B008KQO31S EBOK (43 page)

He wondered whether it was the age of the place that entranced him. Certainly, he had never owned anything a thousand years old. And he couldn’t think of any other reason why one sight of Dunhelm had been enough for him to make his decision. It was almost as though he recognized the castle from some long-forgotten dream.

But that would have been irrational and Baird Beauforte was a supremely logical man.

All the same, from that very first glance, Baird had known that this was the property for Beauforte Resorts to establish its toehold in the European market. He told himself that this was finely honed instinct at work, an understanding of the market based on years of experience. A logical recognition of opportunity.

But even to Baird’s own ears, that claim was beginning to ring hollow.

One thing was for sure—Baird had never felt such satisfaction in signing his name to the contract that would make a property his own.

It was good that he was so committed to this place, for Dunhelm was the largest renovation Beauforte Resorts had ever undertaken.

And by far the most expensive.

But all the costs of restoration would be worth it. Dunhelm would be spectacular, the crown jewel of the Beauforte chain. Already the main circular tower rose restored behind Baird and the restaurant at the top—with its panoramic view—was being roughed in.

The massive wrought iron double gates Baird had commissioned had been installed just the day before. They were the perfect accent to the long stone wall that marked the perimeter of the property and cut the peninsula off from the rest of the world. The Beauforte Resort logo was forged into the gates and dramatically silhouetted against the sky before the approaching visitor.

The work was a bit behind schedule, but Baird’s vision of Dunhelm was taking shape. There was no reason why he shouldn’t leave this job in the capable hands of his staff, as usual.

Except that he couldn’t bring himself to leave Dunhelm.

Even worse, he wasn’t sure why.

This tangled mound of briars had aroused Baird’s curiosity from his first tour of the property. His interest was only strengthened by Talorc’s and every other local workman’s refusal to go near the briars.

Not one to back away from a challenge, especially with no reason other than superstition to do so, Baird had taken the task of cutting back the thorns himself.

He was sure that revealing Dunhelm’s every hidden corner to the pale sunlight would loosen the place’s hold over him. After all, this was the last part of the estate still hidden away. And he had always liked to solve puzzles.

That must be at the root of his fascination with this place. Once he cleared the thorns, Baird was sure that all mysteries would be solved. Then Dunhelm’s grip over him would vanish.

Every fallen bough fed his conviction. Baird had to conquer these thorns, and he had to do it today.

* * *

Baird had worked up a good sweat when the briars reluctantly parted to reveal a flat stone on the ground before him.

It was just a stone but he had a strange certainty that it was a step. Baird hacked with renewed vigor, smiling to himself with satisfaction when a second step was revealed.

He was right! There was a secret in this corner and he was about to uncover it.

Although the briars seemed to be suddenly more resistant to his efforts, nothing could have stopped Baird now. The rain fell like a protective mist all around him, a light fog hiding the other workers from view. The mist even seemed to muffle the sounds of construction.

It was as though he was alone in the world. No stranger to that feeling, Baird shoved up his sleeves, and methodically sliced back the stubborn growth.

The steps appeared before him, one after the other, descending into the earth. Baird, hot on the heels of solving a mystery, worked his way down them, his anticipation rising with every minute.

What could be down here? Who had made the steps? And why?

On the eighth smoothly fitted flagstone step, the brambles became thinner. It was chilly down here, the shadows of the walls on either side embracing him coldly.

Just a little further and he would know.

“Baird? You down there?”

Baird jumped at the sound of the familiar voice. He wiped a hand across his brow and felt the exhaustion in his muscles for the first time. How long had he been at this? Baird turned back and spied Julian’s silhouette against the gray sky.

“Down here, Julian.”

“Down there?” Baird could imagine the grimace his words earned and almost laughed. Julian and his damned shoes. “Won’t you come back up?”

“Nope. Got to finish.” Baird bent back to his task, Julian’s muttered curse not low enough to be inaudible.

He was probably meant to hear it.

“I don’t know why you had to have this place,” Julian muttered as he trudged down the stairs. “It needs more work than any other property we looked at, and it’s miles from London. No one will come all this way, especially since all it does is rain!”

