Lois Greiman (10 page)

Not daring to breathe, Keelan eased to his feet and turned toward the trunk, but in that instant, he felt Chetfield’s eyes flicker toward him.

“I was but hoping to let ye rest,” Keelan said, but the old man said nothing. Indeed, he hadn’t
moved. In fact, his eyes were still closed, his muscles flaccid.

Keelan exhaled carefully and continued. The floor creaked beneath his feet. He glanced back, breath frozen in his throat, but the old man remained as he was, face turned away, body limp. Magic would do that. Magic and a heavy dose of poppy.

Still, his hands shook as he reached for the leather-bound chest. One glance behind him assured him he labored in secret. Taking a careful breath, he lifted the hasp. It made barely a whisper of sound, quieter than his heartbeat against his ribs. He raised the cover slowly.

It was dim inside the box, but he could see that a little of everything resided inside. A woman’s lace glove, a scrap of fur, a small book of prayers, a red plume, a ring. A noise whispered behind him. He jerked about, but all was still, the old man’s body unmoved.

All was well. All was quiet. And maybe this was it. What he had dreamed of. What he had schemed for. Keelan reached inside. The ring was large. A man’s. A ruby adorned the gold band. His heart beat faster. He picked it up, but something was stuck inside, a pale withered stick, odd, jointed…like a finger.

Keelan jerked to his feet, loosing the cover.

It dropped downward. But he caught it. Just in time. Just before his own life flashed to a finish. He closed his eyes, trembling, trying to breathe.

The muscles across his back spasmed. His lungs burned in his chest, devouring his ribs.

“
What shall I take from you?
” Chetfield whispered.

K
eelan spun toward the bed, but the old man was still deep in slumber. Yet his mind was wandering, chuckling, fawning over his mementos. For that’s what they were, treasured reminders of the people that he had killed, that he had tortured. Keelan knew it suddenly, felt it in his soul.

The bastard deserved to die. Deserved worse. Keelan was across the distance in an instant. The old man’s staff rested against the wall beside his bed. It felt right in his hands, solid, just. Revenge screamed for release.

“…abed I think.” Charity’s voice cracked the red haze in his mind.

Someone answered.

Sanity washed in on the memory of pain. Merciful God! ’Twas Roland! Close by. In the hallway.

“…an old man.”

The voices were clearer now. Almost upon him. Keelan’s hands trembled with the remnants of rage, but he had not lived so long to act the fool now. Taking two steps forward, he dropped to the edge of the bed, facing Chetfield.

The door creaked open.

But the staff! It was still in his hand, curled against his palm. He tilted it toward the wall. It clattered gently against the plaster and rolled to the corner at an angle just as Roland stepped into the room.

There was a brief moment of silence as the bastard took stock, then: “What the hell are you doing?”

Keelan raised his gaze slowly. “Quiet,” he said. “Yer master be sleeping.”

“Am I?” The old man’s voice was low and lucid.

Keelan turned stiffly toward him, guts twisted in kinks. The old murderer’s eyes were as bright and steady as stones. His lips lifted into a parody of a smile.

“Me mistake,” Keelan said.

“What mistake is that, boy?” Chetfield crooned.

Keelan managed to keep his gaze from the fallen staff, but he could not quite manage to do the same with his thoughts.

The eerie eyes flickered toward the wall and narrowed.

“You look much improved, Master.” Charity’s soothing voice sounded otherworldly in the screaming silence. Stepping forward, she perched like a songbird on the far side of the bed. “You must have slept good.” She reached out, brushing the old man’s hair back from his forehead. His brows lowered, but he turned his gaze toward her.

The shift of his attention felt like an anchor had been lifted from Keelan’s chest, like a breath of cool air to starving lungs.

“Could be Angel here be a right good healer, eh?”

Near the corner of the bed, Roland shifted irritably. “If he’s a healer, I’m a panting wolfhound.”

“I thought I smelled dog,” Keelan said.

“What’s that?” Roland snarled, but Charity spoke first, her tone thoughtful.

“Me uncle had him a wolfhound.”

They turned toward her in unison.

