Powerstone (36 page)

‘I know. But we’ve got so many
crumbling ruins in
Scotland
that we can neglect most of them.
Anyway, it’s handy for people like us.’

‘Why are we here?’ Irene swatted
at the first of the midges that searched them out. Smaller than the summer
mosquitoes of the States, they were even more persistent.

‘We’re hiding from Kenny Mossman;
he’s a tenacious wee bugger, he saw us in the boat, so he’ll be on the water
directly. And we’re waiting for a lift.’

As the light dipped, the number of
midges increased, so Irene spent more time slapping at them than worrying about
the possibility of discovery. Twice she saw Drew busy texting on his mobile,
but she said nothing. Once she heard the drone of an outboard motor, but nobody
probed into their refuge.

‘The locals know about this
place,’ Drew told her quietly, ‘but they won’t tell the outsiders. Kenny’s fine
in
Edinburgh
, but he’s lost out here.’

‘Does he not have a map?’

‘Probably,’ Drew said, ‘but this
castle is only marked as a ruin. There are no details.’

‘So how do you know?’ Irene clawed
a score of voracious black insects from her face.

‘One of my lads came from here.
You’ll meet him later. Now keep still and keep quiet.’

Covering her head with her jacket,
Irene endured the swarms for two hours as the light slowly faded. At length,
when she felt as though the voracious insects were crawling through her hair
and exploring every part of her body, Drew nudged her. ‘Irene. Go right into
the bows and look forward. Tell me if you see anything.’

Irene crept forward, staring into
what seemed the most evocative ocean sunset that she had ever experienced as
Drew extended the oars and eased the boat out of the sea gate.

‘The Macraes used to bring their birlinns
in here,’ Drew murmured. ‘They were good seamen in those days, using only oar
and sail power.’ He grinned to her. ‘Now we have to emulate them, but with the
Society after us.’

Irene blinked as they passed
through a tangle of vegetation, until she realised that a falling tide had enlarged
the opening so there was more headroom but less water under the keel. She
peered out to sea.

‘Don’t look at the sun,’ Drew
warned. ‘It’ll kill your vision. Look toward the land; can you see any other
boats?’

At first Irene could not make
anything out save the sombre shape of
Scotland
, and then she saw the pricking lights from Alltgobhlach reflected on
the sea. There was a definite black dot near Eilean
Mor.

‘I think that there’s something
there.’ She pointed.

‘Fine. That’ll be Kenny.’ Still
using the oars, Drew eased the boat round, keeping close to the island despite
the surge and crash of waves shattering against the rocks. Only when he was in
the lee of the island did he start the motor, steering out to sea.

‘Keep alert,’ Drew ordered, ‘but
look toward the land. Tell me the moment that you see anything.’

Irene scrambled astern. For years,
Central Park
was all the Great Outdoors she
experienced, but here she was playing pirates in the back of nowhere, with her
future and freedom in the care of an enigmatic Scotsman. She peered into the
mustering dark, searching for the elusive speck of Kenny’s boat. ‘They’re
moving!’ She grasped for the binoculars but found it hard to focus. ‘I think I
can see white water under the bows.’

‘Are they coming this way?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Concentrate! Is there a white
wake?’ Although Drew kept his voice low, there was no mistaking his intensity.

‘No,’ Irene swallowed away the
fear that blocked her throat. ‘No. There’s only a white splurge!’

‘Damn. He’s coming this way then.
He’s better than I thought.’

Irene recognised affection behind
the insults but said nothing. She could clearly hear the drone of motor now,
and looked at Drew. He nodded. ‘Aye, that’s our Kenny. Sound like a powerful
beast he’s got, so he’ll be with us shortly.’

‘What can I do?’ Irene recognised
the plea in her voice. She could never have asked that of Patrick.

‘Ignore Kenny now,’ Drew sounded
as calm as ever. ‘Go into the bows and look seaward. Look for anything that
should not be there.’

