Alanna (When Hearts Dare Series Book 2) (25 page)

Alanna squeezed Wolf’s hand, kissed his cheek, and swiped a tear from her eye. “I know you’re both right. I’ll be safe here.”

 

 

Ghosts of buried memories haunted Wolf’s dreams that night. He was transported to that placid pond in front of a familiar manor house, where he sat under a tree observing swans glide about while a pretty young woman watched over him. Suddenly, the dream twisted and the terrified eyes of his mother peered at him in a mirror, over the shoulder of a thick-necked, black-haired stocky man. Clear and piercing, her eyes sought the very depths of his young boy’s soul. He was thrown awake in a cold sweat of despair. He did not know if he cried out. He only knew that when the mists of his foggy brain lifted, Alanna was there for him, her inquiring eyes filled with deep and abiding compassion.

His mood was somber the next morning when he stood beside the Thompson carriage and gathered Alanna in his arms to say good-bye. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and wiped a tear from her eye with his knuckle. “Don’t weep, darlin’. It rips my heart out.”

She sniffed and laughed through her tears. “It seems I’ve turned into a nonstop fountain of late, and I don’t know why.”

 

Wolf hitched a hip over the corner of the wide table in the center of Trevor’s library, where papers were stacked in dated piles and maps of Scotland were strewn about. He folded his arms over his chest and worked to set aside his impatience. Trevor, a detective, and a Highland historian stood at the table, sifting through documents.

Dawson, a second detective, who’d recently arrived, sat in an armchair, a cup of coffee in one hand, a sandwich in the other. He swallowed his last bite of food and washed it down with a swig of coffee. “Turns out your father’s partner was a cunning man who cozied up to your father, but secretly despised him.”

A chill ran through Wolf. “He hated my father?”

Dawson nodded. “Grimes was nephew to Lord Selkirk of London, once head of the Hudson Bay Company in Canada. Their rival was the Northwest Trading Company in Montreal, owned by William MacGillivray before the two companies merged and Selkirk was dismissed. Grimes blamed William MacGillivray for the dwindling of Selkirk’s wealth, which Grimes would have inherited.”

“What does that have to do with my mother’s murder?”

The Highland historian Trevor had hired, a Scot in his late sixties, slid a piece of paper under Wolf’s nose with a drawing of a crest badge emblazoned with a stag and the word
Dunmaghlas.
“Looks like ye might be a Highlander.”

Nothing registered with Wolf.

The man pushed another piece of paper under his watchful eye, this one a pen and ink drawing of a coat of arms. “Translated, the name is MacGillivray.”

Lightning split Wolf’s skull. He grabbed at the back of his neck and rubbed the tense cords. Why the pain when the name held no obvious connection for him? Clenching his jaw, he made his way to the window. He peered out at the courtyard, where Celine, Trevor’s wife, sat on a bench before a wide cradle holding a set of twins. A nurse and a nanny sat on an adjacent bench.

“There must have been MacGillivray blood somewhere in your father’s lineage,” Dawson said. “Or your mother’s, given your surname. Grimes was out to ruin any MacGillivray he ran across. Somehow, he discovered your father was related and was the wealthiest of the remaining clan members. All evidence points to Grimes, who either exposed your mother to a murderer or did the deed himself. We know for a fact he was dealing with Hemenway Senior on the side.”

Wolf felt sick. He shoved his hand through his hair. “Christ. My parents are buried on MacGillivray land because one of them was part of the clan?”

Trevor pushed papers around on the table. “Looks that way.”

“But why kill my mother? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s why you need to head north,” Trevor said. “Besides your parents’ graves, the answers are likely there as well.” He nodded toward the other detective. “Wakef ield, here, could get nothing out of any of them. Once they knew he wanted information, they shunned him.”

Wolf sifted through the documents on the table, asking questions. At times, his fingers tingled at the touch of one paper, trembled while he read others. “How do I find this clan?”

The historian scratched his head. “Since we know where your parents are buried, the particular clan yer looking for is up in Inverness. At Dunmaglass.”

Wolf pointed to the badge heralding the word
Dunmaghlas.
“My name is Gray. There’s not a hint of Scots in the name.”

The man squinted hard at Wolf. “But if I close me eyes tightlike and look through the slits, surely I pick up the MacGillivray in ye. They have the squareness to the jaw, ye know. Same as you. Carnaptious as well. Perhaps yer mother was a MacGillivray married to a Gray or suchlike.”

“
Carnaptious
?” Wolf grew more irritable by the minute. “What the hell’s that?”