“Thought he was a person. Sat at table next to his youngest daughter, Mavis. They had them the same color eyes.” She blinked. “Uncle’s missus had too soft a heart to shoo him aside.” She slipped her fingers through Chetfield’s hair. “Just like you, Master.”

Seeing her touch him turned Keelan’s stomach, but he forced himself to remain where he was, watching, waiting, and for a moment he almost thought he saw the baron’s features soften. Then Roland’s voice broke the spell.

“What the hell’s he doing here?”

“Worried for my well-being, Mr. Roland?” Chetfield asked, “or for my fortune?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Trust him?” Chetfield said, and laughed. “I daresay I don’t trust anyone.” His gaze shifted to the girl, and he smiled. “Except our Charity, of course.”

Her expression was solemn. “I’m sorry to bother you, me lord. But Cook says to tell you dinner will be served in half an hour.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Chetfield, and turned his gaze on Roland. “And what of you? Do you bear a message from the house servants as well?”

The bastard turned his malevolent gaze on Keelan, then: “It’ll keep.”

Worry prickled Keelan’s scalp, but Chetfield only nodded. “Very well.”

“We’ll get gone. You stay abed for a spell,” Charity said and rose to her feet. Chetfield held her hand, his dapper, lacy sleeve snowy white against her fingers for a moment before he let go.

Keelan steeled himself for the ordeal of rising, but the old man turned toward him. “You will stay, Mr. MacLeod.”

With one more withering glance, Roland followed the maid from the room.

Keelan could feel the old man’s attention turn back toward him. “So you are indeed a thief
and
a healer,” he said.

Thoughts tumbled wildly in Keelan’s mind. His hands trembled against the blanket beneath him, but he remained as he was. Indeed, he was frozen by the unearthly thoughts that raced through his mind. Thoughts of trophies stolen from his victims. But had he taken other things as well? Things that could not be kept in a box, safely hidden away. “Some would disagree on the healer part,” he said.

Chetfield’s expression changed not a whit. His eyes were narrowed and steady. “So you are from the Highlands.”

“Finegand,” he said. “Near the grand Glen Shee.”

A pause again as he considered. “Did your people ever dwell in London?”

“Me mum’s uncle bought a bullock there when I was but a wee lad. Said the place smelled of goat piss.”

Chetfield’s eyes gleamed. “And what of your father?”

“As I’ve said—”

“You are fatherless, I know, but your dear mother must have given you some idea.”

“In fact, she did na.”

“No explanation at all?”

He remained silent a moment, then: “On the contrary,” he lied, “she said she had conceived while remaining untouched.”

The gray brows rose. “A virgin birth.”

“I hear it has happened afore.”

Chetfield laughed. “That, my dear boy, is called heresy. Indeed, in my day, she would have been burned for less. And you with her.”

“Your day?” Keelan asked evenly, though he shivered with rage and premonition.

“Such antiquated ideas there were back then. Still…” His eyes gleamed. “Mothers must sometimes be punished.”

Keelan’s stomach twisted. “Oh?”

Chetfield smiled and tilted his head. “And how are you feeling this afternoon, if I may ask.”

“Have ye seen horse dung after a rainstorm?”

“Ahh, no Celtic stoicism for you, I see. I like that. Indeed, I like you.” He smiled. “But if you
cross me…” His expression turned cold and sharp. “The pain you feel now will multiply tenfold and it shall go on forever.”

Keelan kept his tone steady. “Forever be a long while.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“I shall not forget,” Keelan vowed.

Their gazes met and held. “Good,” Chetfield said finally, and nodded. “Now do your magic again.”

Some minutes later, Keelan rose shakily to his feet. The staff rested against the wall, solid and deadly. But it would do no good to retrieve it. That much he knew, though he dare not consider how.

The house was quiet. Exhaustion felt heavy across his back as he trudged toward his own bed.

“…but I fear I can’t.”

Charity’s words snagged his attention. They came from behind the closed door to his left, but it was Roland’s voice that chilled his blood.

“Perhaps you could for the Highlander though, aye, Cherie?” The bastard’s voice was low and gritty. Keelan stepped closer to the door, every fiber trembling with fatigue, every nerve cranked tight.

