Verse of the Vampyre (19 page)

“The Ruthven clan motto is ‘
Died schaw
.’ Deeds show. Someone was being ironic.” She read further, and said, “Scratch Ruthven Barracks. They were captured and burned by Prince Charles Edward Stuart’s army in 1746.”

“That’s Bonnie Prince Charlie?”

“The same.”

She stared out the window at the shaggy red Highland cattle grazing. “What am I missing? It’s right under my nose and I can’t see it.”

“What?”

“The thing I can’t see.” She sighed. “I give up. Let’s find a place to have lunch.”

They stopped for lunch at the Castle Inn, a nineteenth-century coaching inn overlooking the village green of Dirleton. The public and lounge bars had been painstakingly restored to their original glory.

Chaz was in good spirits upon learning that they were only minutes away from Cramond. Their quest was successfully concluded in his opinion.

Grace was less buoyant, eating her steak-and-mushroom pie, lost in thought.

After a time her mood affected Chaz. He studied her gravely. “What happened to us, Grace?”

Peter,
thought Grace. But was that the whole truth? Peter was part of the change, but the change in herself was what made having Peter in her life possible.

“I’ve changed,” she said at last.

Chaz’s brown eyes looked more soulful than ever. “We all change. Change is part of life. Why did you have to change toward me?”

She covered his hand with hers, hating to hurt him.

“I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like my life, my real life, began when I came to Innisdale.” It would sound too silly to say, “I went on an adventure and learned that it was possible to live your dreams if you were brave and determined enough.”

Chaz was shaking his head, refuting both what she said and what she didn’t say. Chaz was an empiricist, and Grace was…probably out of her mind.

As they were leaving she asked the whereabouts of the nearest used-book store, and was directed down the street to a small shop where the towering bookshelves formed a twisty maze that one could barely squeeze through. Layers of dust blanketed the very top shelves, and gossamer spiderwebs floated lazily from the ceiling like leftover Halloween decorations.

Grace found the clan history book wedged in between a book on learning to speak Gaelic and a
Touring Scotland
from the 1930s.

“That’s going to be completely out-of-date,” Chaz objected, when she checked the copyright date.

“That’s the idea. According to what Calum read us, there is no direct male descendant of the Ruthvens, which implies there are still female descendants. My clan book says that they were a prolific race. Families of ten and twelve children were common; so isn’t it reasonable that all those offspring must have gone somewhere?”

“America,” Chaz said. “That’s where everybody goes.”

Grace shook her head. “No, according to the Huntingtower guidebook there were still Ruthvens in Scotland because they were rewarded for service in World War II.”

“So?”

“So traditionally in Scotland when people were outlawed they fled to the Highlands. Didn’t you ever read
Kidnapped?
The Highlands and Islands were like our own Wild West. In fact, parts are still fairly remote—and they still speak Gaelic in some places.”

“What does Gaelic have to do with it?”

Grace did not answer for a moment, thumbing through the yellowed pages of the clan book.

So many of the old place names mentioned in the proscription against the Ruthvens were no longer in use…

Chaz’s words registered, and she glanced up. “Supposedly one of the Ruthven servants spoke in a foreign language. Local opinion was German, but Gaelic is a guttural language, too, and Catriona being Scottish, it seems likely he was speaking Gaelic. I think Catriona may speak it as well.” She told him about the phone call she had picked up at the Monkton estate.

“I’m not sure where this is heading.”

It wasn’t fair, but Grace couldn’t help comparing how different this quest was with Chaz as her companion, versus last time with Peter. Peter might disagree with her conclusions, but he always knew where she was headed.

“It’s a long shot, but I’m looking for a place…” She ran her finger along the page, then turned to the back to look at the maps.

“My gosh the light is dim in here.” She held the book up, squinting at the tiny print, then handed the book to Chaz. “What does that say?”

“It’s in Gaelic. I mean, what maniac came up with a language that puts ’B’ and ‘H’ next to each other in one word? How the heck are you supposed to pronounce that?”

“We don’t need to pronounce it. Just spell it out for me.”

Chaz obliged, peering at the type. “A’…M…h…e…i…r…”

Grace thumbed through the browned pages of the Gaelic dictionary until she could string the words together.

A’ Mheirlich Saobhaidh.
Den of the Thieves. It sounded like the right place to Grace.

The village was called Eacharnach, which Grace could not find in her Gaelic-English dictionary. It was nestled in between golden hills and purple shadows.

The castle ruins stood on a small island in the loch, black pine trees concealing it from curious eyes.

“That’s it. I know that’s it,” Grace said quietly, as she and Chaz stood by the pink car, staring out across the water at the island fortress. Smoke rose in wisps from the distant tower.

