STAG: MC ROMANCE (Forsaken Riders MC Romance Book 7) (97 page)

The coffee dregs tasted bitter in her mouth. The coffee was terrible here and she had already started having withdrawal symptoms from her favorite brand. She remembered the previous night’s activities and wondered if that had any bearing on the matter.

Some of the girls were catching a bus to the nearest town, but this time she declined the invitation, wanting a day to herself to catch up on her reading on the history of the place.

For an hour she struggled with the dusty textbook. She loved history because it was exciting, but the pages she was reading about the Battle of Flodden seemed as dry and unimaginative as the sands of the Sahara. Rebecca stifled a yawn as she looked out the window. A weak sun was shining through a break in the clouds, and for the first time she could appreciate the beauty of the landscape before her. It was hard to relate the splendor of this area to the thousands of bloody deaths centuries before. Ten thousand Scotsmen had lost their lives in the battle and some of them had been from these small villages. She had a sudden urge to explore the land and tread along the pages of her history books. Packing herself a quick lunch, she made up a cheese sandwich and finding an industrial-sized flask in one of the cupboards, filled it up to the brim with tea. Her head was still thumping from the whisky and she needed plenty of liquid. At least it would be better than the coffee.

After pulling on her walking boots, she set off with no particular intent.

There was only one main road passing through the village and she quickly found that she was on the same route as her walk home the previous day. Within ten minutes, she had arrived at the graveyard and the little church. It didn’t seem as morbid in the daytime and swinging open the iron gate, she walked up the mossy path towards the church. Huge slabs of stone lay facing upwards on the grass, headstones of the long departed that had sunk and collapsed with age. The inscriptions were now barely visible, the surfaces gnawed away by time and nature. She couldn’t help but think about all of the forgotten lives lying rotting beneath her:

Sans teeth
, 
sans eyes
, 
sans
 taste, 
sans everything

Heading to the church, she tried the iron latch on the great oak door. Surprised, she found it open and stepped inside the small porch. She had never been inside an old church before and was immediately taken by the hushed and hallowed space within. The air smelled stale and faintly of chrysanthemums and musty hymn books.

It seemed almost a violation to step over the stone flagged floor partly made out of old tombstones, so she tiptoed around the edges, hardly daring to make a noise. Walking down the line of pews, she stopped at the altar, a small table covered in a green velvet cloth supporting a large white and gold plaster cross. The sun was shining through the east window and the colored light from the stained glass formed patterns across the stone walls. Rebecca wasn’t religious, but as she stood there in the silence she thought she could sense a presence, something spiritual and eternal.

“Can I help you?”

Although the voice was soft and gentle, Rebecca almost shot out of her skin like a frightened rabbit caught trespassing in the farmer’s field.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Henry Parsons was the vicar of St. Andrews. He was a tall, middle-aged man with a receding hairline.

Rebecca blushed. She wasn’t really sure if she was just allowed to walk into an old church like this.

“I’m really sorry. I hope you don’t mind me taking a look around the church. It’s my first visit to Scotland.”

Henry beamed down at Rebecca as if she were the second coming herself. He liked Americans; they were always so interested in his tour of the little church and he liked to think that he was an interesting speaker.

“Not at all, my dear. We love to extend the hand of friendship to our cousins across the Pond. I can show you around if you like?”

Hesitating, she looked at her watch.

“It won’t take long, I promise.”

She smiled; it was difficult to say no; besides, it might be interesting.

First he showed her the chancel arch. The church had first been built in the 12
th
century, and this was the oldest and most original feature that had survived.

They walked to another part of the church that had been built later in the 16
th
century.

“Of course, one of the largest families here in those times was the Stewarts of Selkirk, and they built this part of the church in memory of their dead. Almost all of their line was wiped out in the Battle of Flodden. Seventy men set off from Selkirk and the surrounding villages, and only one man returned.”

Rebecca ran her fingers along the cool stone walls and tried to imagine the hands that had shaped the stone. An inscription had been carved into one of the larger blocks and she stood back to read the words:

Praeteriti praesentisque temporis collatum mundos se colliduntur.

Henry came to her rescue. “It’s a Latin phrase and quite an unusual one. Translated it means, “Worlds collide with the past and present.” We think it must mean the world of the living meets that of the dead. What do you think?”

Touching the engraved words with her hand, she felt a shiver run through her spine and shuddered.

The vicar laughed. “I get that feeling sometimes–as if someone had stepped over your grave. Now you must be getting cold. Shall we go outside into the sun?”

It was good to be back in the sunshine, she had started to have strange imaginings back in the church, some kind of déjà vu about the whole place. She had started to let her imagination run away with her in this place of old bones and death.

Just as she was about to leave, Rebecca remembered her old relative.

“Do you know of a Mrs. McPherson? She’s supposed to be a relative of mine. I think she used to live in the old vicarage?”

Henry Parsons beamed his schoolboy smile. “Nora. Yes, she’s the oldest member of my congregation. She doesn’t get out much, but I call and see her once a week. You can see the house over there, the big one behind the trees. I’m afraid the new vicarage is a much simpler affair. I’ll take you over there now if you like?”

Rebecca had started to protest, but Henry was already marching down the path and she had to hurry to catch up with him.

