The Morrigan: Damaged Deities (6 page)

“Here, I’ll get that,” Morrie tried to take the handle but Lorna nudged her away.

“Ah insist,” she said, gripping it tightly.

“Actually, I’ll get it,” Danny said, taking the luggage from Lorna and earning a smile from her.  He stood close to Morrie and as he lifted the suitcase, smiling with more familiarity at Morrie than she cared for. 

Morrie took a step back as a shadow fell across her.  Turning back towards the house, she faced another man, his imposing body filling the doorway and blocking the light.

That had to be MacLeod.

Morrie approached him.  He smiled though it seemed only polite as he stepped out from the threshold to greet her.  Something in his eyes actually looked remorseful.

That magical feeling was everywhere now.  It would be difficult to discern to whom it belonged.

“You must be Morrie Brandon,” the man said with a brogue more discernible than Lorna’s, holding out a large hand. “I’m Kamden MacLeod. Welcome.”

Once under the overhang of the porch, she pushed back the hood of her raincoat and took his hand, forcing herself to mask her confused expression.  Kamden was not what she expected.

Based on the few stories she had read about the man, she expected him to be older.  There was the weariness of the aged about his eyes and in the lines on his forehead, but he seemed more like a young man defeated by events than one affected by time.

He kept himself in shape and appeared aware of modern trends, his hair styled with his curls tamed back, the sides shaved cleanly. 

Morrie would more likely expect to encounter the likes of him in a club, rather than the head of a boardroom, but she knew family businesses tended to operate a little differently. 

She also knew she should keep a close eye on him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. MacLeod,” she said, stepping closer. Morrie was a pretty average height, but MacLeod lorded over her by at least a head.  She looked up as she took his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Please, just call me Kamden.  Come in.” 

He stepped back and let her inside the richly decorated front hall with dark wooden paneled walls and floors polished to an amber sheen. 

Morrie had missed the rich decor of a Scottish home.

A wide, red-carpeted staircase spread out in the center of the entry, defined by large, elaborate railing.  

Morrie could spot the feminine touches Lorna had tried to put in place—the oversized floral arrangements sitting on the various oak accent tables, dotted by the soft light of small lamps and wall sconces, but overall the home looked very masculine. And old. 

Lorna stepped inside, shaking out the umbrella, followed by Danny.

“Take Miss Brandon’s luggage tae her room, would ya, Danny?” MacLeod asked, taking Morrie’s raincoat.  The young man nodded before climbing the staircase. 

“Ah’ll go put on some tea,” Lorna said, taking Morrie’s coat from Kamden as she headed down another hall, leaving Morrie and Kamden alone. 

She studied him with better detail in the light; his styled hair was dark and he had a bit of stubble on his strong jaw.  He had full lips and a straight, nose. 

With a worn pair of jeans and a thick, cream-colored cable sweater, he was conventionally handsome and very Scottish.  But the biggest note she made was his eyes—light gray, not dark brown. 

Not like the man in her dream.

She almost felt let down by her dream not coming true—but that was the only feeling the Scotsman stirred in her.

Ignoring her inexplicable disappointment—did she actually expect to break her dry spell while on this business trip?—she followed him into the den, his footsteps falling heavily on the floor.

He gestured toward a soft armchair, waiting to sit after she did, and said, “I hope your flight was comfortable.”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied, folding her hands on her lap and looking around. 

The cozy den had thick rugs placed throughout; two walls of shelves flanked an ornate fireplace and held a king’s fortune of leather-bound books.  An antique piano sat next to one of the many windows and there were plenty of framed family photos on the mantel and various tables. 

Once she learned her surroundings, she looked at MacLeod to find him studying her.  He didn’t flinch at getting caught staring.

“I’m afraid I must admit, ye’re much younger than I expected,” he said with a grin.

“As are you,” Morrie replied, returning the smile, but hers more guarded.

MacLeod shrugged her comment off. “The videos I saw of ye weren’t o’ the best quality.  Just graduate university?”

“No, no college,” she answered, smiling politely. “Just a lot of experience.”

“Did ye grow up on a farm?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“How did ye become familiar wi’ horses?”

“My sisters and I have always been good with them.  It just comes naturally, I suppose.”

“Ye have sisters?” She nodded. “Older or younger?”

“The same age.  Bev and Macy.”

“Triplets?”

She shrugged one shoulder and didn’t correct him.

He nodded, thoughtful.  “Family is good.”  He looked up as Lorna entered carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. “Thanks, Lorna.”

She placed the tray on the table between them and quietly left.  MacLeod leaned forward and poured tea into a cup, handing it to Morrie. “My predicament wi’ this horse is a bit odd.  I doubt ye’ve had many similar cases before.”

She warmed her hands on the cup, letting the tea cool before she sipped it. 

“It’s certainly no longer common to encounter a killer horse,” Morrie said, waiting for Kamden’s reaction. 

His gaze narrowed slightly, as though he might have caught her deeper meaning, but he soon moved on.

“I wouldn’t want tae put ye in any danger,” he said, sitting back with his cup of tea. 

“How many deaths have there been?”

