by
Joan Overfield
Castle MacCairn, Scotland 1851
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She knew this place. She knew every turret, every chamber. She knew the feel of the sharp stones in the courtyard beneath her feet, and the ghostly smell of old fires hanging in the air of the Great Chamber. She even knew of the view from the north tower, when the moon was full and its milky-white light washed over the moors. She knew this place. And she was seeing it for the first time today. Anne Garthwicke sat in the opulent carriage, her soft gray eyes troubled as she gazed up at the moss-covered stones of the ancient castle. This wasn't the first time she'd experienced this disquieting sense of recognition, but never had she experienced it so strongly. It was as if she'd been waiting her whole life to see such a sight, or as if the castle itself had somehow been waiting for her. The thought had her shivering, and she drew the folds of her traveling cloak closer about her. "Anne?" From the seat opposite her her father turned his head, the thick lenses of his spectacles flashing in the watery sunlight. "What are you seeing? Has the castle come into view?" "Only just, Papa," she said, shaking off her foolish fancies. "And it's just as Mr. MacCairn's solicitor said it would be. Norman, for the better part, with several towers and battlements." "Yes, yes, that is all very good," her father interrupted with an angry wave of his hand. "But you know what I mean. What does the castle look like? Describe it to me." Anne felt a stab of pain at the petulant demand. Prior to his sight failing him her father had been the most loving of parents, patiently teaching her all he knew of ancient armaments. Now he was often brooding and critical; his moods increasingly mercurial. That was why she was so anxious. This would be his last position, and if all went well his reputation as England's premier expert on antiquities would be secured. They'd retire at last to the country where he would be free to write the book he always talked of writing. "Anne! Answer me!" Anne tensed at his sharp tones, clenching her jaw to hold back an impatient remark of her own. She truly loved her father, and it grieved her to see him struggling so with his limited abilities, but she was finding it more and more difficult to deal with his bouts of ill temper. She gave herself a few moments to compose herself, and glanced once more at the window of the carriage. As they climbed further up the steep hill, the castle grew larger and even more ominous. She shivered again, wondering if she might have taken a chill. "The castle is round with crenellated walls and towers," she began, in the cool, concise tones she knew he demanded. "Two of the towers look to be replacements, and there are faint burn marks to the right of the portcullis." Her father nodded, committing her description to memory. "What else? What impression does the castle give as one approaches it?" Evil. The word flashed unbidden in Anne's mind but she held her tongue, imaging her father's likely response were she to tell him. He'd likely scold her for being a silly female, and even though she knew he'd later regret the harsh words, she wasn't certain she could bear hearing them. "It gives the impression of great age and power," she said instead, deciding it was also the truth. "Mr. MacCairn should have no trouble selling it, if that is his intention." "He hasn't said, but why else should he send for me?" Her father asked with an indifferent shrug. "He wants us to examine and catalogue the castle's contents. I doubt he'd do so without cause." A ripple of unease shivered through Anne at the observation. Most of the men who employed her father's services were dilettante lords driven by their excesses to sell off what possessions they could. Doubtlessly Mr. MacCairn found himself in similar circumstances, and was doing what was necessary to survive. It was understandable, even acceptable, and yet it seemed wrong that the castle should pass from the care of a MacCairn and into the hands of a stranger. Even as the thought was forming, the carriage was rumbling through the narrow gateway and into the cobblestone courtyard. Servants in rough-spun wool came dashing up to them, and knowing what was expected, Anne turned once more to her father. "There are several people in the courtyard, but I don't see anyone who might be Mr. MacCairn," she said, gathering up the gloves and bonnet she'd discarded earlier. "An older man is approaching, I believe he is the butler." She scarce had time to settle the bonnet on her dark gold hair before the carriage door was flung open, and an older man dressed in somber tones of black and white was helping her from the carriage. "I am Mr. Angley, the laird's steward" he said, greeting them with a low bow. "I bid you welcome to Castle MacCairn." "Thank you, Mr. Angley." Her father folded his fingers around Anne's gloved hand and carried it to the crook of his arm. The gesture looked like one of protection, but in truth it was so Anne could guide him with no one being the wiser. "Please be so good as to show us to our rooms," he continued, his voice assuming an unmistakable air of superiority. "The journey was a long one, and I fear my daughter is quite fatigued." An uneasy expression stole across the steward's weathered features. "Your pardon, Mr. Garthwicke, but as there was no mention your daughter would be accompanying you, I fear we've no rooms prepared for her. Only those you ordered for yourself and your assistant." "My daughter is my assistant," her father's replied imperiously. "Whatever arrangements you have made are quite acceptable." "But sir," Mr. Angley shot Anne a horrified look, "`tis naught but a valet's room located off of your chamber! 