Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (10 page)

Yeah, he thought. This night isn't over. He smiled smugly, wrapped the tartan around himself, and finished off his beer.

An hour later, he finished his third beer and looked out over the walls again. Mist boiled on the loch's surface and filled the courtyard, like a fog machine at an abandoned rave. The castle walls and buildings floated, ghostly, above the bubbling stew. Tendrils of mist shaped themselves, into a man, into a horse, and melted away again. He blinked. Maybe he'd read too many ghost stories himself.

And he realized she wasn't coming back.

He swore one last time, without much energy. He thought about walking the fifteen miles to the castle, but wasn't sure he'd find the way in dark. And, though he'd never admit it to anyone, he wasn't sure he wanted to walk through that deserted courtyard, with its swirling ghosts. He drank the last three beers, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and drank until he collapsed on the tower floor beside his half-eaten meal.

Near Loch Ness, Scotland, 1314

The clearing was warmer than the last time they'd met, but just as dark. Mist snaked through the wood, gripping Fearchar and Tearlach's legs with cool fingers. MacDougall had brought three of his men. "In case," he said grimly, "someone changes his mind." Four hands settled firmly on sword hilts, assuring that no minds would change.

"I've told ye all I know!" Fearchar glared around the circle. The trees pressed thick around them. As well as he knew the land, even he would not get far in such inky darkness. And Tearlach's courage would not stretch that far. "There was no need for this."

"We need more," spoke the large man from the last meeting.

"I can give ye no more, no matter how many men with swords ye bring! I know no more."

"But ye do," spoke the MacDougall. "You say they'll send him through the Great Glen, but spread a rumor he is going north around Inverness. What about the loch?"

"He canna cross the loch. We've no boat sturdy enough."

Tearlach spoke. "And Niall doesna care much for water."

MacDougall grunted. He and his men leaned close, whispering under the heavy pines. Fearchar and Tearlach waited, not daring to speak, till he emerged from the huddle. "MacDonald is wily. If he knows someone is carryin' tales, would it not be foolish to send him through the Glen when he's told the lords of the castle that is what he'll do?"

Fearchar snorted and spit. His waning courage waxed. "That's where you need to know our Niall. It matters not what MacDonald tells him."

"Niall is confident. Perhaps over-confident," Tearlach added.

"He knows the Glen better than anyone," Fearchar said. "'Tis the quickest way. As soon as he is out of the Laird's sight, he'll do as he pleases. He will go through the Glen, because he knows all its secrets."

"He is not the only one, I am told." A gust of wind whipped suddenly through the clearing, twisting his cloak around his legs. MacDougall's men ducked against the chill. Tearlach turned his head into his collar.

The wind died as suddenly as it had risen. Fearchar yanked his cloak, straightening it, and met MacDougall's eyes, black eyes glittering back at him in the moonlight. There was a long silence. Fearchar pulled his cloak more firmly about himself as the cold realization set in. "You are asking me to track him myself."

"I am demanding you fulfill your promise."

"I told you what I know. I dinna promise to kill him."

"A shame." The clouds shifted, and the mist thickened and rose. "There will be others eager for that land Edward will have after the battle. And we canna risk ye goin' back to the MacDonald now, warnin' him." The four men around MacDougall stepped closer. One of them pulled a dirk, idly cleaning his fingernails with it, watching Fearchar the while.

"How am I to explain leaving the castle?"

"There's a fair stramash up there, now, preparin' for Stirling. Ye say he's sendin' the first group of men on the morrow." He waited till Fearchar nodded. "Ye come wi' us now. Yer friend tells them ye've gone wi' the first group."

"MacDonald will no believe that."

MacDougall and his men looked at each other. MacDougall spoke again. "Tearlach is no so prominent. They'll no miss him. He comes with us to guarantee you'll show, the day Campbell leaves."

Fearchar studied the men and their swords. There was no way out.

MacDougall laughed softly, his hand on Tearlach's trembling arm. "Did ye think to get yer land fer nothin'?"

