The Presence (3 page)

“I think I can manage, Eban,” MacNiall said.

Eban turned and left. He didn't have a hunched back, nor did he limp, but he somehow gave the appearance of both.

“Do you, uh, stay here when you're in town?” Ryan asked politely.

The answer was a little slow. An ironic smile seemed to twitch MacNiall's lips. “With the ancestral home filled with unbelievers? Indeed.”

“Want me to see to the horse? I did some work in the stables. He isn't usually there, is he?” Ryan asked. “I only ask because the stables were in serious disrepair, and this fellow is so obviously well tended.”

“He was boarded in my absence.”

“How long were you gone? Twenty years?” Toni muttered.

Once again Gina jabbed her fiercely in the ribs.

“I'll take him out, bed him down,” Ryan offered.

Toni wanted to knock him in the head for the offer, but she knew that he wasn't being subservient. Ryan simply loved horses. And she had to admit that the animal was magnificent.

“Sure,” MacNiall said. “Thanks. His name is Shaunessy.”

“Shaunessy?” Toni couldn't quite help herself. “Not Thor, Thunder or King?” Gina's third strike against her rib cage nearly caused her to cry out. She winced. “Shaunessy,” she said. “Great name.”

Ryan came to lead the horse out. “I'll give you a hand!” Kevin offered quickly, and they departed.

“There's tea!” David said suddenly into the awkward silence. “And scones. Great little scones.”

“Wow, tea! I'd love tea!” Gina said. “You'd love tea, too, Toni!” Gina grabbed Toni's hand. “And we'd
love for Laird MacNiall to join us so we can explain about how and why we rented the place…talk about all the work we've done here, and find out about Laird MacNiall, while we're at it?” She looked at him hopefully.

“Since you've been so kind to let us stay while we get to the bottom of this, would you be willing to join us, Lord MacNiall?” Thayer asked.

“Thanks. I had a long flight in today, a lot of business and a long drive, only to find out that the castle had been…inhabited,” MacNiall said. “I'll just retire for the night, if you don't mind. Please feel free to enjoy your tea, however. And the hospitality. Until Monday.”

“Until Monday?” Toni said, and her reward was a final jab from Gina. This time she protested, staring at Gina. “Ow!”

“Good night!” Gina said, “And thank you.”

“Your papers,” MacNiall said, handing them back to Gina.

“Thank you,” Gina said again. “And thank you for…for letting us stay until Monday. Until this is all straightened out. I don't know where we'd go, especially at this hour.”

He inclined his head. “I sympathize with your situation,” he said. “Good night, then.” He took one long last look at Toni and turned away.

Toni opened her mouth, about to speak, but Gina clamped a hand over her mouth, desperately whispering, “Just say, ‘Good night, Laird MacNiall!'”

MacNiall looked back, all six feet three inches of him. His eyes now appeared to be more of a true blue, and as sharp as a summer's sky. Something strange
ripped through Toni. She was caught, frozen. She felt as if she knew him, knew the way that he looked at her.

Had known him before.

And would know him again.

A tremor ran down her spine. Ice. Fire.
She had invented him!

He was just a man, she told herself—irritating, superior and angry that they were in his house.

Not true. If his hair were a little longer, his clothing a bit different, just a bit different…

“Good night,” he said.

The ice and fire, and a feeling of foreboding so intense she trembled, became too much, far too intense. She turned herself and hurried down the stairs. Ran.

Yet a voice whispered to her all the while.

You can't run away. You can't run away.

And something even softer, an afterthought.

Not this time…

When Cromwell Reigned

F
rom his vantage point, MacNiall could see them, arrayed in all their glittering splendor. The man for whom they fought, the ever self-righteous Cromwell, might preach the simplicity and purity one should seek in life, but when he had his troops arrayed, he saw to it that no matter what their uniform, they appeared in rank, and their weapons shone, as did their shields.

As it always seemed to be with his enemy, they were unaware of how a fight in the Highlands might best be fought. They were coming in their formations. Rank and file. Stop, load, aim, fire. March forward. Stop, load, aim, fire….

Cromwell's troops depended on their superior numbers. And like all leaders before him, Cromwell was ready to sacrifice his fighting man. All in the name of God and the Godliness of their land—or so the great man preached.

MacNiall had his own God, as did the men with whom he fought. For some, it was simply the God that the English did not face. For others, it had to do with pride, for their God ruled the Scottish and Presbyterian church, and had naught to do with an Englishman who would sever the head of his own king.

