Doon (Doon Novel, A) (20 page)

I jerked awake and swallowed a scream.

The journal!

I lay rigid under the covers, my heart pounding to the beat of my cascading thoughts. Aunt Gracie’s notes said an object cursed by the witch and brought into the kingdom could compromise Doon’s protection. I thought that Kenna and I had found the journal by accident. But it was entirely possible that Addie had planted it. Who knows what she’d done in the cottage before we arrived. She’d have had plenty of time to place a spell on the book. The more I thought about it, and how easily we’d found everything, the more it made sense.

No, no, no! I dug my fingernails into my palms, squeezing my eyes tightly closed. What had I done?

My first instinct was to tell someone. But who? If I told Jamie, I’d not only be confirming his worst fears about me, but likely put him in grave danger. The image of him falling dead at my feet, the book in his hands, wouldn’t leave my mind.

I glanced at Kenna sleeping peacefully beside me. I longed to wake her and tell her everything, but then I remembered the king’s words: I alone could save the kingdom. Did that mean if I involved my best friend, I’d fail to save Doon? Or that it was best if I acted alone? I had no idea how the curse on the journal worked. But why endanger others if I didn’t have to? I was the one who brought the journal across the bridge in the first place—the one who’d put the people of Doon in danger.

Picturing the dead guard’s faces, frozen in agony, tears leaked out of the corners of my closed eyes. My fault. The king
had given me the vision for a reason. And Jamie’s dreams had nothing to do with Kenna. This was my responsibility, my problem to fix. But the bridge was closed until the Centennial, and the king had taken the rings.

Suddenly the walls closed in around me. I had to get out, had to come up with a plan—guards or no guards. Careful not to wake Kenna, I pushed the coverlet back and slid to my feet. After tugging on my skirt and blouse, I retrieved the journal from its soggy hiding place and tucked the tiny book in my skirt pocket.

I knew what I had to do—how I could save the kingdom. Grabbing an apple out of the bowl on the coffee table, I moved to the door and flung it open—only to stop just short of barreling into a teary-eyed Fiona. Before she even spoke the words, I knew what she would say. I didn’t want to hear it, but like so many other things in Doon, I had no choice in the matter.

“The Laird MacCrae has passed on.”

My throat tightened as I moved to embrace Fiona. There was one choice still left to me. I would not let the king’s vision, the effort it’d cost him to warn me, go to waste. I’d get the cursed journal out of Doon before it was too late.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of dark, drab clothing and Kenna’s cryptic references to
Our Town
. I numbly went through the motions of getting ready for the funeral while also looking for my chance to escape. Despite my resolve, I both dreaded and longed for that moment; alternating between the desires to speed time up and freeze it in place.

After what felt like an eternity, we arrived at the Auld Kirk. From my vantage point in the middle of the church, I let my eyes slide over the sea of mourners, searching for the face of my
prince. He and his bother sat alone in front, opposite, yet the same; one dark, one light, their broad shoulders squared in an almost identical steely bulwark against their anguish—stoic islands of grief. I wished I was sitting next to him, if only to hold his hand.

Pain shot up my jaw and I unclenched my teeth. Jamie wouldn’t want reassurance from me. He’d made his feelings abundantly clear, and after what I’d done, it was for the best. I shifted in my seat, the impulse to duck out the back door, to grab the journal and go, almost overwhelming. Fearful to bring the witch’s evil into the Doonians’ place of worship, I’d stashed the book outside the doors of the chapel, in the pot of a tall fern.

A deep silence pulled my focus back to the front of the church where Jamie made his way to the center of the altar. Stopping behind the podium, he stood tall and strong, sincerity shining from his face. As he began to speak, his words filled the chapel with an almost visible peace, his internal strength comforting and encouraging his grieving kinsmen.

Kenna shifted beside me. She slipped her warm hand into mine and squeezed. If she chose to stay in Doon, this could be the last moment I spent with her. I squeezed back, hoping she knew how much she meant to me.

“You okay?” she whispered.

Afraid she would read my thoughts, I nodded but kept my focus on the eulogy. As I listened, something inside of me shifted. The resentment I’d felt since discovering it was my responsibility to save the kingdom transformed into quiet acceptance. Jamie MacCrae would make a wonderful king, and it was my duty—no, my destiny—to give him that chance.

