The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (26 page)

Chapter
22: The Pierced Heart

It was after seven o’clock by the time they turned off A-9 onto a two-lane highway bordered by golden hayfields and green pastures. The sight of sheep grazing in the meadows always put him in mind of the Clearances. He pushed the unpleasant memories back into the depths from which they’d arisen. They were nearly to the castle and he was anxious enough.

“
Does your castle have a bloody history?”

He laughed. “Show me a castle in Scotland that doesn
’t.”

When they reached the parish kirk, he hung a left onto the old carriage road
, a narrow lane with farms on either side. Nowadays, the Black Isle was known for its rich loamy soil and abundant crops, but it wasn’t always that way. In his youth, the earth was hard and stony, unfit for anything apart from heather, broom, and wildflowers. He was glad to see Bluebell, Campion, Foxglove, and Honeysuckle still grew in abundance.

At a fork in the road, he veered left and proceeded along the edge of a dense wood of oak, ash, birch, Scots pine, and larch
. Part of the private park where he once hunted rabbits, red grouse, badgers, and roe deer. The old lichen-encrusted fieldstone wall was still there, he was glad to see, though, as he drew closer to home, his gut tightened with some unnamed emotion. Was it excitement? It had been so long since he’d really looked forward to something he’d forgotten how it felt.

Pleased to find the gate open, he drove through and up a steep winding road through the shadowy woods. His
heartbeat accelerated as the castle’s familiar face came into view, an intentionally imposing presence in the otherwise natural surrounds of sky, forest, and sea.

After s
teering the Range Rover into the gravel courtyard, he killed the engine and pointed up at the tower. “Our room’s up there. At the top of a very steep spiral staircase.” With a glance in her direction, he added, “You’ll want to take up only what you need for tonight.”

A
winsome smile played on her lips. “Just a corset then? And some high heels?”

He chuckled, despite his unease. “If
you think I’ll say no to that, think again.”

Climbing out, he
went around to the boot and started unloading their bags. When he was almost finished, a sturdy middle-aged man in a kilt appeared as if from nowhere. Alasdair MacCabe, presumably. He made a quick study of the caretaker’s fading ginger hair, ruddy brows, and moss-colored eyes. A quick whiff told him all he needed to know and already suspected. MacCabe was a decent sort.

“Welcome home, my lord
.” The caretaker lowered his gaze respectfully. “I hope you find everything up to your standards.”

Graham, saying nothing, slammed the boot, picked up the bags, and, with
her on his heels, followed MacCabe through the front door and up the stairs. He paused on the landing before an old suit of armor, which had stood in that spot for as long as he could remember. In one gauntleted hand, the hollow knight held an iron war axe on a brogit staff.

His
Granda claimed it belonged to his namesake: John Graham, laird of Claverhouse, who led the Jacobite uprising of 1688. Unfortunately, Graham was killed at the uprising’s first skirmish, ending the rebellion in its infancy.

“Say hello to Bonny Dundee
.”

Lingering a moment, she scrutinized
the gleaming metal suit with narrowed eyes. “Isn’t he also called Bloody Clavers?”

A frown pulled on his eyes and mouth. “
Aye. By the same lot who call Good Sir James
Black Douglas
and Cumberland the Butcher
Sweet William
.”

With a laugh, she
met his gaze. “Didn’t Sir Walter Scott write a song about him?”

“Aye. And a novel.”

Old Mortality
, one of Sir Walter’s best, in his opinion.

When
MacCabe, who’d been waiting, moved toward the drawing room, he followed while singing the refrain from Scott’s air under his breath.

“Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can

Come saddle my horses and call out my men

Unhook the West Port and let us gae free

For it’s up with the bonnets o’ Bonny Dundee.”

The room, he was pleased to see, was little changed. The furniture
, an assortment of chairs and a pair of matching sofas in the Logan tartan, was still cozily arranged before the grand fireplace, where a good-sized blaze now burned. The floor-to-ceiling oak paneling glowed as if freshly polished, and the carved panels depicting scenes from Arthurian legend were still in good repair. Hanging over the mantle, as ever, were the two crossed swords from his father’s collection of Highland weaponry.

“There’s brandy, wine, and whisky on the sideboard, m
y lord,” MacCabe informed him.

The sideboard mentioned was
a carved mahogany cupboard on the opposite wall. Turning to have a look, his gaze swept over its shimmering display of cut crystal decanters and ewers, most imported from Ireland. They’d been there for as long as he could remember, and seeing them now made him feel an unsettling mixture of nostalgia and thirst.

Setting down the bags, he started over.
He could use a drink to take the edge off. As glad as he was to be home again, he still felt uneasy. But which was gnawing at him, past or future?

After collecting their luggage, the caretaker
left them alone. She moved closer to the fireplace, stretching her fingers toward the flames as she examined the swords. He lifted a decanter of whisky off the sideboard and removed the stopper.

“Do you fancy a wee dram?”

“Please,” she replied without looking over.

He sniffed the neck of the decanter, savoring the dusky aroma of peat and smoke.
Oh, aye
. MacCabe had brought out the good stuff to welcome the prodigal son home from his travels. He positioned two glasses, tipped the decanter, and began to pour.

“Is this your clan crest?”

“Aye.”

