She dropped immediately, lifting her feet and simply falling out of Parrish’s grip. He grabbed for her and stumbled off balance, going down on one knee in the dirt. Grace rolled, throwing herself away from him, and he fired the pistol. The bullet burned along the top of her right thigh and she cried out, grabbing her leg.
Parrish scrambled to his feet, aiming the pistol first at Niall, then at Conrad, daring either of them to make a move. Niall lifted the claymore off his shoulder, the smile on his face changing to something deadly. “Are you sorely wounded, love?” he asked in the most gentle voice Grace had ever heard him use.
“No,” she said, though her voice wobbled and her thigh burned like hell. Blood seeped through her fingers, and she pressed her hand hard against the wound.
Parrish fired at him, the shot echoing with a flat metallic sound across the sea. Niall began walking toward him. Parrish fired again, and still Niall advanced.
“Ye canna kill me, servant of evil,” Niall whispered.
“God damn you, you bastard,” Parrish screamed, and fired again. Niall was so close Parrish couldn’t have missed, yet his hand must have been shaking, the shots going wide.
Niall’s gaze was distant, fixed on something both beyond Parrish and yet inside himself. He turned his head and smiled at Grace, that piercingly sweet smile again. “My own Grace,” he said. “I found heaven wi’ ye, lass, but that time is gone.” Then he lifted the heavy claymore and rested the tip against Parrish’s chest. Grace saw Parrish’s handsome face go slack with shock, and a bolt of lightning split the cloudless sky. The blinding light enveloped Niall, arcing along the long blade of the claymore, and shot straight through Parrish. He screamed, lifting on his tiptoes as if hauled there by an invisible hand. He trembled and shook, and the lightning arced again. The front of Parrish’s trousers went wet and dark, and steam rose from his crotch. His eyes rolled back in his head, until only the whites showed. His lips split, and his hands began to scorch. His blond hair was singed, turned to gray ash. He tried to scream, his mouth open, but no sound emerged over the roar and blast of light. The skin on his face shriveled, pulling away from his bones. Through it all Niall stood motionless, wrapped in brightness. Then with a thunderous boom it was over and Parrish collapsed like a sack of rags, lying motionless on the scorched earth.
“Niall!” Grace struggled to her feet, ignoring the pain in her leg. “Niall!”
He strode rapidly across the ruins to her, catching her as her leg went out from under her and she started to fall. Gently he lowered her to the cool ground, lifting her skirts to bare her thigh and expose the wound.
The man called Conrad went down on one knee beside Parrish’s smoking, stinking corpse. What he saw must have satisfied him, for he gave a brief nod of his apelike head, then rose and came to Niall’s side.
Deftly Niall tore a strip of fabric off the hem of Grace’s undergown and wrapped it around the long gouge on the top of her thigh. He glanced briefly up at Conrad. “You are of the Society?”
“Yes. We have known of the Foundation’s existence for many years. Someone from the Society has always belonged to the Foundation, to monitor its activities. Only twice has it come close to finding the Power; in 1945, and today.”
“You were going to kill me,” Grace said, her teeth chattering with shock. She couldn’t quite take in that this man with the cold, dead eyes was somehow on Niall’s side, at Niall’s service.
“If necessary,” Conrad said unemotionally. “My concern was the papers, to retrieve them at all cost and prevent Parrish from acquiring them. Then I began to think that… perhaps… you were meant to have them. You are one of only a few people in the world who could understand what they were, who would know to go to the Guardian and bring him here.”
“Be verra happy ye didna harm her,” Niall said softly as he glanced up from tying the cloth around Grace’s thigh. His eyes were as cold as Conrad’s.
“We do what we must,” Conrad replied. “As do you.”
Niall’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Aye.” He looked down at Grace’s bare thigh, at his rough hands on the silkiness of her flesh. He smoothed her skirts down, his fingers gentle. “Ye’ll be all right, lass. Can ye stand?”