It was late afternoon by the time they located someone willing to row them across.

Donald MacLeod was as old and decrepit as his boat, though hopefully less leaky. Nevertheless, he skimmed them across the loch with powerful strokes. The water slapped against the hull of the boat. The drops from the oars sparkled in the late afternoon.

A whirring sound overhead caused Grace to instinctively duck as something winged past. She had a glimpse of a fierce-looking copper brown bird with a yellow warlike eye, and what appeared to be an eight-foot wingspan.

“Was that an eagle?” exclaimed Chaz.

“
Iolair-bhuib
. Golden eagle. She’s wondering what it is you are up to.”

The loch reached like the shadow of a hand down the length of the glen, shimmering like smoky glass in the burnished light. They watched the eagle skim across the water and disappear into the golden woods.

“How deep is the water here?” Chaz asked.

“Two hundred and fifty meters.” The old man smiled a black-toothed smile. “They say an
each uisage
used to live in these waters.”

“A what?”

“Aye.”

“What’s an agh iski?”

“A water spirit. Sometimes he would appear as a bonny horse, but if anyone tried to mount him, the
each uisage
would race into the loch and devour his victim beneath the water. Only the liver, heart and organs would be left uneaten to float to the shore.”

“Good God,” Chaz said, revolted. “What is it with you people and internal organs. I mean, what is that haggis thing about?”

The old man laughed soundlessly. “Sometimes the
each uisage
would appear as a handsome lad and suck the life from the bonny lasses he bedded.” The old man nodded at Grace as though she looked like a prime candidate for snuggling up with an
each uisage
.

Vampires, Grace thought. More vamps. Even in Scotland.

The old man rambled on. “But he hasnae been seen in these parts for a century or so.” MacLeod sounded like it was in recent memory, and perhaps for him it was. He bent over his oars again.

The closer they drew, the more the castle looked like one of those old Hammer Film Productions sets. Grace wouldn’t have been surprised to find Frankenstein’s monster waving from the battlements. Or what remained of the battlements. The place truly was a ruin.

Someone was moving around on the taller of the two towers. The skirl of bagpipes floated over the loch, a mournful, lonely sound.

“ ‘Flowers of the Forest,’ ” the boatman commented.

“It’s pretty,” Grace said.

“It’s a lament.”

They moored the boat in a stone slip that looked new compared to the rest of the island. Centuries of storms and wars had reduced most of the original structures to rubble.

The main building seemed to be a fourteenth-century keep or tower house scarred by ancient sieges. There were other smaller outlying buildings, but the smoke drifting from the foremost tower seemed the most promising indication of life.

“So what’s the plan?” Chaz queried doubtfully.

“If I’m not back in half an hour, come get me.”

Donald MacLeod, hands cupped around his pipe, cackled with laughter.

Grace walked up from the wharf, following a path that led between a pair of stone gateposts, winding around at last to a vine-covered and surprisingly unassuming front entrance. The door was constructed of thick weathered timber marked with scrapes and gouges that looked like the result of anything from arrows to werewolf claws. She pulled what appeared to be a bell rope.

She could hear a kind of gonging sound rolling through the belly of the castle, echoing within the stone walls. At last the door opened.

Peter stood in the wedge of light cast from the torchère on the wall behind him.

“Be careful your face doesn’t freeze like that,” he said.

T
he room appeared to have been decorated by a Great White Hunter on a drinking binge. Animal hides covered stone floors. African shields and spears covered stone walls. Assorted animal heads stared blankly down from strategic positions. Tribal masks glowered from corners. The place seemed to be made up of corners. There was an odd smoky smell. Brimstone?

As Grace crossed the threshold something white and enormous rose from the floor. She blinked, thinking for a split second that it was one of the stuffed animals come back to life in all its dermatitis-ridden glory, but as the creature attempted to sniff her impolitely, Grace realized it was a Scottish deerhound.

Catriona was curled on a red velvet sofa in front of the enormous fireplace.

“This is a surprise,” she said lazily. “To what do we owe this honor?”

Grace sat down in a large chair and sank about two feet farther into a quicksand of bad springs and plush. She glanced at the low table beside the chair, where a stuffed mongoose and cobra were frozen in eternal combat. They reminded her vaguely of Roy Blade and Lady Vee.

Controlling her expression, Grace responded, “I happened to be visiting friends in the area, and I learned you were staying locally.” It sounded as though she had been practicing it, and of course she had.

Peter restlessly circled the room. The dog wagged its tail, watching him.

She had been so intent on finding Peter that she hadn’t given enough thought to what she would do when she found him. Was it just Peter and Catriona hiding out? But no, Grace had seen the piper and knew that there must be others. Perhaps an entire gang.

