Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (12 page)

He hastened beside the man back down the hall and stairs, and across the courtyard. He caught a quick but bold glance and a pretty blush from one of the girls at whom he'd earlier winked. Then he saw another one just like her. He grinned. "Oh, man, twice the fun!"

A jolt to the head threw him off balance.

"Twice the fun!" Shawn rubbed his head. "It's the Wrigley's commercial. What the hell do you have against Wrigley's? Are you some sort of gum hater? I'm still seeing double!" He laughed out loud, leering at the two girls.

"Your double vision is hardly cause for mirth right now." His escort glared at him. "Not even for a jest about the Morrison twins. You'll not long remain the Lord's future son-in-law with that behavior. He'll no have milady Allene mistreated."

"So what's he going to do? Demote me to pig farmer?" Shawn rubbed the back of his head irritably. The vigorous blow had set off the timpani, and another wave of nausea crashed around his stomach. "What the hell is up with all the smack-downs around here? Can't I just go back to bed and sleep this off?"

The man yanked him into an alcove, behind a huge outdoor oven. Shawn started. It hadn't been there yesterday. He was sure. It was only a result of the hangover, he told himself, but he thought there'd been only ruins. He was about to ask, but his questions were stilled by another buffet to the head.

"Hey!" he cried in real anger this time. "Do you know who I am? Don't you people know you can give someone brain damage doing that? Are you so stuck in your make believe you don't read the papers?"

The man gave him a curious, almost pitying, look. "Pig farmer! We've only sheep and cattle. Friends we've been these twenty years, I'll not watch you anger my Lord. I'll be behind you and the next inappropriate word, I will deal with the flat side of my sword."

"Can we stop the play-acting for a minute?" Shawn said. "I'm not part of this. My hotel is fifteen miles over that hill, and I'll be back in my own world, even if I have to walk the whole way."

"You speak like one bewitched," the man said. "Would that it were play-acting. Come along."

Shawn yanked from the man's grip. They continued across the courtyard. But Iohn's genuine perplexity, the oven that hadn't been there yesterday, sheep in the courtyard—they unnerved him.

"The sheep!" Shawn stopped abruptly. "How did sheep get here?"

Iohn took Shawn's elbow, steering him forward. "Keep moving, Niall. People will talk."

"But how did the sheep get here? They had to have been
trucked
in. But there's nothing in the
parking lot.
" He threw in English where he lacked Gaelic words.

"
Trucked? Par King?
Try, Niall! For all our sakes, try to regain your senses! You brought those sheep yourself. Has the blow to the head affected you so?" He pushed Shawn into the great hall, where five men in tunics, cloaks and great red and gray beards lined a huge wooden table. Five stone, hard faces, Jimmy's ancestors, stared at Shawn.

Glenmirril Castle, Scotland

Hands on the cool stone parapets, and the rising sun bright in his eyes, Niall drank in one last glance of the mist-shrouded landscape. He knew this loch; he loved this loch. He'd grown up on its shores, surrounded by friends and family. Some had died of illness or in battles. He thanked God for those who lived. If he could complete this mission, they would be spared. He prayed God it would be so.

Voices reached him, from far away; just briefly before drifting off. He adjusted his tunic and tugged his shirt into place—his morning's version of freshening up—and turned back for his cloak.

It was gone.

He stared at the empty flagstones where it had been. Odd. Who would take his cloak? Who could have? Only Allene was angry with him, but it seemed a childish trick, unworthy of her. The Laird would provide a new one, but he didn't like to appear careless. He started for the stairs, but something else caught his eye: the bluebells. He took a wary step closer.

Allene's basket was also gone. The blossoms lay on the floor. Who would take a basket and leave the flowers? His eyebrows drew together at this oddity. He glanced for reassurance at the knife tucked in his leather boot. He turned slowly, studying the rest of the tower.

As he did so, he saw the third mystery: a large square basket. "What is this?" he murmured. He lowered himself to one knee, grimacing at the painful wound, and opened it. It contained a mess of half-eaten food. He sniffed a slice of roast beef and considered tasting it. But with enemies everywhere, it did one no good to go about eating unexplained food, mysteriously appearing where it didn't belong. He might have believed it was Allene's peace offering, but that it had obviously been well-sampled already. Maybe one of the laird's great hounds had been up here in the night. But it seemed unlikely.

