The Queen of Swords: A Paranormal Tale of Undying Love (27 page)

“No. Here. In the castle.”

And then,
with the force of a lightning bolt, he realized what it was. Closing his eyes, he homed in on the feeling. “Fitzgerald’s here.” Opening his eyes, he rose from the sofa and offered her his hand. “Come, so I can put you somewhere safe. Somewhere he won’t know to look.”

Chapter
23: Down the Priest Hole

“Where are we going?”
she asked, pulling on his arm as he towed her along.

“I’m putting
you in the priest hole for safe keeping.”

She pulled up. “No.
I’m not going to hide somewhere while you face him alone. I want to go with you. To help you.”

“And do what, exactly? Be a pawn in his game? Let him mesmerize
you into doing his bidding? And how might that help?”

W
ith notable reluctance, she allowed him to tow her down a long corridor to the bedchamber through which the secret chamber lay. His grandmother had hidden his grandfather there after Culloden. Though his Granda had relayed the tale to him dozens of times, he never tired of hearing it. His grandmother, a fine lady of tremendous courage, had scarcely concealed her husband when his pursuers arrived to search the castle. Undaunted by their threats, she personally escorted the posse from room to room. In the bedroom concealing the chamber, however, the soldiers became suspicious for some reason and determined to stand guard overnight.

Food and wine
—laced with a mixture of opium, mandrake root, and hemlock juice—were sent up and, in due course, the men dropped off. Lady Logan then crept in with a tray of food for her husband, stepping over the slumbering guards as she crossed to the secret entrance.

They were before it now, a sec
tion of heavy oak wainscoting affixed with a spring release. Without a word, he bent to trigger it. The panel swung open, revealing a cupboard door just big enough for a grown man to crawl through. After getting down on his hands and knees, he instructed her to do the same. He squeezed through the portal before turning to assist her. When both of them were safely inside the inner chamber, an ante room roughly the size of a broom closet, he secured the entrance so no one could happen upon it. Pivoting, he crawled a few steps before prying free one of the floor’s heavy flagstones. The trapdoor to the priest hole was concealed underneath.

She frowned at the small opening.
“You have got to be kidding.”

“It’s all right
. You’ll be safe here. And relatively comfortable as hidey-holes go.”

Spacious compared to most, the secret chamber was
about eight-by-eight with a six-foot ceiling. Its small fireplace vented into one of the larger chimneys to prevent detection from outside. As far as he knew, it was still equipped with a simple cot, a leather chair, candles, a selection of books, jugs of whisky and water, and a horn cup for drinking.

“But I want to go with
you. To help you.”

“
I want you somewhere he can’t do to you what he did before,” he insisted. “Or use you against me.”

After removing his sporran, he
dropped it through the hole before positioning himself on the ledge with legs dangling. As he hopped down, his kilt ballooned like a parachute. Landing solidly on his feet, he looked up to find her peering down at him with an expression of worry.

“Once I’m down there, how do I get out?”

“I’ll come back for you.”

Anguish
cut deeper grooves in her face. “And what if you can’t?”

He swallowed hard, not wanting to
consider that very real possibility. The truth was, he had no idea what to do about Fitzgerald. If he failed in his quest, she’d slowly starve to death like all those poor bastards whose skeletons had been found in similar chambers over the centuries. The thought clawed his heart. Still, what else could he do? Throwing her in the wizard’s path was not an option.

“Come, lass
.” He reached for her. “Jump and I’ll catch you.”

When
at last she dropped into his waiting arms, he gave her a quick kiss before setting her on her feet.

“Promise
you’ll come back for me.”

He
faded into the ethers, leaving naught but a promise behind. “I shall. I swear it.”

* * *

She hated staying in the priest hole alone while he took on the dark wizard, but what could she do except hope for the best and find a way to pass the time? Spying his sporran on the floor, she bent to scoop it up, praying his cigarettes were inside. She took it to the chair, setting the bulging pouch on her lap.

