Flame

by May McGoldrick

  What a blind fool he had been to not realize the pain and suffering she must have endured to survive. Since finding her alive tonight, he had not once voiced his sympathy over the loss of her family nor thought to ask if she herself had been hurt. Looking down again at the fingers that had now curled tensely in his palms, Gavin raised one of her fisted hands to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on the exposed, red skin.

  She withdrew it at once. “Do not pity me, Gavin Kerr.”

  “There is no pity in what I do, lass.”

  “Then why did you do...what you...” Frustrated, she cut her words short and looked away.

  “For the same reason that I kissed your lips, your face. For the same reason I will kiss the rest of you as well, if you give me the chance.” He took a hold of her chin and brought her face around. It took great deal of control on his part to not bend down and kiss her again. Her eyes were dewy with the emotions battling within her, her skin glowing in the flickering embers of the fire, her lips swollen from his kisses. But a hint of a smile sat at the corner of her mouth. She had heard his confession.

  “Seeing your bandaged hand,” he continued gently, “reminded me how thoughtless I have been.”

  She stared at him, a hint of bewilderment evident in her face.

  “I ask you, Joanna. Tell me about your life here. How have you managed to live since...since the fire?”

  She started warily. “That is not a tale for one night, m’lord. Especially this night. As you can see, the sky is growing lighter outside your windows, and dawn will be breaking quite soon. You must release me, for I...I am so tired, as you must be yourself.”

  Gavin gazed into her eyes, reluctant to let her go. If this were a matter of trust, he considered how tenuous the thread was between them.

  “You expect me simply to let you disappear like a spirit of the night?”

  She nodded.

  “I fear that if I were to let you go, in an hour I would wonder if you were ever here at all.”

  “Would that be so terrible, m’lord?”

  “Aye, lass.”

  The deep violet blue of her eyes glistened as Joanna stared into his face. At last, she nodded again.

  “I give you my word that I will return to you. You have a guest to attend to, but I’ll come back.” She glanced around the chamber. “Perhaps then we can talk.”

  To let her go was a foolishness, he knew.

  Her words broke into his thoughts. “You now know that I live. And as large and complicated as the caverns beneath this keep might seem, I am certain if I were not to honor my part of the bargain, you would be able to find me. But I will not break my word.”

  He continued to look at her. She could seduce even a saint with that husky and alluring voice of hers.

  “How do I know that you’ll be safe?”

  Joanna tilted her head and peered at him, her face grave, but her look impatient. “Considering the...the accidents that have plagued you since arriving here, I should think your safety might be of greater concern to us at the present.”

  “Have you been getting enough to eat while you’ve been in hiding? Has anyone been helping you? Bringing you food? Clothes?”

  “You did not hear me,” she said quietly, the spark of anger again kindling in her eyes. “I told you your life is in danger!”

  “Aye, I heard you, lass. But you must answer my questions if you expect me to let you go.”

  She paused for an instant while studying his stubborn expression. “I’ve been eating better meals since you and your men arrived. And nay, no one knows that I’ve even survived the fire. I am just one more ghost that wanders the halls and corridors of Ironcross Castle. So you see, there is no danger awaiting me outside of this chamber.”

  The sound of the servants of the keep in the corridor right outside of his room drew Gavin’s attention, and he glanced at the open window. The first streaks of dawn were indeed beginning to brighten the eastern sky.

  “I will come back,” she whispered again. “I promise you, I will.”

  Gavin’s eyes flew back to her bonny face. He couldn’t keep her here. He knew that. Molly and the other serving women would be turning this room upside down--as soon as he stepped out of it--cleaning up the damage caused by the fire. Of course, he thought, he could always force her into the open.

  The image of John Stewart, Earl of Athol, staring longingly at Joanna’s portrait, came immediately to Gavin’s mind.

  “You will come back tomorrow night...I mean, tonight,” he commanded with a growl that sounded more like a threat than an invitation. “You will return immediately after everyone has retired.”

