Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (23 page)

A leather case contained a bound sheaf of parchment. Each bore the words
East Bank, Shawn Kleiner, pay to
and
memo
. He flipped through, identifying what must be Shawn's writing and numbers, all of them large, and, finally, Shawn's bold signature.

Tucked behind the bound sheaf were a small square of parchment with the words garnet ring and the number 1000, and two more of the miniature paintings: the man from the other picture, and one showing what could only be Shawn and Amy, in more of those embarrassingly scanty clothes, smiling in the sun. It unnerved Niall to see his own image staring back at him, dressed in clothes he'd never worn, in a place he'd never been, his arm wrapped around a girl he'd never touched.

He understood, looking at the image, why they believed him to be that man. The likeness was uncanny. And yet—was that a cockiness in his expression that was much more MacDougall than Campbell? He looked to be a man of boisterous humor, and not entirely kind.

Niall wondered about Amy's part in his life. They'd spoken of betrothal. So he must have been courting her.

Niall sat back, flummoxed, against the headboard of the elegant bed. He'd done as the laird would do. He had more than the coins and dirk at his disposal. He had the inherited life of Shawn Kleiner: all his possessions, power and influence.

And he had no idea what to do with it.

Loch Ness, Scotland

"You're kidding," Shawn said flatly. He looked from the choppy waters to the flimsy boat. "You have got to be kidding." The boy cut him off with a violent shake of the head, pointing up the southern hill in stern warning.

A currach on this stormy sea! "Look at that wind," he hissed. As if on cue, a gust slammed into a tree, shaking its dark limbs viciously. "You'll kill us!" But the laird had said the boy was deaf and mute.

The boy gestured again, still tugging at the little boat. Shawn looked up the hill. The Laird had said trust no one except this boy. Foolish old man! This boy was bent on self-destruction!

Still, every high-pitched whistle of the wind sounded like an arrow zinging through the air. He found himself all but heaving the suicide-craft into the water himself, glancing back over his shoulder for arrows and miscreants.

The boy lifted his robes and splashed in, throwing a leg over the currach's low edge. Shawn followed, the chill waters soaking his sandals and sinking sharp teeth into his bones. He waded in further, gasping wide-eyed at the cold piercing his legs, and shoving the currach before him. He pushed away thoughts of Nessie's tail snaking unseen below the water to entwine his feet. When he could stand the cold no more, he clambered in, rocking the boat.

Wind whipped across the loch, shoving the small craft six feet from shore. The force tumbled Shawn into the rounded bottom of the boat, all knees and elbows, his face in the boy's lap. The leather shifted under his knees. Only that thin layer of hide stood between him and hundreds of feet of dark, drowning water. The bag slid over his head. A hand shoved him; he hauled himself up onto the bench, and settled the bag back behind him. Wind roared in his ears. Arrows, right now, didn't seem so bad. Maybe he could get the boy to go back to shore.

But the boy thrust a pair of shovel-like oars at him. "To dig my own grave?" Shawn muttered. Inky water slapped the currach's side. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard, and pulled his oars, matching the boy's tempo. Monsters and kelpies loomed in his mind. He thrashed at them manically with the crude oars. A wave crashed over the edge, dousing his knees with ice. He hoped the oilskin bag would protect his change of clothes.

The boy tugged his hood tightly around his face, battling the wind, and returned to his oars. Shawn threw his back into his own rowing, surprised at the boy's pace. As the boat jolted over choppy waters, the wind carried a man's voice to them. The moon silhouetted him at the edge of the trees, on the enemies' hill. They rowed faster, stroke upon stroke. The man pelted down the hill, swinging in his left hand a deadly crossbow.

"Faster, faster!" Shawn snapped at the boy. Their oars dipped at a frantic pace, but the wind pushed the wrong way now.

The man leapt onto the large boulder at the water's edge, swinging the bow up in a fluid movement.

"Faster!" Shawn screamed over the wind. A tremor shot through the silhouetted figure on the shore; he arched back, his arrow loosed. He pitched forward. Shawn gaped. He didn't see the boy whirl and grab his hair; rather, he found himself on his knees, huddled with the boy, their heads on the bench. He heard the whine of the arrow. A thud jolted his body.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

After kneeling in prayer, Niall climbed into bed. He couldn't help but enjoy a thorough scrubbing in a very hot bath, the soft robe, and the bed swathed in rich coverings. But guilt gnawed, an incessant rat, at the edges of the pleasure. He'd managed to do absolutely nothing about Scotland's fate. He made a decision then and there: he needed help. The question was whom to ask.

