Somewhere My Lass (5 page)

“What now?”

“When the MacDonald didn’t appear in court the MacKenzies wasted the MacDonald country.”

“But of course. Only stands to reason,” Neil tossed back.

“And,” Fergus bore on, like a soldier under siege. “The two sides met and a battle took place with great slaughter on both sides. The MacKenzies, assisted by their allies the Clan Matheson, also took Strome Castle from the MacDonalds.”

Tiny pinpricks scurried over the back of Neil’s neck. “But Mora called it Strathmore.”

“Maybe they changed the name over time, or this is wrong.”

“
Google
, wrong?” Neil hid the sudden palpitations of his heart behind sarcasm.

Fergus squared his jaw. “I’m in the Library of Congress now.”

Considering Fergus was smart enough to hack into a high security Government facility, Neil couldn’t just discount what he said and sat coiled in tension.

Fergus returned his focus to the laptop. “Mora’s the one with the blow to the head. Maybe she misremembered.”

“Maybe.” Neil was attributing a heck of a lot to that bump on the head.

“Holy moley.” Fergus looked up, squinty eyes bulging behind his glasses.

“Now what?” Neil was almost afraid to ask, yet undeniably intrigued.

“The castle burned. Just like she told you.”

Goosebumps scattered down Neil’s arms beneath his sleeves. “So she knows a lot about the clans. They probably teach that stuff in Scottish schools.”

“She had a tutor,” Fergus reminded him.

“One clearly obsessed with Highland history.”

“She said he’s from the Lowlands. Edinburgh to be precise.” Fergus had a comeback for everything it seemed.

Neil blew out his breath in exasperation, but an insidious dread knotted in his gut.

“And it’s not just what she knows, it’s the way she knows it,” Fergus added.

Neil understood exactly what he meant, though he felt strongly inclined to disagree.

Lowering his voice, Fergus said, “Maybe she’s in tune with the spirit of some Scottish lady who lived back then.”

Neil eyed him sharply. “Is that a screwy way of saying Mora’s possessed?”

“The thought has occurred to me.”

“Your weird mother again.”

Fergus sat up straighter. “Just because Mom’s into spiritualism and you’re Episcopalian.”

“Mora’s Catholic, but I’m not carting her off to a priest to be exorcized. She’s already afraid of being burnt at the stake.”

“Exactly.” Fergus waved one hand at the star filled ceiling. “Who on earth worries about that now days? Besides, I didn’t suggest you should take her to a priest. Mom has this cleansing thing she does.”

“Stuff it,” Neil growled.

Fergus scanned the screen. “Cripes!” he startled, using one of his comic book idioms. “The MacKenzies took some relics from a chapel belonging to the MacDonalds.” He stared at Neil. “Maybe that demon dude wants his stuff back.”

“You think a ghost trashed my room and murdered my housekeeper?”

“Maybe he was looking for you.”

Chilled fingers twisted Neil’s insides. “Are you gonna suggest Mora is a ghost too?”

“Give me back m’ cross ye harpy!” she cried.

Fergus grimaced. “I don’t know what she is.”

Wrenie appeared in the hallway, her sopping blue and white waitress uniform clinging to ample curves, short black hair pasted to her forehead, black lipstick smeared. Her heavily made up eyes were even further encircled with black liner that stood out in her white face, her gothic look awash from the wetting she’d received.

Neil made a mental note to offer Wrenie a bit more compensation for her services, but it wasn’t her soggy state that caught his eye. In her pale hand, shining against her black fingernails, hung the silver cross. The antique relic was suspended from a short chain attached to a pearl necklace.

Hard on Wrenie’s heels, wrapped in a white towel, red hair spilling over her, was Mora. Even in the low light, the fury in her eyes was evident. Neil looked from the shaken women to the enraged one.

“What in the world?” he said.

Wrenie held out the crucifix to Neil. In a halting voice, she asked, “Do you know where Mora says she got this?”

The cross was vaguely familiar, but there must be more than one of them in the world. “Should I?”

“Apparently.”

