by Susan King
But Edgar could not let her walk away from here now, knowing what he did. He was an academic, but gone mad with it, keen for glory he had not earned.
He twisted her arm to pull her closer, shining the candlelight over the pots. "The clues are coming together now, like a puzzle. The gold was meant to be found. And I mean to be the one to do it."
A shiver ran through her. Mad as he might be, Edgar was right. Destiny had arranged this, somehow. Every step of the way, from her first arrival at Dundrennan, she had felt a sort of magic, not just in the Druid's incantations. She had found the profound magic of love. She had found her heart and the true home of her soul here.
No matter what happened, she would never leave Aedan and Dundrennan—never. Nor would she allow Edgar to steal from Aedan and destroy his chance for happiness.
"Nothing of interest? Curious," Edgar murmured thoughtfully, looking toward the pots.
She pulled against his surprisingly strong grasp. "I must go now. Do whatever you want here. But it's late, and we will be expected for supper. And we should not be here alone."
"It's best we're alone, really. You cannot go anywhere now, my dear. I never wanted to hurt you, but if you cannot help me, you shall have to be silenced. This magnificent discovery depends on it." He glanced around the dark and eerie chamber. "I suspect this place is not safe. At least," he added, "not safe for you."
Chapter 28
"What?" Aedan called over the rasp and groan of the steam shovel. Hector hollered again, and Aedan strode toward him.
"I said," Hector called as they neared each other, "I saw Sir Edgar walking up to Cairn Drishan just now!"
"Why would he be out here now?" Aedan asked, frowning.
"Most likely wants to fash ye over summat that doesna please him," Hector said. "He wants Angus and his lads on the hill at screech o' day to move those pots."
"Damn," Aedan muttered. "We do not need his harassment now. His business can wait until morning."
"Ye'll see him back at the hoose soon enough, for the rain is here again, see that sky. We'll have to give this up for the night. We've had a curse o' rain lately."
"It's sprinkling," Aedan said, holding out the palm of his hand. "We'll work as long as we can."
"Aye then," Hector said. A grinding sound emanated from the mechanical monster behind them. "Robbie Gowan!" Hector called, turning toward Angus's older son. "Back that beastie up, if ye will. The damn shovel is striking the rock there. We'll take it from another angle." The young man complied, coaxing the oxen until the cart holding the steam shovel backed up.
Gazing at the harsh profile of the peak against the darkening sky, Aedan frowned thoughtfully. Why indeed was Edgar Neaves out on the hill so late?
Turning, he saw that his work crew was busy, some men digging and grubbing, some overseeing the noisy, finicky steam shovel, others inspecting the results of the recent blast. After a few minutes, when Edgar did not appear, Aedan realized that he was not heading for the construction site.
Where, then? He scowled, knowing.
Raindrops fell hard now, pattering over his vest and shirt. Aedan swore in exasperation. Grabbing his jacket, he shrugged it on as he walked toward Hector and Angus.
"We'll have to stop work for the evening," Aedan told them. "Tell the lads to turn off the steam shovel." Hector nodded and ran off to do so.
"Sir," Angus said. "Did the mistress come up here?"
Aedan stared at him. "Mrs. Blackburn? I thought Sir Edgar Neaves who came up the hill."
"I did not see him, but I did see the mistress earlier. She was climbing t'other side of the hill."
"Odd," Aedan murmured, concerned. "Are you sure?"
"I am sure Sir Edgar does not wear a skirt," Angus answered, huffing. "If he came later, they are both by the old wall now. I have not seen either of them leave the hill."
Aedan was turning before Angus finished talking, alarmed. Heading for the rough upper slope that led toward a high peak of the hill, he stopped, looking toward the excavation site.
Slanting rain and dark shadows made the climb treacherous, but Aedan went quickly, placing his booted feet surely and rapidly, climbing over the toothy rocks even as fine sheets of rain turned surfaces slippery. He went without hesitation, determined, for this was the quickest way to reach the excavation—and Christina.
A cold feeling in his gut told him to hurry.
