Emerald Embrace (21 page)

She slipped from her room, and turned, not to the stairway, but along the corridor leading to the south tower.

Rich maroon runners led the way, and the walls were well set with lamps, tapestries, and paintings. When she reached the end of the corridor, she found that the hallway narrowed, while to her right were handsome double doors inlaid with gilded designs of mighty Highland warriors at battle, and at feasts.

She hesitated, turned about, and assured herself that no one had seen her. The hallway behind her was empty. A breeze came through the narrow arrow slits that still lined the corridors, despite the tapestries hung to keep out the cold. The gaslights flickered.

Martise opened the doors and entered the master’s chambers. She closed the doors behind her, then leaned back against them, barely breathing. But even as she did so, she froze, certain that she heard footsteps in the corridor. She didn’t dare walk out into the hallway.

She clutched the elegant gold timepiece she wore around her throat and noted with dismay that it was midnight. She had lost all track of time, and it was possible that the master would be returning.

She couldn’t run out into the hallway, so she turned and hurried through a doorway into a dressing room, and for a moment waited there. Then she heard the great carved doors open and she fled through to the bathroom.

The doors beyond closed.

She held still, barely breathing, hearing the footsteps again. Heard them enter the dressing room. With a few more steps, he could be in the bath.

She opened the rear door quickly and started back along the narrow corridor, thinking that within seconds she would be able to stand there and pretend she was about to knock if he should appear.

But then she heard someone coming, someone else, down the corridor. One of the servants, she thought. But she couldn’t be caught there. Whoever it was would know she hadn’t just walked down the same corridor.

And if nothing else, she had discovered these people were loyal to Creeghan. She would be handed right over …

That thought spurred her into motion and she turned around and stared down the dark, dank stairs that led from the tower. She wished fervently that she had a light.

The footsteps were nearly upon the lord’s room.

She started down the stairway.

She couldn’t see, not a thing, in front of her. There was no rail, and so she placed her hands tentatively against the cold stone wall. Gingerly, she tested each step, and then paused, breathing deeply. How many had she come down? Even the pale light from above was disappearing.

She heard a scurrying sound and caught her breath. Rats, mice, what else? Then she thought that something brushed over her hand where it lay against the damp stone, and nearly screamed aloud. She wrenched her hand from the wall and unbalanced herself, sitting down hard on one of the steps and remained there, shivering. She had to pull herself together. She could not fear spiders or rats, or she would plunge into the Stygian darkness below.

Martise inhaled and exhaled slowly and thought for a moment about casting her head back and screaming. Bruce would come for her.

And then he would have every right to oust her from his house, for he would know that she had been in his chambers. And he’d already accused her of being a thief.

No, she couldn’t go back. She had to go forward.

She rose slowly and started down again. Carefully, taking the steps one at a time.

Then she was startled and relieved when she took another turn around the spiral and saw a whisper of light.

She had come to a landing, and there was an arrow slit. She paused, gasping in the cool night air and staring into the night. She was above the cliffs at this spot, cliffs that led straight out to the crashing surf.

And she could see, along the coast, the cave where they had gone to search for Clarissa, where they had found the injured sailor. The man who had whispered a name before dying.

Creeghan.

She caught her breath and blinked. She thought she could see light out there. Lights flashing from the rock below. Once, then twice, then disappearing. She waited, but saw nothing more. She looked to the sky, but the moon was not yet full. It would be full once again after the games, probably on All Hallows’ Eve, she thought.

Panic started to settle its icy fingers over her heart. It was unreasonable, she told herself, but suddenly she wanted nothing more than to reach her room and bolt her doors and hug her shoulders tight before the warmth of her fire.

Her fingers tightened around the stone, and she looked down. She realized then that she knew where the darkness and the steps would lead.

To the crypts.

And still, she had no choice. She followed the stairway down.

As Martise came closer to ground level, the stone seemed ever colder. She could imagine her breath misting in the air before her, but it was too black to see it. Then, as she rounded another spiral, she saw a filter of light. Pale and wavering … candlelight.

She stood still, certain she heard voices. Not whispers, voices so low she could not make out the words.

She continued down and, at last, could see in the wavering light that she had come to the last step. Before her was a wall, and through it, a high arch that led to a corridor, from whence came the light.

Martise started across the floor and heard a squealing sound. She looked down and caught her breath as a rat crawled over her feet. Swallowing back a scream, she looked around wildly.

That was when she saw where she was.

It was one of the truly ancient crypts, hundreds of years old. Its walls were lined with slabs—waist-high slabs that were all around her.

All of them were covered with bodies, covered with the long-dead of Castle Creeghan, creatures in ancient costume, misted by the gauze of their shrouds. Men and women and children, decaying hands folded atop their chests, sightless eyes aimed toward heaven. Swords were laid at warriors’ feet, and infants rested upon their mothers’ breasts.

“Oh, God!” Martise cried aloud, and spun around, suddenly overtaken by the thought that they could come alive, these pathetic creatures, in their medieval headdresses and ballooning breeches and elegant hose and tunics. They could come alive and whisper through the room, their bony fingers clawing at her, misted shrouds covering her, choking her …

No! she thought, and once again turned, this time toward the corridor where she could see the meager light.

But even as she turned, a sharp, staggering pain cut into her temple.

Then she was falling, falling to the cold, damp floor.

    Moments later—or was it hours?—Martise awoke. She tasted blood on her tongue and felt the ringing pain that now haunted her skull. She opened her eyes, and there was darkness. She blinked, but the darkness remained. She felt the awful cold beneath her and fought back a scream when she realized she was still in the crypts.

And she could still hear voices. But they seemed far away. Furtive, and far away. Almost as if they were part of the stone of the castle.