“What?” asked Charity. “Angel?” she said,
and laughed. “Naw. I mean…” He could hear the shrug in her tone. “He’s a nice enough bloke, I suspect, but I ain’t gonna be wasting no porridge on him.”

“What?”

She laughed again, then quickly tapped across the floor. “Once when I was a girl, a dove flew smack into our cottage window. Knocked itself clean senseless. I learned me lesson then, I did.”

There was a long pause, then, “’Tis fortunate you’ve a pretty face, Cherie, for you’re dense as a stone.”

“That’s what me father said when I wouldn’t let him give the bird to his hounds.
Charity luv
, he said,
if you didn’t cry so pretty, me dogs would be fat as corn-fed hogs
.”

“I’m getting tired of waiting.”

“Yeah, I got tired too, feeding it porridge from me own spoon, morning, noon, and night. And keeping the dogs off’n it day after day weren’t no chocolate truffle neither.”

Outside the door, Keelan fisted his hands against his thighs.

“Then one day I took it out from its little cage and up it flew. Never caught so much as a glimpse of the blessed thing after that.”

Footsteps again, heavier this time. “I can make you fly, girl.”

She laughed, moved away. “Fly! Goodness, Mr. Roland, it sounds terrifying. I never said I wanted to fly. Said the dove flew.”

“Can you be so damned daft?” he gritted.

Her gasp tore through Keelan’s soul. Without thought, without intention, he stepped through the door. The two stood near the corner. Surrounded by plants, the bastard was holding her arm. She was leaning back, eyes wide, face pale against the greenery.

Rage was like a fire in Keelan’s murky soul, but he kept his expression bland. “The master said I’d find ye here.”

Roland’s face contorted. “What the hell are you about?” he hissed.

“Said I should give you a message.”

The bastard stepped forward, fists clenched, teeth bared, waves of hate flowing off him like water. “I’ll give you a message you’ll not soon—”

“Says ye should na dally where ye are na wanted lest ye find yerself alone in the dark just as Mead did.”

Roland stopped dead in his tracks.

“Meself, I dunna ken what he meant,” Keelan said, but it was a lie. He knew much more than he had ever wished to know. A hundred haphazard scraps of the past. “Mayhap ye should ask him.”

Reaching out, Roland curled his fist into Keelan’s shirtfront. “I think you’d be less irritating without a tongue, Highlander.”

The waves of hatred were as strong as a wind, beating Keelan down, but there was an image in his mind now, sharp as etched stone. “And that ye can keep the crown.”

“What?” The bastard’s word was no more than a hiss.

“The coin ye took from his coat. Ye can keep it.”

The fist against Keelan’s throat shook, then: “Touch her and I’ll rip out your balls with my bare hands,” he snarled and then he was gone, striding out of sight and slamming the door behind him.

Keelan’s head swam. He pressed his back against the wall, feeling the cool plaster through his shirt, searching for his balance amid the confusing tumble of his thoughts.

“Mr. Angel.” Charity rushed to his side. Her hand was warm and soft against his arm. “Are you all right?”

No, dammit! He was a fooking witch!

“You poor thing, what be you doing in the conservatory? You must have worn yerself clean out. Come along now.” She was tugging at his arm. “We’ll get you off to bed.” Her arm was
steady about his waist, her tone chipper in his ear. “There now, just a bit further.”

“He didn’t hurt ye?” His own voice sounded distant, foggier than the image of Roland dipping into Chetfield’s pocket.

“Mr. Roland?” She turned wide eyes on him. “Naw. Of course not. He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Lass—”

“Don’t talk now. Save your strength. We’re almost there. And you been too hard on yerself. Still…” Her bonny face was set in a sudden frown. “I’m glad you showed up when you did. ’Cuz nice as Mr. Roland is, I just didn’t have no more time to chat. Cook’s gonna be needing help getting supper to table.”

