by Lynn Kurland
“Aye.”
“How did you discover it?”
“Do you truly wish an answer to that?”
Mary laughed in spite of herself. “Your poor mother.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “so says she. Often. At least I’m taking apart your father’s keep instead of my sire’s.”
“I’m sure my father appreciates the attention,” she said dryly.
“Surprisingly enough, I’m not sure he does,” Theo said thoughtfully. “He told me he would beat me if he caught me pawing at any more seams in the foundation. I gave him my solemn word I wouldn’t paw anymore.”
“So you’ve been using your knife instead.”
He elbowed her companionably. “Mary, for a gel, you’re a right proper lad.”
And from Theo, there was truly no higher praise.
She shouldn’t have enjoyed it, but she couldn’t help herself. She settled back into the hay and wished the enjoyment could have lasted. If only she could have, at some point before she’d reached her dotage, found a man who could have thought just as highly of her, a man who might have appreciated her for something besides her dowry and found fault with something besides her quite reasonable fondness for a well-turned hoof.
Geoffrey of Styrr was most definitely not that man. She wished she could have brought herself to bolt from the keep, but she couldn’t. She didn’t run. That wasn’t to say that she hadn’t made a handful of very abrupt visits to other halls over the years, but those couldn’t properly be termed escaping. She had been needed to help with the tending of children. She had no fewer than a score and six cousins, so her aunts were always happy to have an extra pair of hands to help with those cousins. If she had rushed off abruptly to offer aid, who could fault her for it? Pointing out to her father the virtue of offering such a needful service had always been enough to convince him to send her off to wherever she asked to go.
She feared her sire might not be so easily convinced this time.
She considered her usual places of refuge. The contingent from Raventhorpe had already left that morning and Jackson and Thaddeus likely wouldn’t be following for quite some time to come. Theophilus and Samuel’s parents were in France, not at Wyckham, so there was no hope of going so far in disguise. She had family farther afield in England, but she didn’t dare attempt to travel to them alone, and she didn’t suppose any of her cousins would be willing to take her.
Obviously she would simply have to remain at Artane and see what Fate sent her way.
There were many places inside the keep where she could hide for extended periods of time. And if worse came to worst, she would linger for long stretches in the garderobe. She’d done it before, though she couldn’t say it had been a very pleasant experience.
She thought she might be desperate enough this time for quite a few unpleasant things.
Chapter 3
Zachary wished he’d had more duct tape.
It wasn’t something he wished for often, but he also didn’t often find himself driving something that was smoking like a blocked chimney. He rolled down his window and swore. He’d already lost his oil cap once, and the one he’d made with the last bit of duct tape he’d had in his trunk had apparently also gone the way of all mischievous auto parts. The first loss was a suspicious one. He distinctly remembered checking the oil that morning, and he was certain he’d replaced the cap. Now, though, the results were unarguable.
Paranormal intervention or absentmindedness?
He suspected the former. He’d left Wyckham early that morning, intending to go stay at the Boar’s Head Inn. As he’d started to turn onto the long road that led in that direction, his car had begun to smoke. He’d decided, as he’d sat on the side of the road and let his engine cool, that he might be better off to head for Artane and hope he didn’t have to walk most of the way. A quick phone call had resulted in a freely offered room for the duration and an expression of disbelief that he’d considered anything else. He’d happily accepted the invitation, put his car back together as best he could, then continued on in a direction he hadn’t expected to take. He had hoped to arrive reeking slightly less of engine smoke, but perhaps that had been too much to ask.
He hoped it wasn’t an omen.
He managed now to nurse his car up onto the bluff and into the car park next to Artane. He turned off the engine, set the parking brake, then leaned his head back against the seat and took a long, slow breath.
He coughed violently. He quickly stuck his head out the window and sucked in a few restorative gulps of lovely fresh air. Once he could breathe again, he then leaned back against the seat and had his comfortable look. The view of the ocean in front of him was truly spectacular, eclipsed only by the sight of the castle to his left. He wasn’t overly emotional by nature—the thought of a brace of Twinkies aside—but he would admit to getting a little worked up over the sight of a medieval castle in all its glory.
Some of it had to do with knowing what it had taken the original builders to put it together. More of it had to do with all the layers of history and living that found themselves deposited on the stones that made up any structure of any age at all. There were two things he loved and one of them was old buildings. The second was a good mystery, but he was sure he wouldn’t find one of those inside the walls of Artane. The current earl’s younger son, the right honorable Gideon de Piaget, had assured him numerous times in the past that Artane was devoid of any sorts of unexplained happenings. It possessed fabulous bones, boasted startlingly well-preserved artifacts, and that bedroom he was welcome to for as long as he liked. The situation couldn’t have been more perfect.
He rolled up his window, unbuckled, then crawled out of his car to stretch for a moment before he locked his gear up and walked off toward the castle.
He tried to sweet-talk his way past the ticket booth, but the granny there was particularly loath to believe he might be a business associate of anyone up the way. He sighed, pulled out a ten-pound note, and handed it over without comment.
