The Legend of Lady MacLaoch (28 page)

He reached for another object and stilled.

Something stirred his blood. It wasn’t panic, frustration, or even anger. It was the low tone of the woman he loved—the one that, a single moment before, he thought he’d lost forever. The hum reverberated through his being.

At the bottom of the stairs, he nearly bowled over the professor, again.

“You’ve found her?”

“Aye, and no. I just know that she’s alive.”

Right then the elderly front-desk ladies came running, hands flailing, toward them.

“Sir! Oh, my Lord!” the first one cursed in fear. “Sir!” She gripped the front of her blouse with one hand.

The other, a hand on her colleague’s shoulder in support, said, “Gun shots, sir.”

As if on cue, he heard the bustling below of more people rushing in and spreading the news.

“Where?”

The two women shook their heads. “Dinnae know . . . It’s just that all the guests are saying that they heard them. Maybe in the forest behind—it was not too close.”

“Get the police here,” Rowan called over his shoulder, already almost at the doors. “Where is John?”

“He’s out the back gathering in the guests.”

“Aye, good,” he said, and left them.

CHAPTER 40

R
unning full out, I zigzagged around trees and saplings, my feet crunching dead leaves from the previous winter on the forest floor. Another shot rang out, and again it went wide. Without breaking my stride, I reached the river.

Running high with the spring and early-summer rains, the river was too dangerous for wading, even with a gun pointed at me. Large, moss-covered rocks formed a hopscotch bridge across the river, and I had to take my chances that Eryka would continue to be a terrible shot. I clambered up the first rock, hands and knees slipping, taking chunks of moss with them. Crouching, I inched to the edge and sprang to the next rock. My foot hit wrong and I went down, slamming my chest into the basalt. Another shot, closer than I’d expected.

Breathless, I looked back. Eryka came to a sliding halt and brought her pistol up, aimed steadily. I did the only thing I could—I slipped off the downstream side of the rock. Another shot rang out and, just as I pitched into the freezing water, I heard the bullet strike rock.

The water’s chilly fingers saturated my sweater, jeans, and shoes instantly, and the current took me. I struggled to breathe and avoid boulders as the water slammed me under, and then spouted me back up. Eventually I realized that this was much faster than trying to outrun Eryka, and I would soon be at Castle Laoch, where I could alert Rowan, and possibly set myself on fire. I figured—as I passed under a service bridge at the outer edges of the gardens, where the water noticeably slowed—that would be the only way I’d be warm enough to feel my appendages again.

I dog-paddled to the shore. Further downstream was the narrow bridge that crossed the river and led into the gardens and, beyond, to Castle Laoch—but the service road was immediately to my left.

Heavy and freezing with cold river water, I still moved with speed. The service road ended at the boathouse. I leapt over the curb and sloshed down onto the parking lot and tried the boathouse office door. Locked. I started pounding on the door before I saw the handwritten note hung on it:
Gone. Will be back in 10 minutes.

I cursed the person who’d written it, gave the door a kick in distress, and ran for the pier.

Two tiny fishing boats bobbed in the water at the end of the pier. The water was low, several feet below the pier. I cautiously climbed down the wooden, makeshift ladder and toed myself into the first boat. The boat rocked fiercely when I sat and nearly capsized. Just as I leaned to pull the starter cord on the outboard motor, I heard tires squeal into the boathouse parking lot.

Grasping the cord, I tugged. Nothing.

I pulled it again, and nothing. I yanked and yanked and got nothing, not even a sputter. Looking around wildly, I figured that the other boat was close enough. At the edge of the one I was in, I leaned for the other, fingers stretching.

I heard a frustrated scream and the sound of a shoe kicking the door of the boathouse. “Open this door or else!” Eryka yelled, as though I had simply locked her out and would just as simply let her in.

Rapid gunfire was followed by the shattering of glass—she was going in through the boathouse window.

As quietly and as gracefully I could, I set one leg over into the other boat, then the other.

