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But still though, before leaving for their
hunt this morning, Gavin had taken a moment to question the priest
about the underground crypts that Joanna had spoken of. Gavin had
not blinked an eye when Father William’s jaw dropped in surprise at
his laird’s knowledge of the subterranean vaults.

With only the slightest pressure, Gavin had
gotten the cleric to talk, though the information the man had
conveyed had been cursory, at best. The tombs there were hundreds
of years old, the priest had told the warrior, though he himself
had almost no knowledge of who was buried there. But when Gavin had
then asked if he knew how to take him down there, the priest had
reluctantly nodded and said that the old priest before him had
showed him the way. Looking out over the wall into the gorge where
Gavin had encountered the falling rock, Father William had said
there was an outside entrance to the crypt, and that he was fairly
certain he could find it still.

It might be all for nothing, Gavin thought,
watching the hound Max carry off a good sized chunk of meat. Still
though, the laird was determined to seek out answers to those
questions that had arisen in his mind as a result of Joanna’s
appearance. A restlessness washed over him at the thought of her
coming back tonight. Forcing himself to ignore the stirring in his
loins, he drove the end of his hunting lance into the fallow
ground. Perhaps a man with functioning reason would not have
trusted her to return, certain that she would use the opportunity
to escape him. But not Gavin.

An unspoken vow of trust had passed between
them, and it was a pact that had made Gavin believe that she would
come back. And when she did return, he wanted to greet her with
information of his own. He could not bring himself to believe that
Mater was a murderer, and he needed to know what made her accuse
the old woman. But if he wanted to argue with her over who her
parents’ killer might be, then he knew he had better know more of
this keep’s history than he knew now.

Looking up the glen, along the line of trees,
Gavin could still see no sign of Athol. The earl and the rest of
his hunting party had taken off after a number of does, and
frankly, this suited Gavin perfectly. It seemed that every time he
had looked at John Stewart this morning, a dark, seething anger had
coursed through him. And though the warrior refused to admit that
he might be jealous of the man, knowing that Athol obviously had
some shared past with Joanna raised an ire in Gavin that he could
neither deny nor shake off.

She was not a child. He knew that. Her open
and fiery response to his kisses told Gavin of her passionate
nature. But it also spoke of her past experience. And all morning,
like some thorn, the thought of her life before pricked at him. If
this scurvy blackguard Athol were not a guest at Ironcross Castle,
if he were not forced to look so often upon the Highlander’s
damnably handsome face, then perhaps this thought would not be
plaguing him so.

But it was, damn it!

Once again, Gavin drove his lance into the
side of the brae, cursing himself for feeling this way. Never in
the past had he cared a whit about a woman’s past. Virginity was an
over-rated condition, so far as he was concerned. Why, though she
was long dead now, Mary Boleyn--one of the finest women he had ever
known--had been a mistress to a king and to heaven knows who else.
His lips pressed into a thin line. So why must he feel this way
about Joanna MacInnes?

Gavin stared darkly at his thick, scarred
hands, wrapped around the lance. By the devil, man, he told
himself, she stirs you to want her, but surely the draw can be
nothing more than physical. No one knew better than Gavin himself
how little the future could hold. This was lust, he reminded
himself, nothing else. Whatever else was pushing at him
could...well, could go to blazes.

With an effort, Gavin closed his mind to such
thoughts and turned his attention back to Allan. Dismounting from
his horse, he started down the slope toward the older man, his
thoughts once again on the underground crypts and what little the
priest had been able to tell him.

As the laird approached the small group of
men, the shaggy hound Max loped over. As Gavin slowed down, the
beast jumped up and placed his large paws against Gavin’s chest,
stretching out his neck and licking the master’s face.

Dropping the reins of his horse, Gavin
grabbed the scruff on either side of the dog’s face. Scratching
behind the dog’s ears, Gavin turned to the steward and caught his
eye. “I thought these dogs were raised to be hunters,” he said
gruffly. “They’re as gentle as lap dogs.”