* * *
"Where is it?" Edgar muttered, prying off one waxen lid after another. He had cracked a few of the pots, and the contents lay strewn on the ground. Three candles flickered inside the chamber now to afford him more light as he examined the pots.
Huddled in a corner, her hands tied with rope that the work crew had left there earlier, Christina watched Edgar in silence. He had tied her wrists in front of her and bound her ankles, with polite apologies and a stiff tug on the ropes.
Since then, he had been looking inside the pots as she had done. But he was dumping the contents on the floor, tilting jars and tossing things about impatiently.
While the rain beat on the tarpaulin, letting in a drizzle of water, Christina sat amid multicolored weavings, spilled grain, sloshes of wine, and a thick ooze of honey. Her heart broke to see the destruction.
"Where the devil is it?" Edgar muttered. He yanked out a cloth that shredded as he touched it. He tossed it aside.
"Edgar, stop," Christina said. "Think of the historical value of these things—"
"That gold must be here somewhere. After the princess fell asleep, or whatever the devil happened to her, King Arthur himself sent the mourning prince a gift. That's in the legend."
"But it is said a magic spell was laid over the treasure. It will never be found until the princess wakes, or so Sir Hugh wrote in his poem."
"I've read it countless times. 'Deck'd in raiment of the sun. A mighty horde of treasure bright... Hidden forever in perpetual night... so long as the beauty sleeps.' I'm sure it means that the gold is here somewhere." He looked around, frantic.
"It is not here, Edgar. I looked earlier."
"I trusted you with the first part of this task, but you have not managed it well, Christina."
"How kind of you to notice," she said sourly.
He pried at the lid of another jar. "For years, I studied your uncle's work and read every word Sir Hugh wrote. I was certain there was a connection between Arthur, the Scots, and Dundrennan. I wanted to find it for the world."
"The world or yourself? If so, why did you agree with the scholars who dismissed my uncle's work as preposterous?"
"I didn't want to ruin my own good reputation," he said pragmatically. "Privately, I suspected Walter and Sir Hugh were both right. Arthur was here in this part of Scotland, at least for a while."
"My uncle needed your support. He would have benefited greatly from your help."
"But he was a laughingstock for his theories. I could not associate myself with that. I needed to prove it first."
"What you needed was courage of conviction, Edgar. You were cowardly."
"Cautious. It's much more practical."
"Let others do the work and you take credit? How can you live with that?"
"Guilt and conscience can be tedious." He slapped a waxen seal into place impatiently and popped free the next one. "The evidence is too compelling to overlook. Dundrennan is near Loch Lomond, which your uncle identified as a site of one of Arthur's famous twelve battles. One of Arthur's strongholds or the fortress of one of his supporters could have been here."
"Prince Aedan mac Brudei?" she asked breathlessly.
"Possibly. The Dundrennan legends support that. King Arthur would not have gifted gold to just anyone. Put it together with dux bellorum... it all makes sense. Gold was given to Aedan mac Brudei, just as the stories claim... and this structure probably belonged to him. Therefore, it is most likely here somewhere. If not in the storage chamber, then somewhere above, inside the walls."
"If all you ever cared about was making a magnificent
discovery," she said, "then I must assume that you never truly cared for me at all, Edgar." She wanted to distract him from his destructive course with the jars, perhaps remind him of his humane side—if he could reclaim that at all.
"You're a fool, Christina," Edgar said mildly. "I have been devoted to you for years, from the moment I met you." The way he said it sent revulsion through her. "I was sincere about marrying you. A pity you haven't agreed."
"Let me go for the sake of love, and I will reconsider." But not for long, she thought.
He set down a wax lid and came toward her, bending down to one knee. Reaching out, he stroked her cheek. "So lovely... so innocent, despite your lack of good judgment. I fell in love with you years ago, when I first saw Stephen's painting. What a seductress you are in that image. I intended that one day you would be mine. Dear Christina," he said, sliding his fingers into her hair.
He forced her head back then, kissing her, his mouth moist and eager, his lips working heavily over hers. His tongue plunged into her mouth.
