Shadows of the Keeper (9 page)

Emily backed away from the
door. 
Picts?  As in Celts, Romans, Saxons—bullshit! 
Immortals?  Like on television?  Great.  Decapitation.  A
real treat.  Perhaps they’ll follow up with boil removals, and
bloodletting leeches.

“Pratty, yer vicious.  Maeve
has warned yer’ tongue is going ta’ be the end our jobs.  I for one canna
afford ta’ not be employed.”  Angry chopping resumed.

“Tha’ old witch thinks ta’ fire me,
I’ll sing like the bird she is and tell everyone she can change into falcon. 
She doosna’ want me to send for animal control to confiscate that precious
feline of hers, or herself.”

O’Shay
?  Now Emily was
livid. 
If this Pratty bitch touches one flea on
—

“Hush, Pratty.  What ye’
threaten is ta’ bring moderns through the door.  Ye’ speak evil. 
Ears are everywhere in this castle.  Allysyn said one minute the laird was
in his library, and while she polished the door, when she glanced over her
shoulder, he was gone.  He hadn’t closed the panel all the way. 
There are secret tunnels throughout this castle.”

“Better hope the Lumynari don’t
figure that out.”

Lumynari
?  No sooner
had Emily mentally muttered that word than a cold shiver descended.

“Have ye’ seen the resemblance to
his painting?”  a new voice asked.  Water turned on for a moment,
then off, drowning their words.  A pot clanged and thudded against what
Emily pictured to be the worktable.

“Might I remind you her image no
longer hangs in his library?  Too terrified Ms. Snoop would nose around
and find it.”

Bored, wandering aimlessly down a
corridor, Emily had spied several men carrying a cloth-covered painting from
Broc’s sanctuary yesterday.  Then he’d stepped out, and spying her, had
opened the door wide, offering her free reign to all his books. 
Who
had the painting been of?  His deceased wife?  Apparently, there was
more male manipulations occurring than I realized.  Broc being kind to me
should have been my first clue.  Bastard intentionally distracted me,
providing a clean getaway for his cohorts. I have to find that painting! 
But first, I need details.  There are hundreds of painting adorning
hundreds of corridors.
  ‘Ye can explore, but mi’ library is off
limits, he’d said.  Then, all of the sudden, he throws down the Welcome
mat, and encourages her to come on in.  Have a look around. 
Yep. 
Road kill stench.  I’ve been hit and run over by the You’re a Dumb Shit
truck.

“They found Reager’s body by the
river.  Not a mark on him.”

Emily leaned closer.

“But the look of fright on his face
told all.  And those shadows passing by our window last night . . .
they’re here.  Because of that Yank. We’re as good as dead.”

“Pratty, if you speak of evil
doing’s, you call them upon yer’self.  Chances are Reager was drunk again
and fell.”

“Really? Huh.  What do you supposed
happened to his tongue? Fell off in the bottle, or bit it off all the way back
near his throat?”

“He was missing his tongue?”

“Cut from the root.”

“
Pratty
!”

“Those who eavesdrop never hear
good of themselves.”

Emily squealed, jerked and spun
with arm raised in defense.  “Garreck!  Cripes!  You have the
stealth of a serial killer.”  Her hand splayed over her heart, the age-old
motion doing little to quiet the pounding muscle.  “Who was Reager?”

“He was the lower bailey—“

“What are Lumynari?”

“Now, Lady Emily—“

“Why would I be the cause of
another massacre?  What massacre happened in the
first
place?”

“Over three-thousand years ago—“

“That’s another thing.  How
old
are
you, Garreck?”  Amber eyes gored him.

“I think the laird—“

“
I
think you either swill too
much scotch, the lot of you, or I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone.” 
Swiftly, she moved past him and powerwalked until exiting the winding corridor
into the great hall.  If the stairs weren’t so wide, she’d have taken them
two and three at a time. 
I’ve gotta get away from this madhouse!
 
Her nape prickled.  Skin puckered.  Her scalp tingled.

Just like those late nights when
her aunt used to stay away, and Emily could swear she wasn’t alone.  She’d
learned long ago to hone in on her sixth senses when situations felt off
kilter.  And right now, her senses were pinging! 

