Lightning suddenly flared beyond the gauzy drapes that covered the door to the widow’s walk. It was an actual balcony, she thought, not a little turret area, as was found in the master’s chambers.
Immediately after, thunder cracked. The wooden door that led outward to the old stone area swung in with a loud bang as the wind blew it open with a vengeance. She hopped up and hurried over to the door. It was a nasty night, not the kind she had imagined here!
She closed the door with an effort and bolted it. Staring through the slender openings of the arrow slits, she saw another flash of lightning. She should count her blessings that they hadn’t been thrown out that night.
She gave up on the fire and curled into the canopied bed, then hopped up again. The only light switch for the room was apparently right next to the bathroom.
With it out, she was plunged into a darkness so deep it was unnerving. Shaking her head, she opened the bathroom door, turned the light on, hesitated, then left the door on her side of the room ajar—she would have killed herself trying to get into bed in the pure ink that had filled the room.
Was she being an idiot? No, this fellow truly had no interest in her. Maybe she should be insulted, she thought wryly. At five-nine, with deep blue eyes and light hair that had deepened over the years to a dark blond, she was usually considered to be attractive. But apparently not to the ogre in the next room.
Bruce MacNiall. She must have heard the name somewhere.
Lying in the great bed, she shivered as she hadn’t shivered in years.
No! It was not some kind of precognition coming back to her. She had stopped all that years ago, closed her mind, be cause she had willed that it would be so!
Still…
She tossed and turned, wishing that there was a television in the room. Or a fire. Watching the flames would have been nice.
Her mind kept racing, denying that this could be happening when they had tried so hard to do things right. There had to be a mistake. There had to be some thing to do!
How had she come up with the name Bruce MacNiall?
At last, she drifted to sleep.
Bruce had just lain down when he heard the ear-piercing scream. Instinct brought him bolt-awake, leaping from the bed. A second’s disorientation was quickly gone as he heard a second cry of terror.
It was coming from the next room.
He raced through the connecting bathroom to see his uninvited guest sitting up in the bed, pointing in front of her, a look of terror on her face.
“Miss Fraser…Toni! What is it?”
He realized only then that she wasn’t really awake. Racing to her, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. Her reaction stunned him. She jerked from his hold and leaped with an incredibly lithe and agile motion to her feet and stared down at him.
She was a rather amazing sight, mane of gold hair caught in the pale light, shimmering like a halo around her delicate, refined features. Her eyes were the size of saucers, and in the soft-colored flannel gown, she might have been a misplaced Ophelia.
Something hard inside him wondered just what new act she was up to now. Something else felt a moment’s softness. The terror in her eyes seemed real. For the first time she seemed vulnerable.
“Toni,” he said firmly, stretching out his arms to catch her around the middle and lift her down. “Toni! Wake up!”
She stared at him blankly.
“Toni!”
With a jolt, she blinked and stared straight at him.
He thought she was going to scream again. Instead, she blinked once more and quickly stepped back, eyeing him up and down. Luckily he had donned a long pair of men’s cotton pajama pants.
“I think you were dreaming,” he said.
She frowned, flushed and bit her lower lip. “I screamed?”
“Like an alley cat,” he informed her. He stepped back himself. In this pale light, in this strange moment, he suddenly realized just how arresting a woman she was. Not just beautiful, but fascinating. Eyes so intensely blue, bone structure so perfect and refined, her mouth so generous. Her features seemed carefully drawn, as if they had been defined by an artist. And despite the vivid color of her hair and her eyes, there was a darkness about them, as well.
“I woke you,” she murmured. “My deepest apologies.”
“I wasn’t actually sleeping, but I am surprised you didn’t wake the entire castle. Or maybe you did,” he added. He couldn’t refrain from a dry smile. “Maybe they’re creeping down the hall now, afraid to come in and find out what’s happening.” He left her and walked to the door, opened it and looked out. Then he shrugged. “Well, castle walls have been known to keep the sounds of the tortured from traveling too far.”
She still stood there, tall, elegant, strangely aloof. He found that he was annoyed to be so concerned. She seemed to be the head of this wretched gang that had the gall to “invent” history and entertain others with their perception of the past. “Are you all right?” he asked her.
“I just… I’m fine. And I’m truly sorry.” Her words were sincere. Her eyes were still too wide. And she seemed to be afraid of something.
Him? No. Something in her nightmare?
Bruce hesitated. Leave! he told himself. He didn’t want them here. Lord, with everything else going on…
She shivered as she stood there. That was his undoing.
“The wretched room is freezing. Why didn’t you build yourself a fire?” he demanded.
“I…”
The uncertainty seemed so unlike her. She’d been a tigress, arguing with him before. Impatiently he strode to the fireplace, dug behind the poker stand for kindling, laid it over the logs and struck a match. Hunkered down, he took hold of the poker to press it deeper into the pile of wood. He wondered if that had been a mistake, if she was going to think that he’d turn and take the poker to her.