She made herself look away from Peter and found Catriona studying her with those strange gold eyes. “That’s quite a coincidence.”

“You’re visiting Calum and Monica?” Peter inquired.

It was almost physically painful to look at him in these circumstances, but she made herself hold his gaze. She realized with a shock that this was the first time she had actually ever seen him and Catriona together.

They were both tall, lithe, with smooth hard muscles. There was no wasted movement, no wandering attention, although they seemed to watch each other out of the corners of their eyes. It was like observing two panthers at home.

“Right.”

“The trip’s been planned for over a month,” he remarked to the room at large.

Catriona considered this, then smiled.

A bald man with a cauliflower ear, who looked like Mr. Clean’s evil twin, entered the room. Seeing Grace, he checked.

“Ah, tea,” Catriona announced.

The man looked down at his nonexistent tea tray and backed out of the room.

Now Grace was certain she was on the right track. She was almost positive the man was the same man she had nearly skidded into that rainy night in Innisdale Wood not so long ago—although it felt like a lifetime.

“This is such an interesting room,” she commented politely to fill the strange lull. “Your family is devoted to hunting?”

“My family, or rather my great-grandfather, was devoted to wholesale slaughter. His particular playing field was the African continent. This was his lair.”

“Lair” seemed like the right word. Grace did feel as though she had wandered into some beast of prey’s lair—or perhaps the spider’s web. There was a dangerous tension in the air.

The bald man returned, and this time he did bear a heavy tray with a silver tea service complete with spooner, spoons, strainer and heavy teapot. Grace wondered if the tea service was inherited or stolen.

The man lowered the trembling tray to the nearest table. “Peter, you be mother,” Catriona invited.

He came and joined her on the sofa, pouring without comment.

“Thank you, I’ve lunched,” Grace declined, as he passed cup and saucer her way.

Clearly reading her mind, he grinned and sipped the tea, then offered the cup again to Grace.

She ignored it.

Catriona fed part of a buttered scone to the dog, who snapped up the food in one gulp.

“Is Lord Ruthven here?”

“He is,” Catriona said. “Unfortunately, he’s indisposed. He’ll be heartbroken to have missed you.” Her gaze held Grace’s in open challenge.

Grace had traveled too far to back down.

“We had plans to meet in Innisdale, you know. Perhaps I could see him for a moment?”

Catriona’s eyes met Peter’s, and she said, “No, I don’t suppose it would be wise. What he has might be catching.” Grace did not care for her smile. “Perhaps another time.”

She could hardly insist. In fact, her safety rested primarily on this polite charade they played. “Perhaps I could come back tomorrow?”

“Perhaps.”

“You must have other plans for your holiday,” Peter objected. “You and Chip.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Grace rose.

Catriona rose also in one swift movement. The dog looked from one to the other, alert, watchful. “Must you leave so soon? We’ve hardly had a moment to catch up on the gay old times at Innisdale.”

“The boatman is waiting for me.”

Catriona didn’t move for a moment, then said gently, “Ah. Of course. You wouldn’t have rowed yourself over.”

“No, I wouldn’t have.”

Catriona stretched, an unselfconsciously graceful movement. “Safe home.”

“I’ll see you out,” Peter said.

Catriona started to say something, caught his eye and subsided with a shrug.

They walked in silence down the grim serpentine hall past suits of armor and assorted weaponry. Here and there the subject of a murky portrait inspected them from across the centuries. Those Ruthvens who were not powdered and wigged ran to red hair, lynx eyes and unpleasant sneers.

“Satisfied?” Peter queried, as they walked back toward the dock.

The island was bathed in a fiery glow. Even the loch seemed to burn. The sun was setting, the tiger’s eye closing in sleep.

Grace glanced his way. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be? One woman is dead, murdered. A priceless artifact has been stolen, and you’re the number one suspect. Lord Ruthven is missing and probably dead. You’re on the lam with the Bride of Dracula…”

“Lam? You really did visit Calum and Monica.”

“I’m on my way back there now.”

“Good. Stay there.”

They passed between two stone pillars topped with finials fashioned like knights in a game of chess.

“Peter, what is going
on?
”

“You’ve summed it up pretty well.”

“You must know that by running away you’ve made yourself look guilty of…everything.”

He ignored this, eyes on the boat where Chaz and Donald MacLeod waited.

“I see you brought the faithful Honeybun.”

“Why can’t you tell me? Why can’t I help you?” Until the moment he had opened the castle door she had believed that somehow she would find him on the side of the angels. Although all the evidence pointed against it, she had so wanted to believe that he had come to Scotland in pursuit of Catriona, not to join her. And even now…

Peter glanced back at the tower. “Get,” he said flatly, “while the getting is good.”

