The Legend of Lady MacLaoch (29 page)

“Oh, wedded,” I said using the word as if I’d just heard it. “Yes, it turns out that I am the descendant.”

Bernie looked around me at his brother again, then at the low mound of island we were approaching.

My stomach dropped. “Is that—” I didn’t want to finish.

“Aye. It is the Isle of Lady MacLaoch,” they both said as they brought the small boat up to a makeshift pier in the shallow rocky inlet.

Long fingers of pasture and heather tickled the black, smooth rocks of the beach, allowing them to take over and then gently slope into the clear, cold water. I could see a small but sturdy-looking stone building with a slate roof just beyond the pier.

I followed Bernie out of the boat to shore and waited as they secured my boat, went into the little building, and came out with a gas can. Silently we all did our jobs; mine was observing. The clouds were starting to form an odd pattern. Had I been on the South Carolina coast, I would have said that a hurricane was coming. The fluffy, low ceiling over the island began to form harder, longer, swirling shapes that curled about a center point. It was as if someone above were stirring the white mass with a finger.

“Aye,” Bernie said, lumbering back from returning the gas can to the shed. “That is taken care of.” He looked over as his brother came to stand next to him; then both of them looked at me with the same watery blue eyes. Could I be more uncomfortable? I could be.

“We have something tae tell ye. Back when we were kids we were told the story of the Lady MacLaoch, as was every wee bairn, but Angus and I were told more,” Bernie said. “Ye see, every generation in our family has had one, and being as we are twins, we both were told. We were the Secret Keepers for our generation. Unfortunately our grandchildren have laughed it off, too engrossed in the Internet and their telephones tae believe in something more real than they’ll ever know.

“But anyway, with ye here, that tells us the curse is broken, which means there is much for us to do, and it’s no coincidence that we’ve come tae be standing here on this island. It just is another sign that the last is soon tae come,” Bernie finished.

“Now, Cole, do ye have one of those telephones? I think Rowan needs tae come now,” Angus asked.

I looked down at my half-dry clothes, then back to them askance. “No,” I said simply, not wanting to have to explain that even if I did, a soaked electronic device would not be so very useful.

Just then we all heard it, a motor being shut off. We hadn’t noticed the gradual hum until it was suddenly silent.

I looked past the stone building and down the beach to where it curved around the end of the island. Both Bernie and Angus strained their eyes on the horizon, looking for the boat. The island wasn’t very big and there was a possibility that whoever it was had simply landed on the back side of the island’s low hill—a fisherman, maybe, or a tourist.

Only the rush of goose bumps on my damp skin said that it was best if we fled, and fled right then.

CHAPTER 42

D
own in the lower hallway, Rowan yanked open the sticking door that opened onto the outer terrace and found John ushering groups of people toward him.

“Aye, everyone please go inside and stay there till we come tae tell ye all’s OK,” John said as he herded guests past Rowan and into the castle.

Rowan closed the door on them and turned to John. “Where’d ye hear them?” he asked.

“Back in the forest but, sir,” John called as Rowan made to turn and head that way, “I’ve just heard two more shots down by the boathouse.”

“What do you mean? Just now?” Rowan said, closing the distance between them, his heart pounding, ready for action. “Where’s Simon? He’s supposed to be down there.”

“I know,” John said and took a step back from his chieftain. “But I’ve just seen him—he’s inside wi’ the rest of them. There’s no one down there who’s supposed to be down there, and discharging a gun, no less.”

“Aye—”

Rowan’s words were cut off by the rapid fire of a pistol.

John’s eyes went wide as he looked at his chieftain. “There,” was all he said. He stood rooted in place.

“John, get ye inside, and lock that entrance.” When the man didn’t move, Rowan added, “Now would be a good time, John.”

That was all the patience Rowan could afford—heart hammering, he took off sprinting for the boathouse.

The gardens were a blur—low brick walls and boxy shrubbery that he and Cole had walked through just days before. He launched himself over them and was nearly out of the gardens when the sounds of a car reached his ears.

He felt his feet shift south before the thought of changing direction had registered in his mind. The car was a late-model Peugeot—his uncle had owned one and, while it was small and maneuverable, it was dog-slow up hills.

