"Oh, my . . ." Rachel murmured, her eyes widening as she scanned the murk-stricken room, a single ray of gray light filtering through the dark burgundy drapes that swallowed the floor-to-ceiling windows.
An enormous four-poster bed commanded attention in the center of the room, swathed in a canopy that matched the drapes. A massive fireplace dominated the length of one wall, the hearth charred by eons of soot that lent an acrid smell to the air.
"Ye'll be needin' that tae warm yerself on cold nights," Fergus said when she moved to stand in front of the empty grate. "And we have plenty of them--cold nights, I mean. I stacked up some logs and kindlin' for ye."
"Thank you." Rachel rubbed her arms for warmth, but the chill went deeper, and felt as if it had become a permanent part of her.
Fergus deposited her suitcase on the bed while she drifted to the window, parting the curtains to look out at the view, or what little she could see of it, cloaked as it was in a mist that crept across the landscape like a living entity.
Though nearly noon, the sky had darkened severely. Beyond the patches of descending fog, the black clouds roiled just above the treetops. The air felt ominously still, and heavy.
Fergus scuffled up beside her, his gaze wandering the moors, his wizened face creased with worry. "Looks like we're in for it. Gets this way now and again--cold collidin' with heat. They're comin' late this year--the storms, I mean. The missus says it's 'cause of that El Nino. Maybe." He shrugged. "Maybe not. Weather 'round here been strange for a while. Damn air feels electrified half the time. Hard to breathe. More so here at Glengarren," he added, sliding a wary glance in her direction, to which she tried to show no reaction, even though that look chilled her.
He shifted his gaze, bringing her attention to the octagonal dovecote by the west side of the house. "Six-hundred-forty nesting boxes it has," he told her. "Though there ain't no doves in there now--nor any mongrels in the kennel. Haven't been none of either since the old master's son lived here. He's a fancy lawyer in Edinburgh now. Reckon he finds the gloom of this old place depressin' compared tae the glitter of the city. Good lad, though. Came tae see his father whenever he could. That's his room there across the hall."
Rachel glanced over her shoulder at the closed door across from hers, then looked at Fergus. "So is that where he is now? In Edinburgh?"
"Aye. Brought his father there tae keep the old gent close by." Fergus shook his head. "Sad it is, all comin' tae an end like this. First the elder gettin' ill, and now the castle passin' from the family. Ye're the last guest The master is givin' it tae the town of Inverness as an historical landmark, which it rightly is, mind ye.
" 'Tis said Bonnie Prince Charles once stayed here for two days shortly afore the ragin' battle of Culloden Moor." Fergus pointed toward a tall cairn in the distance. "Many a restless Scottish spirit resides beneath the soil of Culloden. Brave men who fought and died for what they believed in. It's them very souls who roam these grounds . . . accordin' tae some."
A chill washed over Rachel, as did a pang of sadness as she thought about all the lost souls interred in a mass grave, outnumbered nearly two to one in that bloody battle, if she recalled correctly.
" 'Tis a shame, I tell ye. Glengarren has been owned by one MacGregor or the other for over two-hundred-fifty years. His lordship--a right handsome lad, if I say so m'self--still don't have himself a missus. No MacGregor heir tae carry on the family name." Fergus sighed. " 'Tis a shame indeed."
It seemed a shame to Rachel as well, and infinitely bittersweet, like something coming to an end that shouldn't be. Now, more than ever, she was glad she had taken the trip to Scotland. This was Glengarren's last Christmas, and Rachel would, in some way, be able to share this with her parents.
"What are those?" she asked, gesturing to a ring of mist-shrouded stones standing erect near the bluff.
Fergus's cheeks drained of color, and he backed away from the window. "Those be the Destiny Stones," he said in a muted voice.
Destiny Stones. The name conjured up images as dark and mysterious as everything else she had encountered thus far. "How long have they been there?"
" 'Tis claimed they were erected in the time of the druids."
Rachel had read about such stones. Supposedly, prophets and sorcerers used them during sacred rituals, the circle possessing some sort of mythical symbolism.