Twinging
with revulsion, she lifted the fox-head flap and reached inside, glad to find a crumpled pack of
Gauloises
right on top. Setting the cigarettes on the table beside her chair, she slipped her hand back inside and felt around for his gold lighter.

Her fingers touched something unexpected
. A silky bundle. Pulling it out, she recognized it at once as his tarot cards. Setting them aside, she resumed her search for the lighter. Near the bottom of the pouch, she touched something small, hard, and velvety. Pulse quickening, she withdrew the object. It was a jewelry box. More specifically, it appeared to be a ring box. With trembling fingers, she snapped it open. Her breath caught upon seeing the unusual heart-shaped ring.

Was he planning to propose? As her heart
fluttered with a blend of elation and panic, her mind reached back across the day. Was that the reason he’d been acting so distracted? A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. What had him worried, popping the question or hearing the answer?

Will
you go on loving me, do you think? Come what may? Curse or no?

She would. She was sure of it. But was love enough? Setting the ring box on the table with a sigh, she resumed her hunt for the lighter. Finding it at last, she lit
one of his nasty cigarette and took a deep pull. The bitterness of the smoke made her grimace.
Ugh.
Unfiltered cigarettes were disgusting.

Turning the lighter over in her hand, she read the faded inscription.
Je t’aimerai toujours
. A sentiment engraved in another life. A sentiment that still rang true. She would always love him. Married or not. He was her soul mate. Her twin flame. Her destiny. But what about the realities and practicalities? If nothing changed, they had what?—ten or fifteen years before they started to look ridiculous as a couple?

Tears sprang
into her eyes. What was she going to do? She loved him so much, wanted to be with him more than anything, but she just couldn’t see how it could work if they failed to break his curse. Her mind retrieved Coppola’s
Dracula
unbidden. In the end, Mina, the reincarnated soul of Prince Vlad’s wife, performed the ultimate act of love: she drove a stake through her beloved’s heart, breaking his curse another way.

She
’d hoped her love would be enough to save him, that the real curse wasn’t what Fitzgerald had done to him, but his mistaken beliefs and the self-exile he’d retreated into afterward. Rather than bring him into the light, however, she’d slipped into the darkness. To be with him, she’d become willing to sacrifice everything.

If it came to it, would she have the courage to stake him? Did she love him enough to
do what Mina had done? Getting to her feet, she walked to the fireplace and flicked the butt of her cigarette into the firebox. She stood there a long moment, thinking it over as she drummed her fingers on the mantle. Was killing him the right thing to do?

His image
came into her mind, twisting the knife embedded in her heart. Could she bring herself to do it? Could she bear to go on living without him? Were they star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliette or Tristan and Isolde, doomed by the heavens to end broken-hearted? The tears in her eyes spilled hot down her cheeks. As she swiped at them impatiently, something he’d said echoed inside her mind:
Destiny’s a cruel mistress, lass. As I well ken. So be careful what you wish for, eh?

She shook her head and bit her lip.
She felt so torn, so lost, so confused. If only she had someone to talk to, to ask for advice. Remembering his tarot cards, she hurried to the table, snatched them up, and plopped down on the floor. One card. She’d simply split the deck and pray the meaning of card she drew would be crystal clear. Chewing her bottom lip, she removed the silk wrapping and, hands shaking, began to shuffle.

* * *

He came back to himself in the parlor, his mind groping for a way he might prevail. His only hope was to outwit Fitzgerald, but how? As he wrestled with the question, he went to the sideboard and poured another whisky. Taking it to the fireplace, he stared at the crossed antique swords. One was: a sixteenth-century basket-hilt broadsword; the other, a two-handed thirteenth-century Claymore once belonging to a gallowglass warrior. They were the prizes of his father’s collection, which also included pistols, studded wood-and-leather targes, fighting axes, and dirks dating back to the Iron Age.

