Enraptured (19 page)

Violet stared. “His wife and brother killed him? Why?”

“Jealousy. His younger brother resented him for getting the title and estate. And Sir Malcolm's lady had ample reason for her jealousy. Sir Malcolm loved another woman. But it seems clear that neither of them took the money. Until Meg and Damon found those coins, we assumed it had been stolen or else he had not brought it back with him. Now Meg believes the laird entrusted it to Faye Munro. Our grandmother.”

“She was the woman he loved?”

Coll shrugged. “No one knew who our grandfather was; Faye dinna reveal it, and she died giving birth to our mother. Meg had a bee in her bonnet, wanting to find out who the man was, and when she managed to track down the location where they exchanged messages, she found two French louis d'or and a scrap of leather with the Roses' emblem. Whether that proves that the treasure existed or not, I dinna know. But I suspect it does mean Sir Malcolm was Faye's mysterious lover.”

“So you and your sister are related to the Roses then. And you so despising the aristocracy!”

“On the wrong side of the blanket. I've little delight in discovering my grandfather was a philandering aristocrat,
another man who went about taking his pleasure when and where he liked, betraying his lawful wife and also abandoning the woman he professed to love. It certainly does not make me any more than I was before.”

“No, you would not be a man whom that would change.” Violet smiled faintly. “But it does make you cousins with Mrs. Kensington.”

“That is a good aspect of it, I suppose.”

“How did your sister track down the meeting place? Why did she think Sir Malcolm had entrusted the treasure to your grandmother?”

“It came from Faye's journal.”

“The book you were reading that night in the library?”

He nodded. “Sir Malcolm gave it to Faye. He taught her to read and write.”

Violet's face softened. “Truly?”

Coll laughed. “Trust you to find that romantic. Meg did, too.”

“Of course. It shows he really knew her. That he truly cared for her. A man might toss any woman a trinket, but to take the time and trouble to do that indicates something more than mere desire.”

“Apparently he knew her well enough that he entrusted her with the treasure.”

“She wrote that he gave her the gold, but she didn't say where she hid it?”

“She was very cryptic about the whole matter. She never wrote his name, only called him ‘my love' or ‘he.' She referred to his leaving her something and talked about wondering what to do with it. She says she moved the thing he left her. There are some pages torn from the book as well.”

“A mystery indeed.” Violet's eyes sparkled. “The journal is where we will start.”

“We will?”

“Yes. Don't be stubborn, Coll. There isn't a reason in the world why we shouldn't hunt for this treasure except for the fact that you like to aggravate me.”

“I like to aggravate you? 'Tis you who delight in driving me mad.”

“What nonsense.” Violet grinned and popped a final piece of bacon in her mouth as she rose from her chair. “Then this evening, after supper? In the library?”

“Yes. We will begin your treasure hunt.”

Violet was waiting for Coll when he walked into the library. Paper and pencils were laid out neatly on the table before her. He was prepared to see her—indeed, he had spent far too much of his day thinking about it—but still it gave him a little jolt of excitement.

It was absurd. He was becoming a stranger to himself, prone to bouts of nerves and frustration, churning with anticipation over even the most mundane of things. All through supper, he'd found himself contemplating the edging of lace along the neckline of Violet's gown or the way the fringe of her shawl brushed over her bare arms, separating softly over her skin. He wanted to draw her, to catch the shadowed cleft between her breasts, the fragility of the lace upon her milky skin. No, it would be better in wood; nothing flat could capture her allure, her grace.

He had lost track of their conversation so often that Violet
doubtlessly wondered if he was a fool. Coll was certain he was. Being with her, watching what he wanted and could not have, made him ache. Yet here he was, condemning himself to an evening with her. And eager to do so.

Violet looked up as he walked in, and she smiled. Jumping up, she pulled out the chair beside her. “I'm glad to see you. I need your help.”

Coll was unsure whether it would be worse to sit across from her and look at her all evening or beside her, only inches away. Either sounded like a bad idea. He took the chair she indicated, and she resumed her seat, sliding a piece of paper in front of him. She leaned in to point at what she had drawn.

His question was answered—it was infinitely worse to be beside her, her scent in his nostrils, hearing every breath she took, every rustle of her dress as she moved, his gaze locked on the swell of her breasts above the row of lace. He forced himself to focus on the drawing before him.

“You drew a map of the loch?”

“I always sketch the sites we're exploring. It's rough, of course. I've marked where the ruins are and Duncally, the road into the village, the circle of stones, et cetera. Is this location right for Baillannan? The cave where they found the coins? Where did your grandmother live?”

Concentrate. “You're very close with Baillannan.” He took the pencil from her and sketched in a few shapes. “This is the cave. Here are the castle ruins.”

“The one you pointed out the first day? The old Baillannan? Didn't you say its cellars connected to the caves?”

“So they say. But not to the cave where they found the coins,” he added quickly. “The only entrance to it is in the cliff.”

“Still, doesn't it seem a likely place to hide a treasure?”

“Aye. There are cellars and subcellars and tunnels. I've never found one that led to a cave. One led to the new house, but it caved in along the way. I've gone through one or two, but they had caved in, as well, so I'm not sure if they led to the caves or not. It stands to reason the Roses would have had a tunnel to the caves or at least beyond the outer wall, in case they needed to escape.”

“They seem to have been a secretive lot.”

“The Roses were . . . suspicious. No doubt that is one reason why they prospered. If Sir Malcolm had been the one to hide the gold, it might well be in the ruins. But Faye would not have been as knowledgeable about them, and according to her letter, it was she who hid the treasure.”

