Mia Marlowe (27 page)

Alexander’s arms were tiring. Sweat rolled down his forehead and stung his eyes, but Clarindon’s blows came with the regularity of hammer strikes. From the corner of his vision, Alex caught Lucinda struggling against her bonds, but he forced himself not to look at her again. Distraction would mean death for them both.

And for all of the folk of Bonniebroch.

He couldn’t think about that either.

MacRath was smiling. Alex couldn’t tell if it was his friend who was enjoying besting him for once, or the sorcerer peering out through Clarindon’s eyes. The pair of them stumbled into the shallows, their footing uneven in the dark water.

With a grunt of exertion, Alexander swung the heavy claymore around and connected with his enemy’s blade. Sparks spit as the swords’ sharp edges kissed. The force of the blow reverberated up Alexander’s arm and he twisted his wrist to flick his opponent’s blade. Both swords flew out of the fighters’ grips and sank into the black depths.

The men dove after them, but came up empty-handed, sputtering and blowing. Clarindon threw a bare-knuckled punch at Alexander that snapped his head back. Stars exploded across his vision and he staggered in the waist-deep water, but didn’t go down.

Alex grabbed Clarindon and rolled under the surface with him, grappling for a good hold. When he found his feet, he planted them and stood up, forcing his friend’s head beneath the water.

“Die, damn ye,” Alexander bellowed.

Clarindon thrashed and kicked and tried to rear out of the surf, but Alex tightened his grip and held him down. Tears coursed down his cheeks, but Alexander didn’t give even when Clarindon’s movements slowed and finally stopped. He held steady, blood pounding in his ears like an army tramping through his head, waiting to make sure his friend was truly gone.

Then without warning an amorphous black shape rose from Clarindon’s body with an unearthly scream. In the middle of the lake, a vortex began to swirl and the shape that was all that remained of Morgan MacRath was sucked into its twirling center. The scream rose in pitch until the vortex suddenly collapsed on itself and the lake went still as a sheet of glass.

Heartsick, Alexander dragged Clarindon’s body to the shore. Then he sprinted to Lucinda to free her.

She pulled off her gag and ran back toward his dead friend. “Hurry. There’s no time to lose,” she yelled.

She knelt beside Clarindon. “Help me roll him onto his back.”

“Lu, there’s no need.”

“There’s every need. Now do it!” she snapped. “Get down here and press your hands against his chest like so.”

Clarindon stared lifelessly up into the vault of the cavern, but Alex stacked his palms on his friend’s chest and pushed rhythmically as Lucinda instructed. He was too numb to argue with her.

“My father is a verra canny man,” she said as she turned Clarindon’s head to the side and ran two fingers inside his mouth. “He’s interested in better ways to do most everything and one of them was how to revive a drowned man. He read a whole treatise on it to me when I was a wee lass and he was trying to teach me my letters.”

Alex pumped Clarindon’s chest while flashes of their life together exploded behind his closed eyes. Becoming best friends at Eton after Alexander thrashed a pair of bullies who were tormenting the smaller Clarindon. Chasing the same debutant for one ridiculous Season, then getting roaring drunk together when she accepted the suit of an aging viscount instead of one of them. Going to war on the Continent together. The time Clarindon took a musket ball meant for him . . .

He swallowed back rising bile. “I killed my friend,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Ye had no choice . . . but for now . . . keep the rhythm . . . steady.”

Lucinda sounded winded. When Alexander opened his eyes it seemed she was kissing his friend.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving him me breath.” She paused long enough for Clarindon’s chest to collapse as the air escaped. She frowned down at him. “’Tis no’ working.”

Of course, it wasn’t. Dead was dead. Alexander reached for her but she straight-armed him.

“Hit him.” She bent to pinch Clarindon’s nose and blow more air into his mouth. “Hard . . . right on the center . . . of his chest.”

Alex bunched his fingers into a fist and brought it down on his friend’s sternum. The body jerked with the force of the blow, but Clarindon still stared straight ahead.

“Again!” Lucinda ordered.

Rage at the damnable choice he’d had to make boiled out of him and Alex slammed his fist on Clarindon’s chest with all his might.

Sir Bertram made a choking noise and Lucinda rolled him quickly to his side so water could spill out of his mouth. Then he sucked in a noisy breath. Then another.