  She paused a moment, staring at him, her lips pursed. Then, obviously too tired to argue, she nodded her assent. “If you wish.”

  “I do,” he muttered. He started to step aside to allow her to pass, but then he paused. “What happens if I need to get hold of you before then?”

  “But why should you?”

  “In case...how should I know? I simply want to know!”

  Gavin scowled, and then watched her eyes glance about the room as she tried to think of an answer. She could take all the time she wanted, as far as he was concerned. The fact that she was alive, standing before him, all seemed so unreal, somehow. He just wanted to stare at her, study her, to drink in the pleasures of this enchantress who made him feel once again like an abbey school lad.

  Too soon, her eyes brightened and returned to his. “If you ever need to get hold of me, go and see the priest, Father William. Have him take you to the underground crypt.”

  “I have seen it.”

  Joanna peered at him uncertainly. “You have?”

  “Aye, he took me through the chapel when I first arrived.”

  Her face cleared as she shook her head. “Nay. There is another crypt, with tombs far older than the one you have seen. This one lies deep in the ground--far beneath the castle walls. The chaplain will know of an outside entrance to the place. Get him to take you there.” Joanna glanced nervously at the door as the sound of steps making their way down the corridor could be heard. She lowered her voice. “When you get there, just send the priest back the way he came, and then I’ll come to you.”

  “But how will you know that I am there?”

  She edged around him. “I am very much attuned to that room. Trust me, if you should need me, I will be there.”

  As much as he wanted to, Gavin did not try to stop her as she moved quickly toward the panel in the wall.

  “One more thing before you go,” he said, drawing her gaze. “Who set the fire that killed your parents, Joanna? You told me that you know the murderer.”

  Her eyes bored into him as she stood by the open section of the wall. Her voice carried the note of absolute conviction.

  “Mater,” she answered. “Mater killed them.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Down the hill, by the edge of the thick grove of trees that ran the length of the glen, Allan was supervising the butchering of the buck and the two does they had taken. Leaning on his hunting lance and holding his steed’s reins, Gavin looked on vacantly as the steward tossed scraps of the kill to the waiting dogs.

  Joanna MacInnes had lost her mind. How could she not? he mused, thinking back on their meeting, and on her parting words prior to disappearing from his bedchamber as the dawn threatened.

  It was certainly understandable that a young woman would be distraught and overwrought with grief after such a tragedy. But to live as she had been living for the past six months! The loss of her parents in such a fire--under such circumstances--could easily have tipped the balance of anyone’s reason. That must be it, he thought. It certainly seemed likely, at least, when one considered that in the aftermath she had willingly chosen a hermit’s life for herself, shunning all human contact, and then conjuring up some wild idea about that harmless old woman somehow committing a murder of such heinous proportions.

  But she certainly did not look mad, he thought.

 
If he’d only taken more time this morning to question Joanna about her accusation, before she had simply stepped back into the passageway and vanished into the darkness.

  And if it hadn’t been for his scurvy blackguard of a guest, he would have gone after her. It was a blasted devilish thing to have company who intrude on you when you least want them about, Gavin thought, steadying his restless horse. The damned earl was planning to stay through the week, and short of openly insulting the arrogant bastard--and starting a neighborhood war--the Lowlander didn’t quite know how to cut the other man’s visit short.

  But still though, before leaving for their hunt this morning, Gavin had taken a moment to question the priest about the underground crypts that Joanna had spoken of. Gavin had not blinked an eye when Father William’s jaw dropped in surprise at his laird’s knowledge of the subterranean vaults.

  With only the slightest pressure, Gavin had gotten the cleric to talk, though the information the man had conveyed had been cursory, at best. The tombs there were hundreds of years old, the priest had told the warrior, though he himself had almost no knowledge of who was buried there. But when Gavin had then asked if he knew how to take him down there, the priest had reluctantly nodded and said that the old priest before him had showed him the way. Looking out over the wall into the gorge where Gavin had encountered the falling rock, Father William had said there was an outside entrance to the crypt, and that he was fairly certain he could find it still.

