He turned to look over his shoulder, eastward where the lumbering mass of Slioch Mountain stretched rocky and barren behind him. Its drab gray-brown contrasted with the thick cluster of deep green Scots pines nestled at its base. Since it was Sunday, the diving crew hired for the dig were ashore. They had planned a hike on Slioch. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about them depressurizing and boarding during a storm, but they might get wet anyway.
His focus shifted to the dark blue steel cofferdam constructed only sixty-eight meters from where Grannos lay anchored. The structure shot four meters into the air above the water line. Its interlocking panels held back the loch and kept it from flooding the area until a more permanent structure was devised.
The constant sound of the pumps inside the cofferdam bounced across the loch. Jets of water spewed over the side of the structure into Loch Maree, churning the water and spreading a strip of mud across its surface. The silt made visibility miserable below, but it hadn’t kept him from catching enough trout for dinner.
Along one side, the land sloped, allowing him to see the edge of one stone and part of the lintel that rested atop it. Uneasiness churned in the pit of his stomach every time he looked at the place. He rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders trying to release the tension of his muscles and the crick in his neck.
Staying aboard Grannos for a few hours of quiet and privacy had been a good idea, even though he’d ended up stewing all afternoon about the dreams and the bloody rocks. Why did he find the limestone slabs so disturbing? He’d made a journey to Stonehenge some years past and had experienced no sense of wariness or discomfort there.
His cell phone rang and he fished it out of the case on his belt and looked at the number. He swore, then replaced the phone without answering. Marissa could call until doomsday. He wasn’t interested. He was working on the biggest archaeological dig since Stonehenge, and she’d been turned away. There was justice in the world. A wry grin twisted his lips.
He lifted the cooler next to him and carried it aft to the worktable bolted to the deck. With a knife from the galley he began cleaning and scaling the fish. A clanging of metal against metal drew his attention and he laid aside the blade. He moved to the rear of the boat and looked over the rail to the diving platform.
A diver shoved a large underwater dive light across the metal scaffold out of the way, then grasped the railing of the stage and attempted to drag himself aboard, his movements clumsy. Quinn removed the panel that sealed off the platform from the deck and stepped out. Grasping the man’s tank harness, he added his strength to the diver’s and wrestled him onto the scaffold.
The diver ripped the mask from his face and looked up at him, his eyes wide. “Is Regan aboard?” His accent, distinctly American sounded clipped. His freckles stood out against the paleness of his skin like splotches.
“No one’s aboard but me,” Quinn answered.
“She’s in trouble. I know it. We got separated and visibility is terrible. I searched for her for nearly five minutes. But you can’t see shit down there. I finally had to break off to surface.”
Concern ripped through Quinn. “How long have you been down?”
“Twenty minutes.”
Quinn swore under his breath, his mind weighing possibilities. “How much gas did she have?”
“She’s got double eighties.”
“Air?”
“Yeah.”
“To what depth were you diving?”
“We were aiming for a bounce dive of fifteen minutes at two-hundred feet. But it’s already been longer than that.”
Quinn swore again. Sodding foolish girl. God save him from reckless Americans. “What’s the position you were aiming for?”
“The stones.”
Quinn stared at him. Dread tightened his shoulders and brought a thickness to his throat. He’d known the damn rocks would be the death of someone. More than likely he’d find the lass drowned, if he found her at all. Jesus. A clammy sweat broke out on his skin. He didn’t want to do this. But there was no one else.
“I’ll get my gear.”
*****
Sparse grass struggled to grow in the front yard. Mud sucked at her shoes as she strode toward the house, and she raised her skirts to keep the hem of her surcoat from dragging through the muck. Before she reached it, the door swung open. A great bear of a man ducked beneath the low header and strode across the yard. He grabbed her upper arms and his smile, laced with relief, brought an airless feeling beneath her ribs and a fierce stab of joy.
“Where have you been, lass?”
Her gaze delved into the emerald green depths of his. His soot black hair hung shaggy and thick about his face and down his back. A dark beard shadowed his jaw. The sensual curve of his bottom lip invited further exploration. When he smiled again, she fought the urge to trace the deep crags that appeared in each rugged cheek.
“I dinna ken.”
“Did you fall asleep in the meadow again?”
“Aye, I must have.” She pressed her hand to his beard roughened jaw, taking in the familiar, yet unfamiliar, planes and angles of his face.
A frown flitted across his features drawing his heavy brows together. “What ails you, Coira?”
“I feel as though I have been away from you forever, and I have just now found my way home again.”
A quick flash of concern darkened his gaze, and he smoothed her hair from her face and drew her close. “Feel me agin you so you will know you are with me.”
Coira breathed in the familiar smell of peat smoke, leather, and the woodsy scent of pine and soap that clung to Braden. She nestled close and rested her body as tightly to his as she could. His touch, his smell, the perfect way her small frame fit against his larger one eased the sense of danger prickling her skin like the sting of nettles. As she calmed, welcome warmth spread through her limbs, chasing away the fear. A smile tilted her lips as she recognized the thrusting pressure of Braden’s arousal against her stomach through the thickness of his braies.