" 'Twas near that very spot Duncan MacGregor was cut down. Story is, he was laid tae rest amid that ring of stones. His survivin' army buried him there in the hopes the magic of them rocks would bring him back--in spirit, if not in body--so he could lead them into the fray against stinkin Willy, the Hanoverian king."
An image arose in Rachel's mind of the magnificent Highland warrior depicted on the canvas downstairs. How tragic to have been killed in the very shadow of his home.
For a moment, she allowed her romantic heart to overcome her practical mind and wonder what it would have been like to know such a man, someone fierce and brave, who fought for the things he believed in, and who would give his life for those he loved.
Rachel suspected he would love just as fiercely as he had lived, though he would not give his heart lightly. But when he finally did, he would bestow it fully, without restrictions or reservations.
What might it feel like to be loved in such a way? To be so completely a part of another person? To know a soul-deep devotion, like the kind her parents had once shared?
She was twenty-seven now, and had begun to doubt she would ever find someone she could trust with her heart. There had always been something missing in the men she had dated, few and far between as they were.
Or perhaps the problem lay with her. Perhaps she simply wanted too much--her expectations of what the man of her dreams would be like too high. As yet, no man had come close.
"Well, I'll leave ye tae yer unpacking," Fergus said, breaking into Rachel's musing. "But first I'll get a fire goin' for ye."
With surprising efficiency, he had the hearth ablaze in minutes, and Rachel eagerly warmed her hands in front of the crackling flames.
"I'll come by and check on ye in a day or so and see how ye're farin'. The larder's been filled, so ye need not worry about that. I only live about a mile down the road, if ye need me." He eyed her for a long moment, as if hesitant to leave. Then finally he turned, giving her one more uneasy glance over his shoulder before shuffling out, the door groaning shut behind him.
Rachel shook off the disturbing feeling Fergus's look had left her with and regarded her suitcase with ambivalence. As if compelled, her gaze drifted back to the view outside the window, to the ominous ring of standing stones.
She shivered as strange sounds carried to her on the wind, raising the hair on the back of her neck. She admonished herself, certain Fergus's dire statements had played tricks on her mind.
And yet, she felt as though she could really hear the muted clash of steel against steel, the distant shouts of men, of chaos, of a battle to the bitter end . . . and the bellowing war cry of a solitary male voice.
A man fighting savagely to save all he held dear.
WITH MIDNIGHT CAME THE WINDS, moaning through the eaves and battering the ramparts with frigid fists, chilled air seeping through cracks.
Rachel lay bundled beneath the down comforter, shivering, too cold to focus on the old book she had purchased the day before. It lay forgotten on her lap as thoughts of her parents occupied her, remembering how they had once embraced these primitive surroundings.
Certainly, there was a romance about the place that intrigued her as well, filling her with an odd restlessness, an inexplicable eagerness to traipse the winding hallways and snoop through the dusty alcoves.
Still, the prospect of exploration did not alleviate the nagging sense of disquiet she felt in that moment. The import of her staying here, alone, sunk into her every nerve ending as soon as Fergus had departed.
Again came the wind, slamming against the windows. Then a sound . . .
Swallowing, Rachel je
rked upright against the pillows, starting violently when the banging sounded once more.
Sliding from the bed, her feet landing gently upon the cold floor, she crept toward the closed bedroom door, one hand clutching her flannel pajama top, the other shaking slightly as she tugged at the tarnished knob that clicked and creaked as she turned it.
Darkness loomed. A scurry of wind rushed at her from nowhere and crept up her pajama legs like damp, icy talons, making her tremble.
Afraid to breathe, she moved down the corridor, apprehension curling around her. The noise came again, intermingling with the rattle of the wind, lifting the hair on her nape and brushing her face.
Soon the foyer opened up around her, lit by a solitary iron lamp on the wall, a twisted multipronged girandole that had been renovated to burn flame-shaped bulbs as opposed to tallow candles.
Bang!
