Somewhere My Lass (10 page)

She sidled beside them. “I saw what you did, Neil. This woman will aid you both.”

He gaped at her, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

Fergus scratched his head. “This dead woman? You guys are weirding me out.”

He had no idea.

Stunned beyond words, Neil drew Mora past the coffin. A nod and wave to the mourners would have to suffice. No doubt they thought him hard hit by the loss. And maybe he was more than he realized.

He only knew he had to get out of this chapel.

Now
.

They hadn’t a moment to lose.

“Neil,” a voice summoned, like a faint thread in the wind. “Guard Mora well. If it’s the last thing you do.”

The accent was unmistakably Mrs. Dannon’s.

Chapter Fourteen

Clouds covered the stars like drifts of snow and the sharp air nipped Mora’s cheeks. Gone the sun-lit warmth of early afternoon. The all-encompas
sing cold closed in with the night.

What manner of creature faux was, she had no idea, but she welcomed the fur coat Mrs. Fergus had given her. The pelts were luxurious. Any warrior would be proud to wear them.

Why Neil objected to his gift, Mora didn’t grasp. The black garment swept down over his masculine figure in regal style. Totally unlike the colorful plaids she was accustomed to, but coats were not unknown. English gentlemen wore them and some Scotsmen; she’d seen far stranger garments on display in this foreign city.

Neil seemed especially on guard since their visit to the wee chapel, and his manner quiet as if a great weight lay on his mind. On all their minds, but he was particularly somber.

“Watch your step,” he said.

Mora did just that as he helped her across the cobbled yard in front of the tavern. Cobbles were familiar, though she had not yet tread on them in this land. The wooden sign on the side of the red brick wall proclaimed this tavern,
The Depot Grille
.

Neil closed his fingers around hers, and a thrill shimmered up her arm. But she didn’t have the benefit of his full attention. His narrow gaze darted from side to side, exploring the shadows like a keen-eyed hunter.

What lay ahead of them she hardly dared to contemplate, and only wished they could be united, joyous and untroubled. Why was their lot so difficult, the way dark and twisted?

“This used to be the train station.” Fergus spoke from behind them, recapturing her errant thoughts. “I don’t suppose that means anything to you, Mora?”

“Nae.” The horseless carriages Neil had pointed out frightened her with their size and roar. The smaller ones called cars were alarming enough.

“’Tis most gracious of Mrs. Fergus to bring us here to dine,” she added, lest the benevolent woman think her ungrateful.

“The least I can do, my dear. It’s a charming establishment, as is this side of town. So historic.”

Did not historic refer to vanished Greeks or age-old Celts who drank the blood of men? Keeping that thought to herself, Mora looked where Mrs. Fergus gestured. Much was hid in darkness but the great torches she’d admired before illuminated portions of the street. How do they keep them lit, she wondered, marveling at the rare magic.

Mrs. Fergus pointed. “See, there are quaint shops. And up on the hill stands the old church.”

The rows of brick buildings and church spires rose above them and reminded Mora of the grand city she’d visited in the Lowlands. Only Edinburgh was far more impressive and possessed a vast castle on the hill. Not wanting to wound anyone’s pride in their city, she kept that to herself as well.

Neil motioned Fergus and his mother ahead of them. Mora gathered the long skirts of her new gown as he assisted her up the steps and along the planked walkway outside the tavern. An inviting glow beckoned to them from within, doubly welcome in the chill. Fergus opened the door and their small party stepped inside.

A high-backed wooden settle stretched on either side of the entryway. Weary travelers reclined on these benches. Above the settles, an array of drawings seemingly created by the hand of bairns lined the brick walls. Even children were deemed artists in this land.

At their feet, a strip of red carpet made a path over the well-worn floor. Countless shoes had trod these boards. The swell of laughter carried from patrons. Food and drink must be good here. Musicians would be a lively addition, but the tavern exuded a hospitable atmosphere. No wonder so many folk were gathered within its walls.

The most eye-catching feature glittered up ahead. A long, elegantly carved counter stretched before a series of shining mirrors. Tall stools supported the men and women who sat swigging from the vessels. Shelves filled with bottles of every size and hue were massed before the glass and reflected in its depths, enough drink to gladden a mighty chieftain.

The gleam of mirrors and shining lights dazzled Mora. Here, was the heart of this public house.

“Are we heading to the bar?” Fergus inquired.

Mora also was drawn to the bright light, but his mother shook her head and spoke to the pleasant-faced young woman approaching them. “Seating for four please and we’d like a booth near the back.”

She smiled. “Follow me.”

The servant dressed all in black—why the obsession with that grim color?—led the way through a host of revelers. Some were seated on chairs at tables or in pews snugged up against tables positioned along the walls. It was to one of these nooks the woman directed them.

Neil motioned Mora in ahead of him. She slid over the polished seat, nestled between him and the brick wall, a posture she had no objection to. Mrs. Fergus gestured Fergus ahead of her and sat opposite Neil.

The maid handed each of them a parchment. “Your server will be with you in a moment.” After imparting this message, she turned and fled.