Even if it meant leaving the two people I loved most in the world … forever.

A
s I followed the funeral crowd around the side of the Auld Kirk to the pavilion behind, I asked myself WWSSD: What Would Stephen Sondheim Do?

I thought about the two gladiator princes who, despite all their strength and cunning, were powerless to stop the death of their beloved father—even in an enchanted kingdom. Bittersweet, coming-of-age melodies swirled in my head. If only Stephen were here to give them a musical silver lining to cling to in their time of need.

Instead, they had a whole community of loved ones who grieved in harmony with them. And the discord of two alleged witches, causing unease in their realm at a time when they needed it least.

Make that one witch.

Vee had wandered away from the masses at the first opportunity. Ever since the picnic at Muir Lea, she’d been a ghost girl, barely here. Considering the whole Sofia thing, I figured she just needed some space.

But this morning had been different. Whatever happened between Vee and the auld laird before he passed had seriously messed her up. In our entire friendship, I’d never seen her so devastated—or withdrawn. Not even when her dad went MIA.

It was time for a Kennavention … just as soon as she returned.

Moments after Vee slipped away, I watched Jamie follow. From what little she’d told me, Prince Not-So-Charming had a lot of sucking up to do. Maybe after some alone time they’d be able to reach an understanding.

To take my mind off my bestie’s drama, I focused on the scene before me. Wooden tables, laden with food and drinks, bordered the length of the space closest to the church. At the far end, a band—complete with bagpipes and drums—began to set up just in front of the Doonian crest. The opposite side of the tent opened to reveal the spectacular shoreline of the Loch o’ Doon. In the middle of the shore, a small wooden ramp sloped into the gently lapping waters of the lake. A rectangular pyre of twigs sat on the makeshift dock in preparation of the king’s final journey.

As the good citizens of Doon gathered in the pavilion, the musicians took up their instruments. Accompanied by the sad, slow strains of the fiddlers, the bagpipes began to weave their haunting tale of sorrow. Perhaps Sondheim’s spirit was present after all.

Fiona wove her way through the crowd to check on me. Her swollen eyes spoke of a grief I wasn’t entitled to share. Feeling like an intruder, I picked the first safe topic I could come up with. “I think it might rain.”

At my seemingly benign statement, Fiona stifled a sob. “Aye. I’ve no doubt that it will. The weather and the kingdom share a distinct connection. Although we have seasons, the weather
is always harshest when we Doonians are—struggling.” Her voice broke on the last word, and I decided my curiosity was better left unsatisfied. As she moved on, the first fat drops of moisture began to fall, giving the impression that the sky cried along with the people.

Or maybe these were the tears of God?

I’d heard someone say that about rain once, and the thought sent a shiver trembling up my spine. Would God cry at the death of one king? Or any single Doonian for that matter? What about my world? Had he cried over my mother? Would he cry for me?

He would cry for Duncan—that I was certain of. The younger prince of Doon had a simple faith that resonated from his being. He was kind and loyal, and … good. Everything nobility ought to be.

My gaze roamed restlessly through the crowded pavilion, seeking the face of Duncan MacCrae. Over the past few days he’d been absent, busy with the Centennial and grieving over his dad. His playful banter seemed to have died along with the soldiers in the meadow. Now the unsettling feeling of missing him, if only as a friend, tugged at me.

He was easy to spot—a dark-haired hulk standing a full head above his peers. Well, not peers exactly … In this case, he held court with a half dozen girls, each one prettier than the next. A dozen lashes batted in unison, as mouths of all shapes and sizes curved in empathy. Large doe eyes of every hue imaginable gazed up at Duncan with invitations of solace.

Thinking of him taking consolation in one of their arms made me feel like going postal. Stupid, stupid me. I’d had my shot … and blew it. I could’ve kissed him in the meadow, but I’d taken the high road. Or the low, slinking road of cowardice, depending on how you looked at it. My heart twisted sharply
with that observation, and I had to remind myself that it was better this way. I was leaving at the first opportunity.

Unable to continue watching the macabre flirtfest, I drifted along the edges of the pavilion until I came to the lake. Heavy rain caused a symphony of ripples on the water’s surface. Little clusters of ducks and geese, reveling in the downpour, swam in jubilant pursuit of each another. At times, one or another would stop to dive for an underwater morsel, their duck butts quivering and bobbing along the water’s surface.