“Where . . . where am I?” he said hoarsely.

Alex couldn’t answer his friend. He was too busy kissing his wife. His wonderful, soul-completing, Christmas miracle of a wife.

The long case clock chimed half past midnight as Lucinda and Alexander made their way back to the Great Hall, helping Clarindon along between them. Farquhar was nowhere to be seen, so they couldn’t zip back through the paths behind the mirrors. They had to climb the steps to the secret corridor off the laird’s chamber and then back down to the hall.

Lyall Lyttle saw them from his post near the doors to the Great Hall and came skittering across the long chamber. “Oh, well done, milord,” he said. “Well done. The curse is lifted.”

“How do ye know?” Lucinda asked.

“Weel, we’re all still here and moving and ’tis after midnight,” Lyttle said with a laugh. “And then there’s Meg Liscombe.”

“What about her?”

“The midwife reports that she gave birth just before midnight.” Lyttle grinned. “Twin boys, God help her.”

“Oh, that is good news,” Lucinda said.

“O’ course, we’ve also had a loss,” Lyttle said, his smile fading a bit. “Granny MacNair drifted off to her reward in her sleep, but after three hundred years of rheumatism, her family says she’ll be ever so happy to wake up in heaven.”

“So life has returned to normal in Bonniebroch,” Alexander said.

“Aye, milord, as normal as ever it was.”

The people noticed their laird had rejoined them and broke into a rousing cheer. They wouldn’t be satisfied till Alex led them in yet another toast, followed by spontaneous dancing and piping.

Lord Rankin pushed through the effusive crowd. “Lord Alexander, I was wrong to order you here. I see that now. Anyone who can move people like this should be closer to Lord Liverpool’s inner circle. If you still want to accompany the prime minister to Verona, I can arrange it.”

Alex tugged Lucinda closer. “Ye’ve mistaken me for someone else, milord. The name’s Bonniebroch and I’ll no’ be leaving Scotland anytime soon. Consider this me formal resignation.”

Rankin’s face flushed the color of the scarlet table runner as he stomped away.

“You burned that bridge and no mistake,” Clarindon said at his side. Sir Bertram was still pale, but he was gaining strength with every breath. “If you’re not chasing about in Lord Liverpool’s service, what are you going to do?”

“Do? I plan to stay right here and raise Blackface sheep.” Alexander winked at Lucinda. “And, if this lady will help me, a castle full of red-headed bairns.”

In answer, Lucinda draped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down for a long kiss. When she finally released his mouth, she whispered, “I thought I married a man of action. Ye’ll get no bairns simply by talking about it.”

Alexander laughed, swung his wife up over his shoulder and carted her, bum-first, out of the hall and up the stairs. His people were still cheering below when Alex kicked open the door to his chamber and carried Lucinda to their bed.

“No’ so fast, milord,” she said, her green eyes sparkling. “I’ll dress for bed first if ye please.”

“But what if I prefer ye undress?”

“Please, Alex.” She pouted prettily. “I didna get to wear the chemise I intended for our wedding night and I thought to please ye with it the now.”

“As long as ye dinna mind me tearing another one.”

Lucinda made a tsking sound. “What will Mrs. Fletcher say?”

She popped out of the bed and disappeared behind the dressing screen. Alexander wandered over to the chair by the fire to watch his wife discard items of clothing. One by one, gown, stockings, ribbons, and stays came flying over the screen to land on the floor.

Then Alexander noticed that Farquhar’s secret journal wasn’t in its hiding place behind the faulty brick in his fireplace. It lay open in the center of the chessboard. He picked it up and began to read.

“Well, Mr. Farquhar,” Alex murmured, “I can no doubt use your help.”

Lucinda stepped from behind the dressing screen. Her shining hair unbound, she was a vision in creamy lace.

“But no’ the now, Mr. Farquhar,” Alex said softly. “No’ the now.”

 

 

In his tower room, Callum Farquhar threw back his ghostly head and laughed.

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Copyright © 2013 by Diana Groe

 

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ISBN: 978-1-4201-2973-1

ISBN-10: 1-4201-2973-2
First Printing: October 2013

 

eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-2974-8
eISBN-10: 1-4201-2974-0
First Electronic Edition: October 2013