“Most are better trained. But this one
somehow is a bit confused.” Allan shook his head at the animal. “We
should have beaten him more, I should think.”

“Nonetheless, they performed well today.” As
the steward nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment, Gavin
pushed the dog off his chest and turned to eye the piles of meat
already dressed and ready to go. “Not even counting what Athol and
his men might bring back, I should say we have had a successful
day.”

“Aye, m’lord. ‘Twill all be put to good
use.”

Gavin bent down and picked up a stick,
throwing it for the dog. As Max raced off after it, the laird
turned and faced the steward. “What do you know of the crypts that
lie beneath Ironcross Castle, Allan?”

The look of shock in the steward’s face was
quickly replaced with an expression of bewilderment.

“Well?” Gavin prodded, unwilling to give the
other man a chance to recover from the suddenness of the
question.

“How do you know about...?”

“Why is it that this is the first question
everyone asks? Is it so strange that I should know about the crypt?
Is there something forbidden in my knowing what lies beneath my own
keep?”

“Nay, m’lord.” The steward shook his head
quickly. “I meant no disrespect. “Tis just...I mean...m’lord, no
one has talked of or gone down there for years...that I can recall.
I am just a bit taken aback that you should have heard about it. I
do not know that many in the keep even know that there are crypts
beneath the castle.”

“Well, some know. And I assume a few who even
remember how to get down there.” Gavin frowned. “Though I continue
to marvel that, the other day when I was asking who knew their way
about the passages, no one spoke up. Not even you.”

“‘Tis not what you think, m’lord.” The
steward again shook his head. “We all mean to serve you. ‘Tis just
that those crypts, being so old...well, no one has any reason to go
there anymore.”

As the steward’s voice trailed off, Gavin
frowned. Perhaps in expecting his new serving folk to confide in
him, he was expecting too much. If he was not going to make them
fear him, then he had to gain their trust--and then hope for their
confidence. But then there was still the question of that vault.
There was too much being kept secret from him.

“So who is buried in that crypt?”

The steward paused as he looked uncertainly
from Gavin to a prospect down to a glen to the west.

“Who is buried there, Allan?”

“Many,” the older man said quietly. “The
crypt you are speaking of holds many tombs, m’lord. The old folks
used to say, ‘tis not one spirit that hunts Ironcross Castle, but
many.”

An awkward silence fell between the two, and
Gavin became aware of the strong, gusty wind that was whipping up,
startling the dogs and worrying the horses. Gavin realized that he
no longer had the steward’s attention. The old man’s gaze--his very
soul--seemed distant, withdrawn, in another world.

Gavin’s mind drifted back to Joanna. She knew
about that crypt. Surely, the belief of these people in the spirits
that were haunting the castle and the passageways had only helped
keep her from being discovered.

But did she know anything of the origins of
those who were buried there? Turning and looking at the still
distant expression in the steward’s face, Gavin felt his impatience
to know more growing stronger. Curses, spirits, long-forgotten
crypts...

Gavin shook is head. As strange as the answer
was that Joanna had given him to his question about the murder of
her parents, she, too, clearly believed that there were human hands
involved in these killings.

“Allan,” Gavin barked, drawing the man’s
attention back to him. “These folk that you speak of--the ones
lying in the crypt--who were they and where did they came
from?”

The steward looked back, seemingly unwilling
to offer any answer.

But Gavin was not about to give up. “And how
long has it been that they have been buried there?”

Allan took another long pause, and Gavin took
a step toward him, losing his grip on his rising temper. But then,
responding to his laird’s obvious impatience, the steward opened
his mouth and spoke.

“The age of that vault goes back beyond the
memory of anyone living. For certain, ‘tis more than thrice my age.
And as for the names of the dead, all I ever was told was that they
are saints, m’lord. From the abbey.”

“From the abbey?”

Allan met Gavin’s questioning gaze. “Aye,
m’lord. That’s all I know for certain. Over the years, though, as
the curse...as the accidents began to claim more and more of the
lairds of Ironcross, peasants began to make up tales about the
crypts and the powers of those buried there. As a lad, I remember
them coming.”