He searched deeper, and found an elegant vessel of glass, enclosing a dark ruby liquid. He held it up to the rising sun. The color sparkled and deepened. Fascinating. He studied the unusual script on the bit of parchment stuck to it.
Merlot
, it said. He imprinted the strange lettering firmly in his memory and sniffed: some sort of wine or ale.

He put it back and picked up flat pieces of metal: a dull, weak knife, something with prongs, and a metal spoon too small to be of any use in cooking.

Returning them to the basket, his fingers skimmed something smooth. He pulled out a sheet of parchment, slick to the touch, glossy as a lady's satin gown, and bright with text and miniatures. His eyes widened, but he was too much the soldier to gasp. Never had he seen paintings so realistic. Or so small.

Words were written over the paintings. Peculiar. He spoke fluent English, thanks to his foster years near the border. But the spelling was unlike any he'd ever seen. He studied it, settling the words in his mind. It was a story of some sort. He studied the paintings. Several were of a castle on a loch, much like his own, but for its crumbling walls. A bead of sweat broke from his forehead and trailed down his jaw.

He climbed to his feet, as abruptly as his wound would allow, disturbed. He would take these things to the Laird. He'd traveled widely in his youth. If anyone would know, he would.

He looked around the tower one last time. It was as it had always been, ten feet square, with stone battlements rising to his chest. So why did he feel he'd overlooked something, that something more was very wrong here?

* * *

Looking up at the castle's imposing northern walls, and the broken-down southern battlements, Rob said, "I'm sorry, you know, about the ring." His gaze shifted to the misty ground, his face red.

"Apology accepted," Amy said. "But you still need to get it back for me if he doesn't. Think he's still there, or did the dragon lady tour guide find him and carry him off to her lair?" She lifted her hair and let it fall again down her back.

"What an unpleasant surprise for her if she did."

"I thought you were his friend."

Rob shrugged. "Yeah, sure. He's my best friend."

"But you're feeling sorry for the dragon lady."

Rob laughed. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked into the distance. "It's different for guys," he said. "We drink, we party, we have fun. That's best friends for guys, not like you girls, always yakking about your feelings, and joined at the hip even to go to the bathroom. We just hang out, you know? I can feel sorry for the Dragon Lady."

Amy laughed. "Yeah, girls expect more than hanging out from a best friend. Should we try to get in?"

"We could—maybe—look around a little. He's probably still sleeping it off. This path lead down to the lake?"

She nodded, looking at him quizzically.

He flushed again. "It's just—I'm not much of a rule-breaker," he confessed. "I'm not sure I can bring myself to break into a locked castle. And I've never been the kind to steal my best friend's girl."

Amy's eyes widened. Elation swelled her heart. "I...yes, I think that's the path. We could just walk around, or sit there, until the castle opens. Maybe we'll see Nessie." She laughed uncertainly. He put his hand on her back, under her hair, and guided her down the pebbly path.

* * *

With sweat beading his forehead, Niall twisted down the rough hewn stairs curling down inside the tower. Sunlight skimmed through the archers' slots and the distinctive cross window, throwing a silver cast on the walls. In the courtyard, Niall looked around. Residence wings rose, three stories of gray stone, at right angles to the keep. Across the bailey, to the west, stood the chapel, and beyond it, the gatehouse. Mist drifted across the courtyard, rolling up around his ankles. A chill shuddered through him.

And now Niall understood the unsettled feeling. It wasn't just the missing cloak. Far from it. Nor the missing flower basket or unexplained hamper full of foreign things.

The courtyard was empty—worse than empty. Apart from that brief sound of voices, it was silent, utterly desolate. At the back of his mind, he'd noted the unnatural silence at a time when sheep should have been bleating and wives stirring and horses whickering. Missing was the smell of the fire in the great hall. Where could they all be? The MacDougalls couldn't have returned so quickly for vengeance. They couldn't have emptied everyone out so swiftly and silently that he slept through it.

