Somewhere My Lass (6 page)

She sucked in her breath with a hiss. “Neil, what secret have ye given into m’ keeping?”

A faint memory stirred in his mind’s eye, like the muted hues of a rainbow, and he saw sunlight gild Mora’s hair, her lovely upraised face, the tenderness in her eyes with a hint of expectation in their depths that he had yet to see today. Arches of stone and great oak beams rose around them, the walls and ceiling of a castle or manor house. He stood facing her, and in his hand was the cross.

Words floated back to him as mighty as the bugle of a trumpet from distant hills. “Guard it well,” he’d said. But why? What did this key unlock?

Dry mouthed, he shifted his gaze back to her searching eyes.

“What?” she whispered.

“I don’t know yet, but I’m beginning to,” he conceded, while an inner voice chided at him to be sensible.

Her brows arched even higher, but she said nothing.

Fergus dropped his jaw. “That does it. I’m giving mom a call.”

“Psychic Betty,” Neil muttered.

“A seer?” Mora asked.

“Of sorts. Do either of you have a better idea?” Fergus challenged.

Neil shook his head. Perhaps Fergus was right; he and Mora were both possessed by long lost spirits from the past. No. There had to be a rational explanation, he argued with himself. And then aloud with fatalistic resignation, “Your mom will bring all her crystals.”

He envisioned quartz spread over his house, one of Mrs. Fergus’s New Age practices.

Fergus met his eyes, “Mom always does. But she’s going to need something stronger than crystals for this.”

“I suspect what we seek is somewhere in the house. Whatever this key unlocks.” Neil shifted his gaze back to Mora. “Do you have any idea what that might be?”

“Mayhap a sacred relic from the MacDonald Chapel.”

“So it could be anything? Even the Holy Grail?”

Mora seemed to see beyond him and Fergus to some other time and place. “Have care, Neil. If The MacDonald covets it, then this relic has great power to make the magic in Fergus’s front chamber seem but the play of wee bairns.”

Again, that prickle ran down Neil’s neck like scattering ants. “Fergus has no real magic, Mora. Only devices that you don’t understand.”

“If ye say so. But mark my words, there’s deep magic afoot.”

Chapter Nine

An owl hooted from the leafless tree outside the window of the townhouse—an eerie sound. Normally it wouldn’t seem so to Neil, but he was in a most unsettled state. More than he’d ever been before.

A spacecraft flying across the living room would hardly cause him to arch an eyebrow after the evening’s revelations. How to begin to fathom it all?

He couldn’t and only hoped Mora fared better in the guest room, getting some much needed rest. Fergus had nodded off in the recliner after pulling on his
Keep out of Direct Sunlight
sweatshirt. He dozed now, surrounded by his cherished electronics.

Yep, Fergus was down for the night. Lucky bastard. Neither caffeine nor conundrums fazed him. Part of the charm of being one of the Sons of Fergus, Neil supposed. The MacKenzies seemed prone to curses. He envied Fergus, so unreservedly himself, while Neil wasn’t entirely certain who he even was. Especially now.

He pounded the couch cushion into a more obliging headrest on his makeshift bed and pulled the navy fleece blanket up over his boxers and bare chest. Turning onto his back, he stared up at the virtual stars floating amid clouds on the ceiling. He at least ought to turn off the celestial projector, but couldn’t be bothered. Instead, he brooded on his outlandish circumstances, his and Mora’s.

No concrete answers had been forthcoming this evening, nor were they likely to be. But Fergus had summoned his mother and she’d promised to arrive tomorrow afternoon. That was enough to unsettle anybody of sound mind. Up until quite recently Neil had thought he qualified as sane. But now…

His distracted thoughts swirled back to Mora and lingered there. The rational part of him rebelled at the suggestion that they were linked together in 1602, though he had no objections to being linked with her now. Despite this caldron of confusion, and partly because of it, a fiery pulse beat within him.

