Finally she closed in on them near the reception desk. The desk was situated in a corner, with an aisle all around it, but there was only one hallway open to the left. There was no way they could escape her. She would cut them off, by circling around to the left, and gather Catherine up—she weighed so little now!—and take her home, where she wanted to be.
But as she raced around and blocked the hallway, an elevator appeared in the previously solid wall, and the doctors rushed her mother in, glancing at Lisa reprovingly.
“Lisa!” Catherine cried, as the doors began to close.
Lisa pushed forward, straining against the suddenly thickened air that prevented her from moving. She watched in horror as the elevator door closed and her mother was lost to her forever.
ARMAND RODE SWIFTLY THROUGH THE FOREST AS DAWN broke over the high country, glancing frequently over his shoulder to ascertain that he wasn’t being followed. Renaud had been far too curious about his urge to go for a solitary ride beyond the walls, but Armand had told him he needed to meditate, that his faith was often renewed by the breaking day and he found his prayers more easily recited in God’s natural splendor.
Armand had rolled his eyes and cursed. God’s natural temple was not, nor would ever be, enough for him. Certainly not now, living in the abject poverty and humiliation he’d endured since the overthrow of their Order. He longed for a fine roof over his head, luxurious surroundings, wealth, and respect. He’d lost all of those things when they’d been driven out of France, ousted by King Philippe the Fair, who had desired the Templars’ wealth.
Many had coveted that wealth, and feared the Templars’ growing power, but only Philippe had been clever and avaricious enough—and had been owed enough political favors—to bring the mighty Order crashing to its knees. Being forced to his knees was not a position Armand could accept. His life had been precisely as he’d wanted it, and each day he’d come closer to the true secrets of the Order, becoming more trusted and taken into greater confidences. As Commander of Knights, he’d nearly been able to taste the privilege and power of the enticing inner circle he’d been laboring to penetrate. Then the false arrests had been made and the knights had been driven from their homeland. Only a barbaric, excommunicated king had been willing to grant them clemency. When the Order of Templars had been dissolved by papal decree in 1307, no order of suppression was issued in Scotland; and under Robert the Bruce, the Templars had sought haven and become the Militi Templi Scotia.
Ha, he thought morosely, more like the Minutiae Puppets Scotia, for they danced to a new king’s tune now, a king who, while he did not seek to take from them, had no wealth to confer upon them, no respect and no lands. They were fugitives, hunted and reviled.
But Armand Berard would not be so for long. The recent years of running and hiding, of pretending to keep the faith when the Order was so utterly destroyed, had firmed his resolve. His brother knights might cling to the absurd hope that they would be able to rebuild their Order in Scotland and eventually regain their prominence, but Armand knew better. The shining hour of the Knights Templar had passed.
He pitied his pious brothers, who believed that power was never to be used for personal gain. For what other reason would one ever use it?
He cursed and spat furiously. He’d been so close—so near the forbidden knowledge of the Templars’ true power.
Armand reined in his mount, ducking under a low-hanging limb and slowing to a trot as he entered the clearing. He nodded a greeting to the cloaked rider awaiting him there.
“What have you for us, Berard?”
Armand smiled. It had been impossible to get word to his co-conspirator, James Comyn, while stationed at Dunnottar, but he hadn’t had anything to tell him at the time. In the past week, however, he had come upon powerful information and knew it was a portent of good things to come. Armand Berard would sell his services for wealth and titles in England, and set about making up for lost time with wine, women, and weaving his way into the inner circles of Edward’s court, by whatever means were necessary. He was a muscular, attractive man, and word was that Edward had a special fondness for personal services from well-favored men. Armand smiled, pondering how he would bend the English king to his will.
“Have you been able to find out any more about Brodie?” the Comyn pressed impatiently.
Armand regarded the thin, sadistic face of his companion. Grizzled white brows arched over pale blue eyes that were far colder than the iciest loch. “Little. He is a private man and those closest to him do not speak of him freely.” Armand tightened his hold on the reins, soothing his mount to a standstill.