Why such a rush, Mora wondered. Perhaps the poor lass suffered from nervous hysteria, or was in mourning.

She looked around her. Overhead, a half circle of stained glass was suspended from the ceiling. This artwork was understandable, but the large painted fish and slice of fruit dangling above were peculiar displays. Portraits of horseless carriages hung on the walls. Evidently, these people regarded them as sacred.

Not Neil. He skimmed his gaze over the room without interest, gray eyes like a heavy sky, his mouth tight. His thoughts seemed bent elsewhere.

Glad for the cheer, Mora welcomed the surrounding laughter and chatter. By the light of the oil lamp on their table, she glanced at the parchment handed to her. The appetizing food imprinted there made her realize how hungry she was.

“I need a weapon,” Neil muttered.

Fergus laid his hat on the bench. “A broadsword?”

Neil cast him a look that meant he would not tolerate foolish remarks. But how was it foolish?

He unrolled a white square cloth and spilled a knife, fork, and spoon on the table. “I was thinking of something I could conceal, like a revolver. A pistol,” he explained to Mora, his voice hushed.

“Black powder is dangerous. Might not the pistol explode in yer hand?” She closed her fingers around the end of the blunt knife. “Would ye not prefer to bear a claymore in back scabbard, mayhap hid beneath yer coat, poking out a bit at the top.”

“A bit? About a foot. Nor would it fit underneath. The cut of the cloth is too tight.”

She shrugged. “A dirk at yer side? And do not neglect the targe.”

“Right, Neil. Don’t forget your shield. A little cumbersome over dinner perhaps, what with the sword at your back and a dagger at your hip, but if it makes you feel more secure—”

“Enough Fergus,” his mother broke in. “Neil has every reason to be wary.”

“Go all out then, dude. Neo packed a lot of firepower under that coat in
Matrix
.”

What in God’s name was Fergus referring to now?

Mrs. Fergus shook her head at him.

A smile hovered at his lips. “I still think you should have given Neil the dark glasses
Neo
wore. Kewl touch.”

“Enough,” his mother chided, and then in softer tones, “Eat a good meal, everyone. You’ll need your strength. And Fergus, you are staying the night at Neil’s to help keep an eye out.”

These tidings sobered him up faster than a man robbed of ale. “What, exactly, are we watching for?”

“Not what.
Who
.”

With a sage look at Fergus, his mother picked up her pouch and reached inside. The beautiful floral fabric in rich colors reminded Mora of a tapestry, such as she might sew, if she could bide long enough to complete such a creation.

Mrs. Fergus withdrew something from the recesses of the lovely pouch. Covering her find with a square of white linen, she secreted it to Neil. “Tuck this in your spare pocket.”

He lowered the concealed object to his lap, and then looked up, brows arched. “Where’d you get this?”

She didn’t alter her careful expression. “From an expert craftsman. It’s well made, I assure you. Don’t let on. Others will take notice.”

“OK.” Feigning disinterest, Neil opened the top buttons on his coat.

Mora glimpsed the handle of a blade in a leather sheath as he slipped it inside his coat and out of sight. It wasn’t a long knife. From what she saw, she’d guess the dagger, sheath and all, to be no longer than the length of his hand. But it was enough and likely razor sharp. She wouldn’t object to having a dagger of her own.

Fergus regarded his mother with reproach. “Have you nothing for your dear son?”

“To add to that collection of gadgets in your pockets? I should think you’re prepared for every possibility.”

“Not everything. Forgot my nunchucks.”

“I suggest you stay behind Neil,” she advised. “On second thought, this might prove useful.” Back into the pouch went her plump hand and she produced a small object.

Fergus frowned. “Pepper spray? That’s for girls.”

“If you’re speaking of the young lady seated beside Neil, she has less need of it than you.”

Neil smiled faintly.

The din around them grew louder. “Must be in some sort of play, or maybe they’re making another movie at the old train station,” Mora heard a man at a nearby table say.

“Wouldn’t surprise me none,” his companion replied.

Baffled, she looked at Neil.

He rested his head in his hands. “What the he—heck, let them think we’re actors.”

“Makes sense for Civil War films,” a woman said to her friend, “but why make a Scottish movie in Staunton? That fellow out at the bar certainly looks the part for
Braveheart
.”

Neil jerked up his head. “Wait a minute. I don’t look Scots and neither does Mora at the moment.”

She followed his sharp gaze across the room, but couldn’t quite see out the door into the entryway.

“Gie me a draught of yer stoutest ale, laddie!” The booming voice was undeniable.

She sucked in her breath. “The MacDonald.”

Cha
pter Fifteen

Neil couldn’t see out the door of the dining room into the entryway of the restaurant, but he didn’t doubt the truth of Mora’s horrified suspicion. Dropping his voice to a gruff whisper, he said, “How in hell did that fiend find us?”

She swiveled back to stare at his face. “Is there some other way out?”

Neil nodded at a red Exit sign offering a glimmer of hope. “The back.”