“What letter? I thought you had only her journal.”

“There was a note in the cave where Meg found the coins. It was from Faye to Sir Malcolm; it was their habit to leave messages there.”

“Do you have it? May I see it?”

“Of course.” He went to one of the glass-fronted shelves and pulled out the old leather-bound volume Violet had seen him reading before. Opening it, he took out a piece of yellowed, torn paper, which he unfolded carefully and laid on the table before Violet.

She bent over the creased note, squinting to read the faded lines.

My love, I pray you find this, well and happy. What you left me is safe; I have hidden it, and you will know where and when to find it. If you have gone on, as my
heavy heart fears, it will be there for our child. My time is coming, and I do not fear it, for I pray I will find you waiting for me. I love you with all my heart. Faye

“How sad. ‘My time is coming.' She sensed her death?”

“Perhaps. Or she meant that she was about to give birth. Maybe both, for she died soon after the bairn came into the world.”

“She does not say the man's name or what he left her.”

“No. We made that leap because of the gold coins and the Rose emblem. It could be nonsense. But it does fit. Faye was accounted a rare beauty—enough to tempt a laird, even a married one. He was a married man and of high stature, which would explain why Faye kept the secret of his identity so assiduously. He was educated, so he would have been able to teach her to read and write. He had wealth, so he could buy her a pair of hair ornaments, which Damon assures us would have been beyond the financial means of an ordinary man. He gave her this dirk, as well.” Coll reached around to his back and pulled a short, black-handled dagger from his belt. It was obviously old and worn, plain except for an odd symbol engraved on its hilt.

“Do you always go about thus armed inside?”

He shrugged. “ 'Tis sometimes handy to have a knife.”

“Was this Sir Malcolm's, too? I see no rosette.”

“I don't know. It, too, is of good quality, but that does not necessarily mean it was the laird's. It is a sgian-dubh. Many a Scot carries one at the top of his sock.”

“What is this emblem on it?”

“I dinna know.”

“It looks like some sort of rune. I shall have to check my books.” She handed it back to him. Her fingers brushed Coll's, sending a frisson up his arm. His fingers clenched around the hilt and he took his time putting the dirk back into his scabbard.

“Why did he leave the treasure with Faye instead of hiding it himself? Or taking it to his house?”

“He might have felt he could not trust his wife or his brother; it would not be surprising, given the end he met at their hands. Perhaps he trusted Faye above all others. She had, after all, kept the secret of his identity. The Roses' history is entwined with that of the Munro wisewomen. Long ago the Baillannan gave them their cottage in freehold. In many a place, my ancestors would have been scorned as witches, even killed; certainly the . . . unusual ways of the Munro women flouted tradition. But they were considered under the protection of the laird.”

“Why?”

“I dinna ken why. Most of the legends are fantastical, so it's hard to tell where the truth lies. More mundanely, Sir Malcolm may have considered the cave where they left their messages the safest spot to store the money. But clearly she moved the gold elsewhere.”

“Why did your sister search that cave? How did she know where they left messages?”

“In one of her entries, Faye refers to it as the place where she gathered Irish moss. Meg knew which cave she meant. That particular moss grows only in a tidal cave—one that's submerged by ocean water in high tide—and Meg, of course, knew where the Munro healers gather their Irish moss.”

“That would seem rather public for a secret hiding place.
And if it is underwater at high tide, how could their messages remain safe?”

“The hiding place wasn't in the tidal cave but in a higher cave behind. They had to crawl through a tunnel to get to it. Even the outer cave is difficult to reach; you have to go by boat and at low tide. And there is no reason for most people to go there.”

“Yet Faye seems certain that not only Sir Malcolm, but her child, too, would know where she concealed the gold.”

“My mother knew about the outer cave, but if she knew aught about the secret one beyond it, she didn't pass that information on to either of us. Ma was not old when she died—I was but twenty and Meg only seventeen. She collapsed one day and was gone . . . almost immediately.” Coll stopped, remembering that moment when he returned from cutting peat and found Meg on her knees beside their mother, weeping.

To his surprise Violet reached out and touched his hand. “I am sorry. That must have been very hard for you.”

“Aye. She had been fine when I left that morning. She'd had a headache a few times in the days before. But she took a draft and looked better. Meg said she let out a cry and sank to the floor, and she was just . . . gone. If I hadn't left to cut the peat that day, if I'd been there—”

“You could not have kept it from happening.” Violet squeezed his hand gently. “You must not feel guilty.”

Coll realized with a start that he had taken her hand in his. It felt so right there, so warm and natural, that it was a struggle to release it. He stood up, putting some distance between them, and shoved his hands in his pocket, beginning to pace. “It is good of you to say so. You're right, of course.
Meg would have been better equipped to help her than I, and she could do nothing. But what I meant to say—given the suddenness of Ma's passing, there might have been some Munro lore that she had not yet told Meg or me, thinking to wait till we were older.”

“If that is the case, it is lost forever.” Violet thought for a moment. “Let's approach this from a different direction. Faye says her ‘time is coming.' She has just finished moving the gold.”

“So you're wondering how a woman who is large with child moved a chest of gold?”

“Exactly.” Violet beamed at his understanding. “She was young and presumably healthy, and given the scrap of leather that was left, I'll assume the gold was in bags, which would have made it easier to carry than a trunk. However, it would still require a good deal of effort to move the gold. She had to row a boat to the cave.”