“Edward is advocating laying siege to his castle. He wants the hallows, Berard, and he grows impatient. Have you been able to confirm they are there?”
“As yet it is still rumor. But now that I am finally in his keep, I will be able to search thoroughly. That’s what Edward wanted, wasn’t it—a spy within his walls? Bid him be content that someone has finally managed to penetrate Brodie, and grant me time to search. It would be better that I find the spear and the sword than you storm his walls and try to take them,” Armand warned.
Find them he would, and then sell them to the highest bidder. The four hallows had been under the protection of the Templars until the Order fell. If he could now lay his hands on the Spear that Roars for Blood—the lance that had allegedly wounded Christ’s side—there would be no limit to the wealth and power he might obtain. If he also found the Sword of Light, rumored to blaze with holy fire when wielded, his future would be assured. Allegedly, the cauldron and the Stone of Destiny were also somewhere in Brodie’s keep. Now that he was being housed in the middle of that keep, Armand would not fail to exploit the opportunity.
To dissuade Edward’s men from attacking Castle Brodie before he located the hallows, he warned, “Brodie has fifty Templars in residence, in addition to his troops, and if he indeed possesses the sacred objects, he possesses the ability to crush you before you so much as breach his gate.”
The Comyn shifted irritably. “We know that. It has thus far restrained Edward’s hand.”
“Besides,” Armand added thoughtfully, “I wonder if he truly has them. If he did, one would think he would have turned them to Scotland’s aid long ago.”
“Perhaps he is as self-serving as you and keeps them for the power they give him. Or perhaps he is devout, and believes they may only be used for God’s will.”
“It scarce matters, for I now have the means to lure him forth,” Armand replied.
The Comyn straightened abruptly and snapped his fingers. “Information. Now.”
“It will cost you,” Armand said coldly. “Dearly.”
“Edward will pay dearly if you deliver Castle Brodie and its notorious master to us. I assume you have a price in mind?”
“No less than my weight in purest gold.”
“And what do you offer us for such an extravagance?”
“Circenn recently became betrothed, to one Lisa MacRobertson, who happens to be Robert the Bruce’s cousin by blood,” Armand said. “I will deliver her into your hands. How you destroy Brodie from there is your doing.”
James Comyn’s excitement was palpable, and it translated to his mount, who nickered and paced in skittish circles. Calming him with a thin white hand, Comyn kneed the horse close to Armand’s. “Is she fair?” he demanded, his eyes glittering.
“Extraordinarily,” Armand assured him, knowing the woman would beg for death at this man’s hands, long before it was granted. “She is well curved and lush. A fiery woman, too proud for her own good.”
The Comyn rubbed his hands. “Once we have her, Brodie will follow. Edward will delight in caging and quartering another of the Bruce’s kin.”
“I will bring her to you for the gold and a title and lands in England.”
“Greedy, are we not?” James mocked.
“If I bring the sword and spear, I may ask for the crown,” Armand said, with a chilly smile.
“For the sword and the spear, I might try to help you get it,” his companion purred.
Armand raised his hand in a mock salute. “To England.”
The Comyn smiled. “To England.”
Armand rode back to Castle Brodie well pleased. He need only entice the woman outside the walls of the castle, and his new life would begin.
* * *
Lisa sighed as she rummaged through the chest. Four days had passed since they’d arrived at Castle Brodie, and her quest to find the flask had not been successful. She was beginning to despair. The man could have a thousand hiding places in a castle so large. For all she knew, he might have buried it in the dungeon—which was one place she wasn’t in a hurry to see. She now understood the expression “looking for a needle in a haystack.” Castle Brodie had two floors, with dozens of other floors in the turrets and towers that popped up at unexpected intervals, and the wings circled around not one but four enclosed courtyards. Quite simply, the castle was so large it could take her a year to search every room thoroughly. She’d tried to think like Circenn, to put herself inside his mind, but that had proved impossible; the man was an enigma to her.