She reached out a hand and found a wall and staggered to her feet. She reached for more support, and her fingers curled around something … something …

When she realized it was bone she started to scream.

Suddenly, Martise heard her name whispered. She spun around wildly, flailing and swinging. But arms swept around her, hard and punishing and confining. She opened her mouth to scream again, but too late. A hand settled over her lips.

“Martise!” she heard her name whispered again, and she stood still, then started to fight wildly again. “Shh, shh! Stop, wait, listen!” came an urgent whisper in the darkness.

Then she knew that he was with her, that Bruce Creeghan was with her, and that it was his hands settled over her mouth, his arms that wound so tightly around her.

“Don’t make any more noise!” he warned her. They were unnecessary words. She couldn’t have spoken. She couldn’t have moved. She thought once more of the strength of the arms holding her, and never had she felt such fear. If he wanted, he could crush her. Crush her and leave her to lie with the bones and the corpses in the crypt.

Her eyes widened, and though she couldn’t speak or move, she saw that this was not the same crypt where she had fallen. There was one of the wrought-iron gates before her, and guarding the walls like mythical sentinels were two full suits of ancient armor. And when she managed to twist a bit, she saw there was an old altar at the rear of the crypt.

And right beneath it was a new coffin. A fine oak coffin, the wood so new she could smell the fresh scent of it.

“They’re gone,” he said at last. His hand eased from over her mouth, and Martise instantly inhaled to scream, but even as she did so, his hand fell back upon her. He hugged her tightly against his body, and she could feel the heat and unleashed energy and passion within him, and breathe in the very male scent. “Don’t!” he warned her in a whisper. “Don’t scream. I’m not going to hurt you. I want to know what you’re doing here. I want to know what you saw. Hush!”

He was waiting, waiting for something, but all Martise wanted to do was get out of the crypts. She nodded frantically.

Slowly, he eased his hand from her mouth. His arm was still about her, locked tight beneath her breasts. “Don’t scream,” he said.

“No,” she whispered.

And then she was free. She heard the striking of a match, and the tiny room came swiftly aglow as Bruce lit one of the wall torches. Looking around in the light, she felt sick.

The pain in her head returned, and then savagely attacked her stomach. The darkness had been better. The mist and the darkness. Now she could see too clearly. Bones only partially covered with flesh. Beautiful long hair that streamed from skulls with empty sockets for eyes.

“Oh, no,” she murmured, and was starting to fall again, to black out and away from all the horror around her.

But Martise didn’t fall. She was once again swept up into Bruce’s arms. His eyes burned into her while his touch and his arms warmed her. She stared into his face, into his eyes, and tried to tell herself that the dead were not a threat.

And that this man, with his magnificently broad shoulders and searing gaze, might well be the greatest danger. Laird Creeghan. Laird of these crypts and passages and walls where women were entombed.

Her lips were dry, she could not breathe. And even then, as he touched her, she felt the fire. Felt the excitement snaking into her. Felt the desire.

“Please!” she whispered. And then she found her voice and didn’t try to struggle from his arms. “What is going on?” she demanded.

He didn’t answer, but turned toward the gate and started to take them from the place of death.

“Bruce! You have to tell me. What is going on here?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You must.”

“I don’t know!” he flared angrily. His eyes held hers as he fumbled with the gate and took them from the crypt. But Martise wasn’t about to give up so easily.

“Whose coffin was that?”

“Martise, there are hundreds of dead—”

“The new coffin.”

“It isn’t new. And it’s there because there wasn’t space elsewhere, I imagine.” And before she could ask him another question, he had taken them outside the gate, and began to climb the stairs that led to the great hall. “Quiet now!” he warned her.

He started up the steps, holding her, and she whispered, “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“That coffin is new!”

“Martise, trust me.”

“How can I when—?”

“Shush!” he said again heatedly. They had come to the landing, to the great hall.

The fire still burned low, but no one was about. Bruce paused momentarily, eyes searching the room, and then continued upward.

His long strides brought them to her room, where he laid her gently on her bed. He checked her skull and found the lump and exhaled in a soft whistle. He soaked a cloth in her cool, clean wash water and laid it on her forehead. She watched him all the while, chewing her lower lip.

“Bruce, what—?”

“What were you doing down there?”

He sat back, staring down at her, and his voice told her he was asking questions as the laird of the castle, and that he meant to have answers. He had distanced himself; he was cold, hard. Ruthless, she thought.

“I—I came down, that’s all. I wanted to say a prayer.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It was just past midnight.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, a brow arching doubtfully. “Do you often go down to cold, dark crypts in the middle of the night to say prayers? I wonder why I doubt it of you so completely.”

She sat up, catching the soothing cloth as it fell from her head. “What were you doing down there?”

“You forget I am the master of this house. I may roam where I please.”

“I did not know I was not supposed to do so!” she cried softly. Then she caught herself. “Really, I do not care to discuss this at this time—or at this hour, as you have pointed out. Please, leave my room.”

“Not, milady, were you to bargain your soul,” he said flatly. “What were you doing down there?”

“I—I heard something,” she said. “You know that I did. You must have heard the voices when you found me. You must have heard them. Bruce, what is going on here?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re imagining things.”

“A bump like this on my head? Or …” She hesitated, then threw out the accusation, “… did you hit me?”

“Don’t be daft!”

She leapt up, swirling away from him and moved close to the door, passion causing her breasts to rise and fall in rapid heaves. “Did you kill Mary?” she demanded.

He was instantly on his feet and strode toward her, and she found herself imprisoned between the searing hardness of his body and the wall. One hand fell to the left side of her head, his arm a bar, while he snatched up a soft tendril of her hair and rubbed it slowly, sensually, between his fingers. And when his eyes touched her, she was mesmerized by the thought of his touch, by his fingers, by his hands … by the implication in his eyes that his touch could go on and on.