The Scot and I (11 page)

Alex had nothing to say to this.

Gavin heaved a sigh. “How does the woman who shot Ramsey fit into this?”

“I haven’t made up my mind.” Alex shrugged. “She may be the turncoat. I don’t know.”

Gavin waited, and when his brother did not elaborate, he said with a hint of annoyance, “You can’t stop there. I’m entitled to know whether she is on our side or not.”

“She’s not on our side.”

“Then she’s the enemy.”

“She’s not the enemy.” Alex sighed. “I don’t know, all right? I haven’t made up my mind about her.”

Mystified, Gavin said, “Begin at the beginning, and tell me what happened after we split up. Where did she lead you? Did you lose her? Tell me, Alex.”

Alex took his time to put his thoughts in order, and the account he gave his brother was highly expurgated. The sequence of events he related was as accurate as he could make it, but those undercurrents of awareness between himself and the girl, that spark of energy that seemed to ignite between them when he let his guard down, were too personal, too annoying to share.

When he stopped speaking, Gavin suppressed a chortle.

“What?” demanded Alex, the same glower in his voice that was etched on his brow.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. What’s her real name?”

“I have no idea.”

“Something to do with fire, I’ll wager.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I was thinking of Granny, just before she died. You must remember what she foretold for each of her grandsons—you, James, and me.”

Alex’s voice softened to a murmur. “Yes, I remember.”

They were in Drumore Castle, the seat of their cousin James’s family, an imposing edifice that jutted into the North Sea. Granny McEcheran, the “Witch of Drumore” as the locals called her, had summoned her grandsons to her bedside to pass on her psychic legacy.

Her grandsons were men of the world, but because they loved their granny, they had humored her. On her death, she told them, they would become members of an honorable company with a long tradition: the seers of Grampian. They had been highly skeptical but, as it turned out, Granny was right.

Each had received a different gift: James had premonitions of the future that came to him in his dreams; Gavin had the power to put thoughts into people’s minds; and he, Alex, had the gift of sensory perception. When he handled certain objects, pictures formed in his mind. He still had to interpret those pictures, and therein lay a problem. Sometimes he was right, and sometimes he was
almost
right, and that wasn’t good enough.

Gavin broke into his thoughts. “Granny left each of us with a puzzle to solve, a prediction for the future. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember,” Alex replied. He could hear his granny’s voice as if she were whispering in his ear.

“
You will pass through fire, but it will not consume you if you trust your intuition. Hold fast to what you feel, Alex.
”

Gavin intoned, “You will pass through fire—”

“I know what Granny said,” retorted Alex. “I don’t need you to remind me. But I fail to see what that has to do with the woman who shot Ramsey.”

“Maybe nothing at all, but if I were you, I’d want to know her name.”

Alex opened his mouth to blast his brother, but the words died on his tongue. A different kind of blast struck the barred window, shattering the glass, and a shower of fragments borne on a ferocious gust of wind hurtled inside.

After a moment of stunned silence, Gavin said, “Good God, what the devil was that?”

“I think it’s the gale all the locals have been predicting in the last week.”

Both brothers listened as a wild dervish raged outside their window. They could hear horses neighing and men shouting and what sounded like trees toppling to the ground.

Gavin said, “No one is going to feed us and water us with that racket going on. They’ll be too busy tying everything down.”

“Well, we’re not tied down,” said Alex. “Trust me, little brother. One way or another, I’m going to get us out of here. Now get out of that cot, and let’s see if we can make a weapon out of it.”

In short order, he had demolished the cot and fashioned a club from one of its supports.

 

 

Mahri, in her boy’s get-up, cowered in the shelter of the rowing boat that she and Dugald had just beached under an outcrop of rock. There was no lightning or thunder, but there was enough rain to float Noah’s ark. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. The gale was strong enough to uproot trees. Pines and poplars were toppling over like skittles, making movement dangerous if not impossible.

Up ahead was Balmoral Castle. She could imagine the chaos inside the castle walls as everyone ran to light oil lamps and candles.

Above the roar of the wind, she shouted, “What do we do now?”

“We wait,” Dugald responded, and just in case she had not heard him, he tethered her with a hand on her arm.

This was not how they had planned things when they’d set off from Braemar. She’d paid her shot at the Inver Arms and retrieved all her belongings, including her revolver, and they’d walked the distance to Invercauld, where Dugald had arranged to have a boat waiting. They had set off in the gloaming, not dusk exactly, but not far from it. They’d hoped to row downstream to Balmoral while it was still light, but the dark rain clouds that were spreading out over Deeside had turned the Dee into the river Styx.

Their plan was simple. They were going to pass themselves off as servants of one of the many Gordon lairds in the area, with a couple of crocks of whiskey for Colonel Foster, with the Gordon’s compliments for services rendered. A man like Foster would be flattered by the gesture, even though he might not remember what service he had rendered. Then they’d take the colonel hostage and force him to release his prisoners.

And after that, they’d go their separate ways.

It didn’t look now as though that plan would work.

Dugald said, “I don’t know, lass. This doesn’t look good. Maybe we should give up and try another day.”

“Give up? And give Foster the chance to finish what he started? I will not! Don’t you see, Dugald, the gale has made things easier for us? We don’t need Colonel Foster. It will be as black as pitch in the cellars. All we need do is open the door and spirit the Hepburns away.”

“Ye forgot something.”

“What?”

“The key to the door.”

Mahri let out a half breath. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll go alone.” When she felt him stiffen beside her, she bit down on her lip. “I didn’t mean it, Dugald. You know I wouldn’t do this without your say so. You know the castle’s layout, and I don’t.”

