The Return of Black Douglas (2 page)

Chapter 2

Better be courted and jilted

than never be courted at all.

—“The Jilted Nymph,” 1843
Thomas Campbell, British poet (1777–1844)

St. Bride’s Church

Douglas, Lanarkshire, Scotland

Present Time

If things had gone differently, she would be on her honeymoon in Argentina right now, instead of tromping around Scotland with her twin sister, Elisabeth. That morning, Isobella had written in her journal the exciting header:
Visiting tombs of Douglas ancestors,
which reminded her of her engagement, in that both were dead. However, it was the sisters’ first day in Scotland, and she was driving to the village of Douglas to visit St. Bride’s Church, where Sir James, the Black Douglas, was buried.

Isobella drove slowly down Main Street, passing buildings that looked much as they had when they were built during the Middle Ages. She turned into the parking lot and imagined the quaint, slate-gabled church bustling with medieval life—armored knights and fair ladies with tall headdresses hurrying to attend their weekly worship. Only now those noble warriors lay buried beneath mail-clad, cross-legged effigies, entombed in abbeys and small parish churches.

When they entered the kirk, she and Elisabeth crossed a large marble slab at the entrance to the Douglas mausoleum. It contained three canopied, medieval burial tombs with damaged effigies recessed in walls. Isobella stopped to give her eyes time to adjust to the diffused light, her gaze resting upon the exquisite stained-glass windows. A sense of a supernatural presence enveloped her as they paused to look at a glass box that held a silver case containing the heart of the Black Douglas.

“Since his death, the Douglases have carried on their shields a bloody heart and crown,” Isobella said, so overcome with emotion that she could almost hear the ancient heart beating. She glanced around the dilapidated choir to the north wall and saw the effigy of Sir James, the Black Douglas that lay below a finely cut, fifteenth-century pointed and arched canopy.

The effigy, carved from sandstone shortly after his death, had been a splendid example of medieval artistry and as grand as any found in Westminster Abbey. Sadly, the once gracefully carved effigy was now badly worn and its facial features chipped and impossible to make out. Neither sister spoke as they read the plaque on the wall.

T
HE
G
OOD
S
IR
J
AMES OF
D
OUGLAS
KILLED IN BATTLE WITH THE
M
OORS
IN
S
PAIN, WHILE ON HIS WAY TO THE
H
OLY
L
AND WITH THE HEART
OF
K
ING
R
OBERT THE
B
RUCE,
25TH
A
UGUST 1330

Isobella was touched to see that someone had left a bouquet of Scottish heather on Douglas’s tomb. “After almost eight hundred years, he is so beloved he gets flowers.”

Elisabeth, who was busy inspecting the foot of the effigy, said, “I find it sad that half of one of his legs has broken away.”

Isobella studied it for a moment. “Thankfully, enough remains that you can still see his legs were crossed.”

Puzzled, Elisabeth asked, “Is that supposed to be something special? The crossed legs, I mean.”

“Crossed legs denote a Crusader. They cross above the ankle for one Crusade and below the knee for two,” she replied, knowledgeable because of her recent degrees in Celtic studies and archaeology.

“So he went twice.” Elisabeth stared at the effigy and sighed. “My, he must have been quite a man.”

She had no more than finished speaking when Isobella was overcome with emotion once again, as if strings in her heart that had never been touched began to vibrate. Without realizing it, she placed her hand on the cold stone of the effigy. How deeply, inexplicably sad she felt for this powerful man whose life had changed history and whose death at the age of forty-four had been both noble and tragic.
I’m so sorry.
Without being conscious that she did so, she moved her hand to the place where the beating heart of Douglas would have been, had the stone effigy been a mortal being. She found the place numinously warm. A waft of spine-chilling air passed over her, and she knew the spirit of Douglas resided here.

“Oh, my God!” She let out a frightened squeak and jerked her hand away. For a moment, she was frozen in place, gasping for breath and feeling as if something had traveled straight to her heart, completely bypassing her sense of reasoning. The next instant, she was overcome with acute distress touching her heart so powerfully that she began to cry—not soft, gentle weeping, but anguished sobs and great gushing tears.

And she was unable to stop, in spite of the curious look Elisabeth gave her. “Good Lord, Izzy, why are you crying?”

“I can’t help it,” Isobella barely managed to say before more tears drowned the words in her throat.

Elisabeth put her hand on Isobella’s arm. “What’s wrong? Please tell me you aren’t thinking about that jilting jerk Jackson.”

Isobella shook her head. “No, it isn’t that.”

“Good,” Elisabeth said and handed her a Kleenex, while patting her on the back. “Then, why are you crying?”

“I don’t know. There’s just something about his story that’s so tragic and sad. The way he died in Spain… how they embalmed his heart… his body boiled in a cauldron of vinegar until the flesh fell away so they could bring the bones back to Scotland for burial here in the kirk.