Before the ban, every Highlander worth his salt carried a dirk—everywhere, even to the kirk on Sundays. A dirk was much more than a weapon in those days; it was a sacred object upon which a man swore his oaths. Taking a Highlander’s dirk was akin to taking his heart and soul. And the English knew this and used th
e knowledge to break them.

Rather than surrender their weapons, many brought them here
to be stowed in a secret armory in the attics until they could reclaim them. Most never did, and their arms remained in the attics of
Tur-nan-Deur
to this day.

Sipping his drink, he savored
the pleasant burn of the whisky on the back of his throat as he stared into the flames. He needed something iron to immobilize Fitzgerald. Might there be something he could use in the attic armory?

A
n odd sound interrupted his contemplations. He cocked his head, straining to identify what he’d heard. Was somebody moaning? Narrowing his eyes, he listened harder. Aye, a man, judging by the timbre. Thrumming with comingled curiosity and concern, he set his glass on the mantle and took down the two-handed claymore. He knew how to wield it, having studied illegally under the former weapons master from the local
taigh suntais
, the Gaelic name for the
old-time schools of martial. Though the weapons ban rendered such schools obsolete, his Granda had arranged his instruction in secret “to preserve the old ways.”

Sword
in hand, he moved toward the landing where Bonny Dundee stood guard. The moaning grew louder—and more decipherable. Whoever was making the noise was not in pain. Quite the contrary, in fact. Squinting in concentration, he strained to home in on the sound. It seemed to be emanating from the caretaker’s office. The door stood ajar. His eyes became slits. Did MacCabe have a woman in there?

Hazy impressions floated up from his subconscious like a laudanum dream. Three pairs of yellow eyes. Dark urges. Nectar-sweet breath. The taste of blood in his mouth. The bliss of
three sucking mouths. He shook his head to dispel the unsettling memory.

Of course
. Why had he not thought? If Fitzgerald was here, so would be his lads. Tightening his grip on the unwieldy sword, he crept toward the office and peered around the half-open door. Though the room was dark, he could still make out moving shapes on the sofa. Feeling along the wall, he flipped the switch, flooding the space with light.

Three heads popped up; two
brown, one blond. All three sets of blood-smeared lips were drawn back to expose saber-like fangs. He saw his caretaker then. He was sprawled on the sofa. His eyes were hooded and his kilt aloft. Blood streamed from a bite on his thigh. The smell of it roused his dark hunger. His canines sprouted amidst a deluge of saliva. Swallowing, he dropped into a defensive crouch, brandishing the sword.

One of the dark-haired lads rose and moved toward him, hissing like a
cat. Growling, Graham held his ground. As the lad stepped into range, he swung the blade with all his might. The blade struck the bicep, lopping off the arm. Blood flowed like a faucet. The lad screamed, clutched the stump, and drew back. In one fluid motion, Graham sliced and stepped forward. This time, he hit his mark. The head sailed toward the sofa and bounced across the floorboards.

The other two were on their feet now, moving in on either side.
Graham jabbed and slashed to keep them at bay. His heart was pounding and his arms burned with fatigue. The sword was too heavy. His strength was flagging. The blade’s tip sank ever lower. He couldn’t hold them off much longer.

The dark-haired
one charged. Calling upon every ounce of strength he had left, Graham raised the sword. The blade drove down and down, cloving the head in an explosion of gore. Wrenching the blade free, he turned to face his third opponent. He wasn’t there.

Glancing around, he caught a glint of blond hair disappearing through the doorway. He started to give chase, but changed his mind. The lad was
probably rejoining Fitzgerald. As taxed as he was, it would be suicide to try and take on both of them at once. His back ached something fierce, his legs felt like jelly, and his arms were numb from wielding the cumbersome Claymore. He needed a few moments to recuperate and regroup. He also needed a lighter weapon. And more than one, if possible.