Nearly reaching the top of the
stairs, a flurry of footsteps rushed the Great hall.

“Lady Emily, we’re so—“

“I said, not a word!”  Garreck
roared.  Emily’s eyes rounded.  Bitter women marched, one of them
quite venomously darting glances up at her before dashing out the front doors,
Garreck’s sword to their backs.  One false move, and he’d have made good
his obvious threat.

“Garreck, what are you doing?”

“I listened longer.  ‘Tis good
ye’ did not remain.”  He slammed the door.  Large stained glass
windows high along the cathedral ceilings rattled.  Both watched for a
moment, wondering if colored shards would rain down.

“Allysyn came ta’ warn me of their
sharp tongues.  I’d hoped ta’ spare ye’.”

Emily studied him for lengthy
moments.  “You know what, Garreck?  I think you rushed back here,
fearing I’d learn something.”  She turned to vacate his presence, then
thought of something.  “Be sure Allysyn doesn’t suffer for having warned
you.  It would seem Pratty is the only one deserving to be put out of a
job—she threatened some falcon you have on these premises and the cat. 
Never mind what she had to say about me, I won’t have her snaring animals just
so she can make a point.  She said something about animal control. Those
people can be real nasty.  Women are more treacherous than men when it
comes to getting even.  Pratty needs to be watched.  She’s trouble.”

“Aye, a good idea, that.”

Once again, she was on the outside
looking in.  But then, hadn’t her aunt reminded her daily that no one
appreciated an unexpected guest? 
Devil’s Child
, she’d been called,
a Holy water dousing her Sunday ritual until old enough to seek
employment.  She’d intentionally volunteered and accepted weekend
shifts. 
Then Peter waltzed into my life.  And wasn’t he just
swell, playing up to my needing to fit in; to be loved
?  
Gah, I’m a
therapist’s wet dream
.

“Mi’ lady?”

“They didn’t even give me a
chance,” Emily whispered, no longer really talking to Garreck, but rather,
musing aloud, mesmerized by the stained glass windows and their lying depiction
of  medieval romance between a lady and her knight. 
Love? 
What crap
!

They are fools, Keer’dra.

I don’t think so.  They
spoke without realizing I listened in on them.  Doubt they bothered lying
amongst themselves,
Emily mentally retorted, determined to piggyback her
deranged mind.

“Lady Emily, I will request the
laird answer yer’ questions.  ‘Tis past time ye’ should be aware the
truth.”  Garreck crossed the great hall, his booted foot upon the bottom
stair.  “Ye’ look ashen, M’lady.”

“You and several others have been
very kind to me.”  She bit her lower lip to keep from crying.  “I
don’t care to hear Broc’s fables.”  Emily trotted the last few steps, and
just about made it to her particular corridor before the magnificently carved
front doors slammed open.  Broc’s voice filled the hall, growling fiercely
in what Emily now recognized as Gaelic, though she only understood a smattering
of words.  The dirty ones.  Like how to say,
kiss my ass.
 
This brought on a slight grin.  Garreck’s voice was muted, but Emily knew
he was cuing in the laird as to what the babbling bitch in the kitchen had been
saying.  Bellowing of unadulterated fury made her wince. 
Whatever
.
 
Hot bath.  Warm clothes.  Plot escape.  Oh, and little male
voice in my head? Either assist with a way outa here, or shut the fuck up! You
can thank me later for your first lesson in Pissed Off Female One-oh-One.

Be wary, Keer’dra, your
tongue.  Irritated Male One-oh-One.

Emily yelped and had the good grace
to run the rest of the way to her chambers, slamming the door against haunting
laughter.

A month of Cayman sun abruptly cut
short, the disrupted honeymoon was not sitting well with his new spouse. 
When Chase beckoned, everyone fell into step.  Margot would learn.

Emily had disappeared.

Who cared?  Good riddance!