“I think so,” she said shakily. Her leg throbbed like blue blazes now, but she had seen for herself that the wound wasn’t deep. Niall helped her to her feet, holding her until her balance steadied.
He looked around, lifting his head into the breeze. His gaze lit on the two cars, English rental cars parked near where the stables had once stood. “Automobiles,” he said on a note of wonder. “Before, I didna see anything, just that damnable dark little dungeon, and the madman.”
“Bunker,” Conrad said.
Niall shrugged his indifference at the terminology. “I think there must be many wonders now to see,” he said absently. “But many evils, too.”
“Yes.” Conrad’s eyes locked on Niall, and for once they weren’t cold. Grace couldn’t read his expression, but suddenly she knew that Conrad would give his life unhesitatingly for Niall, and in that moment she forgave him for everything.
Niall tilted his head down, his face calm as he studied Grace. “I must go,” he said.
“Go?” She realized even as she said the word how stupid she sounded. Of course he had to go; he was the Guardian.
“I couldna stay here, even if I wished.” He cupped her face in his hands, his fingers tenderly tracing her cheekbones, her lips. “My duty is there.” He bent and kissed her, his lips soft, barely touching hers. Then he released her and strode away from them, and she heard him repeat the words about water and salt. She took a step forward, trying to scream his name, but panic closed her throat. The flash of light blinded her, and when she could see again, Niall was gone.
“Niall!” Too late, she had voice. She stumbled toward the spot where he had stood, a great fear welling inside her, a fear that had no name.
Conrad caught her arm. “He is gone. He is the Guardian.” To him, that explained everything.
“He’s a man!” Grace whirled on him, her eyes wild. “He’s just like every other man!” She felt hysteria building in her, a sense of loss so sharp it was staggering. “He eats and sleeps and breathes and bleeds, he doesn’t have supernatural powers or anything like that—”
“No,” Conrad said, turning her away from the ruins. “But God does.” He began to lead her toward one of the rental cars. “The Guardian has his work there—and we have ours here.”
She stumbled, her leg crumpling under her again, and without a word Conrad lifted her in his powerful arms and carried her to the car. She sat numbly as he drove them away from the scene, but inside she was coming apart, because Niall was gone.
“That man gives me the willies,” Harmony muttered, watching Conrad as he sat beside Kris, the two of them patiently pulling up Foundation files and destroying them. It was night, the building deserted except for the four of them. Conrad and Kris could have done the work on their own, but Grace had to be there, her nerves not letting her be anywhere else. Harmony had come along because she was worried about Grace, who looked as if she would shatter at the slightest touch.
“He’s strange,” Grace conceded. She had spent a little more than a month in Conrad’s company, and she still knew little more about him than she had the day Parrish had died. He didn’t talk about himself. She knew he was ruthless, that some might call him a stone killer and perhaps be right.
He had been invaluable, making arrangements, contacting Harmony to more thoroughly tend the wound on Grace’s leg, doing away with Paglione’s body. Parrish’s body he left to be found, the victim of a freak lightning strike. Grace had moved like a marionette to his orders, so numb she wondered if she would ever feel alive again. Niall was gone. She woke in the night weeping, reaching out for him. She had spent so little time with him, and yet she felt as if he were imprinted on every cell of her body.
“There!” Kris announced in triumph, his hacker’s blood excited by wh
at he had been doing. “We can’t kill the Foundation, but it’s going to be in the dark for a while. All their records are gone.”
Conrad nodded, and for a moment there was a gleam in his dead eyes. “Good,” he said, the word filled with satisfaction.
They hadn’t told Kris anything more about the situation, except that Parrish was dead, but what he knew was enough to make him willing to help out. Harmony, who still hadn’t recovered from the shock of watching Grace vanish in an explosion of light the month before, was even more protective than normal.
Conrad stood, looking at the blank computer screen. “Are you certain an expert can’t retrieve the files from the hard disk?”
“I’m positive. Trust me. The hard disk is wiped clean. If you’re sure no floppies exist anywhere, or a hard copy, then there’s no way all that information can be compiled again.”