Others fought because it was their land. Chieftains and clansmen, men who would not be ruled by such a foreigner, men who seldom bowed down to any authority other than their own. Their land was hard and rugged. When the Romans had come, they had built walls to protect their own and to keep out the savages they barely recognized as human. In the many centuries since, the basic heart of the land had changed little. Now, they had another cause—the return of the young Stuart heir and their hatred for their enemy.

And just as they had centuries before, they would fight, using their land as one of their greatest weapons.

MacNiall granted Cromwell one thing—he was a military man. And he was no fool. He had called upon the Irish and the Welsh, who had learned so very well the art of archery. He had called upon men who knew about cannons and the devastating results of gunpowder, shot and ball, when put to the proper use. All these things he knew, and he felt a great superiority in his numbers, in his weapons.

But still, he did not know the Highlands, nor the soul of the Highland men he faced. And today he should have known the tactics the Highlander would use more so than ever. For MacNiall had heard that these troops were being led by a man who had been one of their own, a Scotsman from the base of the savage lands himself.

Grayson Davis—turncoat, one who had railed against Cromwell. Yet one who had been offered great rewards—the lands of those he could best and destroy.

Like Cromwell, Davis was convinced that he had the power, the numbers and the right. So MacNiall counted on the fact that he would underestimate his enemy—the savages from the north, ill equipped, unkempt, many
today in woolen rags, painted as their ancestors, the Picts, fighting for their land and their freedom.

Rank and file, marching. Slow and steady, coming ever forward. They reached the stream.

“Now?” whispered MacLeod at his side.

“A minute more,” replied MacNiall calmly.

When the enemy was upon the bridge, MacNiall raised a hand. MacLeod passed on the signal.

Their marksman nodded, as quiet, calm and grim as his leaders, and took aim.

His shot was true.

The bridge burst apart in a mighty explosion, sending fire and sparks skyrocketing, pieces of plank and board and man spiraling toward the sky, only to land again in the midst of confusion and terror, bloodshed and death. For they had waited. They had learned patience, and the bridge had been filled.

Lord God, MacNiall thought, almost wearily. By now their enemies should have learned that the death and destruction of human beings, flesh and blood, was terrible.

“Now?” said MacLeod again, shouting this time to be heard over the roar from below.

“Now,” MacNiall said calmly.

Another signal was given, and a hail of arrows arched over hill and dale, falling with a fury upon the mass of regrouping humanity below.

“And now!” roared MacNiall, standing in his stirrups, commanding his men.

The men, flanking those few in view, rose from behind the rocks of their blessed Highlands. They let out their fierce battle cries—learned, perhaps, from the berserker Norsemen who had once come upon them—and
moved down from rock and cliff, terrible in their insanity, men who had far too often fought with nothing but their bare hands and wits to keep what was theirs, to earn the freedom that was a way of life.

Clansmen. They were born with an ethic; they fought for one another as they fought for themselves. They were a breed apart.

MacNiall was a part of that breed. As such, he must always ride with his men, and face the blades of his enemy first. He must, like his fellows, cry out his rage at this intrusion, and risk life, blood and limb in the hand-to-hand fight.

Riding down the hillside, he charged the enemy from the seat of his mount, hacking at those who slashed into the backs of his foot soldiers, and fending off those who would come upon him en masse. He fought, all but blindly at times, years of bloodshed having given him instincts that warned him when a blade or an ax was at his back. And when he was pulled from his mount, he fought on foot until he regained his saddle and crushed forward again.

In the end, it was a rout. Many of Cromwell's great troops simply ran to the Lowlands, where the people were as varied in their beliefs as they were in their backgrounds. Others did not lay down their arms quickly enough, and were swept beneath the storm of cries and rage of MacNiall's Highlanders. The stream ran red. Dead men littered the beauty of the landscape.

When it was over, MacNiall received the hails of his men, and rode to the base of the hill where they had collected the remnants of the remaining army. There he was surprised to see that among the captured, his men had taken Grayson Davis—the man who had betrayed them,
one of Cromwell's greatest leaders, sworn to break the back of the wild Highland resistance. Grayson Davis, who hailed from the village that bordered Mac Niall's own, had seen the fall of the monarchy and traded in his loyalty and ethics for the riches that might be acquired from the deaths of other men.

The man was wounded. Blood had all but completely darkened the glitter of the chest armor he wore. His face was streaked with grimy sweat.

“MacNiall! Call off your dogs!” Davis roared to him.

“He loses his head!” roared Angus, the head of the Moray clan fighting there that day.

“Aye, well, and he should be executed as a traitor, as the lot of us would be,” MacNiall said without rancor. They all knew their punishment if they were taken alive. “Still, for now he will be our captive, and we will try him in a court of his peers.”