In the midst of such aquatic frivolity, a single swan glided in complete isolation. The graceful black and white bird cast such a somber contrast to the reckless ducklings that I felt drawn to it. Wasn’t it a bird like the others? Yet unaffected by the ducks’ infectious play, it floated among them as an entity apart.

“Swans mate for life, ye know.”

In my distraction, I hadn’t heard Duncan approach. His smooth brogue caused me to jump in surprise and set my girl parts to tingling. “No, I didn’t know.” Intrigued by the noble swan, I returned to my contemplation of the lake and conveniently away from an even more captivating view.

“His name’s Romeo,” Duncan supplied. The words rolled softly from his tongue, making me long to hear him recite the soliloquy of Shakespeare’s iconic hero.
O that I were a glove upon that hand …

Pulling myself back to present, I asked, “Where’s his Juliet?”

“Died.”

The poignancy in that single word caused my chest to contract as I faced the prince. Grief etched deep lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. As I stared at him, Duncan continued to regard the lake with luminous eyes. “Five winters ago … Not a day goes by that he does not miss her terribly.”

“How do you know?”

He turned to me with his weary, honest gaze and a tight smile. “Because they were inseparable. If ye were to watch them, you could feel how happy they were. Romeo’s not been the same since his Juliet left him.”

“What if you found him a new mate at the Centennial, maybe—”

“No. He wouldna take to her.”

His face held more than a deep empathy for the bird, something honest but unfathomable. The golden flecks in his chocolate eyes shimmered as he leaned slightly forward and reduced the distance between us. Caught in his magnetic pull, I struggled to recall our dialogue—oh, yeah, swans, and mating for life.

I swallowed down the egg-sized lump that’d materialized in my throat. “It must be difficult to be a swan.”

“But amazin’ too. Swans are nature’s true soul mates.”

Duncan and I were not swans. Or Romeo and Juliet for that matter, and we hadn’t—uh—mated. We were humans—plenty of fish in the sea, and all that.

Duncan cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice cracked awkwardly. “Have you—uh—ever been to a funeral before?”

Okay, that was a random, personal segue. As I pondered my answer, I looked into his guileless eyes and the world slipped away. I felt myself nod without any conscious decision to open up. “My mom’s—but I don’t remember much. And then when my aunt passed … I was twelve.”

Quiet as a whisper, he said, “Tell me about it.”

Under his hypnotic spell, I began to share. “I remember feeling devastated, lost. Everyone was telling me how sorry they were, but all I wanted was to be left alone. When I finally slipped away, I went to see an old friend. A boy, actually.”

“And?” Despite the heaviness of the word, his face remained impassive.

“He kissed me.” Never mind that Finn was imaginary—so the factualness of the kiss was questionable. Duncan didn’t need to hear that part. “It was the last time I ever saw him.”

“Have you been kissed since?”

“Oh, sure.” I’d had my share of lip locks and tongue tangles, both on stage and off, though none had come even close to Finn. Made up or not, it was hands down the best kiss I’d ever had.

Following my unspoken thoughts, a deep sigh slipped from Duncan’s mouth. “But there’s nothing like your first.”

“Exactly.”

His dark, luminous eyes continued to work their magic, pulling me toward him like an invisible tether. As his lips came within striking range of mine, his long lashes fluttered closed. “Except, perhaps, kissing your soul mate.”

Suddenly, I felt like I’d swallowed a mouthful of wriggling bugs. Pulling away, I tried to cover my panic by looking at the crowd. “When will the Coronation happen?”

That stopped him. His eyes snapped open and he blinked his confusion away before straightening himself. “Day after tomorrow.”

So Saturday, right before the Centennial. “And the Brig o’ Doon will open when?”

Between one heartbeat and the next, Duncan flinched as if I’d slapped him and quickly recovered. “Day after tomorrow at midnight.”

And Jamie will name his betrothed …? My mind flipped the sentence around trying to come up with a way of asking that wasn’t totally obvious. When I couldn’t work the question out, I gave up. Instead, I lowered my voice to just above a whisper. “And Gideon?”

He matched my volume. “Still contained. With everything going on, he won’t be missed.”

We just had to get through the next two days. “You’ve got a lot to do before the Centennial.”