Conrad grunted. The possibility of a floppy disk floating around out there worried him. He had personally searched Parrish’s house and found nothing, but such a valuable disk, if it existed, would likely be in a bank vault somewhere.
Grace had burned the papers she had worked on for so long, and ached as the flames destroyed her link to Niall. She would never again read about him, marvel at his exploits. The written accounts paled in comparison to the real man, anyway. But she didn’t want anyone else to find those papers, and use them to threaten the Treasure Niall had dedicated his life to protecting.
The four of them left together but separated when they reached the street. No one talked much; there wasn’t much left to say. Kris departed in his Chevelle. Conrad gave Grace an oddly old-fashioned bow, and walked off down the street. Harmony and Grace slowly walked to Grace’s truck.
“What now?” Harmony asked. “No more running, no more bad guys chasing you and trying to kill you. Well, the cops are still after you, but from what I see they can’t find their ass with both hands and a flashlight, so I guess you’re safe enough. I’d live somewhere else, though. Take up some boring stuff, like skydiving.”
Grace managed a ghost of a smile. “I don’t have any plans after tomorrow,” she said.
“So what’s on for tomorrow?”
“I’m going to my husband’s grave.”
* * *
The June morning was bright and sunny, the flowers in full bloom. Grace carried two bouquets of spring flowers, daisies and lilies and bright yellow primroses making a gay splash of color in her arms. Harmony walked silently beside her through the rows of grave markers.
Grace knew exactly where the graves were. Bryant was buried beside their parents, and Ford in the plot nearby that he and Grace had chosen. The day they had bought the plots she had looked at them and thought how many decades it would be before they were used. She had been wrong.
The two graves had markers on them. The life insurance policies would have paid for the markers, but she wondered who had ordered them. Friends, perhaps, or colleagues. It was possible Parrish had done it; he would have found the idea amusing. She didn’t mind. If he had, in this case, the end did justify the means. She was glad they had markers, that these two wonderful, precious men hadn’t lain for a year in unmarked graves.
Bryant’s marker was simply inscribed. “Bryant Joseph St. John. Born Nov. 11, 1962—Died April 27, 1996.” That said so little. He had been thirty-three years old. Never married, but engaged once. Several serious girlfriends. Loved his work, doing crossword puzzles, an ice-cold beer and salty popcorn when he was watching a ball game. His second toes had been longer than his big toes, and he hadn’t liked anything starched. She couldn’t have asked for a better brother.
She placed one of the bouquets on the grave, and numbly walked on. She stumbled a little, and Harmony placed a strong supporting hand under her arm.
“Are you all right?”
“No, not really,” Grace whispered. “But I have to do this.”
Bryant’s grave had been in partial shade; Ford’s was in full sun, and the grass that covered it was thick and lush. “William Ford Wessner,” the marker read. “Born Sept. 27, 1961—Died April 27, 1996.” One more line had been added: “Married with Love to Grace Elizabeth St. John.”
Grace’s knees buckled and she sank slowly to the grass, despite Harmony’s alarmed efforts to keep her upright. She reached out a trembling hand and traced the engraved letters of his name, trying to reach the essence of the man. She missed him so much, ached to see his crooked smile, or the humor in his twinkling eyes. He had died for her, and done it willingly.
“I’ll always love you,” she promised him, though she could no longer read his name in the stone; everything was blurred. He was a man worth loving, and that feeling for him would never die out of her heart, any more than her love for her parents had died.
The human heart had the capacity to love many people, and none of those loves diminished it for the others. Niall had been in her heart even before Ford died, a tiny burning kernel of interest and respect. Losing Ford hadn’t extinguished that spark. Instead it had grown during the long months when she was alone, giving her the strength to go on. At first she had loved him as a person, and later she had loved him as a man. It had been a banked fire when she had gone back to his time, and when he stirred the coals the fire had blazed into an inferno. How many women were so lucky as to have two such loves? They were nothing alike in personality. Ford had been cheerful, good-natured; she suspected Niall could be the very devil to live with, as accustomed to command as he was. Different times, different men—and they were both men, in the best sense of the word.