The man chuckled and ran a hand over his side-whiskers. “Weil, the word means stubborn as an ass. A MacGillivray never has been known much for patience, either.”

Trevor turned his back, but not before Wolf caught a hint of a grin flitting across his mouth. “Do you know the countryside up there?” he asked the historian.

“A wee bit.”

“Would you be willing to accompany me there?”

The historian shook his head. “Count me too auld to be a bumpin’ around in the wilds. But I can draw ye a map off these large ones here. Won’t be no trouble finding yer way. And if ye are indeed a MacGillivray, then ye’ll be verra safe amongst a clan of the Confederation.”

Wolf glanced up. “Confederation?”

“The Clan Chattan.” The historian drew Wolf’s attention to a drawing.

When he saw the rendering of a rampant wild cat encircled in a silver strap and buckle that read
Touch Not This Cat Bot a Glove
, Wolf’s head started to ache again. He went back to studying the map. “Where’s this town, Dunmaglass?”

“’Tis no town, bucko. ’Tis a castle. Home of the MacGillivray chief. It’ll be he ye’ll be a calling upon.”

Between the detective’s dismal report on Grimes and Hemenway, and now this man’s revelations, Wolf’s mood went to hell. He turned on his heel and stalked off to the garden, where Celine sat beneath a hickory tree.

He stood looking down at the four-month-old twin boys lying side by side in the cradle, a shock of black hair covering each of their heads. “How do you tell them apart?”

Celine sighed. “Honestly, I hope it gets easier as they grow.”

Unceremoniously, he plopped into a wrought-iron chair, stretched out his legs, and studied Celine.
She’s Trevor’s other half.

Alanna.
A shaft of misery knifed through his chest. She was what he was missing.

Celine lifted a red flower to her nose and sniffed. “How do you think you’ll feel if you discover that whoever you sought revenge on all this time has been dead for years?”

Something in Wolf’s chest twisted. “Like I’ve been cheated.”

“What if it is Hemenway, and not a man already dead? How would you confront him?”

“Offer him the same courtesy he extended to my mother.”

“Do you honestly think you have it in your nature to snuff the life from a man in the same manner he claimed your mother’s? I doubt you could live with the guilt.”

“Guilt?” He threw his head back and gulped for air. “You have no idea what it’s like to be a child, to watch your mother die and feel helpless to defend her. I’ll likely feel remorse for the rest of my life for being too much of a coward to try and save her.”

Celine reached out and laid her hand over his. “Oh, Wolf. You were a helpless six-year-old. You couldn’t possibly have defended your mother against a grown man.”

“Tell that to the six-year-old still living inside me.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I’ve lived with the pain of that terrible night every waking day of my life, Celine. Whatever I end up doing will finally be in defense of my mother.” Wolf’s throat closed up on him and his voice cracked. “I’m just a little late, that’s all. Twenty-four years late.”

 

 

The pale moon, so large it devoured the windows of the second-floor bedchamber, gave Wolf little solace when he awoke, drenched in the sweat of yet another nightmare. His mother’s eyes, peering at him through the murky mirror, had been crystal clear this time, and filled with love. But then they looked over the shoulder of the thick-necked, stocky man whose form had grown increasingly resolute with each marauding dream. Only on this night, the oblique angle of the glass showed Wolf there was now an open door beyond the mirror. And another man, visible from the knees down, stood sentry. Although Wolf had always remembered the killer’s quick trip to the door and the muffled conversation, strangely, he’d never bridged the two scenes. Until now.

He left the bed and moved to the balcony, no longer denying himself contact with the awfulness within his weary soul. As Old Chinese had suggested, during Wolf’s trip across the Atlantic, he’d embraced the pain that had burdened his life. But what came each time he moved through it surprised him. In some moments, he swept past the horror, and what prevailed were the memories of his mother’s smooth ivory skin, a haunting scent of cinnabar, and her soft Scottish brogue.

The recollection of his mother’s last kiss, just before she’d shoved him under the bed, coalesced with the kiss Celine had planted on her sons’ cheeks before they were carried off to the nursery. Tears stung his eyes. They were cold, angry tears, when what he was desperate for were warm tears. Tears of joy. What he wanted beside him this lonely night was Alanna.

Every cell in him pulsated with wanting her. He’d known the awful hell of having peered desperately into the eyes of a dying loved one. It had shattered his life. Lately, he was beginning to comprehend the joy of looking into the eyes of love and being swept away in its sweet world.