When had he ever felt such a throbbing—to the core—attraction for any woman?

Certainly not for the ex-Mrs. MacKenzie, even though he’d imagined himself aflame for her at the beginning. Only later, after a whirlwind courtship and wedding, had he discovered what a shallow woman she really was, physical beauty alone no longer enough to lend her appeal.

The old adage “Marry in haste repent at leisure” had been his to own, and he’d paid dearly both emotionally and monetarily. After mauling his heart, she’d bitten off a great chunk of his inheritance.

But now, his feelings for Mora were fast taking root. This was no time for newfound ardor, he sternly reminded himself. Their very lives might rest on solving this mystery. If he were totally honest, though, he had to admit his ardor for Mora might not be new—

“Neil!” The muffled cry came from her room.

Terror shot through him. Had that maniac gotten to her, or was she calling out in her sleep?

He glanced at Fergus. Oblivious. He could sleep through marauding elephants.

Getting to his stocking feet, Neil dashed to the spare room. If that madman was in there, he had no weapon to fight him off. Maybe he should summon Fergus. He might actually have a stun gun.

No. There wasn’t time to waken his groggy friend. He’d just have to rush the intruder. Hope the element of surprise acted in his favor.

He flung himself at the door and opened it. Hurtling inside, hands fisted, he was stunned to see—no one. The streetlight shone through the parted curtains in a pearly sheen. He paused and darted his gaze over the room, exploring the murky corners

Nothing.

Mora tossed alone in her bed gasping, “Niall—”

His name escaping her in a desperate plea moved him beyond anything he’d ever known before. His first impulse was to wake her from this nightmare, then he realized he’d only be waking her to another. What assurance could he give her that everything would be all right when he didn’t have a clue what was going on?

Still, he couldn’t leave her to suffer alone. By heaven, he’d comfort her.

He stole to the where she lay wrestling with some inner demon, her eyes shut, face creased in a grimace. “The MacDonald comes.”

“No.” Neil lowered himself to sit beside her. Laying his hand on her shoulder, he bent near. “He’s not here.”

She jerked beneath his hand. “The door—he comes through the door.”

That dread in Neil’s gut knotted. Was she seeing into the future or revisiting the past? “Which door, Mora?”

She answered like one in a dream. “Wie colored glass.”

There was only one like it in the house. The coil in his middle twisted more tightly. Neil spoke in her ear. “Where did he go?”

“I dinna see.”

He smoothed the hair from her heated forehead. “You’re safe. He’s gone now.”

She quivered and went silent. Though still asleep, some part of her seemed aware of his presence. He must have soothed her. At least one of them could rest now.

Neil heard his cell phone beep in the front room with a text message. He lowered his head and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Sleep sweetheart.”

Rising noiselessly from her side, he tiptoed across the room and out the door. He slid the phone from his pants pocket from where he’d hung them over a chair and flipped it open. The electronic glow illuminated the words. Lieutenant Hale left him a text; the investigating officer must be keeping him informed as Neil had asked.

In the light of the mini screen he read, “Crime scene clear.”

Good, he and Mora could go home tomorrow. He texted back, “Great. Find anything?”

“Lifted prints from door.”

The beginning of a chill tingled down Neil’s spine and he keyed in, “Where?”

“Second floor.”

“Bedroom?” Neal tapped back.

“No. Unused exit.”

Damn. The door to nowhere again.

“Perp,” Hale continued, “entered from outside.”

“Impossible,” Neil texted. “How?” He couldn’t ascend a second story entry, never mind that it was locked, without rock climbing equipment or a ladder, and Neil hadn’t left any lying around.

“Unknown. A real Spiderman,” the officer joked. Then added, “No suspect yet.”

Neil very much doubted they’d find a match for those prints.