'Tis hardly a proper room for a lady!" "I said, it will do!" her father exclaimed with marked impatience. "Anne is well aware she is here to work, and not play at lady of the manor. Is that not so, my dear?" he turned to Anne. Anne managed a polite nod. "Yes, Papa," she said in resignation. She'd been hoping for the luxury of a warm bath and a few moment's of privacy. Now she'd have to make do with a quick splash from a jug. While Mr. Angley led them across the wide courtyard, Anne took the opportunity to discreetly study her surroundings. She knew enough of castles and their construction to know what was original and what had been added on through the centuries, and she was pleased to see so much had been left intact. They'd almost reached the steps of the Keep when something caused her to glance up at the east tower. She thought she saw someone at the window, but when she looked closer, no one there. It was only then she noticed the windows were barred. "What is that?" she asked, moved by curiosity to stop and peer up at the tower. "What is what, Miss?" Mr. Angley inquired, his tone wary. "There," she indicated the window with a wave of her hand. "It appears to be barred. May I ask why?" "As to that, Miss, I can not say," came the stilted reply. "It has always been thus." Anne's brows knit at that. Barred windows weren't so odd a feature in a castle built to detour invaders, she brooded, but it did seem odd that only one window was barred, and in so high and remote a tower. Then her brow cleared. The tower's remoteness must account for the bars' presence, she decided as they resumed their walk. Obviously no one had neither the time or the inclination to bother removing them. They continued across the courtyard to the front entrance of the Keep. Anne noted the new wide marble steps and high, arched windows, and her lips pursed in disapproval. Such improvements might make the castle more palatable to prospective buyers, but she considered them a shocking desecration. How foolish to sacrifice history for fashion, she thought with mounting indignation. The heavy iron-studded door with it's thick, rough planks had fit the design of the castle far better than did this silly bit of- She stopped in mid-step, her heart leaping into her throat. How did she know what the old door looked like? "Anne?" Her father was frowning at her. "Is something wrong?" "I-" Anne began, then wisely changed her mind. "No, Papa," she said, forcing herself to resume climbing the steps. "I was only noticing the entrance. The Palladian windows and Italianate door are hardly in keeping with the rest of the castle, wouldn't you say? You must be certain to take Mr. MacCairn to task for replacing the original with this monstrosity." "I shall mention it, certainly," her father agreed, picking up on the information she had dropped. "But likely it is his father who is to blame. I recall Mr. MacCairn mentioning his father made several improvements on the castle prior to his death." "That is so," Mr. Angley agreed, nodding his head. "The old laird went down to London when the fourth George was crowned, and he came back determined to make the castle like the fine homes he'd visited. He even spoke of installing the new gaslight that `twas all the rage, but he was taken before he could do it." "He died, do you mean?" Anne asked, thinking it quite sad. She knew the present laird to be thirty-five, which meant he'd have been little more than a toddler when his father died. She'd lost her own mother at about the same age, and she knew of the terrible hole such a loss left in a child's life. There was a pause, and then the older man nodded. "Aye, Miss. He died. This way, if you please." In keeping with the period of the castle's construction, the principal rooms were located on the upper floor above the Great Chamber. Climbing the curving stairs Anne was saddened to see that the same "improvements" which marred the entrance had been applied here with an enthusiastic and indiscriminate hand. Little of what the keep must have originally looked like was in evidence, and it made her wonder what other indignities the rest of the castle had suffered. After pausing to changed into the clothing her father deemed appropriated for their work, Anne hurried back down stairs to find the armory. Her father was resting, but when he rose she knew he would be eager to begin work. Mr. MacCairn indicated he wanted them to get the cataloging of the weapons completed first, which must mean he already had a buyer in mind. It shouldn't have bothered her, and yet it did; another puzzle for what had been a truly puzzling day. The footman who acted as her escort was young and thankfully talkative. Caught