Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (49 page)

Maybe it would have been something better than fun.

They pushed another mile through thick brush. His hand flew up more than once to fend off a branch snapping back behind Brother David. Midges swarmed the leaf-wrapped meat, and up around his face and the blood-seeped bandages on his thigh. He wondered if Amy missed him. But of course, Niall may have woken up in his place. Would she actually think Niall was him?

He stopped, his stomach turning! What if she'd gone to bed with Niall? Sure, he was a Boy Scout, but maybe only because Allene would stab him. Amy wouldn't. And Amy was beautiful.

Allene and Brother David forged ahead. He'd be lost if he didn't keep up. He limped after them, slapping a little too roughly through the forest, burning with the thought that Niall might have taken advantage of the situation. In his four-poster bed! Glaring, Shawn slapped at a midge circling in front of his eyes, and bent to brush at those around his legs. He straightened and slapped at the new swarm in front of his face.

His hand grazed, instead, cold steel.

He stopped. He touched it gingerly.

Something snaked over his left shoulder and across his chest, pulling him back against a rock. His heart struck up a frantic tempo. Synapses spread alarm up and down his arms. Cold sweat burst out on his forehead. He lowered his hand to the hairy arm clamped across his chest.

Allene and Brother David plunged into the darkening forest, leaving him behind, in the grip of someone unknown.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Among the morning throngs on the sidewalks of Inverness, with his jaw aching and full-blown purple now, thanks to Shawn's misdeeds, Niall's view of Shawn swung full throttle back to its original, ugly impression. So he'd lost a father! "
So did I
," Niall muttered, "and I don't behave so!" He rubbed his jaw, conscious of the stares it drew.

He passed one of the paintings of Shawn, ragged around the edges now. Shawn wore a plaid and the grin of a town fool, astride a shaggy highland cow, with two buxom lasses staring moon-eyed up at him. Scotland's best indeed! Niall seethed. The man was a scoundrel and wastrel, his moments of kindness and humor mere feints to get his way. He'd probably finagled this whole switch somehow just to escape the consequences of his many misdeeds.

He was most likely with Allene right now and if Niall's plan succeeded, he'd be back with Amy, pressuring her into ridding herself of the child, or abandoning her to raise it alone. And all Niall had said and done these past days would appear another of Shawn's insincere jokes on good-hearted people. He scowled, storming down the street toward the money wall.

"I pray for him, anyway," he muttered, irritated with his own hatred. He'd found it so easy to follow the monks' teachings, and God, before he'd known a man like Shawn. But Amy, he vowed, would be taken care of, to the best of his ability.

Reaching the money wall, he pulled Shawn's things from the back pocket of his jeans, and shuffled through the plastic cards. He found the proper one, and Amy's list of numbers. He studied it, drawing on everything he knew of Shawn, every word he'd heard of the man, every scrap of evidence left in his rooms, trying to guess. What was important to him? Which number held significance?

He lined the card up according to the picture on the machine and chose the first number: Shawn's mother's birthday. He'd tried to buy her a house. Scoundrel though he was, he loved his mother. Niall punched the numbers. The machine beeped angrily. He groaned, realizing the futility. There were thousands of combinations. Amy had warned him he only had three tries: two more before he lost the card forever in the wall.

He crossed himself, staring back at a passerby who gave him a disapproving look.

"Praying ye didn't drink it all last night?" she sniffed.

He shook his head and looked to Heaven—these people made no sense—and turned back to the machine and his knowledge of Shawn. He'd stayed with Amy, and Niall, too, had begun to wonder why. Caroline seemed more suited to him. Maybe Amy was right and there was more to Shawn? Might he have some feelings about that baby he'd rid her of? He felt a rush of excitement, remembering the numbers Rob said Amy wrote sometimes. He knew! He'd prayed, and the answer had come to him! He punched the numbers quickly, oh-six-oh-six, wondering how to get the money, once he got access.

The machine beeped.

He stared, shocked. He'd been so sure. His shoulders sagged. He had only one more try.

"Other people need that," a peevish voice snapped. Niall scowled at the woman behind him. She blinked, hard, and hurried along.