“We’ll keep the remainder for a donation,” the woman said, plopping the money in her till with alacrity. “Up the road and through the front door.” She shot Zachary a stern look. “Don’t wander off the path.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Zachary said honestly. He knew very well where that sort of thing led.
Again, not that it would lead him anywhere untoward here. Artane was completely free of all paranormal influences. Gideon had said so.
Why Gideon’d felt the need to repeat that so often was probably better not to know.
Zachary put any speculations about that behind him along with his smoking car and walked up the cobblestone road that led from the outer gates to the keep itself. He suspected there had been an inner bailey wall and gate as well at some point, but since the need for that had disappeared, so had the fortification. Now, there was merely a very large courtyard with a few stone outbuildings that either were original and very well kept up or were very good re-creations. He could see a smithy, a rather impressive stable that was obviously not original, and a chapel tucked into the corner of one wall. There was also a tea shop that opened its doors onto the courtyard. He wasn’t sure what that had been in the past, though he assumed it wasn’t the dungeon. It looked far too comfortable and too sheltered for such a thing.
It also looked to be assaulted at any moment by a little red Ford.
Zachary ran across the courtyard to try to stop the car before it backed right into the shop itself. Fortunately for the pa trons, the car killed itself before it could wind up wearing any scones with clotted cream. The flower beds were, however, a complete loss.
Zachary pulled open the door and looked at the old man who sat in the front seat, white as a sheet.
“Oh, I say,” the man said, “oh, look what I’ve done now. The earl will sack me for sure this time—”
“Let’s worry about that later, shall we?” Zachary said, helping the old man out of the car. He pulled the keys from the ignit
ion, then walked the man inside and saw him settled with a cup of tea before he went back outside to assess the damage.
Thirty minutes later, he’d moved the car, found the gardener’s shed, and was in the process of resurrecting the flower bed. The few petunias that dared brave the March wind were done for, but he supposed someone else could replant those tomorrow. He concentrated on making the dirt look less like someone had been four-wheeling in it, then stood back and admired his work.
“Aren’t you a little overqualified for this sort of thing?”
Zachary looked to his left to find Gideon de Piaget standing there wearing what could have been charitably called a smirk. He wiped a filthy hand on his now equally filthy jeans, then reached out to shake Gideon’s hand.
“Just being useful.”
“So I see,” Gideon said. “We don’t usually let Cedric have the keys, but someone left them in the car, apparently.”
Zachary fished the offenders out of his pocket and handed them over. “All yours now. Unless you’d like to let me borrow them back so I can get to work tomorrow.”
“I suppose I should, since that wreck of yours is polluting my car park.” He handed the keys back. “You’re off to a smashing start with this new venture, aren’t you?”
“It’s impressive, isn’t it?”
Gideon laughed. “Very. Welcome to Artane just the same. I’ll leave someone in the hall to show you to a guest room, then why don’t you come find me in Father’s private study. We’ll discuss your plans whilst we make serious inroads into his schnapps before supper.”
Zachary didn’t drink, but he supposed Gideon already knew that. He merely nodded his thanks, then went to fetch his gear. With any luck, he would be able to get back inside the gates without having to make any more donations.
Several hours later, he walked back into his guest room, well fed and watered. He’d had supper and a very pleasant discussion with Gideon about potential future projects to be attempted by the Cameron/Artane Trust for Historical Preservation, assured Gideon that he wouldn’t paper the cottage next to Wyckham in zinnias, then found himself with the run of the keep. He hadn’t been offered any keys, but he’d been assured that the alarms were turned off for the night should he find a lock he thought he might like to pit his skills against.
He wondered just what it was that Gideon and Jamie talked about when they got together.
It was probably better not to know.
He left both sets of car keys on the nightstand, then considered the rest of his gear. He supposed his wallet would be safe enough, so he left it sitting next to the keys. He pulled his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and started to lay it down. He paused, then reconsidered. The knife had been custom made for him, with several additions that conventional Boy Scouts didn’t need. Among other things, there were tools for unlocking all sorts of different locks of different vintages, a compass, and a soldering torch the size of a very thin pen. He didn’t usually go around without it, on the off chance that he might need to cut up an apple or cut his way out of some dungeon or another, but he supposed taking it with him now was overkill.
Besides, he wasn’t going to break into any of Lord Edward’s glass cases. If he had tools with him, he might be tempted beyond what he could reasonably bear. Better that he be a strictly hands-off tourist for the moment. He could pick locks later in the week, when he felt more at home.
He set the knife down only to realize that he was still holding it in his hand. A wave of something whispered over him, but he immediately dismissed it as too much cheese sauce over broccoli that night for dinner. Artane was just an average, albeit spectacularly maintained, castle on the edge of the sea. He was merely going for a little walk. Nothing was going to happen that he couldn’t handle with the two dirks stuck down the sides of his boots. He set his pocketknife down firmly, pulled a sweater down over his head, then left the chamber, shutting the door behind him.