  It might be all for nothing, Gavin thought, watching the hound Max carry off a good sized chunk of meat. Still though, the laird was determined to seek out answers to those questions that had arisen in his mind as a result of Joanna’s appearance. A restlessness washed over him at the thought of her coming back tonight. Forcing himself to ignore the stirring in his loins, he drove the end of his hunting lance into the fallow ground. Perhaps a man with functioning reason would not have trusted her to return, certain that she would use the opportunity to escape him. But not Gavin.

  An unspoken vow of trust had passed between them, and it was a pact that had made Gavin believe that she would come back. And when she did return, he wanted to greet her with information of his own. He could not bring himself to believe that Mater was a murderer, and he needed to know what made her accuse the old woman. But if he wanted to argue with her over who her parents’ killer might be, then he knew he had better know more of this keep’s history than he knew now.

  Looking up the glen, along the line of trees, Gavin could still see no sign of Athol. The earl and the rest of his hunting party had taken off after a number of does, and frankly, this suited Gavin perfectly. It seemed that every time he had looked at John Stewart this morning, a dark, seething anger had coursed through him. And though the warrior refused to admit that he might be jealous of the man, knowing that Athol obviously had some shared past with Joanna raised an ire in Gavin that he could neither deny nor shake off.

  She was not a child. He knew that. Her open and fiery response to his kisses told Gavin of her passionate nature. But it also spoke of her past experience. And all morning, like some thorn, the thought of her life before pricked at him. If this scurvy blackguard Athol were not a guest at Ironcross Castle, if he were not forced to look so often upon the Highlander’s damnably handsome face, then perhaps this thought would not be plaguing him so.

  But it was, damn it!

  Once again, Gavin drove his lance into the side of the brae, cursing himself for feeling this way. Never in the past had he cared a whit about a woman’s past. Virginity was an over-rated condition, so far as he was concerned. Why, though she was long dead now, Mary Boleyn--one of the finest women he had ever known--had been a mistress to a king and to heaven knows who else. His lips pressed into a thin line. So why must he feel this way about Joanna MacInnes?

  Gavin stared darkly at his thick, scarred hands, wrapped around the lance. By the devil, man, he told himself, she stirs you to want her, but surely the draw can be nothing more than physical. No one knew better than Gavin himself how little the future could hold. This was lust, he reminded himself, nothing else. Whatever else was pushing at him could...well, could go to blazes.

  With an effort, Gavin closed his mind to such thoughts and turned his attention back to Allan. Dismounting from his horse, he started down the slope toward the older man, his thoughts once again on the underground crypts and what little the priest had been able to tell him.

  As the laird approached the small group of men, the shaggy hound Max loped over. As Gavin slowed down, the beast jumped up and placed his large paws against Gavin’s chest, stretching out his neck and licking the master’s face.

  Dropping the reins of his horse, Gavin grabbed the scruff on either side of the dog’s face. Scratching behind the dog’s ears, Gavin turned to the steward and caught his eye. “I thought these dogs were raised to be hunters,” he said gruffly. “They’re as gentle as lap dogs.”

  “Most are better trained. But this one somehow is a bit confused.” Allan shook his head at the animal. “We should have beaten him more, I should think.”

  “Nonetheless, they performed well today.” As the steward nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment, Gavin pushed the dog off his chest and turned to eye the piles of meat already dressed and ready to go. “Not even counting what Athol and his men might bring back, I should say we have had a successful day.”

  “Aye, m’lord. ‘Twill all be put to good use.”

  Gavin bent down and picked up a stick, throwing it for the dog. As Max raced off after it, the laird turned and faced the steward. “What do you know of the crypts that lie beneath Ironcross Castle, Allan?”