It wasn’t that easy.  Never
had been with Emily.  And accident had occurred.  Locals coming into
town for their biweekly shopping had spotted the mangled car—Chase had recapped
endlessly all the sordid particulars until Peter thought he’d go mad with the
retelling of
Poor
Emily
tales.  Guilt nipped Chase’s heels
by day, and tormented his dreams by night.  If he hadn’t sent her to
Scotland, she’d be home right now, albeit furious over Peter’s deception, but home.

Boo-fucking-hoo.

He and his mother had rolled their
eyes during Chase’s latest tirade.  Only once, did they dare suggest Chase
made too much fuss over baggage like Emily.  Volcanic rage had sent Peter
and his mother scrambling to other parts of the mansion to lick their wounds
from Chase’s attack on their lacking character. His father was overwrought
enough as it was without this latest Emily-Catastrophe.  How dare Emily do
this to them?!  And Margot—good Lord!  His new wife had boarded a
plane for New York, but not before laying down ultimatums.  Join her, or
stay behind forever, but the woebegones about
Emily
were never to be
mentioned in her presence again. 

Peter’s perfect life unraveled.

Two days following Emily’s
departure from San Antonio, his father’s silent partner had sold his share of
the lucrative real estate firm.  Pouring over outdated contracts the two
old war buddies signed eons ago, Peter came up empty.  Loopholes lacked
existence.  His fool of a father had trusted his ‘Nam partner to do the
right thing, if such a time arose that he wanted out.

Oh, he’d done the right
thing.  Nathanial Collinsworth had sold his share for a staggering seven
figures!  Holding partnership in a torte firm, Peter smelled a scam. 
His father’s real estate firm was a success, but not
that
much of a
success!  Worse, Chase had been borrowing against the mortgage and credit
cards in order to hold Olivia’s lifestyle afloat.  The sale of the
Scottish castle was a boon guaranteed to absolve Chase’s debt.  The old
man’s first mistake had been to trust Screw-Up Emily.  Now, their lives
were going belly up like fish in dynamite.

Nathanial couldn’t be
reached.  His housekeeper informed any who called, he traveled with his
wife on a long awaited European vacation.  Peter tested her overly
rehearsed speech by sending a few goons he kept on secret payroll. 
Torture accomplished little except another death for him to conceal.  He
drew one conclusion: whomever this buyer, he wanted Nathanial Collinsworth
comfortably out of the way.  Who had his father infuriated enough to want
into his back pocket?  An old flame of his mother’s?

And now, attorneys besieged his
father; the faceless new partner alleging that annual reports were fraudulent.

Chase obsessed.  Find
Emily.  What happened to the castle?  What happened to Emily? 
He would
not
file bankruptcy!  It would ruin him.  Olivia was
already meeting with her own lawyers.  Having smelled a burning ship, she
threatened divorce.  Chase stood to lose everything!

Peter had made calls, contacted
several travel agencies both here and abroad, and spent hours on the nightmare
information superhighway of the World Wide Web.

Castle MacLarrin did not exist.

Never had.

A myth.  “Part of stories,”
one museum curator laughed, his dentures clacking before adding, “Like King
Arthur legends; questionable truths, vaguer details.”

Peter choked the BMW’s steering
wheel. 
Too bad it isn’t Emily’s throat
!

The company card had only been
charged towing fees.  The insurance company was being billed the rest. 
How could a woman, who had left the country with nothing more than her purse,
arrive in a foreign country and not need to purchase a change of clothes? 
Toiletries?  Even the Bed & Breakfast hadn’t seen her.  She’d
never checked in!  Investigators placed her time of accident several hours
after her arrival into Scotland.  So, where the hell was she? 
Authorities hinted the car wreck could have been staged.  The amount of
blood on the steering wheel, and the numerous footprints surrounding the car
indicated an accomplice.  Peter agreed.  If someone had come upon an
accident with that much blood involved, Emily, by now, would have been located
in one of the few hospitals, even as a Jane Doe.  No such person
existed.  The most that local doctors had seen, either private practice or
the main hospital had been cuts and scrapes, several flues and even one hand
severed in a farming accident.  None recognized the photo he’d faxed to
his Scotland Yard contact.  He had his own reasons for suspecting why Emily
would pull a stunt like this,
though it far exceeded what I thought the
dimwit capable of
.  