“They’ll come.” Baird’s voice was low with conviction. “They always come to Beauforte properties.”

“‘Every guest is royalty to us’ and all that,” Julian echoed the firm’s motto. “But all the same, this is a miserable place.”

Baird caught a glimpse of Julian’s Italian leather loafers, their patina looking somewhat the worse for wear. Typically, the lawyer was dressed to the nines. Julian would never abandon his suit and tie, even in the most inclement weather.

But Julian was too much of a California child to ever completely succumb to the conservativeness of business dress. Though he wore a suit and tie, the boldly cut Armani suit was of a grayed eggplant shade, the tie a brilliant yellow.

Julian had only recently allowed his signature blond ponytail to be lopped off—after a young, attractive woman had joked that he was compensating for the increasing baldness on the top of his head by growing what hair he had overly long.

The ponytail had not survived the hour.

Forty could strike a man hard, even one so trim, well-groomed and successful as Julian.

Baird, on the other hand, had taken to jeans and Gore-Tex within hours of arrival here. It was true it had rained in some way or another every single day, but he loved all the myriad shades of blue and green mirrored in the shifting sea, not to mention the clouds drifting above it.

Baird’s newfound attraction to the sea was odd, really, given that he had been raised in the southwest, far from a sea of any kind.

“I think it’s beautiful,” Baird said mildly, earning a scathing glance from Beauforte’s legal counsel.

Julian snorted. “Beautiful. Far from it.”

“Just look at the sea. It’s quite a soothing place.”

“Ha! I don’t have to look any further than my own stomach. This is no place for a vegetarian. No country that willfully murders innocent vegetables could be beautiful!”

Baird had to grin despite himself. An ardent vegetarian, Julian should have become accustomed by now to having culinary adventures whenever he ventured far from a city’s bright lights. “It’s not that bad.”

“Oh, yeah? Last night in that horrible dark pub in town—you know the one—the only vegetables they could give me was this heap of something called clapshot.” Julian flung out his hands in exasperation. “Clapshot! Even the name is horrible! What the hell is clapshot?”

“You should know.” Baird returned to his clipping with a philosophical shrug, more than used to Julian’s monologues on the subject of food. “You’re the one who ate it.”

“I did not!” Julian grimaced. “It was orange and lumpy, like it had been put through a blender or something. Baby food.”

Baird grunted as he conquered a particularly thick vine and cast it aside, only to find another right behind it. A more whimsical man might have thought the briars were deliberately blocking his way. “Could be neeps and tatties together in one.”

“Neeps and what? I can guess that tatties must be potatoes in some overcooked form, but what the hell’s a neep?”

“Turnip. Or rutabaga. Those orange things, whatever they are. Mashed.”

Julian shuddered with mock horror. “Just like mother used to make. Ugh! I’m glad I didn’t eat it.”

Baird’s mouth quirked. “Maybe we should bill this as a weight loss resort for vegetarians.”

“Very funny.” Julian folded his arms across his chest and tapped his toe. “I’m not asking for much, you know. Why not a few roasted red peppers? A little rosemary? Maybe they could let some daylight in the place, instead of all that brooding dark wood. Ferns. Brass. Here’s a thought—attractive waitresses.”

Baird spared his friend a glance that spoke volumes before turning back to his clipping. He cleared another step. “Just like some chichi bistro in North Hollywood?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, why not?”

Baird shook his head. “Because it’s not California. Wouldn’t the world be boring if every place was the same?”

“Hardly.” Julian snorted. “We’d eat better, at least.”

Baird decided to offer Julian a choice morsel of news. “If it makes you feel any better, Sebastien’s coming to manage the restaurant here.”

“Sebastien? Here?” Julian looked incredulous. “You’ve convinced Sebastien to leave Manhattan? To come here?” The lawyer glanced about himself in amazement, as though he had been magically transported somewhere other than the Orkney Islands, then scrutinized his employer. “How did you manage that?”

“He thinks it’s ‘elemental’.” Baird watched Julian struggled to come to terms with the concept.