“Aye.” Duncan raked his hand through his hair to create those brown, spiky peaks that were both chaotic and modern. “You’ve got something to do too.”

Figure out your feelings.

He didn’t need to say it aloud. It was scripted in the yearning on his ridiculously gorgeous face. But my choice had already been made.

I would have plenty of opportunity for romantic leads in my life. Once I returned to the real world. And Duncan would eventually marry one of the locals from his fan club. In time, we would be nothing more to each other than a bittersweet ballad of remembrance.

Which was what I wanted. Right?

“M’ laird.” A man from the village placed a sympathetic hand on Duncan’s shoulder. He nodded somberly. “It’s time.”

With a final, sad smile in my direction, Duncan left to lay his father to rest.

As mournful bagpipes underscored the fiery bier floating toward the center of the lake, I thought about the beauty and savagery of the ritual I’d just witnessed. The voracious fire that consumed the pyre seemed jarring juxtaposed against the gentle motion of the water. Yet somehow, together, the pervasive impression was one of peace.

“Shall we return ta the castle?” Fergus, with Fiona clutched at his side, smiled down at me. Despite their obvious grief, they looked mighty cozy.

As my gaze darted from one to the other, Fiona intercepted my train of thought. For the first time since I’d met her, she blushed, a pretty pink that accentuated her wide cheekbones. She held a thick shawl in her outstretched hand. “Take this, Mackenna.”

Mesmerized by the funeral ritual, I hadn’t noticed how chilly it had gotten. Until now. The rain had finally stopped, but the cold front that followed in its wake seemed more like November than August.

As I wrapped the thick woolen shawl around my shoulders, Duncan and Jamie drifted our way. Hopefully, Vee and Doon’s future king had been able to work some things out. I looked beyond the princes for some indication of her mood. But she wasn’t there.

Doing a slow three-sixty, I examined the clusters of mourners to confirm what I already suspected. She wasn’t anywhere in the pavilion. The irrational concern I felt at her absence rocked me to my core. It’d been hours since she’d crept back toward the church with Jamie in pursuit. Was that the last time I’d seen her?

“Jamie, where’s Veronica?”

The tight smile on his face melted into alarm that mirrored my own. “Isn’t she with you?”

“No. I haven’t seen her all afternoon.” In an effort to stay calm, I over-enunciated each word. Accusation flashed across his features and I clarified somewhat defensively, “She was upset and I was trying to give her some space.”

Jamie’s dark eyes grew as round as saucers as he, too, began to scour the crowd. “You let her leave?”

I began to doubt the assumptions that seemed so reasonable at the time. “I didn’t let her do anything. She left. I was going to go after her—but then I saw you follow, so—I thought—”
Jamie’s lack of recognition made me want to hurl. “Why’d you go back toward the church if you weren’t following Vee?”

“To pray for my father’s soul. ’Tis customary before the final rites.” His voice was thick with condemnation, as if my being an outsider didn’t excuse my ignorance.

Vee’d been missing for hours.

I sagged onto a nearby bench. Duncan’s arms caught me just before my backside hit the wood and he eased me the rest of the way down. My chest tightened. The air squeezed from my lungs and made it difficult to speak around my fear. “You really didn’t see her?”

Equal measures of rage and concern mingled in Jamie’s scowl. He looked capable of flaying someone alive. “Nay.”

Fergus cast a sheepish glance over the group. “She’s not been with Fiona since the service. I woulda noticed.”

Duncan still held me loosely from behind, the soft, reassuring brush of his fingertips as he stroked my back at odds with the steel in his voice. “How long has she been missing?”

I did some hasty mental gymnastics. “Three hours, at least. Maybe more.”

Jamie swore and whirled around to bark at Fergus. “Where’s Gideon?”

The gentle giant shot Duncan a guilty look while clearing his throat before answering his new king. Little beads of sweat appeared on his pink brow. Apparently lying was not one of his strong suits. “Gideon and his men are still in the eastern paddocks following a lead on the disappearances. But we’ve no’ heard from him since yesterday.”

“Bloody hell!” Jamie addressed me without apology. “Mackenna, are ye sure she didna return to the castle on foot?”

“It’s possible.” I negated the words with a shake of my head.
“But I don’t think so. We’ve been stuck in the castle for days. She’d be too stir-crazy to go back.”