“Are you a wee bit glad to have me home then, m’lord?”
“Aye, lass. My body recognizes yours and is welcoming you.”
Her stomach muscles tightened with anxiety. “Have I been away long?”
“Every moment we are apart is too long, wife.”
Coira drew back to look up at him and raised one brow. “That melted off your tongue as smooth as my black truckle candy.”
Braden laughed. “Can I not court you after the wedding then?”
A feeling of tenderness rose up in her and emotion clogged her throat making her voice sound breathy and weak. “Aye, court me as much as you will, and I will welcome your words as warmly as I would your kisses.”
“Who is the bard now?”
Coira shivered as Braden’s deep voice, husky with emotion, played upon her heart like a harpist plucking strings. He smoothed a tendril of hair back from her cheek. The intensity of his gaze left her mouth powder dry with a longing so strong her lower limbs grew weak.
Braden brushed her lips with his. “I wed you knowing you are as you are. I would not change anythin’ about you. But I would ask you to have a care for yourself. There are those who would wish you harm because they dinna understand what you believe, and they fear it.”
“I canna turn aside those who seek my help.”
“I dinna ask that of you. I ask you to be wary of all who do seek you out. ‘Twould only take one whisper of what you do to have you touted as a witch, or worse. Even here, away from the influence of the English, there are those who would wish to destroy you, or use you for their own purposes.”
“I am always careful, Braden. I offer herbs for the illness, but I dinna offer the way to the healing until I am alone. I have not closed my eyes to the danger of being different or to believing differently.”
“I am relieved to hear it.” He drew her more firmly against him and bent his head to nuzzle her neck.
Coira shivered as delightful sensations t
rickled down her spine. She wanted to lose herself in the feelings he evoked, but she couldn’t completely shut off the anxiety that came with not knowing where she had been or how long she had been gone. “You did not tell me how long I was away.”
“Only a short time. Did you fall asleep?”
“I dinna ken.”
Braden pulled back once again to look into her face. “You left with your basket to gather herbs.”
They moved apart to look about the yard. “I have left it behind, but I dinna remember where.” Fear lanced through her again then settled like a stone in her belly.
Braden laced his fingers through hers and drew her back the way she had come. “We will look about for it. You could not have gone far.”
The trail sloped down, the heavy growth of trees shielding the henge from view for a time. The foliage grew sparser and opened into a clearing.
Loch Maree provided a purplish-blue backdrop to the circle of twenty stones topped by lintels that stretched nearly the width of the inlet. A knoll of ground provided a natural dam holding back the water.
Braden led her beneath the crossbar spanning a narrow path between two of the stones. Atop the limestone altar in the center of the site sat her basket, the long stems of several plants sticking over the sides. The edge of her tartan shawl, bunched beside it, fluttered in the breeze. Braden paused in the shade of one of the slabs, a sudden wary tension in his stance.
Warm moist air looped around them. A prickling sensation fluttered over Coira’s skin as though a lightning strike had just dispersed. The smell of smoke lingered on the breeze. Braden’s grasp tightened upon her hand, holding her at his side.
More curious than alarmed, she ran a soothing hand down his arm. “Be at ease. There is nothing to fear in this place.”
She closed her eyes and embraced the power that lingered on the air like mist. Pulling away from Braden’s grasp, she walked clockwise along the edge of the circle. A low hum traveled through the bottoms of her feet to the top of her head, the vibration intensifying as she neared one particular stone. The Ogham designs carved into the pillar writhed black against the reddish light the setting sun painted upon the slab’s surface.
The air grew still and weighted with moisture. She tasted it, like dew, on her tongue. Her skin grew damp. The sound of the wind, the movement of the trees, her own breathing, ceased. Her ears felt full, as if she had climbed a tall peak and needed to swallow to clear them. What was about here?
“Coira—” Braden spoke behind her, his tone taut with wariness.
An area, head high, on the block wavered like something live wrestled within it. A bulge appeared pulsing, panting, as if the stone were giving birth. A shape thrust forward. Coira staggered back in surprise and fear, a startled cry torn from her.
Shoulders bowed, the figure stretched its neck back as though attempting to relieve the cramped pain of release. The head turned. A strange oval structure covering the top third of the face, a round disk covered the mouth with a black piece as thick as an eel attached to it. For a moment, the form retained the gray color of the limestone in which it was imbedded, and then the stone slid away like liquid leaving the flesh exposed. The features were feminine, her head, neck, and shoulders encased in something gray-black as a seal’s pelt. With a wiggle, and a sound like the release of suction, a single arm and hand flopped free reaching toward her.
The pale blue eyes that gazed at her from behind the strange mask reflected her same horror and fear. The wide cheekbones, the dark slash of her brows, the narrow bridge of her nose, mirrored hers in exact detail, and for a moment Coira thought she gazed at her own image.
With a twisting movement, the woman tried to break free of the stone, her chest heaving in and out as she attempted to breathe. Coira’s eyes stung with tears of pity. She could not stand aside and watch her die. She had to pull her free. Coira reached up to grasp the hand extended toward her.