His gardener had found her
engagement ring on the lawn, glittering in the noon sun. 
Solved the
mystery of why my front door stood wide open
.  Peter grinned. 
Had
I known she was listening to Margot and I laughing at her, I’d have adlibbed
even more.  Still, when I get my hands on her, she won’t be returning with
her precious virginity intact.  Small price to pay for what I’ve been
enduring lately.  Bitch is going to be in for quite a surprise, when I
wrap my hands around her throat this time.  Unlike last time, little
Emily, you won’t escape what I have planned for you.
  And now, his
father demanded he fly to Scotland.  Find Emily.  Locate Castle
MacLarrin.  Give apologies and secure the sale.  Start talking money,
Chase had ordered.  Everyone understands money.

Peter wondered the point in finding
Emily.  It wasn’t like anyone was going to miss her, in respect to
family.  She had none.  Then it hit.  So preposterous, it tantalized
his senses.  She was already missing.  If he somehow found her, he
could hole up for a week, and savor the lesson he envisioned teaching
her.  A slow feral smile devoured his otherwise handsome Romanesque
features.  He’d be back in the states for ages before they found her
remains.

Worked before
.

*   *   *   *   *

Emily submerged deeper.  She
kinda missed O’Shay’s company, but better for that little perv to remain
napping on her bed.  Odd, how everyone catapulted after Aedan.  Had
to be his cat.  Maybe it causes grief, and he’s been warned?  A bare
wet shoulder shrugged, lashes fluttering closed as the hot water lapped her
chin.  Right now, her main concern lay in making sure hair didn’t sprout
from her chest from the strong scotch she drank while soaking her chilled
body.  Every drink, she winced. 
It’s like drinking fire
.

You are to sip whiskey,
Keer’dra, not wallow in it
.

“It has a bite.  Much like the
one I’d like to take out of you.  Get out of my head!”

Male laughter echoed as it
faded. 
Great.  Now I’m answering myself
.  But his voice
wasn’t the only echo in her head.  Every word she’d overheard earlier
outside the kitchen played over and over in her mind.  Over and over, it
became as maddening as ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.  And she
was helpless to cease the horrific chant.

Aunsgar her uncle?  Oh, wait,
once
upon a time
he was her uncle.  Was she adopted?  Elf?  He
certainly didn’t resemble any of her images of Santa’s helpers, and somehow,
she couldn’t picture him or Urkani making shoes for everyone by morning’s first
light.  A fit of giggles erupted over this last vision.  Maybe ‘Elf’
was a Scottish slur for ‘hot babe’.  More giggles. 
He is nice to
look upon.  Very angelic, minus wings
. 
Not really my type,
but sexy, to be sure.
  Emily sat up so abruptly, water sloshed over
the sides, sogging the beautiful rug.  

His hair, and that of his
forever-present guards is as white as my own.  Okay, maybe it doesn’t glow
like mine, still . . . they wear it nearly as long as mine.  Right down to
their very nice derrieres.  Hmmmm.  Immortals.  Picts.

Emily squinted.  Once, when
she thought to steal a moment of solitude, a rarity with so many males forever
present, she sought refuge high in a tower overlooking miles of horizon. 
Solace was not to be found.  Broc too had come looking for the same peace.

“Hey, new tattoo?”  Blue
crescent moon adorned his cheek.

“Always had it.”

“No, no it definitely wasn’t there
yesterday.”

“Because you only see with your
eyes,” he’d grumbled.

“Uh, well, gee guy, you have me
there.  Hey, newsflash.  I only
hear
with my
ears
too.”