But she was still standing, just as he had left her. To his sincere dismay, he felt a swift stir of arousal. The flannel should have hung around her like a tent, but it was sheer enough for the light to play with form and shadow. And there was that hair…long, lustrous, blond, curling around her shoulders and breasts.
“A drink. You need a drink,” he told her. Hell, he needed one.
She lifted a hand suddenly, obviously regaining some of her composure. “Sorry, I don’t have any.”
“Thankfully you didn’t jimmy the wardrobe,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”
He went back through the bathroom and opened the wardrobe, found the brandy and poured two glasses from the left-hand shelf. Returning to the bride’s room, he found that she had taken a seat in one of the old upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace.
He handed her a glass. She accepted it, her blue eyes speculatively on him. “Thanks,” she told him.
“They say it will cure what ails you,” he told her, lifting his glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” she returned. A little shiver snaked through her as she took a long swallow. “Thanks,” she said again.
He set his glass on the mantel, hunkered down and adjusted the logs again. A nice warmth was emanating from the blaze now.
He stood, collected his glass again and took the chair by her side.
“So…do you want to talk about it?”
A twisted smile curled her lips. She looked at him. “Sure. It was you.”
“Me! I swear, I never left that room,” he protested.
“I know. It was very strange. It was as if I had wakened and…there you were. Only, it wasn’t really you. It was you—as you might have been—in historical costume. It was very, very real. Absolutely vivid.”
“So I was just standing there, in historical costume? Well, I can see where that might be a bit unsettling, but those screams… It sounded as if the devil himself had arrived.”
She flushed slightly.
“You were in more than costume.”
“Oh?”
“Were it a picture, the caption might have read, ‘Speak soft
ly and carry a very big and bloody sword,’” she said.
“Ah. So I was about to lop off your head. Sorry, I may be irritated and rude, but I do stop short at head-lop ping,” he told her, then turned, getting comfortable in the chair. “Don’t you think you might have gotten a bit carried away with your historical fiction?”
“I have to admit, I’ve scared myself a bit,” she murmured. “I made up a Bruce MacNiall, only to find out that he exists. Well, in the here and now, that is.”
Bruce shook his head, wary now. “You must have known some of the local history.”
“No, not really. We hadn’t ever been to this area when we decided to attempt this venture,” she assured him.
It sounded as if she was telling the truth. And yet…
He swirled the brandy in his glass, studying the color. Then he looked at her again. She couldn’t be telling the truth.
“There was a Bruce MacNiall who fought with the Cavaliers. He opposed the armies Cromwell led and beat them mercilessly many times. At first, he even survived Cromwell’s reign. But he and some other Scottish lairds kept at it, wanting to bring Charles II back from Europe and see him crowned king. He was eventually caught when one of the lairds supposedly on his side turned coat. That man was killed by MacNiall’s comrades, but unfortunately MacNiall rode into a trap and was caught himself. He had defied the reigning power, which was Cromwell. You know the penalty for that. He received every barbarity of the day that was reserved for traitors.”
She turned to him, blue eyes enormous. Then she closed them and leaned back, looking ashen.
“Hey, sorry. It’s history. I didn’t get the sense that you had a weak stomach.”
She shook her head. “I don’t,” she said flatly, and he realized that the particular history he was giving her was more disturbing to her than it was to him.
She looked at him. “He didn’t murder his wife in a fit of jealousy, did he?”
Bruce shrugged, watching her closely. “No one knows. There was some rumor that she kept company with a certain Cromwellian soldier—whether true or a pure invention, I don’t know—and that she disappeared from the castle. It’s historical fact that MacNiall was castrated, disemboweled, hanged, beheaded and generally chopped to pieces. But as to his wife, no one knows for certain. She disappeared from history, right when he was caught. He was trapped in the forest. And executed there, after a mock trial. At the time he died, he had a teenage son running with Charles II in France. Very soon after MacNiall’s execution, Cromwell died, and the people, very weary of being good, were anxious to ask him back to take the throne. Charles proved to be a very entertaining king, and a truly interesting man. He might have dallied with dozens of mistresses, but he steadfastly refused to consider a divorce from his wife. So after him, his brother be came king, and that was another disaster for history to record.”
“It’s…horrible!” Toni said.
He smiled grimly. “From what I hear, you didn’t mind fleecing the public with such a horrible story.”
“But it wasn’t true when I told it!” she protested.
He waved a hand in the air impatiently. “Say you’re telling me the truth—”
“Are you accusing me of lying?” she demanded indignantly. The anger was back in her eyes.
“I don’t know you, do I?” he asked politely. “But even if you think you’re telling the truth, it’s quite possible that you heard the story somewhere else. Because you made it up to a tee.”
She waved a hand in the air. “The land belonged to the MacNialls. And if there is anyone famous in Scottish history, it’s Robert the Bruce. Bruce. A very common name here!”
“Aye, that’s true. But you went a step further.”
“How?”
He stared at her. She was either the finest actress in the world, or she really didn’t know.
“MacNiall’s wife,” he said slowly, watching her every reaction.
“You just said that history didn’t know about her!”