Chapter Ten

Yellow leaves swirled around Mora, and the cool wind fanned her tender eyebrows. Her skin still stung from the foreign ritual she’d endured in the place Wrenie called a beauty shop. That bizarre experience paled, though, in comparison to the sleeveless gown she found herself clothed in. If this weren’t outrageous enough, the hem reached only to her knees in a shameless display of flesh.

Wrapped in the plaid arisaid Wrenie hadn’t been able to pry away from her, Mora followed the well-endowed female up the walk to Fergus’s front door. At least, as well as she could in these ill-suited shoes. Her eyes lingered on Wrenie, clothed in a black skirt and glove-tight shirt—she was fixated on that grim hue—emblazoned with a silver winged skull and the words “Cheat Death.”

Had the woman narrowly escaped the clutches of the Black Death, or the flames reserved for heretics and witches? The latter seemed more likely.

Black boots, fastened up the sides with silver buckles, showed whenever the wind lifted Wrenie’s uneven hem, but neither her costume nor anything else about her was any stranger than this land Mora had unwittingly entered. Perhaps the servants here had led some sort of revolt. Wrenie seemed more of a leader than a minion.

Whatever Wrenie was, her peculiar notions of fashion had inflicted a morning of torment on Mora. Staggering in the green, high heels, she recovered her balance, and mounted the steps to the door.

The pointed ends of the shoes hardly seemed meant to contain toes, while the odious garment called panty hose gripped her savagely.

Wrenie stepped inside, Mora at her heels. Music played from somewhere in the room, and she heard a man’s voice raised in song, but didn’t spot the troubadour or the musicians. It had been the same at the house of beauty, music emanating from the walls and most peculiar ballads to be sure, though she grasped the lament and yearning after love.

Her heart quickened when she spied Neil. He glanced up from the couch where he sat eating one of those enormous sandwiches she recalled from the evening before and drinking from a steaming mug. He regarded her as he might a specter.

Perhaps that explained matters. She was a ghost caught in purgatory. And yet, when she looked into his eyes, all torment faded except for the pang in her heart.

He dropped the food onto a plate made of paper on the low table in front of him, set the cup down, and got to his feet. His damp hair was freshly combed, and he’d changed into those long-legged breeches Wrenie referred to as jeans. The fitted garment looked far better on him than anyone else she’d seen wearing them. Over these jeans he’d donned a charcoal gray shirt that matched his eyes and buttoned up the front. Mora’s gown closed up the back with an odd device called a zipper.

Furrowing his brow, Neil said, “Wrenie, what have you done to her?”

Fergus looked up from his chair, apparently unaware that a gentleman should rise when a lady entered the room. “It’s not nearly as much makeup as Wrenie wears.”

Mora certainly hoped not. Wrenie wore enough cosmetics for an Egyptian queen, or so Mora had determined after a morning of
beauty
preparation.

Fergus returned his attention to that glowing box in his lap. His fingers flew over the letters on the front and made soft clicking sounds. Whatever engrossed him there made no sense to her.

Wrenie gestured with those odious fingernails. “All Max did was arch Mora’s brows a little to enhance her eyes and add a touch of liner and lip gloss. And a hint of blush to her cheeks, some foundation to cover those freckles—”

“I like her freckles,” Neil broke in. “They’re part of her charm.”

Charm?
Did he think her bewitched?

“What about her hair? I mean it’s pretty,” he hastened to add, “but why that particular style?”

“She refused to have it cut.”

“I should think so.” Neil frowned.

“So Max thought it looked nice up on her head,” Wrenie said with a toss of her own.

Mora wasn’t so sure.

Neil didn’t appear convinced either. “Just the style for beauty pageants.”

Fergus glanced around. “Or maybe they need a Christmas Queen at the mall.”

The daft flow of words swirled over Mora’s head. Wrenie further contorted her bizarre features and made a face at him. Most churlish behavior.

Yet, Neil let it pass. Instead, he swept his hand at Mora while speaking to her addled maid. “What have you done with her clothes?”

“At the drycleaners.” Whatever that was.