He’d carefully avoided her since their arrival and had meals sent up to her room. She had seen him stomping about the outer bailey with his men. Once, he’d glanced up as she’d watched him through a window, as if he’d felt her gaze. The smile he’d given her had bared teeth and not much more. His eyes had been distant, troubled. Defiantly, she’d blown him a kiss to agitate him. It had worked. He’d pivoted in a whirl of cloak and stalked away.
Lisa rubbed her temples and returned her attention to the chest she’d been digging through. She was better off not thinking about him.
“Here ye be, lassie. I was wondering where ye’d gotten off to in this drafty old castle.”
Lisa abruptly stopped poking through the chest and turned around. Her eyes felt gritty and heavy; she’d woken to a pillow wet from tears again this morning. She dimly recalled her dream—she’d been having horrible ones for days now, and she felt bruised from them. But her nightmares had galvanized her into action. She had to find the flask.
Her hands fell to her sides. Eirren stood a few paces away, leaning against a chair and watching her, his eyes bright with amusement.
“Have ye found what yer searching for?” he asked.
“I wasn’t searching for anything,” Lisa lied hastily. “I was merely admiring the room and wondering what treasures this chest might hold. I can’t help myself, I’m a curious girl,” she added breezily.
“Me mam used to tell me curiosity was one of the eight deadly sins.”
“There are only seven sins,” Lisa said defensively, “and curiosity can be a good thing. It encourages one to learn.”
“Me, I’ve ne’er wanted to learn much of anything,” Eirren said with a shrug. “Doin’ is much more fun than learnin’.”
“Spoken like a true male,” Lisa said dryly. “You are in dire need of a mam. Speaking of which, you and I have a date with warm water and soap later this afternoon.”
Eirren laughed and tossed himself into the chair. His thin legs protruded from beneath his dirty plaid and he dangled them over the side, bare feet swinging. “It’s not a bad castle, is it, lassie? Have ye seen the buttery? The laird stocks a fine larder and hosts a grander feast—that is, when he’s not planning wars and battling. There havna been many feasts in this castle for years now. Sad,” he added dejectedly. “A lad could starve for want of spiced plums and sugared hams.”
Lisa had a feeling that Eirren didn’t want for much of anything his clever little mind could deduce a method to obtain. “How did you get to Castle Brodie, Eirren? I don’t recall seeing you with the men when we were riding from Dunnottar.”
“Me and me da dinna leave till later that night. We doona travel with the troops. Me da is of the serving folk; it doesna sit well to mix with warriors.”
“Who is your da?” she asked.
“No one ye would ken,” he replied, leaping from the chair. “I hear the laird told his men ye were cousin to the Bruce,” Eirren said, changing the subject swiftly. “Is that the way of things?”
“No,” Lisa said, wondering why she trusted him enough to share confidences. Possibly because she had no one else to trust, and if she couldn’t trust a child, whom could she trust? “I told you I’m not from this time.”
“Did the fae folk muck about wi’ ye?”
“What?” Lisa asked blankly.
“The fairies—you ken we have ‘em in Scotland. Oft they are wily little folk, mussing about with time and whatnot better left alone.”
“Actually, it was the laird himself who’s responsible for my being here. He cursed something and it brought me to him when I touched it.”
Eirren shook his head disparagingly. “That man has ne’er cursed a thing well. Ye’d think he’d stop trying.”
“He’s cursed things before?” Lisa asked.
Eirren shook his head. “Doona be asking me, lassie. Ask him these questions. I only ken the few things I hear, and it’s not always the truth of the matter. I hear tell yer handfasted to the laird.”
“I’m not really. What does that mean anyway?”
“Means yer as good as wed, and if within a year an’ a day yer carrying his bairn, ‘tis a weddin’ without a weddin’ being needed. Are ye carryin’ his bairn?”
“No!” Lisa was certain she looked as appalled as she felt. Then she briefly considered what a child of his would be like, and how she would have to go about getting one. She drop-kicked the intriguing thought from her mind.