Disgusted, he’d snorted before
trotting down the winding stone stairwell made up of at least ten thousand
steep worn steps . . . well, it certainly had
felt
like ten thousand
steps when she’d gasped and hacked like an asthmatic, nearly ascending the last
handful on her knees. No way was she giving chase down that death trap. 
Today, his body art had been missing.  She’d even made it a point to open
her eyes good and wide when they’d passed in the corridor.  He’d caught
her meaning.  He’d glared before slamming a door in her face. 
Dick
. 
Powerful issues, that one
.  One would have thought she’d discovered
he wore crotchless panties.  Emily giggled, swilled more scotch and
laughed outright over her current vision of Broc prancing in purple
panties.  Scotch became velvety.  She gulped more.  What detail
had she nearly remembered by envisioning Aunsgar as a wingless angel? 
Ah,
forget it.  Makes my head spin, trying to remember.
  Soothing hot
water encouraged her to resume reclining, whiskey blanketing her innards with
warm fuzzies.  Just a few more minutes of shut-eye, and then she’d towel
off and head for the hearth before numbing again.  Authors forgot one
thing in their historicals: castles forever had freezing drafts, and stone
floors never warmed.  Her fingers were pruning, but she’d never had the
luxury of such a gigantic tub where she could stretch to her full length. 
Pfff, because I’m just so towering at five-foot-three
.  Emily’s
eyelids grew heavy. 
Just a few . . . more minutes . . .

Cold surrounded her.  Unlike
anything she’d ever experienced, it penetrated all the way through her
bones.  Shuddering, she looked down, and saw her own hand gently cupping a
frost covered blue rose.  Petals folded in on themselves, huddled against
icy weather.  Her chest pained her . . . desolation.

Broc loved another.

Odd she would have knowledge of
something so private; odder still, she should care to the point of
grieving.  The dream shifted.  She stood in a large room surrounded
by numerous people, very
medieval
people.  No, something wrong with that
analogy.  It was as if they were actually from an era long before
medieval
. 
They were draped in heavy furs over leather type leggings and drank from horns
and wooden tankards.  The men here looked
barbaric
.  The women too wore
leggings, others opted for heavy wool-looking gowns. 
Everyone’s
mode of
dress, peculiar.  Aunsgar nodded to her, though he seemed different. 
Very different.  His gaze narrowed, watching her intently.  He said
something to Urkani, the commander taking interest in her, his eyes soft,
caressing.  Just as quickly, he hardened his countenance.  Chatter ceased when
everyone noticed her presence, an uncomfortable silence following her as she
trailed a young man, knowing his name to be Owen.  Broc turned, scowling
at them both. 
Shocking!
  Even in her dream, he was displeased by her
presence.  His clothing too was strange, yet familiar.  Shirtless,
snug legging, leather yet not, and hand sewn boots just over his knees. 
Dark blue body art covered his torso, crescent moon again on his cheek. 
Reignsfeugh sauntered closer to the laird, swirly tattoos encompassing his
massive shoulders.  Garreck paled, nervously eyeing the laird.  Too
young to feel the shift in atmosphere, even though she grappled his
paint-stained tunic, Owen pulled free, bounding towards Broc like an eager
puppy.  Settling his burden down, the eager-to-please lad removed the
oilskin. 

Broc stiffened.

Surrounding occupants
shuffled.  Titters and whispers hummed like summer insects. 
Following his lead, the clan glared.  One woman, dressed in gowns of
velvet and fur, saddled closer to Broc, lacing her arm around his, splaying her
other hand possessively on his bare chest.  Jealousy and resentment coursed
through Emily.  He lowered his head, placing his ear next to the woman’s
whisper.  He laughed and squeezed her to him.

“Take it from mi’ sight,” he commanded
in a vicious whisper, nostrils flaring with fury.

Emily saw herself transferring
belongings into a solitary solar.  Aunsgar called from the door, softly
knocking.  He was unable to coax entrance.  A fortnight of
self-imposed solitude, she emerged.  She was brought up short by the
presence of Urkani.  He’d been standing guard.  In past times, they
had forever quarreled.

“Say but a word and I will end his
miserable life, and that of his whore.”

She smiled her gratitude. 
“With but a word, I can end all their miserable lives.”  She leaned
closer, dropping her voice.  “Making it as if they never existed.” 
She snapped her finger for emphasis.  Punishing cruel villagers would be
delightful, but pointless.  Ignorance followed strong leadership, Broc
being very powerful, very dominating.  Again, Emily saw herself grieving
over winter-dying roses, her breath billowing in front of her.

“Are you a goddess?”  Little
Maira asked, trotting back when Emily squealed, whirled, and found herself
looking down at a small girl.