Emerald Embrace (19 page)

The corridors were empty as she hurried to the stairs, past the great hall, and down the cold and curving stone steps to the cellar far beneath them. Even as she reached the landing, she could hear voices. They were coming from one of the crypts, and as she hurried past the chapel, she realized that it was the newer vault, the one where Mary lay in her coffin.

She hurried in to find that they were all there: Bruce and Ian and Conar and Peter, and even Hogarth and a number of the men from the farm and stables, the huge man with the scar, Robert McCloud, among them. He nodded to Martise, with that smile upon his lips that made her uneasy. The lad Trey McNamara was at his side, along with two older men with weathered and rather weary faces.

Elaina was in the crypt, a bit apart from them all, sitting on an empty coffin slab, her face buried in her hands.

And young Jemie MacPeters was there, silent, staring. Bruce’s hand rested upon his shoulder, and they all stared at the wall where bricks had crumbled down.

They were curiously silent, just looking at the opening. Then Bruce spoke, nodding toward one of the workmen. “Go on, then, break down the rest, and we’ll bring her out as gently as we may, though it seems a bit too late for the lass.”

“What!” Martise gasped. She hurried forward, anxious to stare into the cavity.

“Martise, don’t!” Bruce cried out harshly, but she had slipped past them all, and his workers weren’t about to stop her. Bruce did, catching her arms and pulling her against him, but it was too late. The break in the wall had displayed a tiny nook beyond it. A lamp had been lit, so the contents of the nook were visible.

They were bones. Bones held together with fragments of flesh and material, soft cotton, touching lace ribbons, even the remnants of a bonnet. The bones leaned against the far wall of the crevice, as if the stance had been taken in a last desperation.

As if the girl had died, walled in there, screaming, and when her screams went unanswered, gasping, seeking the last breaths of air to be had.

A scream rose in Martise’s throat along with the taste of bile. For once she was glad of Bruce’s arms about her, and she sagged hard against him and swallowed back her scream.

“For the love of God, let’s get the lass out and decently beneath a blanket!” Bruce demanded roughly. “And be careful. MacTeague will need to see her.”

Bruce swung her around, seating her beside Elaina, who looked up at last, ghastly white. “Elaina found the chasm!” Bruce remarked angrily. “What are you doing down here?”

Martise stared at him, gathering her wits as rapidly as she could. His gaze was upon her, hard and firm, and her hands were rested in the warmth of his. She suddenly felt like a wayward child, and she also felt his concern, and something almost tender from him. Something different from the taunting and the passion. Something gentle and caring. Also rather stern, as if she were flagrantly defying a parental order.

He was waiting, and irritatingly, she found herself stammering out an excuse.

“I—I heard about the chamber. The idea of it was fascinating,” she said defensively.

“Well, you can both go on up—”

“I’m all right!” Martise protested. “Really, I am. I was just startled. I didn’t know what—what to expect!”

Elaina was looking at her woefully. She rose, staggering somewhat. “I don’t know about you, Martise, but I’m going on up.”

“I’d like to stay—” Martise began.

“Bruce!” Conar called, excitement and a trace of amusement lacing his voice. “Come see this!”

For the moment, Bruce left her sitting there. Elaina smiled wanly. “I don’t wish to make any more discoveries today,” she told Martise.

Martise squeezed her hand. “I’ll be up soon,” she promised. Elaina walked briskly from the crypt.

The men, Martise saw, were disappearing into the hole. The bones, the pathetic remains of the young girl, were now on the floor, covered in a blanket.

Martise leapt up and hurried past the body and the workmen and into the jagged cavity in the wall. And before her … was a scene out of the worst nightmare.

Gas lamps now cast a bright glow over a dirt floor and cavelike ceilings and walls strewn with misty spider-webs, which continued over all the contents of the rooms.

Machines, creations, horrible structures in wood and brass or tin or other metals. Martise did not know what they all were. She did know that they had come upon a torture chamber.

“I’ll be damned, I will!” muttered Peter, breathing in. His eyes touched upon Martise and he tried to smile. “I dare say we know now that Castle Creeghan does have her skeletons in the closet, eh, milady?”

She tried to smile. Bruce spun around. “Martise!” he said irritably.

“It’s all right,” Ian said, stepping to her defense. “There’s nothing here, really.”

“Nothing!” Conar sounded as if he were strangling. “By God, this is horrible!”