Mrs. Fergus lifted a cautioning hand. “Patrons don’t use it. We’ll draw attention to ourselves if we duck out that way and sound an alarm.”

Fergus eyed her as though she’d missed the obvious. “We’ll draw a sight more when that maniac strides in here with a sword.”

“Staggers,” his mother reasoned, “if he keeps drinking. Already sounds a little tipsy.”

Neil strove to think. “But not plastered. Besides, we have no idea how long he’ll tarry at the bar before seeking us out.”

Mora shifted her eyes between them. “Mayhap he knows not where we are. This tavern has more than one room.”

“Meanwhile, he seems content to quench his thirst,” Mrs. Fergus said. “Sometimes the best course of action is the last thing anyone expects you to do.”

Neil grunted. “Staying right here would be it.” It was all he could do not to grab Mora then and there and bolt out the back.

She gripped his hand. “What do ye say we should do? Challenge him with naught but a wee blade.”

Mrs. Fergus shook her head. “It’s not yet time to challenge him. Besides, the police will be summoned and may not take our part.”

Fergus blew out his cheeks. “Probably lock us all us.”

“Sassenach soldiers,” Mora hissed.

Neil entwined her fingers in his, though whether he was consoling his bride to be or distant ancestor he didn’t know. “We must have a plan. We can’t just saunter out the front door in hopes that madman doesn’t look around. It’s taking too great a chance.”

Mrs. Fergus didn’t bat an eye. “Remain as you are for now. You’re both in a dark corner, your backs to the door. He can’t see your faces and doesn’t know ours.”

Neil considered. “You want us to sit here and eat while he drinks?”

“Exactly. You three slip out while I pay the bill. I’ll distract him. Hurry to your house and bar the doors. I’ll get a cab.”

“What about going back to Fergus’s?”

Mystery shrouded her eyes. “Not tonight.” Her voice dropped so that he strained to hear above the surrounding chatter. “Remember, Neil, it’s vital that you get through that door before him.”

“Why?”

“To remain a step ahead. You must reach the MacDonald chapel first at Domhnall  castle. You cannot run the risk of him taking that tear bottle from you. Once he has that in his possession, it’s all over.”

A chill darted down Neil’s spine. She spoke as if  this were really happening. He tried to shake off the near immobilizing sense of unreality and focus on the daunting task that lay before them.

Mrs. Fergus drew the black scarf from around her neck and handed it to Mora. “Cover that red hair. It shines like a beacon.” She brightened and glanced around. “Where’s the waitress? We need to order our food.”

Mora loosed her fingers from Neil’s and draped the fine wool over her head. “I have no appetite.”

“You must keep up your strength,” Mrs. Fergus insisted. “Much lies ahead.”

Neil could only trust they had a future.

A bright-eyed waitress materialized at their booth, blond hair worn in a ponytail. “I apologize for the delay, we’re rushed off our feet. My name’s Dawn and I’ll be taking care of you this evening.”

Neil strongly doubted this young co-ed was up to the challenge.

She studied him with interest. “Can I start you off with an appetizer?”

A sleeping pill in The MacDonald’s beer would be expedient, Neil considered. “Whatever you can serve up the fastest. We have an event to get to. You understand?”

“Certainly. I’m just sorry we’re behind. How about our grilled chicken sandwiches?”

“Fine,” he said, with nods all around the table.

Mora stared at the girl as if she were a disembodied spirit.

“Are you actors at Blackfriars?” the waitress asked, referring to the Shakespeare Center in town.

His life resembled a surreal play. “Can’t fool you, can we?”

Mrs. Fergus gave them a knowing look. “Don’t you love their costumes?”

Their server smiled, showing dimples. “Awesome. That
Matrix
coat is a great twist. They have such unusual costumes and props for Shakespeare nowadays. That Scottish guy out front sure looks the part. Everyone thinks so. Are you with him?”

“No. Separate party.” Neil fervently prayed they remained that way.

“I’d like to act at Blackfriars,” the waitress confided with an expectant gleam. “Had lots of parts in high school. Always thought I was born for the stage. Live audience and all that.”

“We’ll put in a good word for you, after you bring those sandwiches,” he prompted.

“Right,” she laughed. “And what to drink?”

“Coffee, iced tea, water,” he tossed out, looking beyond her at the door. “And if you’d not mention our presence to the Scottish dude. He’s piss—bummed I got the lead.”

“Sure,” she said, with a conspiratorial grin. “I’ll just bet he is. You’d totally get the part over him. He’d make a fabulous villain, maybe
Richard III
. You’re perfect for Hamlet or Romeo.”

Why did she have to suggest tragedies?

“I’m Mercutio,” Fergus offered, naming the flamboyant wit in
Romeo and Juliet
.

“Uh huh.” The waitress skimmed her gaze over Fergus and paused at Mora. She cocked her head to one side, a quizzical expression in her eyes. “And you’re Juliet, I bet. Or Ophelia.”

Neil hoped this wasn’t a foreshadowing of their fate. Come to think of it, Mercutio didn’t come to a good end either.