Night of the Highland Dragon (5 page)

Judith didn't sleep easily that night.

She couldn't blame all of that on Mr. Arundell. Sleep wasn't as chancy for her now as it had been when she'd first come back from the outside world, but she still had bad nights caused by a scrap of conversation troubling her dreams, or a face looking too much like one she'd seen in pain, or seemingly nothing at all. Changes in weather, phases of the moon—the mind turned on itself once in a while, and it did little good to ask why.

Why
was never a good question. She'd tried to tell Arundell that. She doubted he'd take it to heart. People always wanted reasons—and he wasn't the one to convince, if he'd been telling the truth.

Judith thought he'd come closer to honesty than on the day he'd met her. The thought brought her no triumph, nor any real sense of relief. It was almost more disturbing to know that she could get a straight answer out of him if she pressed hard enough. It made her feel almost obligated to try.

Almost compelled to.

She paced the room in the moonlight, feeling the floor beneath her feet—reassuringly solid and cold, motionless and dry. She had learned that pacing helped. Flying didn't, not unless she gave herself so fully to the flight and the hunt that she risked discovery. She had lived too long among humans to find comfort in inhuman things.

Men had made the floor and the walls. She could not break them, not in this form and not without difficulty in the other. The rugs were braided wool, the dresser carved oak, the lamps on the wall brass and oil that she'd seen put in herself. These were normal things, everyday things. Judith caught them with her mind and steadied herself, turned away from the fields of blood and the sound of cannon.

Once
it's over, it's over
, she heard herself say.

She laughed into the empty room.

Well, it
was
over, but nobody got through life unscarred, and a sleepless night had never killed her yet. She did hope Arundell was having as restless a time. She wouldn't wish her dreams on him, but maybe a screech owl could take up residence outside his window. He hadn't given her the dreams, but he'd certainly stirred them up this time, he and his need for perspective.

He'd stirred up a few other things too. She'd meant to be disparaging with that glance at his clothing, to show that she was no country fool and to question why a man who could afford Savile Row suits would know a boy who had to go peddling to make his living. She'd ended up taking in the breadth of his shoulders and the strong line of his jaw, and she'd sworn inwardly at the tightening sensation low in her body.

Then, in those moments when they'd stood facing each other, she'd been damnably aware of his presence, his size, his masculinity. She'd felt it in her blood like wine. She'd wanted to pull him toward her, to taste his mouth and feel the muscles in his back beneath her gripping fingers, to hear the catch of his breath as she took him to the floor.

When she'd been younger, she might have done it. Even knowing as little as she did about him, even with as much as he shouldn't know about her, she might have—probably would have—either leaped on the man or at least made him a proposition in no uncertain terms. Back then, pleasure had always been worth the risk.

Youth was very stupid. Age—she didn't know what age was except tired and unsettled and beholden to too many talkative people.

She'd taken care of her body's immediate urges easily enough. Now, as she stood and leaned her head against the windowpane, she pictured Arundell's face and felt her excitement return, not as strong as it had been that afternoon, but strong enough.

A trip to the city wouldn't help, then. It was like having a bad song in her head. The only way to get it out was to wait or find a worse one.

Damn.

At least lusting after Arundell kept her mind off the dreams, now that she was awake.

It wasn't the end of the world. She'd desired men before, some of whom it would have been impossible or unwise to bed. Waiting did work. If nothing else, Mr. Arundell was temporary. He'd stay as long as he felt he needed to, or as long as he'd promised his friend he would. Then he'd go back to London: out of sight, out of mind.

If nothing else, they were
all
temporary.

The chill of the floor was no longer comforting, only cold. The half-shaped figures from her dreams had retreated. It generally took them a few months to regroup. Judith crawled back into bed and stretched out, staring up at the canopy overhead.

The dreams didn't return. But she still took a long time to get back to sleep.

* * *

Morning was easier. It always was. Judith knew the night well and loved it most of the time, but daytime was like the stone walls and the emerald ring—an anchor to solid things, to the present, to the world of men. Human hands hadn't created the daytime, but human movement and voice shaped it, at least for Judith. As long as she was in the castle, she could almost always hear the sounds of working or talking a short distance away—reminders that life went on and the living were all around her.

By the time she got through with her morning's tasks, she didn't need much more reminding.

Rain fell outside with a raw edge to it that reminded Judith how close winter really was. She'd have to check that afternoon and see how soon the cold was likely to set in. But that meant two hours in the north wing, which was almost always chilly, and even such a limited vision of the future as the weather left her wrung out. She'd do it in the afternoon, she decided. Meanwhile, she'd put her mind at rest by checking the castle's stores of food when she gave Mrs. Frasier the day's menus.