It was obviously an uphill battle.

“Well, maybe it could be, with Sebastien cooking,” he conceded reluctantly, then closed his eyes in rapturous recollection. “The things that man can do with portobello mushrooms!”

Julian sighed, then fixed Baird with a bright glance. “When is he coming?”

Baird shrugged. “A couple of weeks.”

Julian groaned. “It’s like an endurance test,” he muttered, then snapped his fingers in recollection. “Oh, hey, Darlene called. That’s why I came looking for you.”

“Again?” Baird was glad he had missed another worried call from his secretary.

“She wanted to know when you’d be back in head office.”

“Soon,” Baird said, emphasizing the word with a decisive snip of the clippers. “Very soon.”

“Great.” Julian’s tone implied that the news was far from that.

“I thought you hated it here.”

“I do! But now we’ll be gone by the time Sebastien gets here.” Julian scuffed his toe. “It’s just not fair.”

Julian pulled a determined branch away from his face and frowned at it. “These thorns are unbelievable. Look at this thing!” Baird obediently looked at the thorn offered for his perusal, a thorn not unlike the hundreds of others that had already made a grab at him today. “It must be three inches long!”

“And probably too tough to sauté in unsalted butter.”

“Very funny.” Julian let the branch go with a snap and peered into the shadows below for the first time. “Where does this staircase go?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” They had to be a dozen feet below the surface of the ground, the skyward view tangled with healthy briars. Baird grunted as he cut back a final tough curtain of branches.

The two men froze and stared at the heavy stone portal that was revealed.

The doorway was made of three massive rough-cut stones, two standing on end to support the weight of the third. The darkness within was complete, though cold air wafted towards them. It smelled like wet stone.

“Where does it go?” Julian whispered.

“Let’s find out.” Baird stepped through the doorway. Julian glanced about himself, then tentatively followed suit.

The sound of dripping water echoed loudly in the small space they entered. It was bone-chillingly cold here, the smell of the dampness and the silence emanating from the stone making Baird feel as though he had entered a strange, maybe enchanted, world far from the one he knew.

Julian shook the rainwater out of his Burberry trench coat and looked around the dim, roughly rectangular room. His words revealed that his mind had not taken the same fanciful turn as Baird’s.

“Doesn’t look like much. Are you going to put the sauna down here, or something? It could be expensive for heating. And you’d have to run some sort of covered walkway for guests who didn’t want to go out in the rain...”

Baird switched on the flashlight he had brought.

Hotelier and lawyer gasped aloud simultaneously. A slab of stone, as tall as Baird and covered with fantastic carving, filled the wall directly before them. They gawked silently at the treasure that just a moment before had been hidden in secretive shadows.

The slab was made of the same local gray stone as the rest of the castle ruins. At the top was a massive crescent carved in relief, almost like the curve of a sundial, points down, its interior writhing with Celtic knots.

On closer inspection, the knots were made of fantastic animals, all twined around each other. The imagery reminded Baird of the illuminations in the Book of Kells.

A bent arrow made a V across the crescent, its crook at the lower center of the crescent, its head pointing to the top right corner, its fleche to the top left.

Below this was a backwards Z, about a foot high, which seemed to have flames erupting from either end. On either side of this character were two disks, again filled with knots made of entwined creatures. A snake writhed around the perimeter of these elements, its body an intricate braid, the end of its tail in its own mouth.

The lower half of the stone was graced with the image of a woman in repose. Though her features were not clearly etched, it was obvious that she was a beauty. She looked to be sleeping, her hands folded across her chest and garments pooling about her slender form.

“Whoa!” Julian breathed. “It would be good to move that somewhere more visible in the resort.”

Baird bent and ran his fingertips over the row of crosshatched lines that ran up the right side. “It must be an inscription,” he mused, recognizing runic letters and wondering what they said.

Julian showed no interest in such mysteries. He shivered and shrugged, throwing Baird a smile as he shoved his hands into his raincoat pockets. “Definitely worth a visit. Now, let’s get a brandy.”