Desire Me (39 page)

“I don’t know. You’re quite a lot of trouble,” she said.

“Says the woman whose destiny involved a world-ending prophecy.”

She smiled. “Yes. I would love to be your wife.”

“I love you, Sabine.”

“You don’t know how I’ve longed to hear you say that,” she said. She tried to sit up, but winced from the pain. “I think I
might need a few stitches.”

Her aunts, who had been standing behind Max crying, began to laugh.

“I’ll get the kit,” Calliope said.

“I thought you left,” Sabine said.

“You were in danger,” Agnes said. “I could feel it. So we rushed back.”

“What happened to the Chosen One?” Sabine asked. “Is he dead?”

“Yes, you killed him.” Max shook his head. “I broke the spear off and pulled it out of both of you.”

Calliope came back in with the basket, but Agnes stopped her from moving forward. “Give them a moment,” she said.

“It’s finally over,” he said.

“I love you, Maxwell Barrett.” Sabine reached up and cupped his cheek. “I hated the thought of dying without telling you.”

“Well, then you’ll simply have to make certain I know that every day for the rest of my life,” he said.

“I promise.”

Loch Ness, Scotland, 1881

T
hunder crashed, and fat, heavy raindrops pelted Graeme Langford as he plunged the oars into the cold, murky depths of Loch
Ness. The muscles in his arms burned from rowing. The storm made the loch choppy and his work more difficult. Still he rowed.

He could see the rocky beach ahead in the distance, and the hills that rose behind the shore. Somewhere in those hills, he’d
find the abbey. A foolish, wealthy American had recently purchased the crumbling estate and intended to restore it to its
former glory. They were supposed to start construction next week, so Graeme had little time to find what he sought before
it was too late.

The small boat rocked against the angry waves, and Graeme fought against the current. His progress was slow and he was damp
to his bones. Clearly life in London
was making him soft. Eventually he made his way to the beach. He jumped out and pulled
the boat onto the shore.

The last ribbons of light hid behind the storm’s clouds, limiting visibility, but he’d climbed these hills often enough to
do so in limited light. He secured his bag across his body and started up into the hills. The Highlands weren’t mountains;
he’d seen true mountains in Spain. Still, the rocky hillsides were treacherous, so he minded his steps carefully. The rain
slowed and the thunder softened as the storm faded into the distance.

The crisp autumn air filled Graeme’s lungs as he climbed up the hill. As raw and untamed as parts of Scotland remained, he
loved this land. Loved the history and the rough terrain, loved the people and their lore. Half of him rightfully belonged
here, his mother’s blood, but it was his father’s English blood that ruled his life. Four years earlier, when his father had
fallen ill and died, Graeme had taken his place as the Duke of Rothmore. And he did his duty as an English lord, though he
longed for time to spend in his beloved Scotland.

It was what drove his quest, his burning desire to find and restore what rightfully belonged to Scotland—the Stone of Destiny,
a biblical relic that held mysterious powers. It had belonged to the Scottish monarchy for hundreds of years before it had
been stolen by the English, though Graeme had recently come to believe that the stone the English took was a counterfeit.
He intended to be the one to locate the original stone. According to his latest research, there was a book he needed to complete
his quest. And it lay somewhere within the dilapidated walls of this old, abandoned abbey.

As if his mind had conjured the image, a massive stone structure lay before him, nestled into the next hill. No
wonder the
monks had left this desolate and secluded location. But Graeme was not alone. The workers were already here, or at least their
equipment was, as it littered the hillside. They were early, which meant he just might be too late.

With night falling, it seemed unlikely the men would still be working, so Graeme crept closer. His listened intently for the
sound of voices, but heard nothing. Finally he reached the inner sanctum of the abbey. He pulled at the huge arched wooden
door and it opened with an echoing creak. Darkness surrounded him. From his bag, he withdrew a simple beeswax candle and lit
it. He unfolded a map and glanced at the rendition. The candlelight flickered as he studied the drawing, an illustration of
this very structure—or, more precisely, of what lay beneath it.

He stood in what had once been the chapel. Time and thieves had stolen the stained glass from the windows and now they stood
as skeletal remains of the once-glorious room. Tools and construction supplies lay up against the wall. He crossed into the
next room and there found scaffolding between two pillars.

He moved past the large columns, through the arched doorway, deeper into the ruins. When he’d heard someone had purchased
the old building, Graeme had wondered if it was for residential purposes or if someone else sought the treasures that were
hidden beneath. So far all the construction efforts looked to be here on the main level.

It had been nearly a hundred years since there had been monks in this abbey, perhaps longer. But legend had it those men of
the cloth had once been guardians to many of the church’s ancient treasures—lost canons, the Spear of Christ, and the item
that Graeme now sought: the
Magi’s Book of Wisdom
, an ancient text rumored to contain the most accurate description of the Stone of Destiny.

Hot wax dripped onto Graeme’s hand, burning and then congealing on his skin. The hall narrowed, then stopped at a staircase.
Graeme wound his way down the spiral stone stairs. He ended up in another hallway that led to several doors. The hidden chamber
was another level beneath the abbey, dug deep into the bowels of the hill.