One of the reasons Judith never felt truly alone during the day was that she could hear voices through fairly thick wood and across a considerable distance. Even before she opened the kitchen door, she knew there was a man in the kitchen, and that while his voice was not entirely English, it was too close to be that of any of the castle staff or most of the villagers. She pushed the door open and, without surprise, saw Ross MacDougal sitting at the kitchen table having tea with Mrs. Lennox.

“I hope you'll forgive the intrusion,” he said after Judith had waved them all back to their seats. “I have so many memories, and I felt myself rather in the way at home. I hope I'll not be any such thing here. I told Mrs. Frasier to box my ears and pack me off if I was,” he added with a smile toward the cook.

Mrs. Frasier, kneading bread dough, looked over her shoulder and chuckled obligingly. “You're a bit big for it now, lad.”

“If they don't mind having you here, I can't imagine I would,” said Judith. “Nothing unusual today, Mrs. Frasier,” she added, leaving the menu near the cook, though out of the way of stray flour. “I hope everything's well at your house.”

“Oh yes, quite,” said Ross. “Mother and Gillian send their regards, of course. An extra body does get underfoot in a place like that when it rains. I never noticed it growing up.”

“Aye, everything's smaller when you come back home,” said Judith.

“I wouldn't have thought that in your case,” Ross said.

She shrugged. “The castle's larger than most buildings, but Loch Arach's smaller than most towns. It rather balances out. Although,” she said, changing the subject before anyone could ask questions about where she'd been, “it did seem a bit oversized just after my brothers left.”

“Aye, and quiet,” said Mrs. Lennox, shaking her head. “It was grand to hear a child's voice about the place. Though, if you dinna' mind me saying, m'lady, I'll not entirely miss Master Colin doing chemical experiments in the middle of the night.”

“Colin's always been too enthusiastic about his hobbies for anyone's tastes,” said Judith as Ross's eyes widened. “Except Regina's, I gather. But if you have the patience for motorcars, Colin might be tame and predictable by comparison.”

“What kind of chemical experiments?” Ross asked.

“Och, who can tell? Goin's-on that went
bang
and had the whole downstairs hallway smelling of smoke. We're lucky the castle didna' fall in around our heads.”

“Oh, I think this place has been through worse in its day,” said Judith. The experiments in question hadn't dealt with chemistry as most people understood it, but neither Ross nor Mrs. Frasier had any reason to suspect otherwise. Every family these days had an amateur scientist or two in it, she'd heard. “And you have to be fair. To Colin, ten o'clock is hardly the middle of the night.”

“Hmm!” said Mrs. Lennox, unimpressed. “City hours. Meaning no disrespect, of course.”

“Of course,” said Judith. “I promise, the castle still stands as it always did.”

“I'd be grateful for a look,” Ross said and coughed. “That is to say, I'm sure it's changed since I was growing up, and I know I didn't see everything, but while I'm here… You wouldn't have to give me a walking tour or anything—”

The words “walking tour” kept Judith from staring in shock. Down in England, she remembered, it was common enough for people to go and walk about great houses, particularly if they were large and old. It had happened in Jane Austen's books, hadn't it? If that was the standard Ross was used to, no wonder he'd asked.

“Not in much shape for visitors today, I think,” she said. “I've still got to get the roof fixed, and there are a couple bad spots in some of the floors—I wouldn't want you breaking your leg. We have everyone into the great hall for the harvest fair though, remember? If you'd like to look about then, I'll even see if I can find you a guide who knows some of the more interesting stories.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I'll look forward to it. But—”

A knock interrupted him. Mrs. Lennox rose and opened the door on a young man, who Judith placed after a second: young Ken Finlay, whose family kept sheep on the edge of the village. His tanned face was drawn now, and his voice shook a little when he spoke.

“Morning, m'lady, ma'am, sir,” he said and then addressed himself to Judith. “I'd not thought to find you here, m'lady, but as you are, I was hoping you could send Keir up to m'father's house.”

“Keir?” Judith's gamekeeper, like Mrs. Frasier and Mrs. Lennox, had worked for the MacAlasdairs since before she had come back. From what she could tell, there was nothing Keir didn't know about the woods around Loch Arach—and only one or two things he didn't know about the family who employed him. “He'd be out back with the cattle, I think. I'll send him up—but what's the matter?”

“'Tis one of our ewes, m'lady. She's been killed last night. And”—he looked back and forth between Judith and the other two women—“and mangled, rather.”

Judith remembered the Stewart cow and Claire's secondhand description. She'd dismissed that—but this was firsthand, and Kenneth Finlay wasn't looking to impress any girls nor to explain himself out of a hiding.

“Da says maybe a dog's gone bad, and we should find it before it bites someone,” said Ken.

He sounded doubtful. There might be a hundred normal reasons for that. His father's explanation might be perfectly correct—but Judith knew that many creatures could go bad, not just dogs.