Morrie noticed his jaw set; it was harder for him to talk about this part and she wondered why. 

Did he feel responsible for the deaths because they happened on his land?  Or was there more to it? 

He could certainly be the killer himself and hiring her to look for a horse was all just a bunch of smoke and mirrors.

“Seven over the last five years,” he answered. 

“But more, recently?”

“Aye, it’s getting worse.”

Morrie took a sip of tea, wincing at the tart taste and tried to swallow it away.  “How far is the lake from here?”

“About a kilometer.”

“He typically comes out at night?”

“Aye.  I doubt he’ll be easy tae catch and expect it tae take some time.  I’m giving ye a month tae do so.  If the beast canna be brought tae justice by then, then I doubt there’s much hope for him.  So, we can start tomorrow evenin’, no sense in rushing into it tonight.”

“I’ll have to do this on my own,” Morrie set the cup down. “I can’t control the emotions of others and horses are very susceptible to fear.  I can’t have any fear or the like present.  I can manage on my own.” 

MacLeod looked like he would argue, but instead closed his mouth and nodded.

“I’ll at least drive ye out there.”  He set down his tea, too, and stood.  “I’ll show ye tae yer room.  Ye can get settled in before dinner.  I’ll have Lorna call for ye when it’s time.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

“In time of war, when truth is so precious, it must be attended by a bodyguard of lies.”

Winston Churchill

The room MacLeod put her in was large with dark, hardwood floors, a deep stone fireplace and windows that looked out over the Highlands. 

The bed sitting in the center was a dark mahogany with four posters.  The cream coverlet and thick down comforter looked like a cloud, made so that not a wrinkle or bubble showed. 

Lorna was very good at her job.

On her way to her room, Morrie had spied the guest bathroom at the end of the long hall.  She wanted to wash away the remnants of the cold rain and travel.  Gathering up her toiletries and finding a fresh towel in the armoire, Morrie headed to take a bath.

As soon as she stepped inside, she could tell the bathroom had undergone extensive updating, though it was designed to look traditional with rich cabinets each holding a deep sink and curved faucets.  A beautiful claw foot bathtub sat cattycornered in the room.  Beside it a low bench held fluffy, folded towels. 

The stone floor was cold beneath her feet as Morrie removed her boots, quickly hopping onto the plush rug.  Once she had the bath water running, she looked around for soap, finding only the white square bars that neither had scent nor any moisturizing qualities.  Scowling, Morrie grabbed a bar and stepped into the bath.

Spending time on ranches had disciplined Morrie and she spent little idle time.  Rather than soak in the comfort of the hot bath, she instead scrubbed herself rigorously, quickly ran her razor over her legs, and rinsed off.

Once she’d bathed, Morrie returned to her room, wrapped in a towel, arms loaded with her boots and clothes.  She dumped the bundle on the floor and was drawn to the view from her room. 

The rain had stopped completely and the sun was setting, though little of it could be seen now from behind the hills.

Standing beside the sheer curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows, Morrie could just spy the loch gleaming in the distance, shrouded with a low, haunting mist. 

Never one for rest, Morrie decided to familiarize herself with the extensive manor. 

Not that she expected to stay long.  Despite what MacLeod had said about the horse being elusive, Morrie was too good at what she did.  But she had always enjoyed old Scottish manors and wanted to spend some time touring one alone. 

After unpacking and dressing in a pair of jeans and a fitted flannel shirt, Morrie tugged her rain boots back on. 

The door of the room next to hers was open when she stepped out into the hall.  Glancing inside as she passed, she could see that it was not just another guest room, but one that looked once occupied, with framed photos on the fireplace mantel and books left on the bedside table.  Though maybe untouched in several years, judging by the stillness of it all. 

Taking one step in, Morrie noticed it smelled musty with an underlying hint of sandalwood. 

Like much of the rest of the house, it too had a masculine feel, but there was something else about it that called to Morrie, something warm and inviting. 

Before leaving, she noticed a jacket draped across the chair and wondered if maybe it hadn’t been occupied more recently and by whom.

The earlier storm had left behind a twilight heavy with fog and a biting chill.  Her rain boots sloshed against the thick, wet grass as she left the house and headed towards the stables in the rear. 

Drawn to the scent of horses, she felt that flicker of excitement within her at the prospect of meeting MacLeod’s collection. 

The stables were modest, but well kept; the six stalls clean and stocked with fresh hay.  Only two held occupants, both Clydesdales—a bay and a black. 

Morrie approached the black, offering her hand for him to scent before earning his permission to scratch his muzzle.  His white, feathered hooves stomped lightly, telling her she was welcomed.

“That there’s Banner,” Danny said, leaning an arm on the stable’s entry. “I think he likes you.”

“He’s beautiful.  What’s the bay’s name?” Morrie asked, giving Banner one last scratch before turning to the other stall where the bay stood.  Danny joined her at its gate.

“Her name’s Annabella.  Both are gentle, good draught horses.”  He offered Morrie a handful of oats and another one of his familiar smiles. 

He seemed to look at her with a light in his eyes, like they shared an inside joke.  But Morrie had grown accustomed to this behavior; modern young men were a brash and confident breed.