Mora quivered beneath the towel. “Ye gave it to me yerself, Neil, on our betrothal. Told me never to part wie it,” she said, a catch in her voice.

“Good God.”

Fergus directed his attention to Mora. “Why, Mora? Why did he say that?”

“He dinna tell me. And now he can’t even remember his ain name. It’s
Niall
!” she hurled at him then pointed at the ceiling alight with stars. “Black magic is strong in here. Ye’ll bring the divil himself on us next.”

Snatching the cross from Wrenie’s limp grasp, she turned and fled to the bedroom.

Neil stared after her as the door slammed. Where had he seen that crucifix and those luminous pearls before?

C
hapter Eight

Nothing that had happened to Mora since her mysterious arrival in this dreamlike realm made any sense, particularly the goings on in The Fergus’s front room. Most unnatural. She was glad to be alone and tucked in bed wearing the borrowed shift with a lace edged neckline, long sleeves, and a hem reaching to her ankles. Generously cut to allow for Mrs. Fergus’s girth, the garment swallowed her.

No matter. Rosebuds sprinkled the soft white cloth, and the balm Wrenie called lotion soothed her from head to toe with the divine scent of a flower known as honeysuckle. Truly, perfume fit for a queen.

Propped up in Mrs. Fergus’s bed on down-filled pillows, snuggled under blue, flannel sheets, and the embroidered coverlet, Mora bit down on the unlikely food Neil had provided. The bedside lamp revealed a pale meat, turkey he’d said, and compared it to pheasant. She trusted the alien red fruit layered in with the game wasn’t poisonous. Abundant greens rested between slices of dark bread, also unheard of, and creamy paste called mayonnaise held the concoction together.

Ravenous, she chewed and swallowed, pleasantly surprised by the good flavor. She sipped the sweet, creamy infusion Neil had referred to as hot milky tea. “Just the way the British make it, the Scots too,” he’d assured her, though she didn’t know this brew. Despite everything she’d endured, Mora was unaccountably refreshed.

Accustomed to sponge baths and an occasional immersion in the brass tub her father had imported—the MacKenzies had a wooden tub she’d used as their guest—that wetting had been an ordeal with its noise, vapor, and the addled maid assisting.

Insisting, rather. The woman didn’t know her place, and had the appearance of a nun gone badly awry with her chopped hair, painted face, and barbaric piercings. Even in her nose. And three on her ear! Heathen.

Mora had feared she might drown in all the water. In spite of that, she didn’t wish Wrenie ill and felt soothed to the bone now. She supposed the end justified the means, even if the demented creature was bent on Mora being nearly hairless.

Who on God’s earth would see her bare legs and underarms besides a maid?

She wasn’t in the habit of plunging naked into the loch like the men and blushed to imagine Neil spying out every last bit of her. Not that she need worry on that score after he’d broken their kiss and bolted from the room leaving her hurt and bewildered. Niall never would have done that.

As for Wrenie’s other shaving suggestion, Mora had adamantly refused and breathed a sigh of relief when that vexing woman had gone, though she’d left muttering something about
waxing
on the morrow.

What candles had to do with Wrenie’s hairless obsession, she shuddered to think. And what was a beauty salon? Hadn’t Mora been proclaimed bonnie since her earliest memories?

It seemed she wasn’t fair in this land without considerable alteration. More troubling than any of this, though, was Neil having forgotten her. What had happened to him, and why did he still have such a hold on her aching heart when he most certainly did not deserve such adoration.

Chewing while she considered these and other complexities, she made short work of her meal, turning her head at a rap on the door. It had better not be Wrenie again.

Warily, she asked, “Who knocks?”

“Neil.” The door cracked open and he poked his dark head inside. “May I come in?”

A flutter commenced in Mora’s innards like a host of black winged Hielan moths, and she wished he didn’t have this unsettling effect on her.

’Twas improper for him to be alone with her in her chamber at such an hour, and her father had tried to instill maidenly modesty in her. Her sainted mother too, God rest her soul. But little etiquette had been observed since Mora’s inexplicable arrival here. How could she refuse Neil’s request?