Wrenie left her beaded purse on the stand inside the door. “Did you know she even wears a corset?”

Mora’s toes curled, and her cheeks warmed.

Neil assessed her at a glance then narrowed his eyes at Wrenie. “We don’t need to know that.”

“TMI, dudette,” Fergus scolded, unintelligibly.

“Fine.” Wrenie set the bag of cosmetics beside her purse. “I’m getting a soda. Anybody want one?”

Mora had nearly gagged at her taste of the noxious drink. She’d silently vowed never to have another. “Wrenie and I drank some sweet beverage she called ice tea. Delicious, though I did wonder why it was filled with chunks of ice.”

The ghost of a smile touched Neil’s lips. “You’re in the South. We load ice in everything. Nothing more for us now, thanks Wrenie. What do I owe you for this expedition?”

“Oh, don’t worry about the shop. I opened an account in your name,” she answered over her shoulder, walking from the room. “Max billed your credit card.”

“I’m sure he was thrilled,” Neil muttered.

“Extremely!” Wrenie called from the kitchen. “He expects you to come in regularly to get your hair styled.”

Neil opened his mouth to argue, “I don’t get it styled, just cut.”

“Aw, go on, Neil. You’re just his type,” Fergus added.

Mora had no idea what they were blethering about, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Neil. His presence triggered less than ladylike sensations in her nether reaches.

“I put Mora’s dress on your card too, and those darling shoes,” Wrenie added.

“The shoes are fine as long as she doesn’t actually have to walk in them,” he tossed back. “Well, Mora, let’s see this new dress.”

She hesitated. “There’s not a great plenty of cloth.”

The smile curving his lips sent a fresh charge tingling through her midriff.

“Don’t be shy,” he coaxed. “Show me and don’t mind Fergus.”

“No one does,” he mumbled.

Mora slowly opened the arisaid and unveiled her revealing gown. “Wrenie told me ’tis for the Yuletide festivity.”

Neil swept his approving gaze over her. “The fit is perfect.”

Mora had wondered at the fit after hearing the woman assisting her mutter something about why were all the girls so thin these days. As the woman wasn’t the least bit thin Mora had assumed plumpness to be the fashion.

Wrenie stuck her head around the doorway. “It’s retro eighties.”

Neil rolled his eyes. “What else?”

“Don’t you love the green on black, with those sequins?”

Approval warmed his gaze. “Lovely. And generous of you to allow the green. Figured you’d deck her out in all black. But why a holiday gown?”

Wrenie shrugged as though it were obvious. “If you wait until December, they’ll all be snapped up. And then what will she wear to parties?”

“What is she to wear to, oh say, the grocery store?”

“Are you taking her grocery shopping?”

Neil shook his head. “Not now.”

“I’ll get her something else later then.” With that, Wrenie returned to the kitchen.

He let the matter rest and beckoned to Mora. “Come sit with me. I need to speak with you.”

Weren’t they already speaking?

Perplexed, but without the slightest objection, she went willingly. Her skin prickled at his touch as he took her arm and drew her down onto the couch beside him.

If he noticed her involuntary response, he gave no indication. “While you were out, I returned home to restore some order and feed the cat.”

“Ye have a cat?” The Neil she’d known seemed unlikely to find pleasure in such an animal, preferring his big deerhound. Some folk even thought cats were evil, but Mora delighted in the purring creatures.

“I’ve had Sebastian for years,” he said, without any further explanation, or the mention of a dog.

She sensed an underlying tension in him. “How did ye find yer house?”

“Covered in powder from where the police dusted for fingerprints.”

“A strange business, to add dust to one’s home.”

“I suppose so, if you think of it that way. I wiped it up as best I could in a hurry.”

“Sech cleaning is a servant’s work.”

His gravity deepened. “I don’t know how many servants you’re used to, but my one and only housekeeper is gone. There will never be another like her.”