At the river Rowan’s pace didn’t falter as he leaped onto the first hopscotch-bridge boulder’s back and kept moving. His mind registered the deep gouges in the moss and the shattered gouge that had been carved in one rock.

Anger fueled him. He had to be faster.

The Peugeot’s motor sounded its struggle as Rowan made his way through and around trees, saplings grasping his sweater, pulling for attention.

Adrenaline made him lose feeling in everything, mind and body, returning him to the machine he’d once been. Focused on the target, Rowan ran after the rusty black Peugeot, now in his sight.

Through the trees he chased it, leaping over the last few stumps and then out onto the service road. He closed the distance between the blond behind the wheel and himself. Digging deep, he came up alongside her door. His prey, unaware of his presence, held the gear shift in one hand and a cell phone in the other, steering with her knee as she yelled to the person on the other line. She did all this without wearing her seatbelt.

Perfect.

Rowan grasped the moving car’s door handle and yanked it open. He reached in, pulling a startled, shrieking Eryka brutally from the car and onto the pavement in front of him. Leaping over her as she tumbled to the side, he caught up to the moving car again. He jumped in and shut it down, placed it in park, and pocketed the keys. Rowan turned back toward the woman whose single purpose was to kill him and everything he loved in the world.

Face scratched, her blouse hanging off her, and having lost a shoe, Eryka started to laugh—wild and maniacal laughter—as she hobbled to a relatively upright position and waited for him to come to her.

“Oh, Rowan, if you wanted to have your way with me, all you had to do was call. You didn’t need to pull me passionately from my car, love.”

Rowan strode to her and cracked his fist across her jaw. The blow threw Eryka backward to the pavement. Even though it was Eryka, Rowan felt the guilt all the way to his bones for striking a woman. That was something he thought he’d never do, until he met her.

He turned back to the car and popped the trunk. His insides squirmed at what he saw inside it. Tape, rope, boxes of bullets, and two extra-large garbage bags. Rowan took deep breaths until the desire to feel Eryka’s neck snap in his hands passed. Counting to ten, he moved to look into the car—seeing the muzzle of a
9
mm made him lose count at five.

Turning to the groaning woman on the ground behind him, Rowan leaned back against the car and folded his arms to try to contain himself.

“Where’d ye get the second gun, Eryka?”

“Piss off,” she said, sitting up and feeling the side of her jaw. She smiled wolfishly at him. “Actually, Rowan, I’ll tell you, if you tell me something.”

Rowan eyed her. “Ye are saying that you’ll no’ tell me who sold ye the gun unless I tell ye something?” he said more calmly than he felt.

“That’s right, Rowan. You have to give something up before you can get what you want,” she said, intoning much into her words.

“An’ what might that be, Eryka?”

“You have to promise to let me go after I tell you.”

“Mmmph.” Rowan turned and opened the trunk.

“I mean it, Rowan—I’ll not tell you a thing if you do not let me go,” Eryka said, strain obvious in her husky voice.

“Aye. I believe ye.” He turned back to her, the tape and the rope in his hands, his intent obvious.

Eryka screamed and, in a movement that seemed to defy the tightness of her jeans, leaped to her feet, hands poised claw-like, and attacked Rowan. She ripped at his face with her fingernails, leaving long red scratches.

Rowan snarled, shifted the goods in his hands, and grasped Eryka by the neck. He threw her against the back of the car and bound her wrists together, keeping her pinned with his elbow on her spine.

“I’m going to fucking kill you!” she screeched.

Wrenching her off the trunk, Rowan forced her into the backseat, only taping her mouth when she changed her murderous tirade into plain screaming.

Rowan reversed the Peugeot back down the service road to the boathouse and parked at the entrance to the parking lot.

Getting out, he saw that it was obvious Eryka had been on a rampage with her pistol. The boathouse window was shattered. Several indentations in the steel door said that she had tried putting a couple bullets through it, too. He crunched over the broken glass to look into the boathouse. He wasn’t sure what he would find when he peered inside, and was relieved to see that Cole’s lifeless body wasn’t there. Where the hell was she?