“You remember
who
coming?”

“Peasants, m’lord. Poor, ignorant folk.
Leaving gifts in the vault to ward off the evil...and not just the
evil of the curse. Like pilgrims they would come from all over the
Highlands--MacKenzies and MacLeods, Campbells and MacIntyres. You’d
think it was Jerusalem. But in those days, we had no laird who
spent any time at Ironcross, so there was no one to pay any mind to
people from the hills tramping around beneath the castle.”

Allan looked out at the thin sliver of loch
visible at the end of the glen.

“Go on,” Gavin ordered, stirring the old
steward from his reverie.

“That all ended when Sir Duncan MacInnes
became master of Ironcross Castle. He ordered the common folk to
stay away, and ordered a punishment for those who were found
trespassing in the passages.” Allan shrugged his broad, old
shoulders and looked away again. “No one goes there anymore. That
is why no one in the house would dare to go into the passages. No
one has been down there in ages. That is why no one remembers.”

“Why, Allan, would a laird of Ironcross bury
someone from the abbey in the caverns beneath his own castle. Why
not in the chapel yard? Why not in the kirkyard at the abbey?
Saints or no, burying them here makes no sense!”

“I...I don’t know, m’lord.”

Gavin’s face clouded over at the steward’s
inability to satisfy his questions.

“How much do you think Mater knows of the
history of those people?”

Allan stared at his master and then began to
shake his head slowly “I don’t...”

“You don’t believe she knows?” Gavin
glowered. “Or you don’t think she will tell me?”

“She...it surely would not be wise...”

“Wise? To question Mater? Why, Allan?”

The steward hesitated, but then looked
positively relieved at the sound of horses in the distance. Gavin
turned and looked up the glen as Athol and his men broke out of the
wood and rode along the edge of the trees. He could see a pair of
does draped across the saddles of the earl’s men.

Watching his guest approach, Gavin turned
again to the steward. “It seems we have taken more than we need.
Prepare the earl’s kill, and advise the men that on our way back we
will be stopping at the abbey.”

“The reason for this visit, m’lord,” Allan
asked hesitantly, his face showing his perplexity. “Do you intend
to try to question Mater? About the crypt, I mean!”

“Aye.” Gavin nodded, looking into the
steward’s face. “‘Tis clear to me I’ll not be getting much
information from my own people...unless I care to cudgel it out of
them. I’m thinking I can learn a great deal more speaking with the
woman.”

The steward showed no further willingness to
speak, though concern was etched on his features. With a look of
disgust, Gavin turned and mounted his horse. Of course, he thought,
whether
she
is willing to tell me what she knows is a
different matter entirely. Shaking his head, he nudged his steed
down the steep hill where Athol and his men waited.

From the time Joanna had named Mater as the
one responsible for the killings, Gavin had been looking for an
excuse to visit the old woman before meeting with the lass again.
There was something very unsettling about this whole thing. On his
last visit to abbey, Mater had spoken of Joanna as a frequent
visitor. She had spoken of her as a friend. But Gavin also recalled
how she had spoken in riddles when she had answered his questions
about the young woman. Now, knowing that Joanna had been alive all
along, the warrior chief couldn’t help but wonder if the old abbess
knew the truth as well. But then, how? And more importantly,
why--unless she saw the woman light the fire with her own
eyes--should Joanna MacInnes go from seeking out the old woman’s
company to calling her a murderer?

“So, you were able to run a few of them
down,” Gavin said, approaching his neighbor.

“Aye,” the earl replied with a nod. “And we
could have taken two more with little effort. With no one hunting
here of late, you should have plenty of meat to stock the larders
of Ironcross.”

Gavin ran a hand down the side of Paris’s
neck. “Well, I’ve thought of a more worthy use for the meat that
we’ve gathered today. We are stopping at the old abbey on the way
back to Ironcross. I plan to drop off some of the meat our party
killed. While we’re there, I thought I might visit a few moments
with the abbess, Mater.”