Kissing the Countess (39 page)

He stretched his arm down as far as he could, and he, too, could feel the encrustation of crystal growths inside the cracks and creases in the rock. His fingers touched the smooth and delicate planes of crystal wands sprouting here and there. "There are quite a few of them—they must be everywhere along the sides of these cliffs. The rock is Lewisian gneiss—"

"Black sedimentary rock embedded with white quartz," Catriona said, and Evan chuckled.

"Wait," he said. "I may be able to get down there fairly easily." He sat up and removed his knapsack, rummaging inside to pull out a length of Manila rope and an iron claw.

While Catriona watched in astonishment—and protested insistently—he tied the rope securely around his waist and double knotted the end to the serrated iron claw, which he then pounded tightly into an upper crevice in the rock, near the edge. Then he took his small ice ax and slipped it behind him, into his belt under his coat.

Turning on his knees, he slipped his feet over the side of the cliff. The wind blew hard at him, lashing at his hair and his jacket. Catriona grabbed his shoulders.

"No," she said. "It's just a crystal. No, Evan! What if you fall? I cannot bear it—don't do this!"

What if he fell? For two years, he had almost wanted to fall, he realized now. As if he moved in slow motion, he glanced down into the black chimney, and thought about plummeting down and down to his death.

Falling into death, falling into love—either way, one could slip loose the knots the world imposed and find a blessed freedom. People had fallen from the bridge he had designed—the materials had been faulty, the engineering committee had told him later. He was not to blame for flawed rivets and girders.

But he did blame himself—because he had been there and had not managed to get down into the water to reach them fast enough. He had hesitated in his first dive due to the immense height, just enough time for him to wonder if he would survive the jump. And that hesitation might have cost a life.

Glancing at Catriona, he shook his head. Someday he would tell her about the bridge, about those who had gone over the edge, about his three friends who had died. He might even tell her why he drove himself to climb the heights and dive the depths. Looking, always looking for challenge and forgiveness.

But in searching high and deep for that, pushing himself, driving himself, he had finally found what he had least expected. He had found love.

So this one thing he would do for her, take this risk. Smiling at her, he slid his legs over the side and pushed away.

He felt the drop in his stomach, felt the lurch as the rope and iron claw caught and held him. He swung on the rope for a few moments until its arc calmed, and then he pushed toward the wall and braced himself against it with hobnailed boots, suspended securely by the rope.

Glancing up, he saw Catriona leaning over the edge, her face so beautiful, so pale and frightened for him. He waved and then set about combing the rock for the crystal she wanted.

Tipping back his head, he saw crystals everywhere—glittering and winking in the gloom between the two rock faces, sparkling like diamonds against black stone. Reaching out, he could pluck any number of them.

Pulling the pickax out of his belt, he hacked at more of them, finding them here and there, to the side and just above his head. They came loose, twinkling into his hand, lovely, drusy things, coruscated and lustrous, others silky bits of clear stone. A few of them showed traces of color—the faint purple of amethyst, the topaz brown of smoky quartz.

He dropped those into his pocket and harvested a few more. But still he had not found what she wanted most—a crystal that glowed with its own inner phosphorescence. He pushed away from the wall with his feet to get a broader picture of the black cliff. Slowing swinging a little back and forth, he glanced to the right—and saw something he had missed before.

Winking in the darkness like a star, a crop of crystals shone inside a crevice just past his right hand. He glanced up at Catriona, saw her watching him. He waved again, saw her arm extend.

Then he swung off to the right and stretched, catching himself on a protrusion in the jagged cliff face.

Finding a hold for his feet, balanced there, he reached out.

It glistened just past his fingertips, so that he had to stretch and shift along the wall, the umbilical rope tying him securely to the cliff and to safety. Extending as far as he could, he closed his fingers around it and snapped, and it came off into his hand like a flower. He opened his palm.

Lustrous and lovely, it glowed in his hand, the most perfect natural jewel he had ever seen. Polished by nature, clear as glass, the crystal held another crystal inside itself. A pink glow, like a perfect heart, a droplet of color in the clear stone, gave off a rosy light. Phantoms, these were called, and he knew that one like this was as rare as anything found on the earth. Yet it had been sitting there on its tiny ledge on the fairy mountain, waiting to be discovered.

Beinn Alligin, he remembered, translated to the Jeweled Mountain. Now he knew why. The fairies had been busy, indeed.

He laughed softly to himself and held it up toward the misty light that flowed through the cleft, seeing the pink mineral caught inside the crystal. An exquisite thing. Smiling, nearly whooping in exultation, he slipped it into his pocket and looked up.

Catriona still hung head and hands over the edge, looking down. But she was not alone.

A man stood beside her, with his foot on her back.

"Kildonan," Kenneth Grant said. "It's over."

Chapter 27

Catriona felt the pressure of his foot in the center of her back, shoving the breath from her. She tried to roll, but he pressed his weight into her almost casually and leaned over to call again.

"Kildonan, come up!" he said, voice deep and ominous.

She peered over the edge to see Evan looking up, dangling at the end of the knotted rope. Her heart clenched with terror, knowing that all Grant had to do was kick free the iron claw, and Evan would plummet hundreds of feet to his death.

But why? she wondered. Why would Grant care to harm either of them?

She rolled again, insistently, and got his booted foot in her side. She struggled against him and managed to rise to her knees with one foot on the sloped ground, caught in the folds of her skirts. Grant reached down and snatched her by the upper arm.

"What do you want?" she asked desperately, twisting.