T
he house was as quiet as a grave. The library was dark but for Keelan’s single candle. He’d been loath to light it, but the moon was hidden this night, lost beneath a ragged layer of wispy clouds, and he could wait no longer. The fragile flame flickered in an unseen draft. Perhaps there were ghosts in this place. It seemed likely. Nothing else was as it should be.

His mind scrambled over a thousand facts, even as he searched the books. Maybe his father’s treasure had not been a priceless jewel or precious metal as Keelan had once assumed. Mayhap it was something less tangible. Knowledge or truth. Sir Stanton would have found his son’s sudden obsession with either quite amusing.

Keelan flipped through a small book of poetry, mind racing, trying to make sense of things, to find logic. True, Crevan House was a strange
place, but surely his wild thoughts were only that. Nothing but crazy imaginings brought on by pain and terror. Chetfield was cruel, aye, but there was no true reason to believe there was more to it than that.

Skimming the bookshelves, he glanced about the room. Shadows darkened the corners like lingering spirits, bent and hidden. But ’twas naught more than an overactive imagination. Naught but—

“Keelan,” a voice murmured.

He swung about. The book flew from his hand. His candle flickered on a shadow and sputtered out. “Who’s there?” His whisper sounded raspy in the darkness. Memories quivered in his mind. Memories of his father’s laughter. His father’s voice, so clear after a hundred wayward years.

“Da?” he said.

“Come hither.”

“Who are ye?” He breathed the words and took a faltering step toward the shadows.

“I knew you would come,” whispered the voice.

Recognition dawned, sharp with anger. “Chetfield!” Keelan rasped, and lunged forward, ready to kill, to avenge, but his feet struck an obstacle and he fell. His knees hit the floor. He jerked his
head up, searching wildly, but the shadow was gone, the room silent.

“I’m going mad.” His voice sounded shaky in the stillness, but then he saw the book. A narrow, leather-bound volume, spurring memories from a century past. His fingers quaked as he picked it up. No one stopped him as he turned away. No shadows haunted. No voices spoke. He rose shakily to his feet and left the library.

His bedchamber door was silent as he opened it. Lambkin bleated softly but did not rise. Keelan lay wooden beside the little body, his father’s journal clutched in his hand, and dared not close his eyes for an eternity. But the dreams came nevertheless, haunting, ravaging, undenied.

His father’s face, alight as he faced the endless sea, awed as he opened an ancient trunk, horrified as he faced his dearest friend…Kirksted, enraged, gleeful, standing over him, raising a staff, striking, bludgeoning, until Hallaway’s body lay lifeless and broken.

Joy illuminated Kirksted’s face, but his features changed, shifting eerily through the decades, turning slowly into a man of business, a landed gentleman, a baron. Until it was Chetfield who smiled down at his gory victim. But ’twas a girl that cowered beneath him now. A girl with
blood in her bonny brown curls and terror in her wide amber eyes.

“Nay!” Keelan rasped, and awoke with a start.

Charity gasped and leaned away.

“Lass!” His breath came hard.

She was seated beside him on his bed.

“I was but passing your door and heard you talking to yourself. Are you well?” She gave him a tremulous smile, eyes wide in a face too perfect to be real.

Narrowing his gaze, holding his breath, he reached out and touched her arm. It felt soft but solid beneath his fingertips. “Ye’re real,” he mumbled, and she smiled.

“Did you think otherwise, luv?”

He strove for lucidness, but it was misty in his mind, shadowed and peopled by a hundred souls long dead. “History would suggest it.”

She gave her head an inquisitive tilt, but he was disinclined to tell her of her unknown nocturnal visits. So perhaps he wasn’t entirely mad.

“What be ye doing out of bed, lass?” he asked, and strove to push the horrid images from his mind.

Her smile faded into the etchings of a frown. “Something woke me.”

He tensed. Had she heard him in the library?
Or had he dreamed that too? “What was it?”

“I’m not certain. When I went to take a look there was no one about.” She shuddered a little. “Felt strangish though. As if there was…” She paused. “Ghosts or the like.”

And then he felt it. His father’s journal, lying against his ribs, nestled beneath Lambkin’s forelegs. ’Twas unopened, but there was no reason to read the text, for it had come to life in his soul.