Conrad clearly carried authority here. He would be the natural choice, if one could get past his perpetual bristling. Worse, Niall didn't know what help he needed. But a man in authority was always a good choice. He would ask Conrad.

He rolled over, sinking into the deep pillows. But once again, MacDonald's advice came to him: Consider all your options. He had, Niall remembered, all of Shawn's resources at his disposal, and Amy had warned him he'd be locked up if he claimed to have skipped across centuries. A man in authority could also be a danger. He sighed, wondering who else he might consider.

Rob? He lacked Conrad's authority, but appeared to be Shawn's friend.

Amy? The same could be said for her. She seemed to feel responsible for the situation, but as she wasn't, it was hardly sporting to hold that over her.

Celine. No. He had no wish to give her any wrong ideas. Besides, he'd convinced her all too well to slap him if he did anything she thought was out of line. He rubbed his cheek; he'd leave her alone. He doubted she could do much, anyway.

Dana? No, something about her made him nervous. A woman's hair ought not to look like a ruffled grouse. He wondered if an illness had forced her to cut it. But it was more than that, something he couldn’t name.

Caroline. He shook his head in distaste. She'd be more than willing to give him anything he asked. He didn't care to get close enough to do so, or to be beholden to her in any way. There was a woman who would call in what she thought was owed her. He'd try elsewhere, anywhere, before Caroline.

He lay back in the pillows, disturbed to find he liked this luxury. Tomorrow, he'd talk to Conrad. He was a reasonable man, after all, under the blustering. He'd taken the shock of his trombonist playing harp in stride—relatively. Surely he would see the truth of Niall's story, and not lock him up. Yes, tomorrow morning, he would talk to Conrad.

If only he knew what to ask for!

He settled into the smooth blankets and soft pillow, confident that God would guide him as necessary on the morrow.

Loch Ness, Scotland

Shawn stayed, face down on the bench, hands over his head, waiting for the pain, feeling the water push below the currach's thin leather. He'd felt the jolt. It had to be buried in his back. He remembered hearing that in the worst injuries, the body shut down, prevented the sensation of pain. He was going to die! Just when things were getting good with Caroline. Damn Amy!

He felt the boy rise, and lifted his eyes. The hooded figure beckoned. How appropriate.

But the boy tugged at something. The bag, strapped on his back, gave a jerk, and the boy held the arrow out to him. He took it, eyes wide. The boy took up his oars and started rowing again. Shawn stared back to shore where the man had been. His dark shape now sprawled across the rock. An arrow stood straight up from his back, quivering.

Shawn lifted his eyes to the castle parapet. A man stood high atop the tower, dark against the silver moon glowing through gray clouds, his huge beard glinting silver and copper in the moonlight. He lifted a hand in farewell, still gripping a longbow that stretched to the sky.

* * *

The Laird emerged from the dungeons into a short, earthen tunnel. Only after pushing his helmet firmly in place did he dare feel his way to the other end of the passage, and push through the brush covering the secret entrance.

He crawled out as quietly as he could, covered in chain, into the open, by the rocky base of the castle's southern end. Clouds once again covered the moon. He peered across the water, but mist and darkness had swallowed the currach.

He sighed. He'd seen men behave strangely after blows to the head. It would pass, and maybe it was a blessing in disguise. The Niall he knew would have marched straight into the Great Glen, regardless of orders, confident—perhaps over-confident—in his ability to elude his enemies. Niall forgot that his enemy, this time, was someone who knew him well, and could predict exactly what he'd do.

He crossed himself, thanking God for Niall's unusual burst of compliance, and praying for their safety. But his praying days could be up within minutes, if the archer had not been alone. He studied the rock. Moonlight glinted off the arrow's shaft. If the assassin had come with others, venturing out sooner was dangerous. His accomplices would be watching. If he'd come alone, waiting too long brought the danger of the body being discovered.