Setting her empty mug aside, she beckoned to him in the manner of a highborn lady receiving a courtier. And so she was in her way, only he didn’t realize it. Nor had he any notion of the importance he held in his own homeland. Even his enemies allotted him a grudging admiration. 

Intent on her response, he stepped toward her. His hair was endearingly mussed, probably from running his fingers through the shortened locks, and his gray eyes shadowed. Where was the spark of recognition she longed to see?

She noted he wore no coat, his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing muscular arms. Even with her eyes closed, she would sense his presence. His masculine allure permeated the room like the steam from her bath water. Her heart fluttered along with her middle as he neared.

If only he would draw her into those strong arms and this time not let go.

****

Neil didn’t know what to do with Mora, only that he wanted to do a great deal and he’d already screwed up rather badly. How to begin again? What could he even attempt after his abrupt departure earlier this evening? He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone or anything, but shouldn’t, couldn’t, take advantage of an emotionally vulnerable woman. Nor could he turn around and leave. The need in his gut flamed alongside the caution in his head.

She sat upright in the four-poster bed with Mrs. Fergus’s covers drawn nearly to her chin. The lamp’s soft glow revealed a wounded expression in her eyes, and she appeared ill-at-ease, yet undeniably wistful.

Well, that made two of them, but he must speak with her. His
spidey
senses, as Fergus termed it, told him Mora had at least some of the answers to their baffling predicament. How else could he hope to help either of them other than by fitting together the irregular pieces of this most peculiar puzzle?

His dress shoes, left over from the business day that seemed eons ago now, made no sound on the Oriental carpet as he walked to where she waited. Not a word passed between them and he sat silently on the bed beside her.

Looking into her uncertain gaze, it seemed to him, as unfathomable as it was, that they had unfinished business between them. Enough to overflow the gaping hole he felt inside him. He couldn’t articulate it any more than he could explain her presence in his life. Inexplicably, he and Mora were linked.

Like a door long ago closed, now reopening, he strove to glimpse that other world through the crack in this one. A distant drum thrummed in his innermost self, calling him. But to what?

Neil’s logical mind told him it made no sense. His heart whispered a deeper truth of a secret shrouded in the hazy past. “Mora.” Her name escaped him in a husky whisper.

She darted the tip of a pink tongue over her lips. “Aye?”

He stared at her mouth, soft and full, but not too full, the perfect pout. Almost without realizing what he did, Neil lifted his hand and ran the end of his index finger over her bottom lip…the lightest touch on a gossamer thread.

She quivered, barely detectable, but he noted her response as he had earlier this evening. Did he affect her that strongly?

How long had it been since he’d allowed himself to affect any woman. One ex-wife was enough. Paying off the former Alice MacKenzie had taken everything except the house. Alice didn’t want
that mausoleum
, as she’d termed it, and had left his heart as cold as one. Until now…

Neil slid his fingers over Mora’s cheek, like down beneath his hand and shimmering with the talc Wrenie had dusted over her smooth skin. He breathed in the honeyed scent of summer effusing her, so unlikely on this cold fall night.

Mora moved not at all, but looked wonderingly at him.

Neil wondered at himself.

Copper glints shone in the hair streaming over her. Lifting his hand to her red mane, he trailed his fingers through the silken sheen. Again, that quiver made itself known, and tiny goosebumps flushed down her neck.

“You are a beauty,” his words a hoarse whisper.

The rise and fall of her chest betrayed a deep inhalation of breath. A flicker of reproach lit her eyes. “I dinna think ye took heed of me at all.”

He winced at the well-deserved jab. “About before, I’m sorry I left you so suddenly. But there’s no earthly way I could fail to notice you. I’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind and even then…”

The tension in her face eased, and then the hurt returned. “Oh, aye? How could ye forget all ye knew?”

He remained ad he was, threading that wealth of hair through his fingers. Again, the rational part of him argued, “Is it possible you’re imagining you knew me before?”

She balked, a mutinous glint in her eyes. “Nae.”

He slid his hand to the finely crafted silver chain at her throat and coaxed the coverlets further down.