as she was between the servants' world and the master's, Anne had learned to tread with a wary step. She found servant's gossip to be the quickest and most reliable method of gathering information, and after less than five minutes in the boy's company, she'd gained a fair idea how the household was run. "Mrs. Doughal says if you're wanting tea, you'll have to fetch it yourself," he said, guiding her down the twisting, uneven steps leading to the Armory. "She'll not send a maid over here. Not that she could get one to come, even did she order it," he added, casting her a cheeky grin over his shoulder. "`Tis haunted." Anne said nothing. She'd worked in enough ancestral homes to have heard a dozen such claims, and she seldom gave them any credence. But there was something about this place that made it difficult for her to be so sanguine. There was aura of deadly menace stamped into the ancient stones, and she found it uncomfortably easy to believe restless spirits walked. Her silence didn't seem to bother the footman, and he continued chatting as he led her to a door located to the left of the stairs. "Mr. Angley says to mind you lock up when you're finished," he said, handing her a large key. "Will you be able to find your way back on your own, or shall I come fetch you?" "No, I should be fine, James, thank you," she said, ignoring the sudden uneasiness stealing over her at the thought of being alone. "When my father awakens, will you please have someone come and tell me? I'll bring him here myself." If the footman thought her request odd, he was too well-trained to show it. After indicating the candles and other tools set out for her use he scurried off, his desire to be gone plain. Closing the door behind him, Anne couldn't fault him for his haste. If ever a room resembled a scene from a Gothic horror, it was this place. Unlike the rest of the castle which had been softened by centuries of habitation, the Armory was a potent reminder of the castle's true purpose. It was a room designed for war, and the implements of death were proudly displayed. Broadswords, their honed edges gleaming in the candlelight, hung on the stone walls beside crossed maces and a pair of deadly-looking battle axes. There were several claymores as well, and the thought of facing one of the huge swords in a battle sent a shiver of fear racing through her. The room was unabashedly masculine, and being in it made her aware of her own femininity in a way she'd never experienced. She also had the sudden sense of being watched, and she wondered if the room had a peep hole. Shaking off the troubling sensation, she turned back to the table and began rearranging the tools they would need. With her father's failing eyesight it was imperative everything be arranged just so, least he accidentally harm himself. The next hour was spent selecting and laying out the weapons they would examine. She'd just picked up a magnifying glass to study an intricately carved blade when the door was suddenly flung open, and a tall man with black hair and piercing green eyes stood in the doorway. For a long moment they stood looking at one another, and then he was moving toward her, his lean face cold with displeasure.  "Who the devil are you, and what the blazes are you doing here?" he demanded, his deep voice rough with the sounds of the Highlands. The apology Anne had been about to utter withered on her lips at the arrogant demand. "I am Miss Anne Garthwicke," she said, carefully laying the blade on the table and rising to her feet to face him. "Mr. MacCairn has hired me to catalog his collection." The stranger continued advancing toward her, his gaze even more hostile as it swept over her. "I am MacCairn," he told her shortly. "And I did no such a thing. `Twas a Mr. Garthwicke I engaged, and a Mr. Garthwicke I gave leave to be here. You have no such leave, and I expect you to be gone by morning." Anne struggled to control her temper. She'd suspected the man was her employer, but she refused to let the knowledge cow her. "As it happens, sir, I am my father's assistant," she began, bidding for time while she tried to decide how best to handle the situation. "You did say he could have his assistant with him, did you not?" she added, hoping being reminded of the fact would do something to soothe what looked to a filthy temper. "An assistant, aye, but not a female." He all but spat the words at her, as if her sex was somehow a grievous sin. "Pack your bags and be gone. I'll not tell you again." And with that he turned and stalked from the room, leaving Anne to gape after him in furious astonishment. Mallachadh! Ruaridh MacCairn slammed the door of his study shut, fury boiling hot and potent in his blood. The devil take that fool of an Englishman and his wretched daughter with him, he cursed, his black hair flying about his face as he paced the confines of his study. Of all the disasters of which he might have conceived this was by far the worse, and it was all he could do not to not to howl like a trapped beast. What could the scholar have been thinking, to bring his daughter to this place? he wondered, anger giving way to frustration. Had he not heard of the legend, then? Or did he think it no more than a foolish