Eryka screamed. It was a simple and terrifying sound, one that reminded me of a wild animal screeching at the lost scent of its prey.

Only I was wrong.

Her frustrated screaming was not as terrifying as the soft “Oh” I heard her say next, followed by the knowing click-clack of her heels moving swiftly down the pier.

I shoved myself fully into the second boat and threw myself at the little outboard motor. Sending up a prayer, I grasped the handle of the starter cord and yanked with such ferocity that the motor barely chugged before it started richly, spewing a black cloud of exhaust out the back of the boat and over the water.

In the same instant that the motor kicked to life, announcing with certainty where I was, I switched to reverse. The motor strained and the boat went nowhere. My mind reeled—I was still attached to the pier.

I staggered forward and tried with bumbling fingers, shaking with adrenaline and fear, to undo the simple knot at the bow. My insides churned as Eryka’s steps got closer. My right foot wobbled on something, and I instinctively looked down.

A fishing knife.

I didn’t waste another second: I picked up the knife, swung with all my might at the taught rope, and severed it in half.

The motor idled the small boat backward while I made my way to the rear so I could twist the engine’s throttle to full. Even with the engine flogged, the boat moved with strained effort through the water in reverse. Sitting on the rear plank, I brought my hand up, still gripping the fishing knife as if it were a perfect form of defense against a gun.

Eryka came into view. She shot wildly at me. Water spewed as each bullet hit the surface; wood fragments splintered and shattered into the air as some bullets hit my lifeboat.

Terrified, I pulled my legs up so that I was in a protective ball, my arm shielding my face as if it were bulletproof.

Suddenly the peppering stopped. I looked up to see Eryka steadying her gun, taking the careful aim of a last-attempt shot.

Shit,
was my first thought as the seconds ticked by. It was followed by the hope that when her bullet hit me it would be a body shot, something I could recover from, the way Rowan had. The following second brought a sickening third thought: this was my end. I had come all this way, fallen in love with a man and he with me, only for us to be immediately torn apart forever.

I realized this was Rowan’s fear. The legend of Lady MacLaoch rearing its ugly head once again, with me as the pawn to be torn from this world just to make Rowan suffer. This was the culmination of the curse—a twisted trick from Lady MacLaoch to have the ancient love be rekindled just so that it could die once more.

Paralyzed with indecision about what I could do, let alone what I should do in such a nightmarish situation as this, I saw Eryka’s finger squeeze the trigger to engage the bullet—the trigger which gave the command to propel the bullet from the chamber and through the air and into me. I flinched as I heard the hammer hit with a click that echoed off the water.

In that fractured second it was as if I weren’t sitting in a boat where violence had exploded all around me. My mind, instead, transported me somewhere else, a happier time. A place where I was calm and able to notice details, like the briny smell of the water and the feeling that, despite my sodden clothing, I was warm, hot with exertion. As this peace settled into me, I had the thought,
Here I go—now I die.

Incessant clicking, the sound of an empty cartridge being checked and checked again, snapped me back to the present.

Relief flooded through me as I watched Eryka turn into a small, raging inferno on the dock. She just kept pulling the trigger, as if the gun would suddenly refill with bullets and start shooting. I turned my attention to my boat as Eryka ran back to her car. I didn’t want to be anywhere near her after she had reloaded.

CHAPTER 41

I
n the open water, I followed the coastline toward Glentree harbor. Eventually the harbor came into sight and I could see other vessels, fishing boats in Glentree Bay, in the near distance. I was almost safe. At least now someone would hear me scream.

The motor suddenly coughed, then sputtered, and then continued, as if nothing happened. Looking warily at it, I realized that if I ran out of gas, I had no oars.

I shook off the fear that tried to wrestle me down, gave the outboard motor a pat—good dog—and prayed for a miracle, big or small.

The motor roared for a few yards more, then sputtered again and, like before, came back to life. Only its second life was short-lived, and I soon found myself in the deafening silence of the wide, flat ocean loch, drifting ever so slowing toward Glentree.