“What court of jesters would that be? You should bargain with Lord Cromwell, use my life and perhaps save our own, for one day you will be slain or caught!” Davis told him furiously. And yet, no matter his brave words, there was fear in his eyes. There must be, for he stood in the midst of such hatred that the most courageous of men would falter.

“If you're found guilty, we'll but take your head, Davis,” MacNiall said. “We find no pleasure in the torture your kind would inflict upon us.”

Davis let out a sound of disgust. It was true, on both sides, the things done by man to his fellow man were surely horrendous in the eyes of God—any god.

“There will be a trial. All men must answer to their
choices,” MacNiall said, and his words were actually sorrowful. “Take him,” he told Angus quietly.

Davis wrenched free from the hold of his captors and turned on MacNiall. “The great Laird MacNiall, creating havoc and travesty in the name of a misbegotten king! All hail the man on the battlefield! Yet what man rules in the great MacNiall's bedchamber? Did you think that you could leave your home to take to the hills, and that the woman you left behind would not consider the fact that one day
you will fall?
Aye, MacNiall, all men must deal with their choices! And yours has made you a cuckold!”

A sickness gripped him, hard, in the pit of his stomach. A blow, like none that could be delivered by a sword or bullet or battle-ax. He started to move his horse forward.

Grayson Davis began to laugh. “Ah, there, the great man! The terror of the Highlands. The Bloody MacNiall! She wasn't a victim of rape, MacNiall. Just of my sword. A different sword.”

Grayson Davis's laughter became silent as Angus brought the end of a poleax swinging hard against his head. The man fell flat, not dead—for he would stand trial—but certainly when he woke his head would be splitting.

Angus looked up at MacNiall.

“He's a liar,” Angus said. “A bloody liar! Yer wife loves ye, man. No lass is more honored among us. None more lovely. Or loyal.”

MacNiall nodded, giving away none of the emotion that tore through him so savagely. For there were but two passions in his life—his love for king and country…and for his wife. Lithe, golden, beautiful, sensual, brave,
eyes like the sea, the sky, ever direct upon his own, filled with laughter, excitement, gravity and love.

Annalise.

Annalise…who had begged him to set down his arms. To rectify his war with Cromwell. Who had warned him that…there could be but a very tragic ending to it all.

G
ina caught up with Toni at the bottom of the stairs.

“What are you doing?” she asked in dismay.

“What am I doing?” Toni echoed. Now that she was away from him, from the way that he looked at her, the trembling had stopped. The strange moment was gone. He was just a man. Tall, wired, muscled, imposing—and irate that they were in what he claimed to be his property.

“Gina!” she said, determined that they would not be groveling idiots, no matter what the situation turned out to be. “Do you hear yourself? You're thanking him for throwing us out on Monday, after all this!”

“Shh!”

Gina pulled her along, anxious that Laird MacNiall not hear any more of her comments. They moved from the great hall, through a vast dining area and then through another door to the kitchen, a large area where a huge hearth with antique accoutrements still occupied most of the north wall.

There were concessions to the present, however, including the modern stove, freezer, refrigerator and microwave. The huge island counter in the center of the room, set beneath hanging pots and pans, was surely
original, and at one time had certainly hosted huge sides of venison, boar and beef. Now cleaned and scrubbed, it was a dining table with a multitude of chairs around it.

The fact that MacNiall hadn't joined them had opened the floodgates of emotion. Thayer, Gina and Kevin all accosted Toni immediately.

“How the hell did this happen?” Kevin demanded.

“We all saw the agreements! And signed them,” Toni reminded them. She looked around. These were her friends, her very best friends. Gina and Ryan, whom she'd met three years ago while working at a Florida tourist attraction. And David Fulton! Tall, dark and handsome, with the deepest dimples and warmest smile in both hemispheres, David had been Toni's friend in college. Brokenhearted by the loss of a lover, he'd quickly rallied when he and Toni had gone to a concert with Gina and Ryan, and he had met Kevin—who had immediately fit in.

Toni had been the loner in their group, but in a strange way that had changed when they had come to Scotland together six months ago. They had visited a castle bought by some of its clan members, who had then opened the house to visitors for whatever money they could bring in, thus affording to restore the place. And their wild scheme had hatched. If others had done it, why couldn't they? It was possible if they pooled their resources.

And that was where Thayer had come into the Picture to complete their group of six. Thayer was her cousin, a Fraser. A distant cousin, Toni assumed, since their respective grandfathers had been cousins, which made Thayer…exactly what, she wasn't sure. He was certainly
intelligent and attractive, but he was some thing even more important to their enterprise—an authentic Scot. Not only was he fluent in Gaelic, he understood the customs and the nuances of doing business in the small community. He acted as their interpreter—in more ways than one.