He scanned the hills south and west. Nothing stirred. But the trees would hide plenty. He saw no motion along the castle walls. The dark, silent world belonged, it appeared, to himself and the dead man draped across the rock.

He edged along the wall, clutching his sword. At the edge, he hunched, and ran. Reaching the rock, he planted a foot on it, yanked the arrow from the body, and heaved the man onto his shoulder. The wind screamed, washing an icy wave over his boot, and shoving the clouds off the face of the moon. He stood exposed in the moonlight atop the rock, carrying a dead man and gripping the arrow that had killed him. Plenty of battles had taught him to keep a calm head. He used the burst of light to see who else it might have exposed.

He saw them, on the ridge, staring and gesturing north. With a prayer they had not seen their accomplice or Niall and Allene, with a desperate heavenward plea they would not see him, he crouched and ran. The body thumped, dead weight against his back. The warm, sticky smell of blood filled his nostrils. His legs ached from the unaccustomed weight. His ears strained for footsteps or the twang of a bowstring as he raced for the brush covering. Breathing hard, he threw the body down, and slid in feet first, yanking it after him. "Now fer some answers," he whispered. "Who aer ye?"

He rolled the man onto his back, and cautiously lifted a branch. He searched, first, for any sign of pursuit. Breathing a prayer of gratitude at seeing and hearing none, he pushed the branch further aside, letting moonlight spill on the face of a man who had hoped to go home to a warm bed with his wife; a face the Laird had known as a boy, playing on the shores of the loch with Niall and Allene; the face of a man grown to be a father, watching his own small son play on the shore; the face of a man who would betray his own people.

The Laird wiped roughly at damp eyes, and grabbed the shovel he'd brought. He dug a grave in the hidden tunnel, the warmest bed the man would have from now on. He stripped him of his valuable weapons, made the sign of the cross over him, and laid Lord Darnley's son, William, to rest, grieving.

* * *

No more men appeared on the shore. Shawn could only guess if this meant no one else had discovered their route, or if they were, even now, launching boats that would remain hidden until the moment they burst from the mist around them.

They stroked in accented, vivace tempo. The loch that had been a painter's dream yesterday now brewed angrily. Waves slashed over him. Wind sliced through his woolen robe. He imagined Nessie sliding beneath the waves, queen of her dark and deadly castle.

Stroke, pull, stroke, in presto time, searching through the swirling, gray mist for signs of pursuit. The howling wind might be men calling, arrows flying, Nessie bellowing, kelpies laughing. A chill shot down Shawn's spine and raced back up his arms.

He shivered, glanced at the boy with his hood pulled up tight. They were alone, in a howling morass of mist, wind and waves. "Me and the Grim Reaper," Shawn muttered. He wanted to shake the looming fear with a rowdy drinking song, but dared not. "There is no Nessie," he whispered, instead. It wasn't a spirit-raising beer song, but it was better than nothing.

He closed his eyes—stroke, pull, stroke, till his shoulders complained—and hoped they weren't going in circles. Better not to think about the hundreds of feet of water below. Something eased under his foot, beneath the very thin layer of leather. Something large.

"Go, go!" he hissed. He pulled his oars harder; the boy matched his speed.

The thing slid away under them. He peered into the mist, jumping at every swirling shape. There was no Nessie, he told himself, but still he wondered if prehistoric monsters ate people, or played with them mercilessly before drowning them.

A moan crawled down the long, narrow loch, echoing through the hills rising on either side of the water; a moan like a monster rising from the deep. He wondered how big the thing would look close up. His heart beat harder. Something slid under his foot again, and tugged, a heavy weight on his right oar. He yanked, fighting panic in his throat. He almost leapt to his feet to get away from whatever was underneath, but the boy turned and put a hand on his arm, his face shrouded.

"'Tis naught to fear," came a feminine whisper through the wind. "Lest you tip the boot yerself." The sweet voice carried all the comfort of his mother singing to him and rubbing his back, when he was very young.

An angel?

He didn't believe in angels, but the voice calmed him.

He settled in his seat, fighting his oar. It flew up out of the water. Seaweed, dark and ugly and dripping, clung to it. He heaved in a ragged breath of relief, and shook it off. The thing underneath—just a fish, he told himself. Rob had raved about the phenomenal fishing in Scotland.