He considered the wing added in the sixteenth century with its lovely wide-planked floors and cases filled with all sorts of treasures, then discarded the idea. If he were truly to allow himself to bunk at Artane for the duration as Lord Edward had insisted he should, he would have plenty of time to explore. At the moment, he wanted a fix of a more medieval sort.
He wandered through the great hall, then made his way up the circular stairs at the back. They were larger than he would have expected given the time period in which the keep had been built, but rumor had it those first Artane men had been rather large in stature. The castle had apparently been built to suit.
Zachary wandered up the stairs and down passageways, avoiding any rooms that were obviously private. He rubbed his arms suddenly as a chill ran through him. Medieval castles, no matter the century, were just plain cold. It was no wonder people had worn such heavy clothes. He gave his car’s functioning heater a fond thought, then continued on with his explorations.
He walked until he found himself stopped suddenly in front of a door. He put his hand on the wood, paused, and considered. There was nothing of a paranormal nature there; he was certain of that. He was extremely familiar with that particular sort of tingle, and he felt nothing like it at present.
He let himself in and felt for a light switch. He was relieved when he found the room flooded by very modern bulbs instead of torchlight.
He stood rooted to the spot and simply stared at what was in front of him. Why the room wasn’t locked, he couldn’t have said. He would certainly say something to Gideon in the morning, something along the lines of “Are you out of your mind leaving the door to the mother lode without a padlock and a full-time guard?”
Fortunately for him, there was neither. He shut the door behind him, then had a very leisurely look at things he would have killed to have been able to use in a restored Wyckham.
There were chairs, a table or two, tapestries, blankets, swords, shields ... It was hard to know where to look first. He didn’t dare touch, though it seemed fairly clear that other people weren’t too intimidated to at least dust.
He found himself standing suddenly in front of a small table with a lamp on it that was definitely something from the current century. He turned it on, then looked at the enormous book sitting there in a glass case. And since he was there and so was a pair of curator gloves, maybe there was no harm in seeing what the fuss was over. Besides, the case was unlocked. How could he resist?
He put the gloves on, opened the lid, then began to turn pages very gingerly. He was somehow unsurprised to find the book was a family genealogy. Hugh McKinnon would have had a field day with it.
He flipped back through history, stopping occasionally to read a bit and look at who had made up the generations of de Piagets. His family was proud of their heritage—he’d picked up more than a little Gaelic from his maternal grandfather because his granddad had been determined to keep the language alive—but his family couldn’t hold a candle to Gideon’s. The stories were fascinating and he felt a small twinge of envy that they had managed to hold on to their hall for so many generations. It couldn’t have been easily done.
He found himself in the first few pages of the volume. He read about Rhys, the first lord of Artane, then noted the exploits of the man’s children. One thing could be said for that second generation of de Piaget lads and lasses: they had reproduced prodigiously. He looked down through the generations, noting names he might or might not have recognized. He saw William de Piaget, great-great-grandson of the first lord of Artane, Rhys. He had spent a week with William in present-day fall, taking the opportunity to brush up a bit of his south- of-the-border sword skill, because he just never knew when it might come in handy.
He reached the early fourteenth century and decided he’d read enough. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know who had survived the plague and who hadn’t. He left the book open approximately where he’d found it, then sighed and closed the glass case. He took off the gloves, then turned off the table lamp. He had personally had more than enough of life and
death in the past thanks to his jaunts with Jamie. He was more than ready for a steady stream of time in the future where he could enjoy a decent bed, food that he hadn’t either gathered or killed with his own two hands, and the pleasure of shaving with a razor instead of one of his daggers.
He walked over to the window and looked out, profoundly grateful for the glass that did a decent job of keeping the sea breezes out. Perhaps with any luck, he would have the occasional day off and make use of it by jogging along that very long piece of beachfront real estate.
He took a last look around, shaking his head over the treasures there, then headed toward the door. A decent night’s sleep was in order, then an early start in the morning. He reached for the latch to open the door, already thinking about where he would have the contractors start—
It took him a split second to realize that the door had been flung open so hard, it had bloodied his nose. He clutched his face and swore fluently.
The thought crossed his mind that it might have been Gideon’s mother to have opened that door and he wasn’t going to make a very good impression on her with his reaction, but he thought he might be excused by the extenuating circumstances. Perhaps she would realize that he was admittedly a bit distracted both by the pain and by his attempts to staunch the blood that was pouring down his face.
He felt his way out into the hallway, shut the door behind him, then came to a slow but inexorable halt.
Had that been a tingle he’d just felt on the way through that doorway?
He started to shake his head, but that made the world spin, so he avoided it in favor of continuing to hold his nose and attempting to squint past his hand.
Was that torchlight?
His eyes were watering so madly and the pain was so intense, he wasn’t sure if he was seeing things or he’d just taken a very wrong turn.
No, that was definitely torchlight.
Damn it anyway.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. He took a step backward. “No, this isn’t supposed to happen.”