“Nay!” Braden bellowed.
A current passed through Coira’s fingers, and a force, invisible but strong, looped around her wrist like a rope and pulled. Fear lanced through her, bone deep. She braced her feet and leaned back, fighting against the power that sucked her forward against her will. As she looked up, the hand above her reached out like a black claw to grab her.
CHAPTER 2
Quinn shined the watertight torch on the face of his wrist compass. The sediment in the water had grown thicker since his last dive. The red-brown debris peppered his dry suit and clung to his mask. It was like swimming inside an angry, dark thundercloud. He wiped the sediment away with the back of his glove.
Though a sense of urgency goaded him to hurry, he forced himself to keep his kicks slow and even. It would do no good to expend his air before he’d had a chance to search the immediate area. The light from his torch penetrated the silt only a few feet before it bounced back to him.
Would he be able to find the girl’s body? Dredging would be futile. Loch Maree was too deep. If he couldn’t recover her, she would be lost in the loch until she surfaced downstream in a few days or weeks. A pity.
He came upon the side of the cofferdam and allowed the momentum of his kicks to carry him over the lip of the drop-off. The deeper he swam, the more the water cleared and grew darker. The current just beneath the surface carried the sludge kicked up by the pumps downstream and away from the stones.
His light picked up the white PVC piping that lay suspended over the bottom. The blurred image, separated by so much water, looked like broken bones scattered on the ground. The thought sent a tremor through Quinn. He shouldn’t have listened to Henry describe the woman over the five minutes it had taken him to call his brother and get suited up. She was too young to die like this.
Warmth permeated his dry suit and a current looped around him. Surprised by the sudden change in temperature and the resistance, Quinn swam against the water’s pull. Perhaps the pumps above had forced surface water down and caused a strange undertow. The girl’s body could be caught in it. He would explore the current more fully once he had checked out the site. He popped through into calmer water surrounding the underwater dig.
The long, dark slabs surrounded by the piped grid appeared like shadows nestled in the mud. Quinn played his light over the end of one and trailed it along its length. Light reflected off the tempered glass of a mask. He’d found her. She appeared to be kneeling atop the stone, so still she looked like part of it. Had she somehow tethered herself to the stone? He’d known divers to do that to save their families the heartache and wait of searching for them. His parents had done so.
The memory had his stomach rolling and his chest tightened. Don’t think about it. He closed his eyes until the sensation eased. When he opened them again, the diver remained as still as death before him.
He swam forward.
*****
Air exploded from Coira’s lungs, and the world careened. She landed on her back with Braden’s large form pinning her to the ground. His eyes looked dark against the paleness of his skin. With an oath, he turned to look over his shoulder.
The steady vibration of power interrupted, the woman’s head and shoulders slowly receded as the slab swallowed her. For a moment, her flailing hand appeared suspended, bobbing as if caught upon a liquid current deep within, before it too sank back into the rock. A final watery ripple expanded from the center of the stone to its edge.
With a loud pop, Coira’s ears cleared, and she became aware of Braden’s stormy countenance above her.
“Do you have no fear, woman? You were going to touch her. How could you do such a thing, Coira?”
“She could not breathe, Braden. I only sought to free her.”
“And what if she dragged you in with her? What if she drowned you in the stone?”
Shudders of reaction racked her. Her arms and legs felt heavy and weak. Her clothing, clammy and damp, clung to her skin, and moist curls brushed her face. She drew a deep breath and still tasted the odd moistness of the air. Tears
blurred her vision and she burrowed her face into Braden’s shoulder and clung to him, needing his strength more than she had ever needed it before.
“’Twas me, Braden. Did you not see it?”
“Nay.” His denial bordered on a shout, arms tightening around her to the point of pain. His large body trembled as violently as hers. He struggled to his feet, his movements sluggish, as if he too felt drained. Half dragging, half lifting her, he urged her to a standing position and looped his arm about her waist to hold her up. He scooped the basket and shawl from the altar, and, stumbling forward, guided her through the stones and back up the path.
They reached the summit of the hill before he stopped. His chest heaving like bellows, Braden gasped between breaths, “You will never return there again, Coira. Never. I forbid it. Do you hear me?”
“Aye.” She sank down on the ground and bent her knees to rest her head upon them, lightheaded from the climb. She shivered, her damp clothing cooled by the evening air.
Braden sat beside her and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. She pulled the tartan against her body and burrowed beneath its warmth.
He clenched his hands into fists, his mouth thin, his brows drawn into a scowl, but he did not voice his thoughts.
She looked out on the loch as the last rays of light touched the water, turning it to liquid gold. As she remembered the thickness of the air she had breathed, felt the cloying dampness that still clung to her skin, a renewed surge of fear sent icy tendrils down her spine. She turned her face against her knees and huddled tighter within the meager warmth of the shawl.
Braden pushed against her shoulder until she allowed him to press her down on the ground, sharing the heat of his body. For several moments, she continued to shiver, and clenched her teeth against their urge to chatter. She had survived, because her husband had intervened, but what would have happened had he not been there to protect her? What happened before he had accompanied her to the circle? Why could she not remember?
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