free, and what looked to be sewage in the street. Utter squalor. And the smell!
About fifteen or twenty people stopped what they were doing to stare at him and he ogled right back, trying to see a spark of intelligence or even humanity beneath the dirt and grime. A woman lugging a wood bucket paused to gape. A man carrying an armful of kindling backed against a hovel. Everyone’s clothing was coarse and of homespun quality, and no one, not even the teenagers, had a scrap of modern apparel or technology visible on their persons.
Jerry swallowed the appeals and entreaties he’d mentally rehearsed and took comfort in the fact his captors rode toward the castle in the distance. Surely things could only be better up there?
Or not.
They pulled him off the horse and he hit the ground with bruising force, jarring his left hip, and eliciting a miserable groan. They hauled him up and marched him inside the castle—to the man in charge if the ornate chair he was seated on was anything to go by—and, at first glance, the guy gave the impression of insanity. Jerry’s stomach knotted. Crazy was not a good sign.
The guy was late twenties, maybe, with a broad forehead, high cheekbones, and shoulder-length white-blond hair. His face sported a short, barely there, reddish beard. But it was the icy blue eyes that made the hair on Jerry’s neck rise. It was like looking into the eyes of a rabid dog on the verge of attack.
He took one look at Jerry, laughed, not an ordinary chuckle either, but maniacal, like he was hopped up on something, and even the men who’d brought Jerry forward backed away.
Ice-cold fear crawled down Jerry’s spine. He was in so much trouble.
The flat of a big foot shoved at the backs of both legs, forcing Jerry to his knees as all around him spoke that guttural language. Finally, one of the kidnappers edged forward, made eye contact with Jerry, and gestured toward the crazy man. Jerry looked up and stuttered out, “Greetings, your worship.” He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it.
Crazy Guy’s eyes widened and he looked around in delight. “Weel, weel,” he said in heavily accented English. “What have you brought me then, lads? A Sassenach? Shall we liven up the afternoon and torture him for our entertainment? Or save him for this evening?”
Jerry gulped in air and swallowed repeatedly, his chest tight with fear. “Torture?” He cringed, his shoulders hunching. “I...I...please, don’t.”
The man leaned back in his chair, threw one leg over the intricately carved arm, and studied Jerry, a calculating expression on his face. “Why should I not kill you now?”
Surely he’d misunderstood the man’s thickly accented English. “K...Kill me?”
“Aye.” The man was openly enjoying Jerry’s fear, his smile reaching his crazed, pale eyes. “Kill you. You came from MacGregor lands, and no doubt you are here to spy upon me and mine.”
Unable to look away from the man’s glacial gaze, Jerry straightened cautiously and was relieved when the guy standing next to him didn’t shove him back down. He didn’t dare stand, but cowering in the dirt wasn’t doing him any favors. “No. No, your worship. I don’t even know who you are, so how could I want to spy on you?”
The guy laughed at that. “You dinna know me?”
Jerry shook his head, hoping he hadn’t offended the guy.
“You doona ken I’m Mad Malcolm Campbell?”
Jerry froze, sensing a trick. “Sure...surely they don’t call you that?”
The man laughed. “Not to my face, no.” He leaned down. “D’ye think I’m mad?”
As a hatter. “No. Of course not.”
“Because I am no’. I’m no’ daft!”
Jerry shook his head. “No.”
Seeming to calm, the madman took a long look at Jerry. “You’re different.”
Jerry didn’t comment.
Mad Malcolm smiled. “I like that about you.” He picked up a slice of meat and tore off a chunk with sharp teeth, chewing. “They found you fleeing MacGregor land. Your speech is strange, and your clothes are those of a fool. Where are you from?”
“America, sir.”
“Where?” The guy truly sounded confused.
“New York.”
“York?
“New York. In America.”
“What is your name?”
“Jerry Callahan.”
“Jerry.” Mad Malcolm mangled the pronunciation. He waved a hand. “You’re naught but an English spy.”
Jerry breathed in carefully and tried not to react. “No. I’m not a spy.”
“What do you on MacGregor land, then?”
Hoping to impress the man, Jerry blurted out the truth. “Finding The Crown of Scotland.”
The man froze, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He lowered it. “What did you say?”
Jerry froze too, immediately regretting his words. “We...I...Samantha...we...she...dug up The Crown of Scotland.”
Mad Malcolm leaned forward. “You lie.” The words were harsh, but Mad Malcolm’s expression betrayed interest.
Jerry’s throat tightened. “No. It’s the truth.”
“Describe it. And know this. I beheld it wi’ my own eyes not six years ago. I’ll know if you lie If you do, I’ll cut out your tongue.”
The breath left Jerry in a rush as tears filled his eyes. Cut out his tongue? Fine tremors ran through his body. He wouldn’t be so frightened if he didn’t believe the guy would actually do it. Anyway, was this a trick of some kind? How could the guy have possibly seen it six years ago? It had been buried for hundreds of years.