Nearly gagging, she turned her head away, hat askew, the ribbons dragging at her throat. Edgar grabbed her shoulders, growling in his passion, pulling her toward him. She booted him in the stomach with her joined feet, knocking him backward.
"Edgar, stop!" she gasped out.
He gathered himself up and reached for her again. She kicked harder, hitting his legs. Struggling, she slid down the wall, her petticoats frothing around her ankles.
"Christina, please—" He groped for her, pulled her toward him, his hands closing at her waist and stretching toward her breasts. "We could do this together. A brilliant triumph of scholarship and a brilliant match. All I need is your trust, your belief. Your loyalty."
"Edgar, leave me be—" she began. A movement in the shadows caught her attention. Suddenly, behind Edgar, still clawing at her, she saw a lean, athletic figure.
Aedan's face looked hard and dangerous, his jaw tight with anger. Growling, he snatched at Edgar and dragged him off Christina.
Edgar whirled and struck out, and the two men grappled until Aedan grabbed Edgar by his carefully tied stock and gave him a solid punch upward to the jaw. Edgar sank to one knee, groaning. Aedan hauled him upward and held him by the collar.
"Touch her again," Aedan growled, "and you will die, I swear it." He shook Edgar almost easily, although the man was tall, and threw him back. Edgar's shoulder struck the wall and he slumped, lost his balance and fell to his hands and knees.
Christina struggled to her feet, her skirts more a hindrance than her roped wrists and ankles. "Aedan," she gasped.
Aedan looked toward her and Edgar leaped for him, hands at his throat. Christina cried out as Aedan broke Edgar's hold and shove him backward. Grabbing Edgar's vest, Aedan pushed him back, pinning him to the wall with a forearm.
"As for finding King Arthur's gold," Aedan said, "that right belongs to me and mine. So says the legend. When the princess awakes, they say"—he shoved Edgar hard—"the gold will be found. Not until then. Not by you!"
As he spoke, he tore off Edgar's cravat and used it to bind the man's wrists. Now Neaves cowered, hiding his face, having no real spirit for fighting.
Christina hobbled closer. "Aedan, how did you know Edgar was looking for Arthur's gold?"
"I heard what you were saying," he replied, tying the knots tightly around Edgar's wrists and forcing him to sit. "I was coming down the ladder. Neither of you noticed me."
"Then you saw him kiss me and saw me fend him off, and you did not come to my defense?" she asked indignantly.
He glanced up. "You defended yourself quite nicely, Mrs. Blackburn," he said dryly. "If you had needed help, I would have interfered. I thought you might want to pummel Edgar a bit yourself before I stepped in."
She began to reply when Edgar lunged, bowling into Aedan. They rolled to the ground, Aedan beneath, and Edgar threw a knee into Aedan's stomach. Grunting, Aedan dived for the other man, who slithered past to grab the ladder, attempting to scramble up the rungs, his wrists tied but his legs free.
Standing, hopping about, Christina shrieked as Aedan threw himself toward the ladder, reaching to pull Edgar down. Attaining the top of the ladder, Neaves butted his head against the tarpaulin to push it aside and make his escape. Rain dripped from the heavy cloth as he shoved against it.
Then a gush and a sudden deluge as rain and mud poured into the souterrain like a black waterfall. The thick cascade blew Edgar and Aedan back and collapsed the ladder. Muck rushed into the chamber, dousing the candles, crashing into the cluster of jars, shattering pottery.
Christina screamed as the flood tore through the chamber and poured into the darkness. Choking, gasping, she felt the force of it drive her against the wall—her head ht stone so hard that sound and motion seemed to stall, stop. The mossy stones behind her seemed to soften, dissolve, and ooze swept her through the wall and into the earth.
Helpless, she went into the abyss like a doll in a current.
* * *
The mud took him like a water beast, picking him up, whirling him, spewing him out again. Aedan slammed into a wall, covered in muck, and came to his hands and knees. Coughing, groping through blackness, he grabbed a broken stone in the wall like an anchor in a storm.
"Christina!" His voice echoed strangely. Where was she?