Harmony knelt down beside her, disregarding the effects of grass on her white pants. “Would he have minded?” she asked softly, nodding at the grave. “Or would he have wanted you to love again?”
“He would want me to love again,” Grace replied, brushing her hand lightly over the grass. As she would want the same for him. She couldn’t help the small spurt of jealousy she felt, ridiculous under the circumstances, but she would want him to be happy, and he had been more generous and openhearted than she was.
She laid the bouquet on the grave and touched the marker again. Since his death she had been able to see only one image of him, that horrible last one, but the words on the marker summoned another, happier memory, that of their wedding day. She saw him in her mind, nervous and excited, the way he repeatedly swallowed, the way his voice shook when he said his vows. When the ceremony was finished a wide grin broke across his face, and it was that grin she saw, relieved and happy all at once.
Tears dripped down her cheeks, and her mouth trembled. “Oh, Ford,” she said, her voice shattered. “I miss you so much, and I love you, but I have to go now.”
Harmony helped her to her feet and gently led her away. Grace stumbled; the grass was springy beneath her feet, and wet with early-morning dew. She stopped, tilting her head back. It was a beautiful day. She took a deep breath, inhaling all the fresh scents, and with swimming eyes looked at the wide expanse of blue sky.
“You look like you gonna pass out any minute now,” Harmony said sternly. “You eat anything yet?”
“No, not yet.” Grace gathered herself and smiled. It was wobbly, but it was a real smile. She ached, but she felt at peace. She hadn’t had vengeance, but Ford and Bryant had had justice, and it was enough.
“Did you even try to eat, or did you just start gagging?”
“Gagging.” Morning sickness had started three days ago, hitting her early and hard. Harmony had said the worse the morning sickness was, the less likely a woman was to miscarry; if that old wives’ tale was true, then Grace figured she could play ice hockey in her ninth month without any harm coming to the baby.
She touched her flat stomach. She was five weeks pregnant; she knew the exact date of conception. She would have the longest pregnancy in history, a baby conceived in 1322 and born in 1998. That was one for the record books.
At first it had seemed so unreal, that one night would result in a pregnancy, but when she remembered the night,
she wondered how she couldn’t have expected to get pregnant.
She thought of what Niall had said, of wanting a normal life, a wife and babies. Perhaps a normal life would never be his, but she carried his child and he didn’t even know it. He had isolated himself, allowing himself nothing but the burden of his responsibility. Would he want his child, or would he turn away?
He would want it, she thought. There was a great tenderness in him, and great passion. He had shown both of them to her. A man like that would adore his children. It would be criminal to keep such joy from him.
“Are you going back?” Harmony asked as they drove away from the cemetery.
“I think I have to. It may be a wasted trip, he may send me here again, but if he wants me I’ll stay.”
“Man,” Harmony breathed. “That must be luuuvvv. I mean, a woman givin’ up hot water and central heat, Chicago Hope and Sean Connery, pizza and enchiladas—a man better have somethin’ more to offer than a hot love stick, if you get my drift.”
“I get it,” Grace said, and found herself laughing. “He has a castle, too.”
“Yeah, but it’s drafty. Better make that a big, hot love stick. I dunno about leaving Sean Connery, but at least you’re tradin’ him for another Scotsman, and one you can lay hands on at that. Must be something in the water up there, growin’ men like that. So, when you gonna do the deed?”
“As soon as I can get back to Scotland, and Creag Dhu.”
“Reckon it’ll hurt the baby?”
Grace touched her stomach again, something she often did these days. “I’ve thought about that. I can’t think why it would. It’s low voltage, and the only effect I noticed was a little muscle soreness.”
“Want me to go with you to Scotland?”
“I’d like that. Have you thought about really going with me?”
“No way. I’ll miss you, Gracie; you lead a damn interestin’ life. But no way in hell am I givin’ up my modern conveniences for no love stick, I don’t care how big it is.”