“I know it sounds silly. But this spooky old house, it is ever creaking and groaning as if it’s got secrets to tell.”

He felt tired. Exhausted and beaten and old. “What secrets do ye suppose?” he asked.

She shrugged, gave him a tender smile. “If’n I knew, they wouldn’t be secrets, I suspect.”

He drew a long breath, watching her face, unscathed, so beautiful it made his soul ache. No fear shone in her eyes. Only kindness. But the dreams…He shut them away, not knowing. “Speak to me, lass,” he pleaded.

“What do you wish to hear?”

He watched her, the light in her merry eyes, the quirk of her lively mouth. “I but long to hear yer voice.”

“Sure.” She laughed. “Me and me lovely cockney tones.”

“They be bonny to me own ears. Did yer mum have the same accent?”

A shadow flickered across her face and was gone. “Naw. She spoke proper. But me father and me Grimmy, they spoke as bad as me.”

“Grimmy?”

“Me father’s father. He used to feed me cherry tarts till I was stuffed to me ears.”

“How old was he?”

“I don’t rightly know. But he helped the Lord God name the beasts of the field.” She smiled. “Or so he said. I used to believe it too. Me cousin Lily had her a good laugh about that.”

“Ye’ve a host of family memories.” His own burned inside his mind.

“And what of you, Angel? What memories have kept you dreaming this night?”

Dark images nagged him, trying to snag his attention, to reel him in, pull him into their dark depths, but he fought the undertow. For a short time he would live in the present. “Nothing pleasant enough to recall.”

She gave him a teasing smile. “Not about me then.”

Her gown was powder blue accented with narrow black stripes and a dark ribbon tied beneath her bonny breasts. It was a simple garment, but its humble state did nothing to detract
from her feminine beauty, her earthy charm.

“Ye should na be here, lass.”

“I thought mayhap you were in need of a friend,” she said and touched his hand tentatively.

Well, he was that, he thought, and felt the skin beneath her fingertips come alive with pleasure. He cleared his throat, tried to do the same with his racing imagination. But life was so short. Short and uncertain. “I’m quite certain the bast—Roland,” he corrected, “would be unhappy if he knew of your whereabouts.”

“You’re most probably right,” she said, and lightly brushed the hair from his brow. “But Roland doesn’t please me, now do he?”

Mayhap it was the sheer shock of her words that galvanized his body. But perhaps not, for there was something about her shy advances, her feather-soft voice that called to every part of him. She was comely and funny. Graceful and kind. Goodness itself wrapped in a tender package that made him long to be that which he was not, which he never would be.

“Lass…” He lowered his gaze lest he become lost in her eyes. “I verra much appreciate yer—”

“Truth to tell I was happy you happened along when you did today. Mr. Roland…” She traced his vein with one slim finger. “He was
acting strangish. Angry almost,” she added.

Keelan forced himself to remain silent, to refrain from commenting on the rage he’d felt roiling off the bastard.

She eased her finger on a meandering course up his wrist. “But I didn’t do nothing to make him mad. Course…” She shrugged, causing her bosom to swell slightly over the crest of her simple gown. “I think…” She caught her lip between square little teeth and glanced down at their hands. “Perhaps he knows how I feel. Perhaps he knows that I…” Her eyes struck him suddenly, like the kiss of a warm spring breeze. “That I’m sweet on you,” she said, and catching her breath, she kissed him abruptly.

Her lips were a balm against his, a sweet infusion of stark feelings.

“Lass—”

“I know,” she whispered. Her lips were trembling. The feel of her breath against his cheek was nearly his undoing. “I know I shouldn’t be here.” She searched his eyes, waiting for him to argue or agree.

He managed to do neither, for he was immobilized, stuck in place lest he move and find himself unable to stop, to draw back, to save himself or her.

“I know nothing about you.” She touched the
backs of her nails to his cheek and skimmed them gently toward his ear. Her fingers felt like warm sparks of magic against his scalp, scraping back his hair, waking every slumbering sense. “You could be wed to another for all I know.”

Her lips were moving. And though he knew it was suicidal, he could seem to think of nothing but how right they had felt against his.