What was he doing there? How had he gotten himself into this situation? Where had this group of crazies come from? Why had he even mentioned the crown? Most important of all, how did he get back home to his safe life?
Jerry looked into the other man’s eyes and swallowed. He was just glad he’d gotten a good look at the thing with his flashlight and hoped with every part of his being they were talking about the same crown. “It’s...it has three prongs that jut upward. There is a ruby attached to each tip. There are gemstones, and three fleur-de-lis. There is a cross in front, covered in pearls.”
“Hmm.”
Jerry waited, tense, not trusting the man’s sly expression.
“I may find a need for you, after all. Ye’ll stay here wi’ me, aye?”
“Stay here? I...but...I have a family to get home to.”
“Regardless, you will stay here, will you not? At least ’til the matter of the crown has been seen to. D’ye understand?”
Jerry was too afraid to argue. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Mad Malcolm smiled at him, nodded to his men, and Jerry was hauled up and away, scared of what would happen next, but grateful to leave the room with his tongue—and his life—intact.
Chapter Seven
Crown in hand, Ian headed down the tower stairs, stopped when he re
ached the first landing, and listened. When he didn’t hear noise coming from the tower, he hesitated, thought about hiding the crown in his room, but decided that since every man, woman, and child in the village had already seen it, he might as well display it for his men. Better that he show it—so curiosity didn’t drive anyone to search for the blasted thing. He headed down to the great hall and was unsurprised to see the place full of clansmen and families, all trying to look busy, most of them whispering and glancing covertly at the crown.
Janetta hurried forward. “They say ye’ve captured a witch?” Her voice sounded overloud in the sudden silence.
Ian blew out a breath, then walked past Janetta and took his seat. He settled the crown in the middle of the table, above his half-eaten trencher of food, aware that every eye in the place was upon it. Finally, he said, “She isna a witch.”
Two dogs whimpered at his feet, whether begging for food or from his irritable tone, Ian wasn’t sure, and he threw some scraps from his plate to distract them.
Janetta sat beside him. “Why have you brought her here? For what purpose?”
Ian lifted a shoulder. “She’s just a frightened lass.” Only she hadn’t appeared frightened anymore as they’d walked to the castle. Interested, delighted, and mayhap fascinated. By him, it seemed. Until he’d locked her in the tower, anyway.
Brecken ran past the hall at full speed, heading for the stairs, but, when he heard Ian’s voice, he changed course, almost losing his balance before barreling into the room. “We have a witch?”
Ian rolled his eyes at Brecken’s obvious excitement.
His mother nodded. “He’s put her in the tower.”
Brecken regarded Ian with admiration. “Truly? I miss everything!”
“Where were you, son?”
Brecken ignored his mother and looked at Ian. “Weel?”
Ian’s brows rose. “Weel, what?”
“What does she look like? Is she young and beautiful or a crone?”
Ian’s lips twitched. “What if I said she was young and plain?”
Brecken laughed. “Then I wouldna believe you. There are only two types of witches. Young and beautiful, or old and haggard.”
“And that doesna tell you anythin’?”
“Like what?”
“That the beautiful ones are most likely murdered from jealousy, and the old ones from fear.”
“She’s in the tower?” Brecken glanced with naked longing toward the staircase. “Why would she wish to stay in that gloomy place?”
“I dinna recall giving her a choice.”
Brecken’s mouth dropped and he laughed. “You locked a witch in the tower?”
Ian was losing patience. “She isna a witch.”
Brecken, still grinning, shook his head.
“What?” Ian thundered.
“’Tis naught. ’Tis simply that putting a witch in the tower...” Brecken whistled. “’Tis sure to scare the servants, and they’ll get the villagers worked up, and the next matter to consider is pitchforks and bonfires. Has she been screamin’ the place down? That won’t help.”
Ian stopped to listen, surprised the girl had not been crying for escape. Even the servants avoided the tower with its gloomy, sparse light, and its myriad cast offs, piled high in the shadows. The place wasn’t fit for ghosts. “Nay. Not a peep from her.” Remembering her clear, intelligent gaze, he wondered what she was up to, and if he should check on her. Irritated to realize he actually did wish to see what she was doing, he waved a hand. “Go see her if you like. Perhaps she’ll have turned into a bat and flown the tower.”
Brecken snorted.
Janetta’s spine straightened. “Mayhap you should just let them burn the girl. Tell them you’ve changed your mind, that she tried her wicked spells on you, and let them have her. It will cause less trouble on the whole. For you, I mean.”
Ian’s jaw clenched, and he shook his head.
Brecken laughed. “That willna be happenin’. What if we asked a priest to come and bless the tower wi’ her in it?”
“If I had ten witches locked in the tower, I’d not send for a priest.”
Janetta leaned forward. “You know, Ian, just because your mother wasna a witch, doesna mean this one isna. I’ve heard her hair is the color of evil.”
“I repeat: there are no such things as witches.”