I tugged the starter cord, and it sputtered again.

The sound it made—the chugging that precedes the roar of a motor brought to life—made me go wild with hope, and I yanked and yanked on the cord, willing with all I had. I kept at it. I could feel my hand become raw and my shoulder ache with the effort. Tears blinded my eyes, making the world go bleary.

I didn’t stop, not even when the motor made no sound and it had become just me and the whooshing spring pull of the cord.

“Aye! Ye will get more blood from a turnip, ye will, lassie!” called a craggy, well-humored voice from behind me.

Shocked, not realizing how long I’d been at it, I turned to find Angus and Bernie MacDonagh slowing up beside me. Relief flooded through me at the sight of their faces.

“Oh, ye a’richt?” Bernie asked taking in my full appearance, as they idled to a stop next to me. “Ms. Baker it is, aye?”

I simply pointed at the motor. “No gas.”

Angus and Bernie exchanged a look. “Well now. We were just heading to Castle Laoch to get refueled ourselves. It’s too far tae go with a tow on our tank of gas, so we’ll head to the fishin’ post o’r there,” Angus said, pointing to a small isle behind me, speaking calmly and slowly as if he were talking to a madwoman. “Best ye come on board wit’ us. Your skiff looks to have taken a wee bit of a beating.”

Bernie and Angus helped me into their boat and wrapped me in a wool blanket that did wonders to keep the wind off me. We set out at a slow pace toward our destination, quietly digesting what was happening until Bernie broke the silence.

“Ye ha’ the look of someone who’s tangled with a mountain cat,” he said softly. His tenderness reminded me suddenly of my grandfather, and that was enough to break me.

I wept, loudly and soundly, about everything. Sobs wracked my body until my eyes ran dry. I sucked in a shaky breath and let it out slowly, easing the pressure in my chest.

“Dinnae worry, lass, Bernie has that effect on all women,” Angus said behind me.

I smiled at both of them and dried my eyes. “Sorry, and thanks for stopping,” I said. “I wasn’t sure what to do next.”

“Och! It’s nothing,” Bernie said, getting uncomfortable. “’Tis just, lass, isnae there more than that?” he asked, and then added, “When we saw ye the other day, ye seemed happy and jovial about the possibilities that ye could be from this place. Have ye found trouble or has trouble found ye?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Och! Now those are that best kind! We ha’ a long while before we get ye filled back up an’ on yer way.”

I looked at Bernie. He just stared back at me as though he did indeed have all day, then leaned forward and placed an old hand on the top of my head. His thumb touched a gash at my temple. I’d forgotten that I must have looked like a twister had had its way with me.

“Maybe it’ll be easier if ye start with how ye got this,” he said softly, his voice low and gruff with age.

I too felt the gash and remembered the wood fragments ricocheting off the oak. I must have said as much because Angus spoke next.

“And who was it that was shooting at ye?” he said calmly, as if he asked people that question every day.

“Oh,” I said, trying for nonchalance and thinking I really needed to contact the authorities and tell this story to them. “A woman named Eryka.”

“Och! Now she’s a one!” he said. “Jealous, aye, and wanting that seat beside the MacLaoch chieftain for a long time. Before Rowan, even. What does she want with ye?”

“My blood, apparently.”

Angus was more shrewd. “The chieftain fancies ye, doesn’t he?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, deciding to try nonchalance, too. “He and I have handfastened, or whatever you call it, so yes, I think he fancies me.”

Silence.

It was Angus and Bernie’s turn for quiet reaction.

“Hand-tied?” Bernie asked. “The MacLaoch chieftain? Rowan?”

I just nodded.

Then from behind me, as recognition struck him, Angus said, “Oh.”

“Aye.” Bernie nodded. He looked at his brother, then to me with new reverence. “Ye are then.”

“Yes, we are hand-tied. Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked.

“Aye, ye have bound yourselves together. Ye are wedded, that is,” Bernie said absently, still staring at me. “So ye are the descendant then? Yer ancestor was the Minory of the legend?”