‘What are you going to do?’
Scrambling forward, Irene positioned herself as far forward as she could, leaning
over the prow with the binoculars pressed to her eyes.

‘Keep the engine going and row,’ Drew
said. ‘If I row like hell, we might outdistance Kenny.’

Irene felt the boat rock as he
moved, then she heard the kiss of oars in the sea. She stared forward as the
brilliant red sky gradually fading to the colour of watered pink silk, tinged
with grey. When the sun slithered behind the distant gloom of Lewis, the sea
took on a more sinister aspect. Oily waves rose around them, bubbled beneath
their keel and surged astern in a swathe of frothy white. She started when
something large splashed nearby.

‘Just a basking shark,’ Drew
soothed her. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

‘Where are we going? That island
over there?’ She pointed with the binoculars. ‘Are we going to Lewis?’

‘I’ve told you already. We’re
going to
America
,’ Drew said. ‘I hope you have
your passport. And your toothbrush.’ He glanced astern and swore again. ‘I
can’t see Kenny now, but I hear his motor.’

Irene was aware that the growl of
the diesel engine was steadily increasing. Irene tried to find Kenny with the
binoculars but with could make out nothing against the dark loom of the land.
‘At least he won’t see us either.’

‘No. He’ll go for the sound. Noise
travels for miles out here.’ Leaning forward, Drew cut the engine, and then
eased himself back onto the central thwart. He grabbed the oars, sighing. ‘I’ll
have to row like a galley slave.’ There was silence for a few minutes, save for
the creak of the oarlocks and the swish of water.

‘He’s still coming.’ For the first
time since she realised that the sceptre was safe, Irene began to panic. ‘He’s
coming right for us!’

Drew rested on the oars for a few
seconds, listening. ‘I think that you are right,’ he said. ‘He must be using
night glasses. Clever man, our Kenny.’ Swiftly shipping the oars, he restarted
the engine. ‘No point in silence then. Hold on, Irene.’

As Drew gunned the engine, a
powerful light gleamed from the other boat. Irene watched as it reflected from
the now dark water, gradually creeping closer. She blinked in the sudden glare,
and ducked her head.

‘They’ve seen us!’

‘Grab an oar,’ Drew ordered. He
pointed to a forward thwart. ‘Sit there and row like buggery!’

Irene looked at him. ‘I don’t know
how.’

‘Then learn quickly, girl.’
Reaching out, he sat her ungently down on the unforgiving wood. ‘Grab one oar
in each hand; dip them in the water and pull.’ He swore as the light returned,
highlighting the shape of his cheekbone and jaw. ‘It’s your freedom,
rogue-woman, so work for it.’

Irene felt for the oars. They felt
cold and very heavy, the length clumsy as she dipped them in the water.

‘Row!’ Drew commanded. ‘Dip!’

She obeyed, copying his movements.

‘Pull!’

She leaned into the stroke,
feeling the drag of water against the concave blades of the oars.

‘Now out and back, and don’t
splash too much!’

Gasping with the effort, Irene
obeyed, following Drew’s instructions as best she could, until her muscles
ached with the strain and her hands seemed to turn to claws, but still Kenny’s
harsh light glared on to her.

‘Andrew Drummond!’ The voice was
metallic, obviously carried by a megaphone. ‘Stop where you are. There is
nowhere that you can go!’

‘No!’ Irene tried to stand, to
shield her eyes from that relentless light, but in doing so one of the oars
slipped free and arrowed into the water. She watched it float away as despair
took her hopes.

North Atlantic
, August

When Drew looked up, squinting
into the light, Irene saw his chin out-thrust in determination. ‘Bugger you,
Kenny Mossman! If you want me, come and get me!’

The roar of engines increased and
as the searchlight shifted its angle, Irene saw the other craft. It was twice
as large as their boat, with double inboard motors and a tripod to hold the
searchlight. Silhouetted against the light, she could clearly see a man
standing. He held an AK-47, which he swivelled toward her.