“It’s so moving. Oh, I don’t know what is wrong with me. I feel compelled to tell him I’m so sorry for the way everything turned out. I wish he could have lived longer and happier.”

Elisabeth nudged her. “Maybe we should go. You’re acting weird. Now I’m starting to feel a bit creepy. Stop sniffling, or you’ll get dehydrated.” She rubbed her arms. “It’s getting cold in here, and I want to get back to Edinburgh in time for dinner. A good bottle of wine will do us both good.”

Only Elisabeth would worry about dehydration at a time like this, Isobella thought, but she fell in step beside her twin, who would soon start her last year of residency at Johns Hopkins. Elisabeth always walked faster, because she was accustomed to walking down long hospital corridors. She had a long stride, while Isobella, with her anthropologic mind and tendency to take in everything around her, took her time ambling along.

Elisabeth reached the car first. “Gracious, Izzy! You’re as pale as a ghost. Are you okay?”

Isobella was light-headed, but she didn’t say anything. Elisabeth would want to talk about it and take her pulse and temperature and maybe pull out her stethoscope right in the middle of the parking lot, so Isobella shook her head and said, “Maybe I’m hungry. I didn’t eat much at lunch.”

Elisabeth mulled that over and held out her hand. “Okay, give me the keys. I’ll drive. You look like you’ve had all the blood drained out of you.”

That was a good description of the way she felt, Isobella thought. She walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. When she sat down, the hair on the back of her neck stood out. A cold shiver traveled across her body. She had the disquieting feeling that the two of them were not alone.

Elisabeth put the key in the ignition. The sky began to darken. Thunder boomed, and the trees began to sway and bend. Leaves flew every which way as jagged flashes of lightning ripped across the sky. An earsplitting clap of thunder was followed by pounding rain that pelted the earth with great fury.

Isobella held her breath as an odd greenish glow lit up the shadowy darkness of the trees with a pale, ghostly radiance. Another flash, and she saw a vision of herself standing beneath the trees with a basket of eggs in her hand. The sound of a man’s laughter rode on the wind.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the storm stopped. The sun was shining, and all was quiet. She wondered if Elisabeth had heard the laughter. Judging by the expression of stunned bewilderment on her sister’s face, she had. Elisabeth’s hands flew up to her face, and she let out a long-held breath. “Did you see what I saw?”

“I saw a thunderstorm.”

“And a greenish light,” Elisabeth added, “and the sound of…”

“A man’s laughter,” Isobella finished. “Did you see the girl with the bonnet of eggs?”

Elisabeth spoke with an unsteady voice, “It was you, Izzy. She looked exactly like you.”

“I thought so, too, except that she was dressed in a gown from the Renaissance period.”

Elisabeth’s face was pale, her voice barely above a whisper. “Izzy, what have we gotten ourselves into? Things like that don’t just happen.”

“And yet it did. We both saw it,” Isobella said, surprised at the calm acceptance that washed over her. Something was going on here, and it had to do with Scotland, this kirk, and the Black Douglas.

“You don’t think it was something supernatural, do you?”

“That’s exactly what I think,” she said, and quoted Samuel Coleridge, “‘Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice and close your eyes with holy dread, for he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise.’”

“Thanks. That was so comforting,” Elisabeth said. “I don’t believe in the supernatural. There are no such things as ghosts. When people die, they stay dead. What we heard was the wind blowing, not laughter.”

Isobella turned her head to gaze out the window. “You will notice that, in spite of the thunderstorm, our car is bone dry and there isn’t a drop of water anywhere on this entire parking lot.”

Elisabeth paled. “Oh, Izzy, I’m scared. We don’t belong here. I wish we hadn’t come. Whatever spirits are lurking are not happy with our coming. They want us to leave, and they are going out of their way to make it known.”

“If they wanted to get our attention, they would do something we couldn’t explain.”

The words were barely spoken when the car started. Elisabeth gasped. “Oh, my God!”

“Now what?”

“The car is running.”

“That means you are supposed to put it in gear so we can drive back to Edinburgh.”

“You don’t understand.” She opened her hand. The key was lying in her palm. “What do we do now?”

“Put the key in the ignition, I guess. You will need the key to turn the car off.”

Elisabeth was about to insert the key when the motor stopped. “I need a drink. A big, stiff one.” She started the car with the key this time and burned a little rubber leaving the parking lot.

Chapter 3

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night.

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright.

—“I Arise from Dreams of Thee”
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)
British poet

“What are you thinking?”