He sighed, long and deep, then pushed away from the rail. He returned to the bed, where he settled back, hands behind his head, and stared out the window at the clouds drifting across the moon.

Reluctantly, he surrendered to sleep and to his dreams. But this time the nocturnal images were pleasant. They were again of the great manor house. He rode in slow motion across the panorama of his dream on a fleet-footed steed. This time, the resolution of his dream remained clear, and he was able to gaze at length upon the peaceful gathering by the silver pond. He saw contentment reflected in the calm eyes of the child with the fluff of white hair—and in the eyes of his mother.

Alanna was among them this time, her hair flowing long and free in the breeze. Her hand moved slowly over her belly—a belly swollen with the burden of a child. A look of deep and enduring love shining forth from her glowing cobalt eyes shattered the impenetrable boundaries around his wary heart.

After six days alone upon the mystical Highland moors, glens, and mountains, Wolf felt strangely disconnected from himself and the life he’d left behind.

He rode Trevor’s horse. His friend had insisted Wolf borrow the hardy Friesian for the difficult trek north. He worked Panther through thick patches of early morning mist, so deep in places it buried the horse’s belly in swirling white froth. Every now and then, a stag sprinted into a dense thicket, startled by the mighty blue-black stallion with its curling mane tumbling to its knees. In other places, free of the Highland’s misty veil, Wolf rode along in dew-kissed grass and sparkling mosses of emerald green.

As he made his way to Dunmaglass, the air, crisp and clean, filled his lungs and left him nearly light-headed. The few Highlanders he ran across, with their ageless demeanor and the glint of humor touching the corners of their eyes, sent a rare comfort to the pit of his stomach.

The sun inched over the horizon, splaying its morning rays across the rolling landscape, vaporizing the white veil swathing the green hills. When they reached the disquieting moors of Culloden, battleground of the forty-five, he eased Panther into a swifter gait. Here, the historian had told him, was where Captain Alexander MacGillivray, then chief of the Clan MacGillivray, had lost his life one cold and drizzly morning.

Alexander the Tall, as he was called, had been a blond, handsome, and well-built young chieftain who died a hero’s death. Unmarried and childless at his demise, Alexander had been succeeded by his brother William. Wolf sought Alexander Lachlan MacGillivray of Dunmaglass, William’s grandson and current chief of the MacGillivray Clan.

He paused Panther beside a narrow opening in the ground. A large stone adjacent to the hole was carved with the words: W
ELL OF THE DEAD
. H
ERE THE CHIEF OF THE
M
AC
G
ILLIVRAYS FELL.

A lonesome birdcall caught Wolf’s ear. He looked about the moor, at the stones among the heather. A chill ran down his spine. If it
were
true that he was indeed a MacGillivray, then he actually gazed upon a connecting link. At this point, he didn’t care how long ago the Battle of Culloden had been fought; the carved stone was
something,
even if it was just a cold, gray lump of granite. He bent across his saddle and ran his fingers over the rough letters carved in the stone, half hoping the touch would stir some deep and long forgotten memory.

Nothing.

Panther let out a soft nicker. Wolf stroked the horse’s neck and urged him onward. As Panther chugged along like a locomotive, Wolf took in the sights and smells more carefully. Arable land and plantation forests alternated with the Scotch firs growing along the plains. Farmers tilled the soil and planted new crops. Highland cattle—strange-looking beasts with long curved horns and furry, russet-colored hair hanging over their eyes—grazed in the meadows.

Wolf turned Panther off the road and onto another that led into a dense stand of Scotch firs. The entry to Dunmaglass.

Clearing the wooded forest, Panther picked up his pace with no encouragement from Wolf. The horse trotted through a glen, its mane flying in the breeze. As they reached the crest of a daffodil-laden knoll overlooking a valley, Wolf’s jaw slackened. He jerked the reins so hard, the animal danced sideways.

The gray stone manor of Wolf’s dreams sat nestled in a morning mist so thick it looked as though the whole of it sat on a fallen cloud. Two white swans floated in a silver pond flanked by tall trees. A horse the size of a dog in perspective, one of several dotting the sloping glen, raised its head and whinnied. Panther danced forward and arrogantly whinnied back. Gathering in the sight that lay before him like an apparition, Wolf held the beast in check while he caught his breath.

“Jesus God!” His heart hammered wildly. He barely squeezed his thighs and the horse lengthened its stride, broke into a smooth canter, and darted down the hill into the glen. Had he just signaled Panther forward into a self-induced dream? He moved trancelike past the pond and toward the castle.