The old place was an imposing structure of red bricks and was surrounded by ancient poplar trees that bathed the place in a strange green light. There was an old-fashioned bell pull that Henry tugged and the gentle tinkle of a bell could be heard somewhere in the house. Rebecca expected the dull thud, thud of an ancient butler coming to answer the door and was surprised to hear the light skip of footsteps running up the hallway. Jane Sweeney was a bright young woman who was keeping house for Nora McPherson. She had beautiful red-golden hair that tumbled down her back into natural curls. She clasped Rebecca’s hand as if welcoming back an old friend and a feeling of familiarity swept over her. Perhaps it was because these people were so friendly that she almost felt like one of them. She had been told that the British were a bit aloof, but it had proved exactly the opposite in her case.

Jane led them down the dark hallway and into the library at the back of the house. It was a beautiful wood-lined room with huge French windows that led into the garden. Despite the sunshine, a huge fire was burning in the grate and the shades were drawn on all of the windows. In front of the fire was an old sateen chaise lounge that had seen better days. As they approached, Rebecca could see an old woman lying on the coach, apparently asleep by the fire. Jane called out her name quite softly at first, then again more loudly.

“Mrs. McPherson... Nora?”

Slowly the frail head lifted up and a pair of brilliant blue eyes looked out at them.

“It’s the Reverend, Nora. And he’s brought someone to meet you.”

The old lady reached for her spectacles dangling on a chain around her neck and with a shaking hand put them on.

She seemed to stare for a very long time at Rebecca, and the girl wondered if her relative could see her at all. She looked old, very old, her skin lined like an old map–the roadmap of her life, Rebecca supposed. The only thing of her youth that remained was the pair of blue sparkling eyes, shining like a young girl’s.

Henry Parsons stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“Nora, this is Rebecca Brooke. She’s come all the way from California to see you. She’s a distant relative of yours.”

Nora nodded and started to speak. Her voice was gentle and low with the soft lilt of the Scots.

“I’ve been expecting her to call. I have been waiting a long time. Too long.” She motioned for Rebecca to step forward and sit with her.

Raising her eyes towards Henry, Rebecca wondered if Nora might be a little bit senile. She was sure her Mom hadn’t contacted Mrs. McPherson, she would have said.

“Thank you Reverend. That will be all.”

Nora raised her fragile arm to him. Henry cleared his throat to protest, but the old woman glared at him through her glasses. There was to be no sweet talking this old lady. Rebecca was warming to her already.

Rebecca sat on the end of the little sofa. Nora was staring directly at her, and it made her feel ill at ease.

“Come nearer so I can see you better, dearie.”

She shuffled up close. The old woman smelled of mints and whisky and Rebecca wondered if she was a secret drinker. The thought made her smile. At her grand old age, surely she could do anything she liked?

“I can see now it’s you dearie, ye hair’s a different color, but I can see it around your eyes. Aye, I can that.”

Rebecca smiled. Poor Nora had obviously flipped or drank too much and was talking gibberish, but she would humor the old lady.

“They said that you would be coming, and I’ve been waiting for ye. All of these years, I’ve sat and waited”

Her eyes glazed as if she had slipped back into another time, and Rebecca wondered if she ought to go. She didn’t want to tire the poor old thing out, so she started to rise.

Nora’s hand was soon on her arm. “I have something for you, lassie, but first pass me that glass on the table, will ye?”

She reached for the glass. It felt sticky. Handing it across, the old lady fished her hand under her cushions and brought out a small bottle of McClelland’s Whisky.

“Just a wee dram of the good stuff to warm me up. Will ye not be joining me?”

Rebecca shook her head. It was probably better if one of them remained sober.

“Go on, lassie. It will do ye good. Now pass me that other glass.”

Nora poured out two generous measures, and while Rebecca sat and nursed hers, the old lady drank hers down in one. She was amazed and wondered if she should be drinking so much at her age.

“I’m one hundred and three years old this Christmas, if you’re wondering. I put long life down to whisky and porridge.” She giggled like a schoolgirl–the after effects of the drink, Rebecca supposed.

Nora patted the red cushion next to her. “Come a wee bit closer, lass, so I can hear you better.”

Rebecca shuffled up even further.

“So how are you finding our little village, Rebecca?”

At least she remembered her name. She couldn’t be that senile.

“It’s lovely. I only just arrived, but everyone I’ve met this morning has made me feel very welcome.”

“Well, my dear, that’s one thing about this place. People seldom stray, and if they do, it’s never for very long. A little piece of home always stays in the heart.”

Nora’s eyes were alert and bright and Rebecca wondered if it was a combination of medication and alcohol. Maybe it was just the drink. The effect of sitting close to the hot fire combined with the neat whiskey was starting to make her head spin.

“Now, my dearie, if you could fetch me that wee box down off the mantelpiece.”

Rebecca looked across at the fire. On the shelf above it stood an array of objects collected from over the years. There were dozens of old photographs, and from the style of the fashions, some must have been well over 100 years old. Sepia and black and white images stood in their dusty and age-stained frames. They were full of hollow-eyed people staring back into the lens and they all seemed to have a vague air of familiarity. In the center next to an old wooden clock stood a very small and plain-looking tin box with patches of rust showing through at the sides.

Handing the box down to Nora, she sat and waited with some hesitation. The old lady was so eccentric that absolutely anything could be inside.

“This was handed down from my great, great-grandfather, and from his grandfather before that. It’s very old, dating back several hundred years to about the time of the great Battle of Flodden. The old girl’s eyes sparkled as if remembering the event personally.

Placing her thin hand into the tin she drew out a small object wrapped in tissue paper and carefully passed it over to the young girl.

Rebecca gasped as she opened up the layers of fine paper to reveal an exquisitely engraved silver locket.

“Open it, open it!” the old woman urged like an excited child at Christmas.