Brecken shrugged. “We’re just trying to help you, cousin.” He nodded toward the table. “So tell me about this crown she brought wi’ her. ’Tis fine.”
“Clear the room.” Ian didn’t yell, but his loud, irritated voice carried and everyone except Brecken and Janetta slowly made their way out.
Ian sighed, rubbed his forehead. The crown was the real crux of the matter and the reason he’d locked the woman in his tower. How had she discovered it? Now that people knew he had it, word would spread. It would undoubtedly draw thieves upon them, perhaps of the noble variety.
Mayhap he needed to return it to the king, but Alexander wouldna thank him for it. The matter was supposed to have been taken care of already. It had been taken care of. Curse that female.
He exhaled.
So that left finding a new place to hide the king’s crown. At first, everyone would assume it belonged to the woman. But the seeds planted would grow on fertile soil once news of the king’s missing coronet reached them. The story would travel back and others would come looking.
Blast that woman!
How could she have known it was there when, as far as he was aware, no one in the world, notwithstanding himself, knew where it was hidden?
“Ian? The crown?” Janetta reminded him they awaited a response.
He shook his head. “She didna bring it. She dug it up.”
Brecken sank down on the bench opposite his mother. “What d’ye mean, she dug it up? Do we have royal jewels lying about the property? Perhaps caskets of gold and silver, too?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Brecken eyed the crown his gaze slightly dazed. “So just where did ye get this?”
“Where d’ye think?”
Brecken tore his gaze away. “King Alexander gave it to ye, did he not?”
“Aye.”
“I had no idea he held you in such esteem.” Awe brightened Brecken’s eyes. “Why did he give it to you?”
“There was an attempt to steal it. He wished it kept safe.”
Brecken laughed. “So you buried it in the village? Where anyone could come along and dig it up?”
“I didn’t believe anyone knew I had it. And I figured if anyone did know, they’d tear the castle apart looking for it, rather than suspect it was in the village square.”
Brecken’s brows pulled together, then cleared as his eyes widened. “You buried it under your mother’s monument?” He laughed. “Ye sly dog. Ye’re right. No one would ever think to look there.”
Ian quirked a brow. “That’s what I believed when I buried the crown the night before the stone was set.”
“So how did she find it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not questioned her yet.”
“A lucky guess on her part?”
Ian raised a brow.
Brecken shrugged. “It could draw thieves to us. If you wish, I could keep it, or take the crown back to the king.”
“’Tis my responsibility, and I’ll not shift it to another.” But that did give him an idea. He might send Quinn and Dugald to find where the king’s assemblage planned to reside come winter; in case he needed to return the blasted object. He was nothing if not a careful man.
“What’s wrong wi’ the dogs?” Brecken asked.
Ian turned to look. They were moving about strangely, their paws lifting to scratch their throats. Groaning, they fell to the ground, one after the other, foam oozing from their mouths. Chest going cold, Ian looked at the plate of food set in front of him.
Eyes wide, Brecken followed his gaze. He slowly stood. “Poison? Did ye eat anything?”
Janetta made a sou
nd of distress and Ian shook his head. “Earlier. But I’ve not eaten a bite since I returned.”
Brecken exhaled sharply. “Could it have been the witch?”
“Nay.”
“This has gone on long enough, cousin. We must ferret out the culprit ere you’re dead. Who was in here?”
“Everyone,” Janetta said, her face pinched. “I left for but a moment.”
Brecken immediately started to question a servant coming into the room.
Ian stood, turned away, and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d almost died. He hadn’t given a thought to poison when he’d fed the dogs. Could easily have taken an unwitting bite himself. So much for being a careful man.
Thinking about the witch had made him lower his guard. He briefly wondered if she could have had anything to do with it. Was she to lure him away, give him something else to consider? He wanted to believe she did. After all, if she had something to do with it, then he didn’t have to look to his clan, his family. But this had been going on too long.
Besides, what would she gain by his passing? He was the only one standing between her and sure death.
He sighed. Whoever wanted him dead could have easily achieved their objective this day. He needed to catch the culprit—preferably before he dropped dead.
~~~
Samantha stood at the top of the stone stairs and looked around in wonder. This place was amazing. The small garret was obviously the top room of the tower, and there were no doubt others below, and, that being the case, she felt like she’d just struck gold by getting locked up here. She looked up at the barrel-vaulted ceiling with its large oak beams and rafters that arched into a point covered with thatch.
The stone tower was taller than she would have thought. Greenish-gray bricks, and even some pink color shone through on the walls. The stones were of different shapes and sizes, some of the rocks were huge, others much smaller, but they fit well together, like puzzle pieces surrounded by hardened mortar.
A plant had somehow sprouted and made itself at home near the top of one arrow slit window. Over by a small, rectangular window, some architect had taken the time to create decorative stone work. In another spot, a cross was plainly visible on the wall, the rocks all of uniform size and surrounded by smaller stones. She smiled at the effect. This was brilliant, just brilliant.