She sighed. “Mrs. Lennox? Send Keir up to Finlay's. Ken, I'll come back with you myself.”

Whoever or whatever had killed the Finlays' sheep had done the deed a long way off from its fellows, where trees had started to spike up at regular intervals through the sparse fall grass of the field. The great mass of the forest—and certainly the part the MacAlasdairs guarded—was still a good walk away, but the Finlays lived at the very boundary of civilization, such as it was in Loch Arach, and this was the edge of their land.

The earth soaked up blood well, but the grass still showed it, even after the farmer and his family had taken the ewe away. William stared at those few traces, tried to make something of them, and hoped they'd be enough.

He had heard of the killing late and thirdhand at best. One of Mrs. Finlay's neighbors, whose dog had been briefly under suspicion, had dropped in for her usual cup of tea and chat with Mrs. Simon. She hadn't given much detail, but she had mentioned that the beast's eyes had been gone.

Scavengers could have been responsible, as Lady MacAlasdair had said about the first incident. But there had
been
a first incident. Once was chance, but twice might be more than coincidence. William alone knew there was at least the possibility of a third and what such a pattern might mean, if one existed.

“I used to be a bit of a naturalist in my younger days,” he'd explained to Mr. Finlay, upon reaching the farm and finding the farmer in the midst of a small speculative crowd. “I'm not sure I
can
be of service, but I thought I might at least have a look.”

“Keir's had a look at t'ewe already, and she's gone,” Finlay had said and shrugged. “But you canna' hurt anything peerin' at the place where we found her, if ye like. 'Tis kind of you to offer. Amy,” he'd said, calling over a girl of about ten with inky black pigtails, “show the man where we found Daisy. An' come straight back—your ma'll want help wi' the dinner.”

He'd turned back to the conversation, where an older man was speaking. “Could be an eagle.”

“For lambs, Da, aye,” Finlay had said, “but she were a full-grown ewe.”

Finlay Very Senior had snorted. “Ye're no' blind, lad, and I didna' used to be. The ones we've seen flying could take a ewe if they wanted—or a cow.”

The conversation had faded behind William as he followed the child. “Have you ever seen an eagle?” he'd asked her.

She'd grinned up at him, two gaps in her mouth where new teeth would soon grow. “Flying, aye, plenty. Granda's right. They're
huge
.”

“Ah,” he'd said. “Should you be worried, coming out here?”

Amy had shaken her head, pigtails flying like wings. “They never come closer. Scared of people, Da says.”

Then, William had thought, either her father was wrong or her grandfather was—or something had changed. There might be a natural explanation. Although wild creatures might start acting oddly for many reasons, and not all of those reasons had to do with the material world.

“This is it,” Amy had said, pausing by the bloody patch of grass. “They wouldna' let me see her. But she's been cut up already. For the dogs,” she'd added with a farm child's unflappability toward gore. “So they'll have a good dinner, aye?”

“Ill winds and so forth, yes,” he'd said. “Get home safe now.”

He'd watched her figure vanish into the distance.

The trees provided him some shelter, but using the chains required considerable privacy if he wasn't going to be run out of the village as a madman. Finlay had mentioned dinner, and it was about that time, which would give him a window, if only a small one.

William wasn't really sure that the process would work. Even when he'd first heard of the killing, he'd been doubtful. Human death, especially when there was magic involved, could linger on a landscape for days. Animal death lasted hours, if that. Magic might make the imprint last a little longer—he hoped so—but it was far from certain, and from what he'd heard, whatever killed the ewe had done it during the night.

He reached into his satchel. His hand had closed around the first link of the silver chain when he heard the footsteps behind him.

Spinning around to face the new arrival, he kept one hand still on the chain—silver was good against unnatural things, and links of heavy chain could give natural ones pause—and reached with the other for the revolver in his coat pocket.

Of course he found himself looking into Lady MacAlasdair's eyes.

This time, their color made him think not of emeralds but of deep water: dark, green, and deadly cold. Her body mirrored his, alert and tensed to spring at a moment's notice. Although her hands were empty, William thought that the results might be painful for him regardless.

She was the first one to break the silence. “Perspective.” The word came slowly, the
r
rolled and every syllable laced with profound skepticism. “What perspective d'ye hope to be gaining out here? Now?”

“I thought I might be able to help,” said William.

“Did you?” Aside from the necessary motions of her lips, her face was as still as the rest of her.

“I have no proof of my good intentions, of course,” he said. “But this isn't the first body I've seen in the wilderness.”

“So you decided to take an interest?”

“I thought there might be some connection to my friend,” he said.

“Your friend was killed by a mad dog?”

“No,” said William. “Nor an eagle. But I don't know that the ewe was either, and neither do you.” He watched her face as he spoke and saw in its strong angles the slight hesitation, the moment of how-did-he-know uncertainty that gave him his answer. “For some men, animals will do when there aren't people to hand. Or when people are too risky.”