superstition, to be believed only by half-wild and ignorant Scots? The thought had Ruairdh's lips twisting in a sneer. If Garthwicke believed that, then `twas he who was the fool. For there were times when legends were real, and the truth of them more horrifying than anyone could ever imagine. Ruairdh tensed in sudden awareness, sensing the presence of another even before he heard the hesitant tap on the door. "Come in, Angley," he said, schooling his features to show no emotions as the elderly steward peeked cautiously around the door. "You may enter," he said, relieved he could still feel amusement at the wariness on his old retainer's face. "And you may be at ease. `Twas not the Shadowing that told me `twas you out there, but plain common sense. Who else but my faithful steward would come to tell me what I already know." "You've no cause to be making me sound like some bloody hound licking at your boots," Angley grumbled, moving forward to join Ruairdh. "And I'd have been here sooner, had that pest of a Sasunnach not been forever settling in. You'll not credit it, but the fool thinks to put his daughter in the valet's room as if she were no more than a servant." He uttered a heartfelt curse in Gaelic that had the edges of Ruairdh's mouth curving in a reluctant smile. "I've no wish to disappoint you, but I am sure Garthwicke will go straight to heaven as befits a proper Englishman," he said wryly. "But I share your hope it would be otherwise. He deserves eternal damnation and more for bringing his daughter to MacCairn." There was a charged silence, and Angley shot him a searching look. "`Tis time, then?" he asked, his tone anguished. "I prayed you were wrong. You seem so much better since you've been back amongst us." Ruairdh turned from the pity edged with fear he could see in the steward's eyes. He wondered bleakly what Angley would say did he tell him the truth, that every day, every hour was a battle against the shadows that drew ever nearer. He could feel the demons in him straining at their leashes to be free, and he knew the day was coming when they would slip their bonds and devour him. With a terrible sense of the inevitable he knew he had precious little time left to do what must be done; months if he was lucky, a handful of weeks if he was not. "I'm the better for being here," he said, deciding to spare the older man what he could. "The better for being in the hills and amongst the clan once again. But you know as well as I what must be. That is why Miss Garthwicke can not remain. I want her gone, Angley. See to it." "And if her father should insist she stay, what then?" Angley pressed after a moment's pause. "She is his assistant, or so they both claim, and for all he treats her no better than a scullery maid, he seems to depend upon her.?" The beast inside Ruairdh snarled and bared it's fangs, and he beat it back with painful determination. "Garthwicke is here at my orders," he said, choosing coolness over the gloating rage building in his head. "`Tis not his place to insist upon anything. I've paid him a generous advance; if he wants the rest he'll send his daughter back to England where she belongs." She belongs here, take her. The silky voice whispering in his ear sounded so real, Ruairdh thought `twas Angley speaking. His head snapped up in astonished indignation, and he was about to issue a sharp reprimand when he realized the truth. He was hearing voices. "No," he said aloud, balling his hands into fists. "No." "Laird?" Angley was looking at him in concern. "Are you ill? Shall I send for the doctor?" Had the situation not been so grim, Ruairdh would have laughed. He felt like reminding the steward the MacCairns' bodies were disgustingly fit; `twas their minds that were diseased behind any medicine's ability to cure. Instead he drew a deep and cleansing breath, and it was only when he was certain he had himself once more under control that he allowed himself to speak. "I am fine, Angley," he said, his green eyes level as he met the other man's gaze. "Just do as I order. Miss Garthwicke is to be gone on the afternoon train. I trust you to do this for me." Angley's mouth trembled, and his faded eyes shone with tears as he understood what Ruairdh was telling him. In a gesture dating back to the oldest times, he placed his fist above his heart and bowed his head. "Aye, mo tighearna," he said, using the Gaelic word in Ruairdh's honor. "I will do as you wish." Ruairdh thought of the woman he'd glimpsed. She'd been young, no more than twenty-three, with rich gold hair bundled back in a prim chignon and soft gray eyes the color of smoke. He took her for a maid at first, for she'd been dressed in a plain black gown covered by a crisp white apron, He'd been about to demand an explanation for her presence, when she told him her name. The sound of her soft, musical voice threw him into sudden, vicious arousal, and the shame of his lustful thoughts only added to his fury. That was why he was so determined she leave. It was the only way to be certain she would be safe from him. "Not as I would wish it, Angley," he said, feeling as ancient and as doomed as the walls of his castle. "Not as I would wish." |
 
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