Despite the chill in the air, perspiration flecked Wolf’s brow. As he rode forward, the great manor house, with its square and toothy castellated towers cut through with the sign of the cross, loomed in front of him. His bones turned to jelly.

His nostrils flared at the scent of the Highland spring, a pure fragrance that held a faint familiarity. Breathing deeply, he tried to garner some measure of control over his wayward emotions. He halted in front of the huge double doors studded with iron, and dismounted.

Hands on hips, Wolf stood for a long while, staring upward, past the MacGillivray crest etched in stone above the door, past the cross carved above the crest and beyond, until the building seemed to sway while the clouds stood still. Gathering courage, he lifted the round iron ring attached to the door and let it clamor against the metal plate.

He waited, not wanting to knock again. The huge door swung open. A narrow-shouldered, reed-thin woman wrapped in a thick sweater the color of porridge stood before him.

“The MacGillivray cannae see you just now,” she said, but her eyes narrowed. “What be yer name?”

“Wolford Archibald Gray. People call me Wolf.”

Her face paled.

“I’ll see to fetching Mr. Fraser for ye. Come.” She flapped her hand, waving Wolf in and glancing up at the fast-gathering clouds. “If ye hesitate, ye’re likely to be surprised by a quick change in the weather.”

Wolf stepped inside the large foyer with its flagstone floor and arched Gothic ceiling. He halted. Every nerve in his body tingled. The place felt familiar.

The woman urged him on. “This way if ye’ve a mind to warm yerself. ’Tis a good fire going in here and ye look as though ye’ve frozen yer blood. Or seen a ghost, so pale ye be.”

She stopped abruptly in front of a fireplace so immense, Wolf could easily fit his six-foot frame inside without having to bend an inch. Burning peat, with its hauntingly familiar odor, spit flames to heat his face.

“I’ll get ye Mr. Fraser, a toddy to warm ye, and someone to see to yer horse.” She was off with a quick nod, her words trailing behind the click of heels against the stone floor.

Wolf perused the room. Although the place held fine furnishings, it had the look of being inhabited by a family who didn’t sacrifice personal comfort for looks. Oversized, well-used leather chairs flanked the fireplace. In front of one chair stood a sturdy wooden trunk banded with metal, the corners worn away as if years of booted feet propped there had given it the right to remain, no matter its condition. Despite its formidable size, the hall held the look of a cozy family gathering place as well as one that could hold a hundred if need be.

Wolf rubbed his hands together while the fire warmed his face. Still, the chill refused to leave him. As did the buzzing in his brain. His gaze traveled upward, perused the rough, cut-granite wall in front of him, came to rest on the colorful coat of arms and two claymores crossed high above.

“Mr. Fraser will be honored to meet with ye.” The woman’s voice followed the quick cadence of her heels, but her tone held a curious lilt. As Wolf drew closer, there seemed to be a subtle difference in her appearance as well, as though a glow now hovered in her eyes.

Unsure of what lay ahead, Wolf followed behind her, taking in as much of the layout as he could, committing exits to memory.

“I’ll be takin’ ye to the courtyard to meet with Mr. Fraser. He’s like you, he is—stays fit in the cauld air.” Her words were clipped and matter of fact, but the edges held warmth.

Wolf managed a small grin.

“Ye have to like the cauld air if ye’re any kind of a good Scot.” She smiled back. “But I’m getting a wee auld to want to stand in it any longer than I must.”

She turned left at the third doorway. Wolf caught his breath. Blood hammered in his ears. He
knew
which way to turn before she did so.

The courtyard, enclosed on three sides by the granite walls of the castle, held solid doors opening from each wall into it. A large, weathered gate leading to a field took up most of the fourth side. A fountain stood in the center, surrounded by empty clay pots. A haunting urge swept over Wolf to skip around the fountain to see how close he could manage to get to the crocks without knocking them over.

Perspiration beaded his brow. Confusion dizzied his mind as he struggled to draw air deeper into his lungs. He whipped his head around at the flash of a small, wild-haired boy disappearing to the side of the back gate.

A fiftyish-looking man with fluffy gray sideburns appeared at the gate, swung it open, and stepped inside. He stood before Wolf dressed in a red plaid kilt, white knee-length wool stockings, and a thick gray sweater. A
sgian dubh
, the same kind of small knife Alanna had had strapped to her leg while aboard ship, was tucked inside the top of his right stocking. Despite his large size and formidable carriage, the man held an air of gentleness about him.