Her friends and her kin stared at her, almost accusingly. She stared straight back.

“Think about it! Maybe he doesn't have a right to be here. We just don't really know, do we?”

“Well, not positively,” David murmured, but he spoke without conviction.

That MacNiall might be in the wrong, and they were the ones with the right to the place, was a nice hope. Unfortunately, none of them really seemed to believe it. Toni didn't even believe it herself.

“The constable said that MacNiall owned the place,” Thayer reminded her wearily.

“So? Constable Tavish is a local. He has loyalties to an old family name. We really don't know the truth. Our lawyer may be American, but he still knows the law. We need to get more serious legal advice, and get it fast.”

“Legal advice from the States may not help us now,” Kevin reminded her.

“Thayer?” Toni said.

He shrugged, shaking his head. “I saw the ads for the place in Glasgow, and I saw the same thing on the Inter net that you did. And yes, I read the rental agreements, just as we all did. Gina, can I see the papers?” he asked.

Gina set them down before him.

“Even
Laird
MacNiall said that they look real or proper or…whatever!” Toni murmured.

“Yeah, they look legal,” Ryan said bitterly. “Tons of small print.”

“We actually rented from Uxbridge Corporation,” Thayer murmured. “We're going to have to trace it down. When you sent the euro-check, Toni, was there an exact address?”

She groaned, sinking into one of the chairs.

“What? What is that groan for?” Ryan demanded.

“The address was a post office box in Edinburgh,” she admitted.

“Okay!” Kevin said, reaching over to squeeze her hand and give her some support. “That will give the police a trail to follow, at least.”

“It will help the police,” David said softly, offering Toni a half smile despite his words. “But I'm not real sure what it will do for us.”

“Toni, why didn't you want the constable to take the papers tonight?” Gina asked, frowning. “Wouldn't it have been better for him to have gotten started on this as quickly as possible?”

“Those papers are all we have,” Toni said. “What if I'm right and this man has lost his family castle yet still has illusions of grandeur in his head? If the constable is his loyal subject, our papers could disappear.”

“She has a point,” David said.

“She has a point, but this fellow isn't broke. You can't be broke and own a horse like that,” Ryan told them.

“Sorry, but it looks like we'll have to suck up to this guy if we want to make it through the weekend,” Thayer said.

“Maybe he borrowed the horse,” Toni said.

“Oh, honey, come on. You're just getting desperate here,” David said softly.

“Well, hell, it is desperate!” Toni said.

“Everything we've saved has gone into this!” Gina breathed, sinking into a chair, as well.

“Maybe we can arrange a new rental agreement,” Toni said.

“With what?” Thayer asked. “We put a fortune into this. Unless one of you won a lottery before you left the States…?”

“No. But I still say we have to have some rights!” Toni insisted.

“The sad thing is,” Kevin told her, “unfortunately, people who have been screwed don't generally have a right to anything. They're just…”

“Screwed,” David said.

Toni shook her head, rising. She felt a pounding headache coming on. “I'm going to go to bed. Tomorrow afternoon, I'm calling the lawyer in the States. He can give us some advice, at the very least.” She started toward the door, then turned back. “I am sorry, so very sorry. At best, this is really a mess.”

“Amazing,” Gina said suddenly.

“What?” Toni demanded.

“That he looks just like your MacNiall—the one in your phony family history. I mean…it's incredible that you could invent a man who existed down to the last de tail.”

“No, not to the last detail. The MacNiall I invented died centuries ago,” Toni said bitterly.

“Yeah, but apparently, there was one of those, too,” Gina said.

“Look, I don't believe it, either!” Toni said.

“Toni,” Kevin said softly.

“Yes?”

“We don't blame you just because you were the one who found it on the Internet and got us all going. We all—every one of us—read the agreements.”

She hesitated. They were staring at her sorrowfully. And despite the denial, she felt a certain amount of blame. Sure, they'd all wanted to do this, all been excited. But she'd pushed it. She'd been the one to do the actual work. But what had there been to question?

She bit her lip, feeling a little resentful and a lot guilty. If this really was totally messed up, to herself, at least, she would be the fall guy.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Get some rest. We'll all get some rest. When we're not so tired and surprised, we'll be much better at sucking up!” Kevin said cheerfully.

Toni nodded, gave him a weak smile and departed.

In the great hall, she paused. They had been so happy here. This place had truly been a dream. And they had been like kids, so excited.