‘Iain has you covered, Drew,’ the
metallic voice sounded urgent. ‘So don’t be foolish. It’s not you we want; it’s
the Clach-bhuai, and the girl.’

There was the sharp crack of a
shot, and something smashed against the gunwale, shaking the boat and showering
splinters over Irene.

She screamed.

Drew pulled her close. ‘You hurt?’

Irene shook her head.

‘Fine.’ Still holding her, Drew
lifted his voice. ‘You’re too late, Kenny, son,’ he said. ‘Look ahead.’

The unlit vessel seemed to loom
out of the water, dominating their boat like some powered island, but Drew
manoeuvred skilfully to the opposite side.

‘We’re safe now, Irene,’ he said
softly. ‘Even a Borderer would not be reckless enough to shoot us in front of
witnesses.’

A man appeared on the gunwale, ‘in
you come, darling.’ He hauled Irene over the handrail and inboard. She
collapsed on the deck, her legs trembling.

‘Oh thank God. Drew?’

‘Coming!’ Drew grinned up at her
and tossed in his fishing gear and the bait bag with scent regard to the
priceless contents. He vaulted the rail. ‘All right, Irene?’

She nodded, allowing her head to
rest on his shoulder for a long second as she relished being on a deck that
still swooped and tossed but felt far more stable than the open boat she had
just left. ‘How about Kenny?’

‘How about him?’ Drew hugged her
briefly and kissed her forehead. ‘Behave now, little rogue.’ He looked up as
somebody approached. ‘All right, Willie?’

‘All right.’ The man was as tall
as Drew, but with the subtly different
Highland
accent. He smelled of diesel oil and fish. ‘Is this your girl?’

‘This is Irene. She’s helping me
leave
Scotland
for a while.’

The man’s hand encircled Irene’s
like a clamp. ‘Willie MacRae.’ Used to the flabby grip of office workers, Irene
winced involuntarily. Willie immediately opened his hand and apologised.

‘Not at all,’ Irene said. ‘You
caught me by surprise.’

‘You’re Canadian,’ Willie accused.

‘American.’

When Willie apologised for any offence,
Irene immediately liked him.

‘See that boat there?’ Drew
pointed to Kenny’s craft. ‘There’s a man with a gun on board. He doesn’t like
me very much. Shall we get under way?’

‘Aye, aye sir,’ somebody said,
with more than a touch of sarcasm.

‘Are you absconding with his
wife?’ Willie looked Irene up and down and nodded approvingly. ‘Good choice.
Better class than the tarts you used to pick up.’

Unsure whether to feel
complimented or insulted, Irene contented herself with a whispered comment to
Drew that they would discuss his previous women later. She started as a
powerful engine suddenly roared beneath her feet.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Straight over to
Portsmouth
,
New Hampshire
,’ Drew told her, ‘non stop, so you had better get some
rest.’

Irene looked up, realising that
she had not slept for over twenty-four hours. As the adrenalin drained from her
system, the rush of tiredness took her by surprise, but she still gathered up
the bag containing the sceptre before following Willie MacRae down below.

Irene had never seen anything
quite like the vessel that carried her across the
Atlantic
. It was a millionaire’s
plaything, a yacht of such power that it made light of the three thousand miles
of Atlantic waterway. She spent most of her time on deck, watching the long
bows smash through the waves, but made occasional visits to a galley so modern
it made her
New York
kitchen looked antique. Even Ms
Manning would have been proud to own such a yacht.

‘Is this yours, Drew?’ Irene
wondered, and felt slightly disappointed when he shook his head.

‘Not on your life. I just know the
skipper. Willie’s what you call a ferryman. He picks up yachts for paying
clients and delivers them wherever they are wanted. Some American billionaire
bought this one and I hitched a ride.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ Irene said. When
she ran the Manning Corporation, she would buy a boat like this and call it
Johnnie
Armstrong’s Revenge
. The thought was cheering.