“I’m Aiden Fraser.” He gave Wolf a tilt of his head. “And the lad ye see flitting about is wee Jamie MacGillivray.”

Wolf stood there, listening to the man’s rich, melodious words, unable to recall the speech he’d planned. Everything seemed unreal, as though his entire life until now had been some sort of wicked devil’s prank.

Aiden Fraser finally broke the silence. “I’m yer cousin. Once removed.”

Fraser’s words drugged Wolf like a subtle poison. He wanted to speak, but found himself thick-tongued and hoarse of voice. “You know me, then?”

“Aye, ye’ve the look of yer father, God rest his soul. And the look of his father, as well. A bit of yer mother around the mouth. But ye stand there and throw yer head in the air just as yer father used to do when he couldna take charge of himself, either. Yer grandfather did the same. ’Tis no mistakin’ who ye be.”

“And who is that?” Wolf struggled to keep the panic from his voice.

“Och, lad, ye’ve been through a life of hell, have ye not?” Fraser held the stem of a weed in his hand, fiddling it between his fingers.

Despite feeling as if he might crumble to his knees, Wolf stood tall and square-shouldered, jaw clenched, his gaze unwavering, determined to let things unfold on their own.

Fraser started toward the door leading back inside. “Come. I’ve something to show ye.”

In silence, the two entered the castle again and climbed a set of stairs with a landing at the second level as wide as a room before it turned and led up yet again to another level of rooms. Wolf followed behind the dignified Highlander, no longer looking for safe exits, unable even to concentrate on the full-length portraits—kilted lairds of days past—lining the hallways.

Led to a smallish room on the third floor, Wolf poked his head inside. It took a long moment for things to register in his disoriented brain. He looked to Aiden, and then scanned the room again, his brows knitting together.

Aiden gave a nod along with a slight smile. “Go on then, inside with ye.”

Stunned, Wolf stepped to the center of a room furnished with the things he’d left behind when he’d run away from school in England. Books, candles, bed—they were all there, the setting reproduced exactly as he’d left it. Even a pen lay at the ready on his desk. And the note. He’d written it to the school authorities when he was seventeen, informing them he’d not met with foul play, but had struck out on his own. God, it seemed a century ago since he’d somehow ended up in St. Joe.

“Yer grandfather had yer things brought in.” Aiden’s voice came soft and filled with a kind of tenderness. “’Twas his only way of keepin’ ye alive in his heart.”

Wolf turned from Aiden, made his way to the window, and tilted his head upward, sucking in air. “Why the hell didn’t he come for me? What was my father doing in India?” He found himself dumb, wanting to speak but unable to say more, afraid he would break into sobs.

Aiden moved to stand beside Wolf. “After yer father returned to Boston to find yer mother murdered and ye hidden away in the hills outside the city, he didna collect ye fer fear someone might follow. Instead, he went to India to set up a new life fer the two of ye. That’s when ye were put aboard a ship bound for Liverpool. He intended to meet ye there and secret ye away, but someone found him and he never made it out of Calcutta.”

“He intended to come for me?”

“Aye, but when yer grandfather got word that yer father had been done in, and ye were next, he decided to place ye in a school where no one knew ye.”

Renewed frustration bloomed in Wolf. “But why didn’t he ever come? Why didn’t he let me know who I was?”

“Fer yer own safety. Ye were an angry lad, and rightly so, but he figured if someone found yer father all the way in India, it wouldn’t take much for them to find ye up here. And since ye had a penchant for being hot-tempered, he thought it best to wait until ye were a bit older to tell ye, so ye wouldn’t give yerself away. He had someone watching over ye and reporting back to him, but then ye up and ran off. That’s when we lost track of ye for all those years.”

Wolf shoved his hand through his hair. “I stowed away on a ship to America and wandered.” He studied Aiden. “I’ve got a helluva lot of questions that have haunted me through the years.”

“Yer grandfather keeps his secrets, so I can’t say as I have all the answers. There’s plenty of time for ye to be learning everything—”

“I don’t even know when my birthday is, for Christ’s sake, and that’s the least of what I want to know.” Wolf dragged his sleeve across the corner of one eye. “Who the hell am I, Aiden?”

The man paused for a moment to study Wolf. “Ye’re Alexander William Wolf MacGillivray.”

Wolf spun around. “MacGillivray? What happened to Wolford Archibald Gray?” His hand swept the room and the array of schoolbooks. Fire lit his eyes. And pain. Awful, deep, and torturous pain.