Rachel jumped, but caught herself before she spun around and retreated on winged feet back to her room. Her gaze locked on a distant window, where the drapes billowed from the walls like restless spirits in the throes of eternal damnation.
The shutters rapped against the outside wall, the wind whistling through a broken pane. With a sigh of relief and a nervous laugh, Rachel quickly padded over to the window, shoved it open, and then secured the shutter, locking it in place with a rusty hook.
"See, there's a logical explanation for everything," she murmured, forcing herself to relax.
It was then the first rumbling of thunder rolled through the house, growling like the distant beat of bass drums, vibrating the floor and reverberating through her body.
Beyond the wall of midnight, a burst of lightning briefly illuminated the churning clouds that shifted through the treetops like cloaked marauders.
Fergus had been correct on one count The air felt charged, as if tiny electrical currents were pulsing on her nerve endings. Breathing in that moment was difficult, as if she were trying to inhale through a wet wool blanket.
Panicked, she turned . . . and froze, her heart climbing up her throat, the air leaving her in a rush as her eyes locked with those of the warrior in the portrait, blue eyes shining with the girandole's light.
The painting appeared to float in the semidarkness, or perhaps it was she who moved as the Highlander's gaze drew her in. She stood before him, slightly hypnotized by his presence, a strange longing rising within her.
He was beautiful. A perfect example of pure, unadulterated male. That such a man had once thrived within these walls filled her with a heat that supplanted the ache of cold in her bones. To have known him. Touched him. Loved him, perhaps.
The fact that he no longer existed stirred a forlornness inside her, a sense of desperate loss, and a need that, until that moment, had gone unacknowledged in her mind . . . and in her heart.
"Duncan," she whispered, the sound of her voice a haunting echo in the dark, seeping out into the cold night where a wild tempest brewed, swirling with the wind . . . and beyond.
chapter
2
NO DOUBT IT WAS HER strange reaction to the portrait that prompted Rachel to return to the tattered history book on her bedside table and huddle deeply beneath the down comforter to read, doing her best to tune out the wind whipping against the windows and the growl of thunder; its inimical force resonated just beneath her skin and entrenched itself within her every fiber.
Something about the painting had caused a tendril of desperation to blossom in her heart, a need to know as much as possible about the virile man who had once roamed these dark halls; to understand what things had moved him, what battles he felt were worth fighting and why. Had Glengarren always emanated such a bleak and unforgiving aspect? Or had there once been laughter? Even love?
Rachel glanced toward the dying fire. The sputtering flames danced with invisible gusts of air, while the unsettling howl and groan of the elements pounded relentlessly against the house.
A log crackled and shifted, expelling a vivid blue flame from the embers, the color reminding her of Duncan MacGregor's eyes.
Opening the book on her lap, her gaze skimmed much as she searched for tidbits about the man whose face had surfaced in her mind for much of the day.
She was not surprised to discover that he had been a heroic figure and a leader of men. His clan's fiercest enemies had been the Gordons, whose lands bordered the MacGregor's. Many conflicts had arisen from the Gordons reiving MacGregor livestock.
One of their bloodiest skirmishes occurred when the Gordons instigated a sneak attack on Glengarren in the middle of the night . . . the twenty-fifth of December, 1745.
"Christmas Day," Rachel murmured, her heart increasing in tempo as she read the passage.
From the characteristic bravery of the MacGregors, and their disdain of death, it is reasoned that those who perished on the field of battle did not yield their lives without a desperate struggle.
But history has preserved one case of individual valor in the person of Duncan MacGregor, which deserves to be recorded in every history book relating to Scotland and the Highlanders.
This man, who is represented to have been of the enormous stature of six feet four inches and a half, was beset by Gordon and his men.
Fierce combat between the two chiefs ultimately found Gordon mortally wounded. Legend has it that, as Gordon lay dying, he vowed revenge against his foe, and with his last bit of strength, he stumbled toward Glengarren, torch in hand, setting the east wing ablaze.