He snorted, but the stiffness went out of him. “There will be a lull,” he said in her ear. “It will only last for a few minutes. Then we run like hell for the castle walls. Have ye got that?”

“Aye.”

A minute went by then another. She heard it now, the silence as the storm abated, heavy, breathless, ominous.

“Now!” shouted Dugald.

She scrambled over the outcrop of granite that they’d sheltered under and bolted for the castle. Her feet had never moved faster as she darted into the cover of the trees; her breath—quick, shallow, and sobbing—seemed loud in her own ears. She stumbled a time or two, but Dugald was right behind her with a guiding hand. When she reached the wall, she clung to it as though it were her long-lost lover. She didn’t want to let go, but Dugald gave her no respite.

He dragged on her arm and pulled her along the wall till they turned the corner to the entrance facing the stables.

And as suddenly as the silence had fallen, the storm erupted again in a roar of rage. There was no one about, everyone was taking cover, but the horses in the stable were stamping and neighing in terror, and dogs were howling like banshees.

Dugald knew his way around the nether regions of the castle, though he’d never set foot abovestairs. He was a deerstalker, and when he had business here, he entered by the tradesmen’s entrance.

He hustled her through the doorway and down a flight of stairs. If it was dark outside, here it was pitch-black.

There was someone in the corridor with them, someone up ahead. “Bugger you, Willie,” a masculine voice said. “I told you to shut the outside door before you opened the door to the cellars. Now see what you’ve done. The lamp has gone out.”

They heard a match strike, saw it falter and go out. A shadow moved, then began to close the distance between them.

“Willie?” This time the voice held a thread of suspicion.

Mahri felt Dugald tense to spring. Fearing the other man might have a gun, she put a restraining hand on Dugald’s arm and pushed past him.

“Please, sir?” She used the most girlish voice she could muster. “Dinna be angry. I’m lost, you see. Can ye tell me what door leads to the kitchen?”

There was a silence, then the man chuckled. As he walked slowly toward her, she heard the clink of metal on metal, like a key on a ring.

“I’ll show you the way,” he said, “if ye gie me a kiss.” He stopped suddenly when he felt the press of her revolver against his ribs.

“One word out of you,” Dugald said, “and I’ll have my wee friend here pull the trigger. Now, take me to the Hepburn.”

A heartbeat of silence went by as the jailer seemed to weigh his options. When he let out a resigned sigh, Mahri began to breathe again, but she was still on edge.

The jailer led them to the end of the corridor. “Here we are.”

It seemed eerily quiet to Mahri. She’d expected the Hepburn to call out, something.

“Unlock the door,” Dugald said. He waited until the jailer complied. “Now, you first.”

Mahri was truly alarmed at the silence. She had visions of the Hepburn’s broken body lying in a heap on the floor. Why was it so quiet in that cell?

A voice from inside whispered, “Water . . . please . . . water.”

Dugald pushed the jailer into the cell, and energy exploded around them. She heard the crack of something hitting the jailer, the whoosh of air from his lungs, then the thud of his body as it hit the floor.

“Hold off!” Dugald roared. “We’ve come to rescue ye both.”

“Dugald?” said Hepburn incredulously.

“Aye, Dugald and Master Thomas.”

Eight

It was an odd group of allies that made their escape from the castle; Alex didn’t trust them any more than they trusted him. There had been no time for explanations. Those would come later. Dugald and the girl had everything planned, and for the moment, he was willing to let them have their way, but only for the moment. His purpose hadn’t changed. She was his only lead to Demos, if he could believe his vision, and he had her in the palm of his hand. He had only one regret—that he had not captured her fair and square. He dismissed the thought almost as soon as it occurred to him. He was no knight in shining armor, and she was no damsel in distress.

All the same, she puzzled him. Why had she come back to rescue him?

He did not waste time debating the question. He was more concerned by the change in his brother. Now that they were on the move, Gavin was no longer so chipper, and his reserves of energy seemed to have run out. Alex and Dugald were supporting him between them, but every step forced a weak moan from Gavin’s lips.

The girl was out in front, lighting their steps with an old-fashioned lantern they’d found in the cellar. Even so, it was slow going. They had to climb over fallen trees and make their way around other obstacles to get to the boat that Dugald said was waiting for them. Every so often, they ducked as a sudden gust of wind tore the slates from the castle roof and sent them flying like missiles.

To add to their misery, it was pelting rain. Their garments were plastered to their bodies, and their boots were filling with water. The girl kept looking over her shoulder as though she expected trouble, but he did not think anyone would be mad enough to venture outside until the wind became less fierce.

He had to admire her stamina. And her pluck. She might be young and inexperienced, but she did not panic easily.

What was he thinking? He knew damn well that this girl was a formidable, well-schooled opponent. She’d proved that when she’d shot Ramsey at the queen’s reception then slipped through their fingers. He could admire her, as one soldier to another, but he’d be mad to trust her.

Why had she risked herself to save him?

They heard the river long before they reached it. It seemed to be in a hurry to reach Aberdeen and empty itself into the North Sea. The thought that this was going to be a turbulent boat ride made Alex balk.

“It’s the only way,” Dugald shouted. “Horses are useless in a storm.”

“What’s the plan?” Alex shouted back, but the wind carried his words away.

When they reached the river, the girl turned to the right, and they stumbled along till they came to an outcrop of rock. Here, at last, was a shelter of sorts. He left Gavin slumped against the rock face with the girl hovering over him while he went with Dugald to take a look at the boat.