He didn’t look
, assuming she referred to the badge in the center of the swords. It depicting the crest of Clan Logan, a heart pierced by three passion nails. Below it, across a banner, was the Latin phrase
Hoc Majorum Virtus
Translation: This is the Valor of My Ancestors. Returning the decanter to its place, he restored the stopper and picked up the glasses before carrying them to where she stood.

“The nails are meant to be
the ones used to crucify Jesus Christ.” He handed her a glass. “The pierced heart, as you probably know, is a symbol as old as time.”

“It’s very like the image on the
Three of Swords,” she observed before sipping her drink.

His eyes narrowed as he considered the comparison.
Oddly, he’d never associated the tarot card with the crest of his clan. The card represented heartache and separation while the badge had always symbolized courage, devotion, and sacrifice. Saying nothing about it, he walked his drink to one of the sofas and took a seat.

She rounded on him with an exuberant
expression. ““This place is amazing. I still can’t believe we’re here.”

He took another sip, lifted the glass to his eye, and peered at her and the fire through the
filter of golden liquor. “Are your parents still alive?”

She
looked a tad taken aback by his question. “Yes. They live in Chelmsford. Why?”

“I’m just curious to k
now why you’ve never spoken of them.”

“I don’t know
.” She shrugged and looked at the floor. “I guess they just haven’t come up. It’s not as if we’ve known each other all that long.” Her lips pursed. “This time around, I mean.”

He regarded her narrowly. “Who are they?”

Lifting her gaze to his, she arched an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“No, but I’d like to k
now all the same.”

But it did matter
, if only because he’d need to ask her father, whoever he was, for her hand should she accept him. If they were to marry, he was determined to do it properly.

“My father’s a salesman. For a
candy company.”

“Oh aye?
” He sipped his drink and licked his lips. “And have you told him about me?”

Her face took on a tortured look he didn’t understand. “
Not yet.”

His heart sank. Was she ashamed of him? Ashamed the love of her life turned out to be a blood-drinking sex fiend? Not that he’d blame her if
that were the case. How could he when he was ashamed of what he was?

He eyed her warily. “What if my curse can
’t be lifted? Will you stay with me?”

“Yes. Of course.
You know I will.”

Did he? He knew she loved him, having felt it in her blood, but was love enough to sustain such an unequal partnership?
As he cogitated, he began to feel more and more uneasy. While he could feel her gaze boring into him, that wasn’t the source of his discomfort. There was something else. He just couldn’t seem to put his finger on what it could be. He sipped his drink, chewed his lip, and finger-plowed his hair.

“And what if we do break the curse? Have
you given any thought to what you’d like to do?”

His eyes met hers and narrowed.
“Do? I don’t know what you mean.”

“For a living.”

“Oh. Well. No. I can’t say I’ve given it a moment’s thought. Beyond finishing my book, of course.”

“Book?
What book?”

Her tone sounded disingenuou
s, though he couldn’t think why. “Have I not mentioned I’ve been writing a vampire novel?”

She frowned at him. “I’m pretty sure I would have remembered if
you had.”

“Well, I am
,” he said. “Though I’ve only just started it.”

She
turned back to the fire and went quiet. He drank his whisky and continued trying to figure out the source of the disquiet he felt.

“There’s something I should probably tell you
.”

Alarm pinged like a
clock’s chime. “Oh, aye?”

“Please don’t be mad
, but I kind of read your memoir. Not everything. Just bits and pieces here and there.”

Concern
tightened his chest and creased his brow. “Which bits and pieces?”

S
ilence fell once more. He began to stew in it, his feelings a churning mixture of apprehension and curiosity. On the one hand, he could think of nothing in his past he would keep from her if asked. On the other, he didn’t care for her playing fast and loose with his privacy. If they married, as he hoped they would, he needed to trust she’d respect his boundaries.

“Jack the Ripper
. And Singapore.”

He waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he
started to send in his probes, but stopped himself. If he expected her to respect his boundaries, he’d best extend her the same courtesy. “Nothing else?”

With a roll of her eyes
and a pinched expression, she said, “That was enough, believe me.”

The unease was still there, still gnawing.
Damn the feeling. Was it to do with her or something else? He finished his drink and got up to pour another.

“Please Graham, just tell me. What’s going on?”

Her question stopped him, but only for a moment. Upon reaching the buffet, he reached for the whisky and refilled his glass. He took a slug to calm his nerves, but didn’t turn. He didn’t think he could ask what he wanted to ask if he was looking at her. “Will you go on loving me, do you think? Come what may? Curse or no?”

He heard her heave an exasperated sigh.
“How can you ask me that? How can you doubt me? We’re soul mates. Twin Flames. What part of that can’t you get through your thick Scottish skull?”

Her contemptuous tone
was a knife to the heart. Biting his lip, he did his best to shake it off. It’d been a long day and he was so bloody tired he could hardly see straight. So, he could only imagine how exhausted she must be. And he still felt on edge. But why? Was it coming home? Was it the looming proposal? Fear of rejection? Angst over the future?

Maybe, but it felt more like foreboding than worry
. It felt as if something was wrong, dammit, but what?

“What
is it? And don’t tell me
nothing,
dammit
.
Because there’s clearly
something
eating at you. You’ve been out of sorts for the better part of the day.”

“There
is something.” He stopped himself, afraid of alarming her.

“Tell me
.”

“
I would if I could, but all I fell at this point is something isn’t right.”

“Between us?”