Glenmirril Castle, Present

He hadn't drunk enough, Shawn thought, briefly conscious in the midst of his own dreams, as he occasionally was. When he drank enough, he didn't dream. But now, his father's reenactor friends twisted through his memory, probably brought on by seeing the actors on the castle grounds. They roamed his dreams, his father, his father's friends, with hearty beards, drinking around campfires in their tunics, hose, and gambesons, singing of love and war, arguing fiercely over the proper pronunciations of auld Scottish words that no longer mattered, before ending the feud with another swig of ale, and more laughter.

His father's camp always hummed with Gaelic lilts and life as people clamored, like children to a carnival, to his father's good nature, good humor, good fun. His father's kindness drew them. He was always ready to lend a few dollars or give a lift or share food. He took in strays—dogs, cats, and children from less fortunate homes.

Then came the battle, as it always did: the reason Shawn drank himself into unconsciousness whenever possible. He'd loved watching them re-enact battles, imbibing the nobility, virtues and heroism of times past. But this battle—this battle had never happened except in his dreams, and here it happened over and over. The young reenactor, the one his father had taken under his wing, rising up with a sword that was real when it shouldn't have been, and his father's death and his father's blood running red and real on the battlefield when it shouldn't have.

He twisted on the hard flagged floor of the tower, trying to look away, and vowing to himself, as he did each time he watched his father die again: he would not follow in his father's footsteps. He would not end up innocent and trusting, and tricked, and dead. Finally, he sank back into dreamless sleep, to the sound of a horse whinnying.

* * * * *

Chapter Four

Glenmirril Castle, Scotland

Niall woke with the hard stones chilly beneath him, bracing morning air crisp around him, and the sweet smell of the bluebells filling his senses. He jumped to his feet. The ache of the arrow wound brought him up short. He rubbed his posterior and grinned. It had been a foolish trick, but well worth the re-telling. They'd be talking about it for years.

Energy pumped through him. Not even the ache at his temple could dull his eagerness. Allene's determination notwithstanding, today was his last day in the keep for some time. Heat raced suddenly up his neck and face. He crossed to the eastern wall of the tower seeking a cooling breeze. Mist danced a languid reel on the loch below, and drifted in wisps up the pines across the water. It was here Saint Columba had driven off the monster. The curling mist made it easy to imagine such mysterious happenings.

With the flush on his face cooled, Niall lowered himself painfully to his knees, crossed himself, and thanked his Lord and Savior for the day, the beautiful loch, a safe place to sleep. It was more than Allene's brother, or his, had had for months before being tortured and murdered by the English; more than Hugh and his men had, hiding in the forest for so long. He prayed for them. His own protesting body, flushed with prickly heat, must not take precedence over their needs. Hadn't the Bruce kept going, even fighting battles, through a wasting illness? Niall would do no less.

He gripped the crucifix around his neck, and prayed: for Gil, still burning with fever; for wisdom and safety on this journey, and the safety of his people. He beseeched God to look with favor on his prayers, though he was hardly the man the Laird was. "And, Lord," he added, as dizziness pressed on his brain, "if it takes a miracle, please, heal me, too. Someone must reach Hugh."

He crossed himself, struggled to his feet, and leaned on the battlements looking over the northern hills, silver-green beneath the mists. He suspected MacDonald had something up his sleeve. And he suspected he wouldn't like it. Going north would take twice as long. He pushed his hand through his hair, letting it fall back to his shoulders. The Great Glen was the obvious way, and thus where his enemies would search. But he knew its secrets better than any man, thanks to Darnley and Hugh. He could outwit anyone there. It wasn't a difficult decision: he would go through the Glen.

He turned back to the loch, showing bright patches of blue through the mist now, and spoke to God once more. "Watch over Your servant, whatever the following days hold," he prayed.

Glenmirril Castle, Scotland, Present

Amy and Rob pulled into the dirt parking lot, heavy with swirling mist. Dawn shone on the castle, casting a rose-silver sheen over the gray stones. Rob stared up at the massive walls hovering above the mist. He shivered. "Can you imagine spending the night here? I can't believe you left him."

"I can't believe you helped him lie to me," Amy retorted. "That ring has been in my family for five generations. It was a last gift from someone I loved dearly."