Niall stooped to slide the dirk from his boot. Its smooth metal blade ran cold up his leg. A bead of sweat inched down his jaw. He scanned the desolate castle, right and left, and straightened, pushing the long, dark hair from his forehead. The walls: they were like his castle walls, but—he studied them—not quite.

A wave of dizziness crashed over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, braced his hands on his knees for a moment, and pushed himself back up, staring at the ruins where the stables, blacksmith, and armory should have been. The close was no longer beaten earth, grazed by sheep, but soft with dewy grass, like an English garden.

He touched his temple, under his hair. The lacerations were still rough, tender to the touch. The wound ached as if it were only days old. Had it caused him to sleep long enough for people and sheep to disappear, for grass to grow?

...and walls to crumble?

Intense unease laced his stomach.

He edged across the courtyard, his back against the wall, his eyes missing nothing. The oven was gone: the oven behind which he'd first kissed Allene and been chased out by her father. He smiled. It was the only time he'd ever been terrified in his life. Sheep had scattered in their ambling fashion, chickens lifted amid squawks and flurries of feathers, and women screamed and dropped their wares as he and the Laird plowed through. He'd whipped the young Niall and told him a man must court a lady properly. And from that day, Niall had found himself under the Laird's wing, learning all he knew, and, after that, all that the best tutors of Scotland could teach him. He wondered that the man had seen something in him.

But a brick oven couldn't disappear overnight.

He reached the door of the eastern wing and slipped in. The hall was empty, as lifeless as the abandoned, roofless church he and Iohn had once found in the forest. A bird trill sliced the silence. He inched up the stairs to the third floor. Sunlight and cool morning air streamed through tall windows. He looked up. A nest was wedged in the cross beams of the arched ceiling. A raven shrieked and wheeled away, beating black wings as it soared out the casement.

He came to his room. The door was gone. Checking the hall again, he stepped in, looking around. Tapestries hung on the walls. One showed a man, vaguely like himself, riding a pony and laughing back over his shoulder at his pursuers. The corner of Niall's mouth lifted in wry amusement, but the unnerving desertion of the castle and prickle of fever prevented real humor. He surveyed the rest of the room. His curtains, bed hangings, and cover were garnet red. The smile, small as it had been, disappeared. What sort of enemy took people and animals, tore down walls...and changed the bed linens?

All while a man slept.

Fear crept higher in his chest; deeper and more terrifying than being chased by MacDonald. Then, at least, he'd known what was happening. He leaned against the stone wall, gripping his dirk and waiting out another bout of dizziness. It passed, and he tried to think again.

Something had become of his people, including his beloved Allene. He considered, nonetheless, rationally, devoid of emotion. He could not save her till he could first do something for himself. His military tutors had pounded that lesson home.

He moved to the window overlooking the loch. The fog had thinned. Two people walked on the shore. They wore strange tunics, reaching only to their waists. One had short hair, the white-blonde of a Norseman. The other had long black hair all the way down the back. But what sort of woman did not wear a skirt? He checked that he was still alone, before studying them further. They moved peacefully, ambling toward the large rock where he and Iohn had played at soldiers and cattle-raids, as children. They showed no sign of fear or imminent danger.

A good sign, Niall supposed. Nonetheless, he kept his dirk to hand. He moved with a bit more assurance out of his room, through the silent halls. In the great hall, the windows soared high, letting in a view of loch and hills. Tapestries hung between them. One was a poor imitation of the Laird's favorite. The rest, he'd never seen.

Outside again, heat slicked his forehead and chest as he stared at the crumbling wall to the service close. Maybe it was delirium. He turned to the water gate that led to the loch. Its massive wooden doors, designed to keep an army at bay, had been replaced with a dainty picket blockade. He clambered over, onto the pebbly path, and headed down to the shore, dagger in hand, in search of the couple.

* * * * *

Chapter Five

Glenmirril Castle, Scotland, Present

The sun burst over the mountains, scattering mist and bringing the loch's waters to glorious life, sparkling like sapphires; picking out the flecks of silver and bronze veining the pebbles at their feet. Amy and Rob sat on a large stone at the water's edge. A slim, young alder sprang from the rocky soil, spreading June leaves just over their heads. Bits of greenery and tiny white blossoms burst out among the stones.