Struggling to his feet, he groped along the wall, and soon fell over what he realized was Edgar's body, motionless. Aedan knew almost immediately, taking the man's shoulders, that Edgar was lifeless. Somehow he had died in the onrush of mud and water—he might have slipped, could have drowned or hit his head. Propping the body against the wall and out of the muck, Aedan turned again, searching through the darkness.
"Christina!" he called. Silence. He called again, desperate for an answer, met only by silence and the sound of mud and water slopping against stone as he moved.
Feeling along the wall, moving through mud, his arm suddenly plunged into a gap. The stones in the wall had tilted somehow, driven by mud, further into the earth. There must have been a hollow space in the hillside behind the wall of the souterrain. He stepped through the gap.
"Christina!"
The weight of the mud had broken through the wall into another chamber—he felt stone overhead and to the side as he reached out. The space was square and compact, for he could not stand upright. Lifting his hand, he felt a ceiling made of stones set in a deliberate pattern.
He edged forward, stumbling over something in the pitch blackness. Dropping to one knee, his fingers realized what his eyes could not see.
"Christina," he murmured.
She lay on her back in mud, unmoving, silent. Under his hands, her head lolled, her arms sagged, but he could find no obvious wounds, no broken bones. Gently he scooped under her head and shoulders and gathered her to him, terrified that she was gone too, like Edgar.
Then he sensed her breathing. She was unconscious. He probed to find the nature of her injury, and then groped in his pocket for his silver flask, a slender candle stub, a box of matches, items he always carried with him when working outside through the night.
Leaning her weight against him, he touched off a match and lit the candle, which flared into blessed light. He set the taper on a stone, and noticed in the faint light that the walls were lined in stone like the outer chamber.
He stroked her face, brushing at mud on her cheeks. She lay oddly serene in his arms, her features peaceful, eyes closed, but it frightened him to see her like this. He called her name again, touched her cheek, saw a cut and bruise on her temple. She must have been knocked against stone by the force of the mudslide and thrown through the wall, injured.
He looked around. The door, made of heavy stone, had been disguised as part of the wall of the storage chamber. The onslaught had tilted it inward. The smaller chamber was lined in stone. Now he saw that it was filled with objects.
Adjusting to the dim light, he saw so many things he could hardly take it all in—pots, stone carvings, a ben
ch, harnesses, even a chariot with frayed wicker siding and iron wheels.
And gold. He moved the candle in an arc for a moment, and saw the glitter and wink of gold everywhere. Bowls, vessels, gleaming torques wrought for a man's neck, hammered armbands and wristlets stacked haphazardly. Gold shaped an engraved bowl, glittered in a jumble of wire-wrapped handles in an array of daggers.
Blinking, stunned, he looked at it for a moment, then set the candle down. The woman in his arms was more important to him than an ancient king's ransom just then. She was breathing, but it was shallow. He bent down.
"Christina, my love," he whispered. He kissed her brow, her soft, unresponsive mouth. "Wake up. Please. Oh God, please, wake up for me." He felt desperation rise in him like a tide.
"I love you," he whispered. The words came naturally.
She did not stir, scarcely breathed. He framed her face with his hand, shook her head gently. He felt sheer will rise up in him. "Come back."
* * *
Come homeward to me.
Drawn like a boat slipping in on a slow current, she moved through darkness, through peace, feeling languid, following the stream that carried her, had held her for ages—centuries, moments, she did not know. She was outside the span of time, floating forever.
She heard the voice of her beloved. His love surrounded her, gathered into a silvery ribbon, a sparkling net, drawing her along with it. That tendril kept her from slipping into the void. He had never forgotten her, loved her, had found her.
His magic drew her along and she went with it, swam, floated, carried along. Then she soared, borne on a flame.
Come again homeward, safe to me.
My love, she tried to say, I hear you.
She felt his touch upon her cheek, and she opened her eyes.
He smiled, her beloved, eyes so blue in candlelight. His love overflowed, warm, golden, healing. She lifted her hand to touch his face in wonder.