  The look of shock in the steward’s face was quickly replaced with an expression of bewilderment.

  “Well?” Gavin prodded, unwilling to give the other man a chance to recover from the suddenness of the question.

  “How do you know about...?”

  “Why is it that this is the first question everyone asks? Is it so strange that I should know about the crypt? Is there something forbidden in my knowing what lies beneath my own keep?”

  “Nay, m’lord.” The steward shook his head quickly. “I meant no disrespect. “Tis just...I mean...m’lord, no one has talked of or gone down there for years...that I can recall. I am just a bit taken aback that you should have heard about it. I do not know that many in the keep even know that there are crypts beneath the castle.”

  “Well, some know. And I assume a few who even remember how to get down there.” Gavin frowned. “Though I continue to marvel that, the other day when I was asking who knew their way about the passages, no one spoke up. Not even you.”

  “‘Tis not what you think, m’lord.” The steward again shook his head. “We all mean to serve you. ‘Tis just that those crypts, being so old...well, no one has any reason to go there anymore.”

  As the steward’s voice trailed off, Gavin frowned. Perhaps in expecting his new serving folk to confide in him, he was expecting too much. If he was not going to make them fear him, then he had to gain their trust--and then hope for their confidence. But then there was still the question of that vault. There was too much being kept secret from him.

  “So who is buried in that crypt?”

  The steward paused as he looked uncertainly from Gavin to a prospect down to a glen to the west.

  “Who is buried there, Allan?”

  “Many,” the older man said quietly. “The crypt you are speaking of holds many tombs, m’lord. The old folks used to say, ‘tis not one spirit that hunts Ironcross Castle, but many.”

  An awkward silence fell between the two, and Gavin became aware of the strong, gusty wind that was whipping up, startling the dogs and worrying the horses. Gavin realized that he no longer had the steward’s attention. The old man’s gaze--his very soul--seemed distant, withdrawn, in another world.

  Gavin’s mind drifted back to Joanna. She knew about that crypt. Surely, the belief of these people in the spirits that were haunting
the castle and the passageways had only helped keep her from being discovered.

  But did she know anything of the origins of those who were buried there? Turning and looking at the still distant expression in the steward’s face, Gavin felt his impatience to know more growing stronger. Curses, spirits, long-forgotten crypts...

  Gavin shook is head. As strange as the answer was that Joanna had given him to his question about the murder of her parents, she, too, clearly believed that there were human hands involved in these killings.

  “Allan,” Gavin barked, drawing the man’s attention back to him. “These folk that you speak of--the ones lying in the crypt--who were they and where did they came from?”

  The steward looked back, seemingly unwilling to offer any answer.

  But Gavin was not about to give up. “And how long has it been that they have been buried there?”

  Allan took another long pause, and Gavin took a step toward him, losing his grip on his rising temper. But then, responding to his laird’s obvious impatience, the steward opened his mouth and spoke.

  “The age of that vault goes back beyond the memory of anyone living. For certain, ‘tis more than thrice my age. And as for the names of the dead, all I ever was told was that they are saints, m’lord. From the abbey.”

  “From the abbey?”

  Allan met Gavin’s questioning gaze. “Aye, m’lord. That’s all I know for certain. Over the years, though, as the curse...as the accidents began to claim more and more of the lairds of Ironcross, peasants began to make up tales about the crypts and the powers of those buried there. As a lad, I remember them coming.”

  “You remember who coming?”

  “Peasants, m’lord. Poor, ignorant folk. Leaving gifts in the vault to ward off the evil...and not just the evil of the curse. Like pilgrims they would come from all over the Highlands--MacKenzies and MacLeods, Campbells and MacIntyres. You’d think it was Jerusalem. But in those days, we had no laird who spent any time at Ironcross, so there was no one to pay any mind to people from the hills tramping around beneath the castle.”