Graeme walked through the sleeping quarters, one room leading to another, twisting and turning through hallways until he came
to a dead end. Damnation, he must have made a wrong turn somewhere along the way. He knew he needed to go down, below this
level of the abbey, but he hadn’t come across any stairs. He pulled out the illustration again and studied the image. His
destination was a large room filled with books and treasure, where monks had once guarded the entryway. He’d found this bloody
picture in the journal of an old man, a village priest who had a penchant for folklore.

A short burst of wind swirled around him. His candle died. Darkness enclosed him. He dug into his bag to retrieve another,
then struck a match on the stone wall beside him. The match flickered to life with a spark. The new candle illuminated the
space in front of him, then the flame died, as if someone had blown it out. There was air coming from somewhere.

He leaned against the wall, moving his hands against the cold stone, but found nothing. This entire search could prove futile.
He moved his feet against the wall; down by his boot, he noticed something protruding from the wall. He knelt and ran his
hand over the protrusion. It was a lever. He pushed it, shoving it against the stone. Something below him shifted. The floor
separated and then he was moving. Downward. It was a lift. Evidently the monks had been rather advanced in their technology.
He just hoped this ancient thing worked this well going back up.

The stone chute surrounded him, scraping against his shoulders as he continued to descend, but in the darkness he still could
see nothing. Chains creaked and groaned beneath him. Then the platform jerked to a stop. Graeme waited until all the noises
ceased before he stepped forward. He relit his candle, and to his right, he found a wall sconce with a tallow-dipped torch.
Once lit, it illuminated the area around him. He stood on a dirt floor, and directly in front of him lay a deep chasm, an
underground gorge nestled between the hills.

It was far too dark to see what lay beyond the gorge, but if the illustration was correct, across the expanse he would find
a chamber. He stepped to the edge of the cliff and stared out into the darkened abyss. How was he to get across? He moved
slowly to his left, searching for any sign of a bridge. When his boot scuffed over something, he kicked the dirt out of the
way and found a rope stretching out from his feet across the canyon. There was another rope above his head attached firmly
to a metal loop anchored to the stone wall. He pulled on it and it slackened, lowering the rope until it was about chest high.

He inhaled slowly. This was not the sort of bridge he’d been hoping for. He hated heights. Having nothing but an aged rope
between him and the nothingness below did not evoke confidence. But he was running out of time. If he didn’t find that book
now, it would likely be lost forever.

It would be impossible to cross the rope bridge while holding the candle, so he pinched the wick between his fingers and dropped
the candle into his bag. The torch lit the area behind him, but once he stepped out on the rope,
he’d be shrouded in darkness.
He checked his bag to make certain it was secure, then put one boot onto the rope. It gave beneath his weight, but held firm
to the anchor on the other side.

Without another thought, he took a step with his other foot and grabbed hold of the balance rope. Slowly he began to make
his way across, sliding one foot to the left and then following with the other. The rope swayed and moved, jostling him around
as he crossed the canyon. What the hell had these monks been thinking? They must have guarded some valuable pieces to go to
such lengths to protect them.

His eyes tried to grow accustomed to the blackness around him, but with no light to be found, he still could see nothing.
He kept moving. Finally his foot hit against the floor on the other side. He’d made it.

He stepped onto a ledge. Quickly he relit his candle and found a series of torches along the wall. They illuminated a hallway.
He crouched as he moved through the space, his height a hindrance in the small area. He lit more torches along the way.

A room opened before him, and he stepped down into it. A large, not-quite-circular space, it was filled with trunks and chests
and stone tables covered with a variety of items, from goblets to jewels. Alcoves carved into the stone wall held other, smaller
trunks. He began his search, opening the lid of every trunk and rummaging through the contents, going over every surface and
examining each item. If the rest of these priceless treasures remained, then certainly that book was here somewhere.

One of the smaller trunks contained every gemstone he could imagine, and another overflowed with gold pieces. If that American
did know about these treasures,
his wealth would more than double overnight. He pulled a trunk out of one of the wall niches
and bats flew at him. He ducked. Dammed vile creatures.

Inside the trunk, he found a map, which he tossed into his bag in case it proved useful. He searched one trunk after another
until he finally came to one that was filled with books. He squatted and picked up each book, carefully checking the title
as well as glancing at the inside text. He came across two that might be of use to some of his friends at Solomon’s and shoved
them both into his bag. Then he saw it, a small leather-bound volume encrusted with jewels. Inside he found Hebrew text. The
Magi’s Book of Wisdom.

He extinguished the torches, then took one last look at all the glittering treasure before stepping back onto the rope bridge.
He’d found what he’d come for. The rope beneath his feet wobbled. Somewhere to his right, he heard metal scrape against something.

Then the lower rope disappeared. His hands held firmly to the balance rope as he dropped. His shoulders tore at the sudden
burden of all his weight, but he would not let go. As quickly as he could, he started moving to his left. One hand moved painstakingly
over the other.