Eirren smiled gamely. “Ye can forgive curiosity, canna ye? Yer guilty of it as well. Would ye like to explore? I can give ye a wee tour before me da is needing me.”
“Thank you, Eirren, but I’m happy here.” She had to get back to her search and needed privacy to do it. “I thought I’d look through some of these manuscripts and pass the rainy afternoon in the … er … study.” What did one call a room like this? It was a medieval version of a modern den. A circular piece of wood served as a desk, for lack of a better word. It looked as if it had been hewn from a massive tree trunk and was nearly five feet in diameter. Centered before the hearth, it had smoothly rounded drawers that had surely been a woodcarver’s nightmare to create.
On either side of the hearth were recessed bookcases in which manuscripts bound in leather and rolled scrolls were neatly arranged on the shelves. Carved chairs with pillowed arms and cushions—someone in the keep was a clever seamstress—were strewn in cozy arrangements. Colorful tapestries adorned the walls, and the floor was dotted with woven rugs. It was obviously the room where Circenn tallied accounts, went through correspondence, and drew up maps and battle plans. The east wall was lined with tall windows, paned with a greenish glazed glass through which the green lawn was visible. Circenn Brodie was wealthy, that was a certainty, for in some of the rooms in the castle she’d seen clear windows.
“Suit yerself, lassie. I’ll be seeing ye before anon, I’m fair certain.” Eirren flashed her a grin and left as quickly and silently as he’d arrived.
“Wait—Eirren!” she called after him, hoping to set a time to meet with him later. The lad needed a bath, and she had a dozen questions to ask. She suspected his cheerful demeanor was much as hers—a façade shielding a lonely heart—and she believed he would welcome her mothering once he grew accustomed to it.
She would track him down in a few hours, she decided, but for now it was back to the business at hand: Where would Circenn hide the flask? She had no doubt he’d secreted it away as soon as they’d arrived. She had tried to watch what he did with his pack when they’d entered the castle, and had last seen it lying beside the door, but it had been gone the next morning when she’d sneaked down to begin her search. Whatever was in the silvery container must be extraordinarily valuable for him to be so careful with it. Was it indeed a potion to manipulate time? Was he blatantly lying to her about whether he could return her?
She might consider drinking whatever it contained once she found it; perhaps the contents were magic.
She rummaged through the chest, sorting past ledgers. A few lumpy cushions, throws, and balls of thick thread had been casually tossed in with the mix. Nearing the bottom, she uncovered a sheaf of papers filled with slanted scrawl. The words looked angry, as had the words carved on top of the chest in the museum.
“Have you found what you seek, Lisa?” Circenn Brodie asked quietly.
Lisa dropped the papers back into the chest, closed her eyes, and sighed. With a gazillion rooms in this castle, everyone seemed hell-bent on joining her in this one. “I was getting a blanket out of the chest”—she snatched up a plaid that had been folded near the top—“when one of my earring backs came off,” she lied splendidly.
“You are not wearing ear rings, lass,” he said, breaking it into two distinct words, eyeing her ears. “On either ear,” he said impassively.
Lisa clutched at her ears, then nearly assaulted the chest in a frenzied search. “Oh heavens, they both fell off,” she cried. “Can you believe that?”
She flinched when his strong hands settled upon her waist as she bent over the chest. “No,” he said quietly. “I cannot. Why doona you simply tell me what you are looking for, lass? Perhaps I can help you. I know the castle well. It is mine, after all.”
Lisa straightened slowly; she hadn’t fooled him for a moment. She was excruciatingly aware of his presence behind her, could feel the brush of his chest against her back. His hands were hot through the fabric of her gown. She glanced down, and the sight of his elegant fingers curving around her waist quickened her breath. “You don’t need to touch me to talk to me,” she said softly. She wasn’t in full command of her mental faculties when Circenn touched her, and she needed every ounce of her wits to deal with him.