Niall turned back to the machine. He had one try left. He shuffled through the plastic cards, seeking inspiration. Among them, was the photograph of Shawn and his father. Niall studied it, wishing Shawn had not left him with such a mess. He wondered what it was like, the two of them together. He turned the picture over, thinking of the day Shawn's father had died; imagining the shock of a young boy hearing of his father's murder. That one event had changed Shawn and all the lives around him.

Slowly, Niall lifted his hand and punched that horrible day into the machine.

Central Scotland, 1314

"Halt!" roared a guttural, Gaelic roll of thunder. It peeled back Shawn's eardrums. He swore several trees swayed under the impact of the Voice. Rustling in the brush suggested the man had brought friends. Shawn stood motionless, sweating under the weight of the man's arm clamped across his chest.

Allene and Brother David turned—silently—in slow motion. David's eyes widened, his mouth opened. Allene's cowl hid her face. Birds fell silent. Shawn's every synapse trembled, hyper-aware of the cold blade. He swallowed. He wondered how much it hurt, having your throat cut. He thought of Amy, alone with the child, and wanted to be with her, with them.

"Naeme yerselves," the Voice bellowed. Shawn closed his eyes; his knees weakened. He prayed these were the men Allene sought, not the men seeking him and Allene.

Allene threw back her cowl. Her hair blazed in the evening light. She lifted her chin. "We seek Hugh MacDonald."

Silence stretched around Shawn. Fire ran up the wound on his thigh.

Cold steel brushed across his throat...

...and fell away.

The huge arm released Shawn. He sagged, stumbled, then caught himself.

"My lady! Hugh will be joyed to see you! Come quickly ere the sun sinks. Niall, you're ever welcome." Shawn was spun around, to face a giant of a man. He winced as a large hand crushed his injured palm in enthusiastic greeting. The man pulled back. He noted the bandage, filthy gray despite his attempt to clean it in the river after his fight with the wolf. "Trouble on the way?" he asked.

Shawn trembled. This man was taking them to the brother of the Laird who'd threatened bodily harm. He swallowed. "I...uh...made...."

"He fought a wolf," Allene interjected. "He saved our lives."

Shawn's eyes met hers. In the dying sun, Allene's lips curved into the smallest smile. She gave her head a small shake.

The man jerked his head at the monk, who carried the wolf's pelt. "Who's he?"

"This is Brother David, a man of God who was mistaken for Niall, and beaten nigh to death in the Great Glen," Allene answered. "He's been our companion. I beg your leave for him to come to camp and fall under Hugh's protection."

The three men sized Brother David up, and the leader nodded. With a beckoning hand, they turned and tramped deep into the brush.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Niall braced his hands on either side of the money machine, holding his breath. It whirred and the words,
Hello, Shawn,
appeared on the screen.

He closed his eyes, breathing thanks to God. Five minutes later, the sporran hanging from Niall's jeans bulged with all the cash the machine would give him. It seemed a vast treasure. In his time, only kings thought in thousands. But considering what he'd paid for the meal at the Two-Eyed Traitor, he guessed it wouldn't last so long here.

He debated only briefly, before starting down the street toward the seedy alley of the pawn shop. He'd promised Amy, and he would get as much money for her and the child as he could. He pulled the crucifix from under Shawn's polo shirt, studying it only a moment. Then, before he could change his mind, he rounded the corner, past bits of trash swirling in the breeze as the mist did outside the castle of a morning, and pushed into the pawn shop. Bells jingled on the door.
May things go as well here
, he prayed. The old shopkeeper shuffled out from the back room. "Ye're up and aboot airly," he said.

Ignoring the cry of grief inside, Niall came straight to the point. "I'll sell the crucifix."

The man's face lit up. "How much?"

"Five thousand."

The man shook his head. Niall leaned forward, planting his hands on the counter. The crucifix swung forward, catching the old man's lascivious eye. Niall stared him down. "It dates from 1297, made by the monks of Monadhliath. 'Tis in perfect condition." He'd researched his options, late the previous night. "If you don't want it, a university or museum will be glad of it."

The man planted his hands on the counter, mirroring Niall, and stared back.

Niall turned for the door.

"Two thousand."

Niall turned. "Six thousand."

"Ye canna raise the price," the man huffed. His belly and mustache quivered in outrage.