“Ah, indeed, horrible,” Bruce agreed, walking toward Martise.

Uncle Peter, his kilt swaying, spoke up. “But no bones or bodies about, Bruce. Nothing that the lass might not see in one of the queen’s new collections in London, eh?”

Bruce arched a brow, but Ian was saying, “My God, Bruce, look at this!” Bruce turned to Ian once again.

Martise flashed Peter a thank-you smile. He grinned in return and Martise and he hurried over to the contraption.

It looked like a coffin. It was tall, much taller than Bruce, and broad, and it appeared to be made of time-blackened iron. She thought of the mummy tombs in Egypt, but there was nothing colorful about the structure. It was only large and menacing.

“What is it?” she asked.

Ian was opening the coffinlike thing even as she spoke. The door, or lid, flew outward. Inside it were long spikes. “An iron maiden,” Bruce muttered. “Here.”

“Quite an implement of torture,” Ian said, walking around it. “The victim was placed inside, and the door was slowly and surely closed. The spikes would impale him or her—none of them positioned where they would pierce a vital organ and make death quick! Ah, no! The poor sinner inside would perish a slow and agonizing death!”

“Ian, remember Lady St. James …” Conar reminded him gruffly.

“Oh! I am sorry,” Ian said, meeting her eyes.

“Martise, you shouldn’t be in here!” Bruce snapped.

“I’m all right!” she insisted. She flashed Conar a smile, then hurried over to another mechanism on a table. There were frayed ropes and pulleys and wooden planks. She looked over at Ian, as Bruce was still rigidly frowning at her. “And what is this?”

“Ah, the ‘Earl of Exeter’s daughter!’” he announced. “So called for a man determined on the virtues of its use.” She stared at him blankly. He smiled. “The rack, milady. Well, well used in medieval England!”

“Ah, and Scotland, so it seems,” his father said with a trace of humor. He walked around the room, indicating other pieces about them. “Whips, chains, scold’s bridles, shackles, and over there, a gibbet.”

Ian laughed. “I dare say one of our esteemed ancestors must have been something of a beast, eh, Bruce?”

“So it appears,” Bruce said dryly. Martise felt a chill, and she shuddered fiercely. She felt Bruce’s eyes. He had been watching her, and now she was sorry that she had shivered.

“We’ll wall it all back up.”

Peter was inspecting one of the scold’s bridles, and Martise went over to him. “Now, this one, milady, was for the fairer gender, and the fairer gender alone. If a wife did talk too much, pass gossip or the like, she was locked into this hideous mask, and I wager she did learn to keep silent in the future.”

“There’s a chastity belt over here,” Ian commented. “Our illustrious forefathers must have worried about the loyalty of their wives now and then, wouldn’t you imagine?” He grinned devilishly at Martise. “Beware, Lady St. James! The master of the castle, ye laird of the Creeghan beasts, could take a fancy to keep you forever within these walls, locked with this ghastly contraption.”

“Amusing, Ian, very droll. She’s already convinced that I’m a beast. Thank you very much.”

Ian laughed and winked at Martise. “Fear not. She doesn’t seem to be quaking.”

She was flushing slightly because his eyes were upon her and because … there was something between them. Something sexual. Tense, exciting. Always simmering beneath the surface.

“And none of us knew a thing about this place!” Conar said suddenly. “Dear God, Bruce, what else do ye think this ancient place beloved by us poor fools might hold?”

“God knows. I suppose there could be other chambers—”

“Or walled-in virgins,” Ian suggested.

“I think that when she was walled in, actually, she was no longer a virgin,” Peter said wryly. Even Bruce smiled, but his smile quickly faded. He was standing by the opening, surveying it all with distaste. His eyes fell upon Martise once again and he shrugged. “We called the Mongols barbarians. I wonder if any society was so adept at the doling out of torture and agony as our own.”

“You can’t really wall it back up, Bruce,” Ian said. He extended an arm. “This is, for all its ugliness, history.”

Bruce reflected on the comment for a moment. “Maybe you’re right. I can have it donated to the Queen. They say that she is accumulating all kinds of collections. I imagine they’ll have a place for such a one as this.” He turned around, heading for the opening. “As long as it’s out of here,” he said flatly.

They all followed him back through the opening and out into the crypt beyond.

The body of the poor girl was gone, as were the workmen, Robert McCloud, Trey, and Jemie.