He'd found that out twelve years ago in a small fishing village in Dover. It wasn't common knowledge, and it certainly wasn't the sort of subject one brought up in front of a lady. While he didn't expect vapors from Lady MacAlasdair, he had expected surprise and was himself shocked to see recognition instead.

“Why do you think I'd agree?” she asked.

“Because you're here. If you really thought it was wildlife, you'd have let your gamekeeper handle it.” He looked around them at the dull grass and the trees. The farmhouse was a good quarter mile away. Nobody was nearer than that, and yet Lady MacAlasdair faced him warily but without fear.

What did she know that he didn't?

What did she
have
that she didn't think he did?

Reluctantly, he released his grip on the chain, but he kept the hand on his revolver. “Come to that, why are you here? Isn't there a constable?”

“In Belholm,” she said. “We've generally no need here. And these are my folk. If there's trouble, I know of it.”

This time, William kept his admiration to himself. Compliments, even sincere ones, would not help the situation just now. “You were here earlier then?”

She nodded.

“I didn't see the sheep. What happened to it?”

“There was a wound in her throat,” Lady MacAlasdair said. “She would have bled to death. Her eyes were gone. Her chest and stomach were opened. Savagely. Whatever killed her ate her heart too.”

“A dog wouldn't do that,” said William, “and you know it.”

“It could have killed her. The wound to her throat would have done it. And then it might have taken fright, and other beasts could have done the rest.”

“Gone for the heart specifically? Do you know of anything that would?”

“No. But I don't know everything in the world, nor do you. We've no witnesses.”

“True. Has anyone's dog run off? Been acting oddly?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “That's not the sort of business I'd hear about, though. Besides, the forest's large. I'd lay odds there are no wolves in it, but having a dog go mad in one of the other villages and run off here? Aye, that could happen.”

“Could,” William repeated.

“Could. Many things
could
happen.”

“It's an unpleasant possibility. I understand that you don't want to consider it—”

“I am considering it,” said Lady MacAlasdair. “And I don't think you do understand.”

Of all the times that accusation had landed on William, this was the calmest. Oh, she was angry. He could see it in her tight jaw and hear it rippling under her voice. That voice was even, though. She was stating a fact. That the fact happened to displease her was secondary.

She folded her arms under her breasts and fixed him with a level, very knowing gaze. “Let's for the moment,” she said, “assume we're both innocent here, aye? We can get back to checking each other's hands for blood afterwards. For now—something else killed this ewe and Stewart's cow. Something or someone.”

“All right,” said William.

“If I say it was a man,” said Lady MacAlasdair, “it's likely someone will die within a fortnight. A month, at most.”

“What? Why?”

He half expected the answer to be occult. Given his mission, given the rumors he'd heard about Loch Arach and the lady, William expected her to talk about a demon or a curse.

“Because stock is a man's living out here, and nobody has very much of it,” she said instead. “That ewe could be half a year's profits for Finlay. If the killer was human, killing the sheep is a vicious thing to have done. And men are men, and there arena' very many of them nearby.”

The wind swept past them, down from the mountains and across the lake, bringing the edge of winter with it. Under its touch, the grass around them rippled. Lady MacAlasdair's dress blew back, outlining her figure. She looked very strong and very alone.

“They'll look for someone,” William said. “Someone to blame. That's what you mean.”

“Oh, they'll find him. Whether it's the right man or not, they'll find him. Maybe it'll be a man who owes Finlay money or who's got a grudge against him from ten years back. Maybe it'll be Norris, who's got a bad temper when he's had a few drinks, or maybe it'll be old Alice MacRae, who keeps her own company and has three cats. Maybe even an outsider with no very solid past.” She smiled thinly.

“It's been more than my lifetime since we tried witches by law, even in this part of the country, but they went hard at it when they did, and there are more ways than courts and ropes to break a man, if you've a mind to it.”

His own memories made that impossible to deny. “But you'd take a hand, I'd imagine. To prevent that—to see real justice done.”

“I'd do what I could. And I could do plenty,” she added fiercely. “But I'm only one woman. It might be that what I could do would break me as well, in its way, and harm them almost as much. And I can't force kindness from anyone, nor stop poison where it spreads.”

“That's happened before?”

“It's always happened before.” Lady MacAlasdair sighed. “And I'll risk it if I must. If I'm certain that a man is responsible, I'll say as much, and I'll do what needs doing then. But I'll not plant that seed when I just think it's likely, and I'll not overlook any other possibility.”

“I do understand now,” William said. “But do you really think it could have been anything else?”

“Yes,” she said in a tone that brooked no further discussion. “And now, if you've found everything here you think you're going to, perhaps I can show you back to the main road.”