Niall stepped back to the counter, nose to nose. He slipped the crucifix over his head and laid it softly on the counter: his future and his past. It was the last thing his father had given his mother, before heading to Falkirk to lay down his life for their safety. It was his gift to Allene. He'd dreamed of the day he'd marry her and slip it over her head, and see it passed to his own son. He stared at the man on the cross. Care for the widows and the orphans. That described Amy and her child, as Shawn had left them. Sell all you have and give it to the poor. It was all he had. He would not sell it cheaply.

"Raising the price is not how it works," the man insisted.

Niall raised his eyes from his memories and hopes, waiting on the counter to be sold. "Sixty-five hundred. A museum will give me more."

"Three thousand."

The air crackled with tension. The store owner stared with salacious desire at the piece. Niall watched him steadily. A museum would treasure it as he did. He swallowed hard, his eyes hot and dry.

A muscle twitched under the man's eye. He blinked rapidly, and blurted, "Thirty-five hoondred!"

Niall picked up the crucifix and headed for the door.

The shop owner scurried around the counter, waving his hands. "Four thousand!"

Niall paused. He should take the money. He gripped the crucifix, the figure of Christ biting into his palm. Maybe he could get more. He pushed the door open, flooding the entryway and his eyes with blinding morning sun, still berating himself to take the money. But he couldn't.

"I canna go tha' high!" the man wailed, from the dim interior.

The door slammed shut. Niall left the trashy alley behind and turned down the cobbled street to the museum. It loomed, suddenly, a large stone building on his right. He quickened his step, smoothing the shirt and jeans. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back, hoping he looked presentable. He crossed himself, and breathed a prayer as he climbed wide stone stairs.

Seeing someone with authority proved difficult. The museum staff sent him from one office to another. But in the end, Shawn's name got him things mere mortals didn't get. The curator hastened to meet him, pumping his hand and enthusing about the upcoming concert.

"Thank you. Pleased to meet you," Niall said, copying a greeting he'd heard. "I have something your museum would like."

Moments later, the man was fingering the crucifix lovingly. "It's as authentic as anything I've ever seen," he said in amazement, "but we'd have to verify it. And that takes time." He turned the crucifix around, studying it front and back. Niall could see the longing in his eyes. The man looked up. "You understand my problem?"

Niall nodded. "Do you have any other suggestions?"

"A couple weeks, and I can do it." He caressed the cross.

"I'll not be here in a fortnight," Niall replied. "I am leaving in a matter of hours."

"Well, then, here's my suggestion." The man outlined his ideas, while tapping on one of the computers that seemed to be everywhere. The printer behind him whirred, and he spun his chair to take two sheets of paper from it. He handed them to Niall. "Try these. Best of luck to you, and I do hope we see your friend."

"Thank you." Niall dropped the crucifix back over his head.

"You wear it?" the man asked in surprise.

"Sure, an' what else would I do with it?" Niall asked. He shook the man's hand, thanking him for his help, and took his leave.

* * * * *

Chapter Seventeen

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Niall paced the green room.

The tuxedo, buttoned to the throat, the tie and cummerbund Amy had fastened, chiding him that she'd been doing this for him for over two years, and wasn't it time he learned to do it himself, the cuffs and collars and sleeves, all clung, hampering his motion.

Some musicians paced, the men in their tuxedos and women in black; some sat, eyes closed, removed from the world; some conversed; some warmed up. Violins hummed, their owners standing with heads bowed over their instruments. Flutes trilled, the tuba rumbled. Niall could name them all now. He yanked at the cuff one more time. He couldn't play in this ridiculous, confining get-up—he couldn't imagine how all the others did it—and made his decision.

He pushed through the hundred musicians, to where his bag waited, ready for after the concert. He snatched it up and marched to the bathroom.

"Where you going, Shawn?" Jim called.

"I can't play in this," Niall said.

"Show time!" someone hollered. The hummings, trillings, and rumblings stopped, one by one. Instruments lowered, women rose from couches, and musicians rustled toward the door in pairs and groups. Niall threw open the bathroom door. He'd miss these modern bathrooms, with their fresh smell. He tore off the jacket. He had no time to worry over bathrooms! He yanked at the tie. It wouldn't budge. He stuck his head out the door.