The storm at the Bells’ had been upgraded to gale category as their departure date for the Canadian conference drew nearer.

“Are you going to the police?” Calum queried, when Grace finished recounting her visit to
A’ Mheirlich Saobhaidh
.

“No.” It startled all of them that she didn’t have to think about it.

“Why, for God’s sake!” Chaz exclaimed. “At the very least these people are suspects in a murder investigation.”

He would never in a million years understand why. She wasn’t sure she really understood. Loyalty? Curiosity? Love?

“I need to know more before I do anything.” She selected a second piece of the rich date-and-ginger shortbread that Monica had served with tea.

“What does that mean?”

She already regretted her words. “Just that…we don’t really have any proof.”

“Proof?” Chaz was practically goggling at her. “What kind of proof do you believe you need? Do you think the cops wouldn’t want to know where these felons are?”

Grace said, “I realize that, but Peter might, um, have a plan. I don’t want to jeopardize whatever it is he’s doing.”

“You mean like stealing things and killing people?”

“That wasn’t him!”

Monica said reluctantly, “We don’t know that, Grace.”

She didn’t know it, and yet she seemed to have reached the point of impasse. The point where she either accepted on blind faith that Peter was who she believed or…she…let go.

She wasn’t ready to let go. Maybe there was a third alternative.

“I can’t believe this is you talking,” Chaz said. “I can’t believe you know what you’re saying.”

Monica and Calum exchanged a look.

“Whisht,” Calum said, suddenly very Scottish. “Let’s leave it, shall we? A meal and a dram, that’s the thing. And then we’ll talk.”

Calum hauled the still-protesting Chaz out into a pine-scented night that already smelled like Christmas, and Monica turned to Grace.

“Okay,” she said grimly. “What’s the real scoop?”

Grace shook her head.

“I can’t turn him over to the police without knowing…”

“You’re not thinking of going back there?”

“Sort of.”

“On your own?”

“Unless you want to come with me.” Grace was half-joking, but Monica’s eyes suddenly gleamed.

“If only we could! What a lark!” Then reason seemed to cloud her mind. “We can’t, and even if we could, we’d be crazy to try.”

“I have to try,” Grace said.

“No, but I’m serious. These people are career criminals. They’ve killed.”

“We don’t know that.”

“You believe it.”

Grace had no answer.

“Peter went with them of his own free will, right? Nobody held a gun on him.”

“Appearances can be deceptive.”

“What does that mean? You think they’re putting the squeeze on him?”

This was the short-term effect of living with a man who wrote detective novels.

“I don’t know. I know that Peter couldn’t have killed Lady Ives, and I don’t believe he had anything to do with Lord Ruthven’s disappearance because of the way he reacted when I told him about it.”

“How did he react?”

“He was startled. Even alarmed. Whatever he had expected to happen, that wasn’t it. I can tell when he’s lying. Usually. This was the real thing.”

Monica considered her argument.

“You’re pinning a lot on a single reaction.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

“Okay, suppose Peter is innocent. Maybe he has a plan. Your turning up unexpectedly might throw a wrench in the whole setup.”

“Or I might be able to help him.”

Monica raked a hand through her short blond hair.

“Then how do we help you?”

Grace told her.

Before falling asleep she thumbed through her copy of
Burke’s Peerage
. Calum had not exaggerated the amazing and adventurous history of the Ruthvens. Besides an aptitude for plotting and scheming the Ruthvens were a remarkable lot, bold and courageous men and beautiful, equally lionhearted women.

There was a legend concerning one Ruthven daughter who, fearing she would be discovered in bed with a suitor her parents disapproved of, made a nine-foot leap over a sixty-foot drop separating her lover’s tower bedchamber from the rest of the castle.

Years of teaching adolescents had familiarized Grace with the lengths girls would go to, but nine feet was still pretty spectacular.

A soft tap on her door had Grace calling, “Come in!”

She expected Monica, but it was Chaz who cautiously opened the door.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

She sat up against the pillows as Chaz shut the door and came to sit on the edge of the bed. The springs squeaked beneath his weight.

“It’s not any use, is it?” His long-lashed soulful eyes held hers steadily.

Grace shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I think you’re making a terrible mistake.”

“I hope not,” said Grace. “It means a lot that you cared enough to”—she tried to make a little joke—“save me from myself.”

Chaz said grimly, “It’s not yourself I want to save you from, but I guess he’s got you under his spell.” Like those old Dracula movies, Grace was the victim sitting there in the dusk, scarf wrapped around her bitten neck, claiming she’d never felt better in her life.

“We had a good life together,” he said.

“We had a comfortable routine,” Grace said, “but I don’t think either of us would ever have pushed for more.”