“Aye,” Mora nodded. “I’m pained for yer sadness. ’Tis a grave matter, the felling of an old woman.”

“Your own aunt.” He studied her closely. “Don’t you remember her at all?”

Mora squirmed under his appraisal. “I’ve nary an aunt who goes by the title of Mrs. Dannon.”

He bent forward. “Maybe you knew her by another name.”

“Mayhap,” Mora agreed, partly to appease him. “Did ye blot up all the spilt blood without a hand to help ye?” She shot Fergus a reproachful look.

“Fergus is squeamish about such matters,” Neil said.

Fergus grimaced. “Yeah. I’m weird that way.”

“I’m not,” Mora insisted. “I should have given ye aid.”

“Surely a young woman isn’t accustomed to dealing with such grim business,” Neil reasoned.

Mora met the earnestness in his eyes. “Few live long in the Hielans without looking on the face of maiming and death. Even the lasses.”

“A hard life.”

“Aye. Raw and savage like a wild beast. But I love the land and its people.” Would she see any of them again, she wondered, knotting her hands in her lap.

Neil slid his hand closer and laid it across hers. Even the down on her skin tingled beneath his light caress. “I see.”

Mora explored his perceptive gaze and it seemed to her that he did see. Was he just sympathizing with her or truly beginning to remember? She prayed it was also the latter.

He blew out his breath, his chest heaving as if under a heavy weight. Then he straightened his shoulders and gave her an encouraging smile. “Enough of this depressing talk. You look so pretty and you’re all dressed up for a party. Let’s not waste that lovely dress. It’s meant for dancing.”

If he’d suggested they attend the court of the English Queen Elizabeth, Mora couldn’t have been more surprised or unprepared. Dancing took much skill to perform properly with grace. The dance master had been an infrequent guest in their home, his comings and goings unpredictable, and her father more interested in her brothers’—and consequently her—scholarly pursuits. And matters of warfare and clan rivalry, which formal dance didn’t enter into in the slightest.

“I was given little training in proper steps,” she stammered. “Still, I have some meager talent and delight in dancing.”

She thought of the more informal assemblies. Even those required a number of dancers to exact the steps, a minimum of four to six couples.

Did Neil have other guests in mind? Where were they keeping themselves? Circling her head at the room, she asked, “Who else will make up the set?”

Fergus wore a half smile. “Don’t look at me. And, trust me, you don’t want to see Wrenie dance.”

“I heard that!” she called from the kitchen.

“I hear you too, moocher—scarfing my chips and dip! I suppose the last of the bagels is history.”

“Saving that for something, were you?” Wrenie called back in between evident mouthfuls, with her usual disregard for her station.

“Does the word
deli
mean anything to you?” Fergus rejoined.

It didn’t to Mora.

“Thought I was in one. You need to restock the shelves,” Wrenie replied in a saucy tone.

Mora had given up making sense of the incomprehensible flow between them, or Fergus and Neil’s indulgence of the outrageous woman, but she had no inclination to include Wrenie in any social event. Nor did she think it seemly for servants to dance with gentlefolk.

She returned her gaze wonderingly to the faint mirth in Neil’s. “Who then?”

“Just us.”

“Dancing—
alone
?”

He squeezed her hand. “It’ll be all right, really.”

Unheard of. She was at a loss for words.

*****

Neil almost laughed out loud at Mora’s wide eyes and open mouth, but he made a considerable effort to conceal his amusement. He shouldn’t have shocked her. Someone as sheltered as she’d been couldn’t possibly have gone out dancing, unless it was to a square dance, if they had those in Scotland.

But here she sat in that totally impractical dress, hair piled on her head in an equally inappropriate style, clearly uncomfortable with her unaccustomed do and outfit, but trying to be a good sport. And despite it all, achingly desirable. It seemed the true test of her beauty was to survive a morning at Wrenie’s hands with her looks unscathed. Relatively. That hair had to come down.