“Aye, that’s true enough.”
“Then…?”
“Her name,” Bruce said softly.
“Lady MacNiall. That would be fairly obvious!” she said disdainfully.
“No, Toni. Her first name. Her given name. Annalise.”
3
Could anyone act so well, or even lie with such aplomb?
“What?” Her eyes were saucers, and her color was as close to pure white as he had ever seen on a human being.
“Annalise. Our famous—or infamous—Bruce MacNiall was indeed married to an Annalise.”
She shook her head. “I swear to you, I had no idea! It has to be…chance. Coincidence. Okay, the most absurd coincidence imaginable, but…I honestly have never heard this story before. Stories like it, sure—your ancestor wasn’t the only man to meet such a fate.”
He wondered if she was trying to convince him or herself.
“Aye, that’s true enough,” he said. She was an audacious interloper in his home, he reminded himself. And yet… At this particular moment, he couldn’t add to her distress. She needed some color back. Hell, she could pass out on him at any moment. She could be such a little demon, as self-righteous as Cromwell himself. But right now, she was simply far too vulnerable, and that vulnerability was calling out to whatever noble and protective virtues he might possess.
“Yes, it’s true!” she said, desperately clinging to his words. “I’ve been to Edinburgh. I’ve seen the tomb built for Montrose, who was a Cavalier and who sided with the king, finally meeting his end in such a manner. And there were others…but I had no idea there was really a MacNiall! Or,” she added, wincing, “an Annalise. Look!” She sat up straight, finding her backbone again, and stared at him with sudden hostility. “We did not come here to mock your precious history or your family. I am telling you, I did not know about your MacNiall or that he might have even existed!”
“Well, he did,” he said flatly, and stared at the flames, anger filling him again. He loved this place. Granted, he hadn’t given it much attention lately. Though he’d always intended to do so, there was always something else that needed to be done first. And now, with everything that had been going on…
“Don’t you understand?” she demanded. “There’s never been anything the least disrespectful in what we wanted to do. Every one of us came here and simply fell in love with the country. Unfortunately none of us is in dependently wealthy. Gina, however, is a marketing genius. She decided that she could take all of our talents and market them. That way, we could acquire a castle, work hard and give some of the magic to the public.”
“Stupid idea,” he murmured hotly, looking at the fire again.
“It’s not a stupid idea!” she protested. “You saw how the people came.”
“The locals will never enjoy such a spectacle.”
“Maybe not, but the shows aren’t intended for the locals. They will help the economy all around, don’t you see that? People who come to the castle for the history, the splendor or even the spectacle will spend money in other places. It will be good for local stores, for restaurants…for everyone around.”
“I don’t agree,” he said, fighting the rise of his temper again.
“Then you’re a fool.”
“Oh, really?”
“Indeed, a blind fool!” She turned toward him, no longer ashen, passion in her voice, fire in her eyes. “You saw those people when they left here! They were thrilled. And they loved Scotland. Don’t you want people to love your country?”
“Not a mockery of it,” he told her.
“I told you, we’re not mocking it!” She shook her head, growing aggravated. “Others give tours of the closes and graveyards in Edinburgh. People are fascinated. We like to think that we’ve come far from doing horrible things to one another, even under the pretext of law. We’re not saying that the Scots were especially brutal, we’re explaining that it was just a different time!”
“Voyeurs!” he said roughly, waving a hand i
n the air. “And that’s Edinburgh. A big city. We’re talking about a small village here.”
“It’s hard these days to buy a castle in the middle of town,” she said sarcastically.
“Many people don’t want to be reminded of mayhem and murder,” he said.
She let out a sigh of exasperation. “Don’t you ever do anything for fun?” she asked him. “Have you ever seen a movie? A play? Gone to the opera?”
He looked at the fire again. “The point is, this is a small, remote village. It could be a dangerous place for tourists to wander.”
“Dangerous!” she said dismissively.
He felt tension welling in him.
“There are forests, crags and bogs. Hillsides. Crannies and cairns. Places where the footing is treacherous at best,” he said. “Places that are remote, dark and, aye, believe me, dangerous.” His own argument sounded weak even to him.
Maybe he was a fool for being so suspicious, wary…when he need not be. But the lasses were gone, were they not?
Gone. Two of them. Found dead. Here.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.
He had no intention of trying to explain what had happened, or why he was so concerned. Even Jonathan Tavish thought it was a problem for others, for big-city authorities. After all, the women had not disappeared from here. They had just been found here.
“Antoinette Fraser,” he said suddenly, determined to change the subject. “So…your father was Scottish, or Scottish-American?”
“He was half, but born here. His dad married during the war. On his side, my grandmother was French. My mother was Irish.”
“Was?”
“I lost her my first year of college.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“And your father?”
“I lost him, too,” she said softly. “A few years ago. His heart gave out. I think that he missed my mother, actually.”
“I’m sorry again.”
“Thanks.” She hesitated, then asked, “If you are the laird, then…?”
“Indeed, my parents went together. An automobile accident in London.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.