Martise looked at where the body had been on the floor and then at Bruce, and found that his eyes were already upon her. “I had Robert McCloud take the wee lass on outside. I’ll take the wagon to MacTeague myself.”

He stared at her, but did not seem to expect an answer. He turned around and left the cellar.

She did not hear Peter at first when he came up behind her. “Ye mustna mind Bruce, Martise. He didna want you seein’ this new sorrow, not when you come for a sister departed, and have since been through so much.”

“So much?” she murmured. She liked his light eyes and his gentle smile, and wondered sometimes if he wasn’t the only true friend that she had found here. No, of course not. Elaina was her friend, close and sweet. And Ian and Conar were wonderful, too. It was really just Bruce, the great laird himself, who was ever rude and blatantly unwelcoming.

Not at times … the times when he held her. When he whispered, when he promised, when they both looked at one another and knew that it would only be a matter of time.

“Aye, lass, well,” Peter was saying. “Ye come fer Mary, and soon there’s a shipwreck and a man dies despite yer tender care! And then a poor girl is gone, and here today, a poor wee lass is found. It is a bit much, don’t ye ken, milady? He is worried, and that is all.”

She smiled. “And you are his uncle, and his blood, and would thus defend him.”

Peter arched a brow. “His uncle, aye, his blood, nay. We are not Creeghans, the boys and I. I am Stuart from the far north, from a place near John o’Groat’s. I married Jenny Creeghan, the sister of the last Creeghan laird, and came here, for there was much land, and the laird had need of us. I’m surprised that you did not note the plaids.”

“Pardon?”

“The colors, lass, the plaids. I wear the Stuart colors. When we rode the other day, Bruce wore his Creeghan scarf. There is a difference in the patterns, with Creeghan’s offering up a bit of red, and more yellow.”

She smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry, I did not notice at all.”

“Well, now, ye mustn’t be sorry,” he said.

Ian came up behind his father. “She should never be sorry, Father, for what?”

Martise smiled and shrugged. “Ignorance. Shall we go up? I wish to make sure that Elaina is all right.”

Ian nodded, looking regretfully back toward the hole. “’Tis just so fascinating. I wish Bruce weren’t so hell-bent upon removing it all.”

“I think it has more to do with the poor lass in the wall,” Peter said.

Ian shrugged. “Aye, Father, but ’tis all ancient history here, don’t you think? I pity the lass, but it seems that our pity for her is wasted, for surely she came here long ago, and there’s naught to be done for her now. Still … ah, well, let’s go up, indeed, let’s go up. I’m fair starving, I say. We missed a meal in the excitement. I’m sure Freya will have something on.”

“How could you possibly eat now?” Martise asked.

“Hunger, ’twill do it every time,” he said, and grinned, and she found that she was smiling, too.

Martise headed for the stairs with them behind her. Elaina was waiting for them in the great hall with a large decanter of sherry set upon the table. She served them all, and then asked questions, since Bruce had mentioned the chamber to her on his way out.

To her surprise, Martise found that she was famished herself. And the meal Freya had indeed readied for them was another of her delicious fish concoctions, and so she ate heartily and well. Ian spoke about the collection longingly, telling her tales from the Tower of London, and more ghost stories about the castles at Stirling and Edinburgh.

“You should have seen the chamber, Elaina!” Ian told her.

She shrugged. “Perhaps I will. It was just that … seeing that poor dear girl’s bones there …” She shuddered and broke off. “’Twas well and enough for me for the moment!” she assured them.

They lingered in the great hall for some time, then Peter mentioned that he had work and Ian sighed and agreed, yes, he had to see to their foremen and managers.

The men went on to their labors, and Martise spent time with Elaina, watching her pick up a beautiful piece of needlework. She hadn’t Elaina’s patience, though, and after a while, she snatched a bright red apple left on the table to bring to Desdemona and wandered outside, toward the stables.

Night was coming, more quickly each day now, so it seemed. There was a mist that night, cool and smooth and rising from the ground.

It appeared that the world was gray as Martise entered the stables. She held still for a moment and saw that two lamps were burning just inside the heavy doors. They barely seemed to cut through the shadows. But after a moment, her eyes adjusted, and she saw Desdemona’s stall. She walked down to the horse, opened the stall door, and walked up to the mare’s head. Desdemona shifted, then nuzzled Martise with her soft muzzle. She must have smelled the apple. Martise spoke to her softly and soothingly as the mare neatly bit the apple, snapping it in two. She ate the one half before going for the other.