"I want what is mine by right," he said. "And now is the time to make that claim."

"What is yours?" She could hardly breathe, with Grant yanking her so hard, with the wind shoving at her, with her heart and breath beating in her chest.

She took an instant to look down and saw Evan clambering up. He had not said a word, had wasted no energy in shouting or arguing. He was just coming relentlessly upward.

"Damn," Grant muttered. "I could cut the rope and he would be gone. Then off with you, over the side. Two lovers lost in the great Black Notch, poor souls too close to the edge."

"But why?" she gasped again. "You have wanted something ever since I returned to Glenachan with Evan—something has angered you ferociously, but I could never understand what it was. And then it seemed to grow worse after Evan and I were married. It could not be that you wanted me or hated my brother enough to betray what he was doing—you could never convince me of that. What is it?"

"Do you not know? Can you not guess?" he bellowed, snatching at her when she tried to twist away. "Are you blind? Look at me!"

She turned and stared at him then, breath heaving. And suddenly what she had not seen before became frighteningly clear.

He had the brown eyes, the brown hair, the classic features of the Kildonan Mackenzies. He was tall and lean, and his voice was deep and mellow. He was the image, suddenly, of Evan's father and even more of Evan's fierce grandfather, in their portraits. And his voice was suddenly very like Evan's own, deep and resonant. The man in the painting had seemed familiar to her, and Kenneth Grant had always looked strangely familiar, too, though she could not place the resemblance.

"Are you—" she gasped.

"Aye, Kildonan's son," he snarled. "I'm your precious husband's half brother. Older half brother." He was breathing hard now, jerking her arm with each sentence as if to punctuate his astonishing revelation.

"Evan does not know, I swear to you," she panted.

Looking down, she saw that her husband was much closer than before. Seeing the cold anger and comprehension in his features, she realized that he had heard what Grant had said—at least well enough to learn the truth.

Grant dropped to his knees with Catriona, his grip brutal on her arm as he leaned forward over the cliff edge and reached down toward the iron claw that held Evan's rope safely.

"No!" Realizing what he meant to do, Catriona lashed out with fierce desperation, grabbing at Grant's arm in an effort to prevent him from dislodging the iron piece.

He shoved her away momentarily and leaned forward just enough to look down at Evan. "One good pull, and the iron hook comes loose," he called.

"Let my wife go," Evan growled, ignoring Grant's threat. He pulled himself higher, hand over hand with mighty effort, his toes finding sure holds, his fingers hard grips.

Catriona threw herself backward, hoping to pull Grant with her away from the edge, and away from the rope that was Evan's only lifeline. But the man's greater size and weight held them both in place, too near the edge. Once again he reached his long arm downward to scrabble for a hold on the hook.

As his fingers nearly closed on iron, Catriona tugged at his arm, pushed at him, beat her closed fist upon his forearm to force him to give up. He tried to shrug her off, but she felt ferocious, relentless. She would not stop pummelling, struggling.

No matter what it took, she would not let him kill Evan. She would take Grant over the cliff edge herself, if it was the only way to save Evan's life. "Stop," she said breathlessly. "Stop! Why are you doing this?"

"I thought Evan Mackenzie would never come to Kildonan Castle," Grant grunted, resisting Catriona's assault. "I thought I could buy some of the land, and sue for the rest. I meant to take it to the courts, hire solicitors to prove my claim. But then
he
came up here, and he met you—took you for his wife. And I realized he might stay here and claim the lot of it. The woman, the land, the legacy that should be
mine."

Catriona cried out and fought him even while he spoke. His strength was greater than hers, his determination dark and fierce—but her will to save Evan felt bright and powerful. She would never give up this fight.

Grasping, tugging at his arm, she reached over the cliff edge herself and tried to pry loose the man's fingers. A cold wind blew upward from the gap, blowing at her face and hair. She felt dizzy, but did not pull away, her body locked beside Grant's, her arm extending along his own.

"I was here—and he was not," Grant told her, his voice breathless. His grip felt like iron. "I spent time with the old earl, hunted with him, fished with him. Talked politics and sheep farming with him. Did you, Kildonan?" he called down.

"Damn you," Evan said, scrambling upward. "Let her be!"

"I drank whisky with him, held his head when he was sick, listened to his stories late into the night. Played cards with him when he was lonely. Did you, Kildonan?"

Evan did not answer, but Catriona heard him coming closer, heard the scuff of his boots on the rock, the huffing of his breaths. She tugged desperately at Grant's hand and arm.

Despite her struggle, Catriona had not deterred Grant. He seemed unbothered, willing to wait. Fearing that as soon as Evan came toward them, Grant would shove him backward or manage to pull loose the claw, Catriona slid back, pulling at Grant's shoulders and then his waist, trying to drag him away from the edge so that he could not touch the claw. She hoped to give Evan time to reach the rim of the cliff.

"I reassured old Kildonan that he had not done wrong by his wife and his children when he dallied with my mother years ago," Grant went on, turning as Catriona tugged at him. Now he tried to shove her away from him, growling something under his breath.

"Your mother—who is she—" Catriona gasped.

"A Highland girl—died when I was a boy," he said gruffly. He snatched at her then and renewed his painful grip on her arm, momentarily distracted from Evan and the cliffs edge. "Daughter of the old factor and his wife, and they all knew I was Kildonan's brat. They raised me at Kilmallie, taking funds from the earl to keep silent about me. I knew all my life, and could not speak of it to any but them. And old Kildonan. He knew."