Voices behind him announced the cautious arrival of Simon, the overseer of the boathouse, and Professor Peabody. Rowan counted the shells on the ground. Just a couple—one through the glass and two at the door. But the shots he’d heard earlier were rapid-fire, the unloading of what seemed like an entire magazine. Where had that been?

He looked out and down the pier, where a littering of brassy tubes angrily reflected the day’s fading light. Heart pounding at what he would find, he reminded himself that he still felt the low hum of Cole, that she was all right. Alive. He corrected himself: there were a lot of forms of alive. He jogged the rest of the way, to the end of the pier, and looked over the edge for a floating body. The only thing floating was a boat; the other boat was gone, and the realization of who had it had his knees buckling in relief. Rowan doubled over, breathing deeply, hands braced against his knees.

Through the rush of blood in his head, Rowan heard the running feet of the men behind him and their shouts.

Peabody’s was the most insistent. “Rowan! What has happened? What have you found?”

“Nothing, and she’s not here. It’s OK. Tha’ boat’s gone and she’s in it,” he said, relief obvious in his voice.

Wits quickly returning, he turned to Simon. “Have the authorities arrived yet?”

“Aye. They’re taking accounts from everyone—that is why we came down was tae get ye; they’re asking after ye,” said Simon.

Suddenly Peabody looked puzzled. “Is that screaming?”

“Aye,” Rowan said, nodding toward the car. “I’ve got Eryka trussed up in the back. She had tape, rope, and rubbish bags in the back of her car—no doubt used on Cole, or intended to be used on her.” He turned to Simon again. “Tell the authorities tha’ Eryka is here, and that she shot up the boathouse with the gun in the front seat.”

“What in the world . . . ” Peabody said, looking up at the sky.

The sky had blackened considerably in the few moments that they had stood talking.

“Dinnae know,” Rowan said softly.

The storm’s center perched over an island in the distance.

As if on cue, the wind picked up, pushing at their backs and then coming back around and whipping at them sideways. The sky growled; seconds later, sheet lightning lit up the sky below the swirling cloud mass.

“You,” Rowan said to Peabody. “We’ve no time to waste; ye come with me.”

Rowan checked the remaining boat’s gas tank and, finding it empty, filled it. He loaded Peabody, then himself, into the boat and set course for the island. Rowan called to the stricken Peabody, “I hope your family is no’ expecting ye anytime soon.”

He shook his head and righted his glasses. “Nope, they’re safe at the castle.”

“Good, now tell me what ye found,” Rowan said, keeping his eye on the horizon.

“Well,” Peabody said, “I asked around, thinking that your abrupt departure with Cole yesterday was worthy of looking into. My apologies if that is a breach of your personal rights, but I’m most curious as to what is going on. You see, I heard that Gregoire had words with you the other night, and the older folks here are saying that he was claiming himself to be the rightful heir to the chieftain’s position, which meant Cole was rightfully his. I’ll not bore you with the obvious facts on why that is completely untrue, but it made me dig a little further into this real-life drama. I discovered that Kelly, after the incident on the terrace, said many things about your person and made oaths of vengeance against you.

“When we were all mingling in the main banquet earlier, I made a quick search about the room and saw that neither Gregoire nor his son were present. That tells me that the gun shots were possibly from those two . . . ” Peabody’s voice drifted before becoming shrill. “Oh. Oh. Oh!” he said, fright and excitement taking over him, both at once. “Rowan! She’s there! She must be there!” He pointed to the island they were heading toward.

“I know.”

“No, Rowan, this is completely exciting and horribly terrifying—the clouds, the storm, it all means that there is some sort of energy collision that is happening at the island right now.”

“Aye,” Rowan said, but he was only partially listening, thinking instead about the best way to get to the island undetected, and who would be there.

“Don’t you see, Rowan?” Peabody continued. “Gregoire and Kelly must be there, and they are upsetting some sort of balance.”

“What?” Rowan said, looking to the professor; he had his full attention now.

“Yes! Gregoire said to you the other night that he wanted Cole for himself. To handfast himself to her. This would cause dramatic rifts in energy because he isn’t descended from Lady MacLaoch herself—only you are.” Peabody thought on it for a bit and then went white and whispered, “Unless . . . ”