A slight gasp escaped her lips. He muted any outward response to the thrill running through him.

The scooped neckline of her nightgown revealed the tops of white breasts sprinkled with freckles. Above this heart hammering sight hung the crucifix. “I gave this to you?” he managed to ask without betraying the swell of emotion surging inside him.

“At our betrothal.”

She remained immobile as he reached out and closed his fingers around the sacred relic, warm from her sweet skin. Staying his hand from straying any lower, he held up the cross to better examine it. The inscription on the side appeared to be Latin.

He stared at the etching. “I can’t make out the words.”

“Trust in me,” she said softly.

He lifted his eyes to hers. “You know Latin?”

“And English, French…”

That tutor was a marvel. Too bad he hadn’t taught Mora about everyday life. Shifting his focus away from her near mesmerizing gaze, Neil studied the cross. At  the base of the crucifix, he spotted a minute point, like a clasp.

“Does it open?”

“Why do ye ask?”

Buried in Neil’s mind like a long forgotten treasure, was the idea that this relic held a key.
The key
.

Angling one fingernail over the nub, he dug in and tugged, meeting with resistance.

“What do ye ken that I do not?”

“It’s stuck, but I think there’s something inside.”

“Indeed? Let me have a try.”

“All right. Maybe your smaller finger will fit better.” He shifted the shine of silver into her smooth white hand.

Lips pressed together, Mora wiggled her half-moon shaped fingernail under the deceptively small clasp. She tugged and her finger slipped. Eyes rapt with concentration, she tried again. “’Tis stuck fast.”

“Don’t force it. Mind if I summon Fergus?”

“Nae. Call The Fergus, if ye wish.”

“There’s no
The
in his name,” Neil corrected, amused at her expression despite the growing mystery. “Hey Fergus! Bring something in here, will you, to open the clasp on this old cross.”

The footrest on the recliner lowered with a thump. “It opens?”

“I’m almost certain.”

“How in hell—heck,” Fergus caught himself, “do you know that?” He dashed through the partly open door on the tail of his query.

Neil shrugged.

“Of course,” Fergus said drily. “You’re well acquainted with seventeenth century crucifixes.”

“I expect this one is sixteenth.”

Fergus drew his reddish brows together. “Same difference.”

“Of French origin,” Neil added.

“Dude, you’re weirding me out.”

Fergus wasn’t alone in his sentiments, and Mora looked like one lost in a dream. Neil would love to awaken her with a kiss—what was he thinking? He had to concentrate.

“Art history,” he offered, knowing his insight stemmed from far, far more.

“Yeah, right.” In his hand, Fergus held the screwdriver he used to open minute screws on laptops and other devices. His eyes bored into Mora like a vampire fixated on a vein. “May I join you?”

Neil could simply take the tool from Fergus and send him away. But Mora gave a nod, and Neil sensed his eccentric friend had a role to play in this strangest of all possible conundrums. He inclined his head.

Needing no further encouragement, Fergus settled his narrow rear on the bed beside Neil. Together, they watched Mora reach behind her neck to undo the silver chain. It slid from her throat and she extended the keepsake, chain and all, to Fergus.

He took the cross and held it out to the light, peering like an owl from behind his rimmed glasses. “Yes. I see what you mean.” He fingered the closure. “This is a tiny clasp.”

A hush fell over the three of them.

Fergus slid the miniscule edge of the tiny screwdriver under the clasp on the bottom of the crucifix and pried. “Stuck. I don’t want to break it.”

“Just get it open.” Neil had decided the critical thing was to retrieve whatever might be inside.

Fergus pried harder. His boyish face scrunched in concentration. “Almost got it.”

The clasp gave way and the crucifix sprang open. “Without breaking,” Fergus said with a hint of smugness, and then grew somber.

They all stared.

Twin crosses attached at the top made a T shape in his palm. Inside the bottom chamber of blackened metal was a key, its head an intricate design of curlicues. No gleam shone from its equally blackened surface. Mora had polished the outside, not the inside of this shrine. Yet, it was here that their answer lay.