She hurried up the stairs to the upper landing. There were rooms on the third floor, as well, but the main chambers were here. Servants had once slept above. Her group had chosen rooms in the huge U that braced around the front entry to the main keep of the castle. Hers was to the far right and she had assumed that it had once been the master's chamber. It was large, with both arrow slits and a turret with a balcony that looked out over the countryside. After claiming the room she had discovered that it also had the most modern bath, and that the rug and draperies were the cleanest in the
castle. Still, she remembered uneasily that her room also contained the huge wardrobe that had been locked tight—something to explore at a later time.

As she walked to the room, she felt a growing wariness. She hesitated, her hand on the antique knob, then pushed the door open.

There was a naked man in her bedroom. Nearly naked, at any rate.

A fire was beginning to burn nicely in the hearth. The dampness was already receding. A reading light blazed softly near the huge wing-backed chair before the fire.

The chair was occupied. Bruce MacNiall was seated, already showered, his hair wet, smooth and inky-black, his form covered in nothing but a terry towel wrapped around his waist. He was reading, of all things, the
New York Times.

“Yes?” he said, looking up but not setting the paper aside. “Don't you knock in the States?”

“Not when I'm entering my own room.”

“Oh?”

“I've been living in here,” she informed him.

“But it's not your own room, is it?” he queried.

“So…this was your room,” she murmured.

“
Is
mine.”

Suck up!
They had all warned her. But she was tired—and aggravated.

“If you're the one in the right,” she reminded him, regretting her words at once.

“I do assure you that I am,” he said solemnly.

“At this particular moment, I don't really have any legal proof that you're telling the truth, so I'm not entirely convinced that it is your room, that you have the
right to claim it from me,” she said. “You'll note my things at the dressing table. They do look like mine, unless you customarily wear women's perfume, mascara and lipstick.”

He stared at her politely, and maybe a bit amazed.

“My wardrobe, you'll notice,” he pointed out. “Since you're ever so observant, I'm sure you noted that when you came in and made yourself so thoroughly at home, you had no place to actually hang clothing since the wardrobe was locked.”

He had won from the beginning and she knew it. She didn't know why she was still arguing. She loved this room, though, and she was settled into it.

Maybe she was just incapable of giving up a fight, or accepting the fact that they could have been taken, that their dreams had been dashed.

“My suitcases,” she said, pointing to the side of the bed.

He set the paper aside and rose suddenly. She prayed the towel wouldn't slip.

“Would you like me to help you gather your things?” he asked politely.

There was something about the man that irritated her to such an extent that she couldn't keep her mouth closed—or prevent herself from behaving with sheer stupidity.

“No. I'd be happy to help you relocate, though.”

“You really do have…what it is the Americans say? Balls,” he told her.

She flushed.

“I'm not relocating,” he said flatly.

“Unless you have the deed to this place right here and now,” she said sweetly, “neither am I.”

He stared at her a long moment, and she found herself flushing.

“Do you think I keep my important papers under a mattress or something?” he queried. “My documents are in a bank vault.” He shrugged, then took his seat before the fire once again, retrieving his paper. “If you're staying in here, do your best to keep quiet, will you? I have a hell of a headache coming on.”

“You
are
the headache!” she murmured beneath her breath.

He had heard her. Once again, his eyes met hers. “I believe that you're supposed to be
sucking up
to me, Miss Fraser. I am trying to be patient and understanding. I've even offered a helping hand.”

“Sorry,” she said swiftly, though she couldn't help adding a soft, “I think!”

But she had lost and she knew it. Now she just had to accept it. She entered the room, slamming the door behind her. After gathering up what she could hold of her toiletries, she headed back to the hall.

“Next door down is the bride's chamber for this room. It's very nice,” he told her absently, studying his paper again.

“I've seen it. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed in there—just as I did in here.”

“Yes, very nice, actually,” he told her. “Good job. As I said before, I can help you move your things.”

“Wouldn't want you to have to get dressed,” she said.

“I don't have to get dressed, actually. Just go through the bathroom.”

“These two rooms share that bath?” she murmured.
She felt like an idiot. She knew that. She'd also cleaned the bathroom!

“This is a castle, with some modernization—not the Hilton,” he said. “Most of the rooms share a bath. Since you've been living here, surely you know that.”

She only knew at that moment that she wished she had chosen a room on the other side of the U.

He rose and grabbed one of her suitcases. “Through here,” he said, walking down the little hallway to the bath, and through it.

The next room was one of the nicer ones, not as large as the one she had vacated, but there was a fireplace, naturally—
it was a castle, not the Hilton
—and a wonderful curving draped window. “Widow's walk out there,” he pointed out. “You'll love it, I'm sure.”