“Mr. Angel?”

He tightened his fists against the rumpled bedsheets and raised his gaze to hers. “What’s that?”

Her eyes were as big as oceans. “Are you married?” she whispered.

And here it was, a means of escape. But God help him, he had no desire to flee. No strength even to try.

“Nay,” he rasped.

Her lips quivered. He felt his soul quake in unison.

“Promised?” she asked.

He managed to shake his head.

She caught her lip between her teeth, sky-wide eyes troubled, voice soft. “Is it that you don’t find me attractive then?”

Were there tears in her eyes? Was she about to cry? He scrunched the bedsheet into his palms.

“Mr. Angel…”

“Nay, lass, nay. Any man would find ye bonny beyond words.”

“Any man but yourself?”

“I assure ye, ’tis na the case.”

She frowned. “Life’s a whistle,” she said, and traced an invisible pattern on his naked chest. He shivered like a wet cur. “There have been gents.” She paused, cheeks flushing prettily. “More than a few gents…” She could no longer hold his gaze. “What have thought me comely. Monied, some of them was. And landed.” She smoothed her palm over his nipple and watched it pop back on alert. He gritted his teeth and stayed very still. “But I never…” She flickered her gaze to his and away. “I was never…tempted, if you take me meaning.”

Her hand was skimming lower. His muscles cranked tight beneath her innocent fingers. He steeled himself against her silken effects, but holy heaven, he was not equipped to withstand temptation. Nay, he was ever one to fall right in.

“But with you…” She slipped her finger over his navel. “I find meself imagining all manner of things I should not.”

“What things?” His voice sounded hoarse.

“Yourself,” she breathed, leaning closer. “In the altogether.”

His breath caught in his throat. Her cheeks
were bright as a berry beneath her down-swept lashes.

“Do you think me terrible?” she whispered, and skittered her fingers along the edge of the blanket.

He sucked air between his teeth. “Terrible alluring,” he hissed, and grabbed her hand.

“What’s that?” She rushed her gaze to his.

“Ye are beauty itself, lass,” he said, holding her fingers tight in his own. “Beauty and goodness. Any man would be twice blessed to hold ye in his arms.”

For a moment she remained perfectly still, then joy shone in her eyes. She rose slowly to her feet and put her hands to the ribbon beneath her bosom. It fell away.

“Listen, lass…” He tried to look aside…to think. “I would dearly love to…”

But in that moment the garment slipped from her shoulders, revealing the high swell of her breasts. Mary and Joseph!

“To take what ye so kindly offer,” he rasped painfully, “but I fear—”

“Then do so,” she whispered, and let the gown slip away. It cascaded downward, skimming her luscious breasts, breathing past the scalloped beauty of her hips.

She stood before him then, gloriously naked,
and he could do nothing but draw in the beauty of her. She was perfect, from the tiny mole on her left breast to the crescent scar on her opposite thigh.

“Holy Father,” he breathed, and reached for her.

“Am I disturbing your prayers, Mr. MacLeod?” Chetfield asked.

Keelan opened his eyes with a snap. The sun was shining through the east window. The room was empty but for himself and the hideous baron. His mind tumbled in his head, freefalling like loosed goose down as he grappled for reality. He’d been dreaming again. And yet they were unlike any imaginings he’d ever encountered. More real than reality itself.

Chetfield remained as he was, staring, one brow raised.

“Nay, I…” Keelan began, but suddenly his mind stumbled to his father’s journal. Was it yet hidden beneath the lambkin, or was his life about to end? “’Tis naught but dreams.”

“Truly?” The old man settled onto the edge of the mattress. Keelan’s breath tangled in his throat. Reality mixed with fantasy, leaving him shaken, uncertain. “Tell me of them.”

“I would dearly love to,” Keelan lied, “but I fear I can na remember them upon waking.”

“They are not about my Cherry then.”

“Cherry? Nay. Nay indeed. Never that.”

“Good,” said Chetfield, and smiled, “for I’ve no wish to kill you. Not until I have benefited from more of your magical ministrations, leastways.”