Rob stared straight ahead. A tinge of color touched his cheeks. "Yeah, well. Haven't you noticed people have a tendency to do stupid things under Shawn's influence?"

"More than you'll ever know," Amy said. "Myself included."

She stared down at her clothes. She had become accustomed to dressing to please him. Today, she'd put on her favorite jeans, and a pink t-shirt he hated. "But my ring is still gone. And you still helped him. You want to start making amends by telling me what the money was for?"

The color on his cheeks erupted and spread, up to his blond hair and down his neck. He gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled. "Not really."

"Women, drinking, gambling?"

Rob blinked hard at the castle.

"It's not like Shawn has any new tricks up his sleeve," she said. "It was one of the three."

They sat in silence for another minute before Amy muttered, "I can't believe I stayed with him this long. I'm such an idiot!" She threw open her door and climbed out.

Rob climbed out on his own side, and leaned over the car. The sun, just reaching over the castle walls, made him blink and shield his eyes. "Why did you stay with him?"

"I guess everyone wonders." Amy turned away from him. She shivered in the cool morning. "Why is Amy such an idiot? Because he was fun and exciting and colorful. All the things I'm not. I thought no one else would ever be interested in me." She slammed the car door, hard. "I
am
an idiot," she said, marching toward the castle. Damp fog twisted like a chilly cat around her jeans.

Behind her, Rob's car door slammed. "Yeah," he yelled after her. "You
are
an idiot."

Amy turned, glaring. The cool morning chilled her bare arms.

He leaned on the roof of the car. "You're an idiot to think no one else would be interested in you."

The anger drained from her face. Her heart skipped a beat. But she spoke cautiously. "There haven't exactly been any other offers."

"Of course not," Rob said. "Who's stupid enough to hit on Shawn Kleiner's girlfriend?"

Amy became still. She walked slowly back toward the car. "Is that how it is?" Her left hand moved to twist the ring, but found only a bare finger.

"Sure." Rob took his arms off the roof and rounded the car. He boosted himself onto the hood, and patted it, inviting her to join him. She hoisted herself up. "When you decide you've had enough of him, there are a few guys who would ask you out." She gazed at the castle walls, mulling his words. Rob spoke again, more softly. "And I don't believe you stayed with him only because he's fun and exciting. I don't think you're that shallow."

Amy turned to him, studying him a few moments before saying, "No. I stayed because I saw so much more in him."

"I don't know what you fought about last night," Rob said. "I'm not asking. But you got mad enough to leave him. Even he keeps telling you there's nothing more to him. Do you finally believe it?"

Amy hung her head. Her mouth stiffened. "Yeah, he finally convinced me."

"So is that it?"

"Is it over between us?" she asked. "Yeah, it's over."

"He's going to try to change your mind."

"This was pretty big." Amy paused. "But if he showed me...really proved to me.…" She shivered in the cool morning.

"Not gonna happen." Rob shook his head. "He's exactly what he says he is." He put his hand on her back. "Let's go find him. I hope he's not too mad."

"But if he was," Amy persisted. "If he finally showed me he's the man I think he is, I'd go back to him in a heartbeat."

Glenmirril, Scotland

Early morning sun pierced Shawn's eyelids. He groaned, feeling the first poundings of the timpani. The aftereffects of too much beer and whiskey swirled in his stomach. His head sank into something soft; the sweet smell of bluebells nauseated him. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, turning away from the sun. His world shifted, his head once again sinking. He groped beneath his head. His jacket? Somewhere in his beer-logged brain, he thought he hadn't brought one with him.

Never mind. He covered his eyes with both hands. Amy had left him. Amy, the ever-law-abiding, had driven without a license. He smiled. A little backbone? It would certainly make life more interesting.

A voice drifted up to him. He groaned. The tour guide. Wouldn't she have plenty to say, finding him here bright and early in the tower where he didn't belong. He pushed himself up, his eyes still clenched against the sun; the stone floor cool under his palms, and the sun golden-warm on his skin. He gave himself another minute, his head down against the swirling nausea. Then he opened his eyes, squinting tightly. There was the basket of bluebells that was so overpowering. He glowered, and climbed to his feet.