MacGregor, who had charged back into the fray, fought with his target and claymore against the onslaught of warriors who crowded upon him, enraged by his killing of their laird and the widespread destruction he had wrought among their comrades, twelve of whom lay slain at his feet
Though the Gordons were bested that night, Glengarren was partially destroyed, and MacGregor had neither the funds nor the time to begin rebuilding before he was called upon by Charles Stuart to rally the Highland chiefs to fight against "The Butcher," William Augustus, son of King George II.
MacGregor was instrumental in gaining the support of the clans, and fought tirelessly to restore a Stuart to the throne, though neither the cause, nor MacGregor's life, would accomplish this feat.
At the Battle of Culloden Moor, he was overtaken by a group of the king's men, who had targeted him specifically. MacGregor was cut down, though not before taking a few of the soldiers with him. He fought to the end, but finally died from his wounds in the early morning hours on the seventeenth of April, 1746.
Tears blurred Rachel's vision, and she could read no more. Her heart filled with despair for a man she never knew, a man who had died in the very prime of his life.
A single, scalding tear dropped from her lashes as she laid her head back on the pillow, gazing once more into the waning fire, images of Duncan MacGregor stalking her mind as her eyelids slowly began to droop, the potent elixir of sleep tugging her down beneath its intoxicating weight . . . down into a world of dark and disturbing dreams.
RACHEL AWOKE WITH A VIOLENT START. Thunder rolled from colliding clouds and crashed against the house with such force that she covered her ears and sank against the pillows, certain the walls were caving in on her.
The bed vibrated. The window glass shook. Lit by the sudden fire of lightning bolts, the room gyrated with specters of three-dimensional shadows.
It was then she heard the cries.
Shouts of fear and anger. Clashing steel. The plaintive wail of a solitary bagpipe. All interspersed with the crack of thunder and howl of wind that rang out like the unearthly keening of a soul newly damned.
Again the cries . . . louder, harsher. The screams sluiced through her heart like a knife blade.
Flinging back her blankets, she hit the floor running, mindless of the frigid wood beneath her bare feet and the biting air that struck her pajama-clad body. Someone was in trouble. In pain.
In terror.
She swiped at the light switch--nothing. She stumbled into the pitch-black corridor, the draft of
cold air like an ice fist against her face.
Again the shouts--more distinct, before drowning in another onslaught of crashing thunder that made her duck and cover her head, crouching against the wall, shivering in fear of an unknown threat, a force that pulsed in the very air, thick and menacing . . . and drawing nearer.
A jagged bolt of lightning flashed through the window, propelling Rachel to her feet and into a wild flight down the hall.
Confused by the dark and the ear-shattering cacophony, she turned round and round, frantically groping for a stronghold as the night closed in on her in suffocating blackness.
Blindly, she stumbled forward, falling to her knees, pushing on, racing toward the staircase, her ears burning with the intermittent cries that floated to her upon waves of pummeling thunder and blasts of wind.
Halfway down the staircase, she froze, Fergus's warnings suddenly blazing as brilliantly in her mind as the lightning electrifying the sky.
Leave these dreary walls and lonely shadows to the souls who've occupied Glengarren for the last centuries.
Panic surged. Rachel's gaze swept the darkness, eyes aching and body rigid as she expected to discover herself besieged by wailing poltergeists--white mists of formless shapes easing in through the jagged fissures and age-old chinks in the stone, no force on earth able to keep them out.
No! The shouts were not coming from inside the house, but from outside. Someone had gotten caught up in the storm. Perhaps the river had flooded--or worse.
By the sounds of the agonized howls, surely every resident of the nearby village must have fled for Glengarren's higher grounds.
Throwing open the front door, Rachel staggered back, bludgeoned by a tunnel of wind--warm and cold, exploding into the house with the force of a tidal wave.
The shouts drummed against her ears like a radio blasting, swirling around her like an orchestra of screeching, tuneless instruments, wrenching from her what little coherent thought she had clung to in the last horrifying moments.
The night boiled. Above her. Around her. Crawling over her skin like needles--painful and burning as she fought her way toward the melee, her path illuminated by sporadic bursts of crimson-hued lightning, unnatural and terrifying.