Without taking her gaze off the road, Elisabeth said, “I am wondering why I allowed you to drag me to Scotland on a wild-goose chase to trace long-dead ancestors. You’ve just completed six years of college. You have your bachelor’s in anthropology and Classical studies, and a master’s in Celtic studies. Shouldn’t you be concentrating on what you are going to do, as in going to work?

“I don’t want to find myself on an archaeology dig, buried up to my armpits in piles of Celtic crockery bits. Do I have to remind you that I have to be back at Johns Hopkins in three weeks?”

“You’ve plenty of time,” Isobella replied.

“Do you think traipsing through musty old castles and creepy kirks is going to ease the pain of being jilted?” She gasped. “Oh, Izzy, I’m so sorry.”

Isobella barely heard her sister because she was wondering why it was so difficult for her to meet a man she could fall deeply in love with. She decided that Jackson had truly done her a favor, because she didn’t love him any more than he loved her. She had gone along with the idea of marriage because she wanted to be loved and married, but she’d gone about it all wrong. Perhaps it was time to give up believing in happily ever after.

Was the problem the men, or was it her? How would she ever know the answer? However, there was something about being in Scotland, and hearing the stories of the Black Douglas, that called out to her. She longed for such a man in her life and sighed woefully. “I think I was born a few hundred years too late,” she said, which sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

Elisabeth almost ran off the road. “A few hundred years too late? Good grief, Izzy! How do you come up with these things?

Isobella sighed, caught in a churning muddle of sadness, regret, and confusion. “It’s the men. I feel like a fish out of water. I long to find Mr. Darcy, and he doesn’t exist in the world I live in.”

“Good Lord above, where is all this coming from? You just make bad choices, Izzy. That doesn’t mean there aren’t wonderful men out there.”

Isobella gazed out the window, apparently not listening. “I wonder what I’d do if a man said, ‘I love you.’ like Mr. Darcy did. A man who could speak so…” Her voice drifted, borne away by another woeful sigh.

“Who is Mr. Darcy?” Elisabeth asked. “He sounds like a librarian.”

“He’s the hero in
Pride and Prejudice
. Don’t tell me you never read the book or saw the movie.”

“You mean Colin Firth? What on earth does Mr. Darcy have to do with you finding Mr. Right? And what did he say that has you so enamored?”

As if right on cue, Isobella began to recite, “‘In vain have I struggled. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’ Imagine a man of today saying that. He would rather throw you on the bed to press his case.”

Elisabeth exploded with laughter.

Isobella wondered what Elisabeth would do if she told her that she owned copies of
Dating Mr. Darcy: The Smart Girl’s Guide to Sensible Romance
, or
Jane Austen’s Guide to Dating
, not to mention
Jane Austen for Dummies
, and, God help her,
The Jane Austen Cookbook
.

“Is ‘press his case’ a euphemism for penile penetration?”

“Do you have to make fun of everything? I may be too idealistic, but you are too clinical. What a pity that we can’t all be as practical as you.”

Elisabeth looked contrite. “Dearest Izzy, I don’t know where you got such a romantic soul. You’re a dreamer and a believer in the myth, the fantasy that doesn’t exist. Why would you pine for a man who spent most of his time sighing and looking bored, or gazing forlornly out the windows of his country house?” She paused, and then added, “If I didn’t have a medical degree, I wouldn’t believe it possible that we have identical genes.”

Isobella had already turned her head away and tuned Elisabeth out. Staring out the window lost in her own thoughts, she asked herself,
just what do you want?

My very own Mr. Darcy.

Wishing for Mr. Darcy. She could write a book about it. She had been looking, wishing, and waiting for a man who lived between the pages of a book. Was it too much to ask for a darkly handsome man—heroic, upstanding and moral, with a heart filled to overflowing with love—to come to her rescue and sweep her off her feet and into his arms?

Where was he, this man of deep feeling, inner struggle, and fiery pride? How beautiful it would be to have a man who did not want to win her love by mastering or overpowering her, but by becoming her ideal; the man of her dreams, a man reformed by love and desire.

How she yearned for a man of strength and quiet reserve, a man of brooding countenance, who would play the hero. If she could only be the woman who unlocked that tortured soul and released the hidden passions that smoldered within! She knew it was hopeless. To find Mr. Darcy, she would have to go back in time.

She dozed off, but she did not sleep long. Awakened, she said, “You won’t believe the dream I had.”

“With all the strange stuff that’s been happening to us, I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“Eggs,” Isobella said. “I dreamed about eggs. I was standing under a big tree holding a bonnet full of eggs when two men on horseback rode by, dressed in the garb of knights.”

“Well, if you’re going to dream about eggs…” Elisabeth started laughing. “I hope they were hard boiled.”

***

Back at the hotel, Isobella did a computer search for interpreting dreams about eggs. “Listen to this. Dreaming about eggs is symbolic of fertility and that something new and fragile is about to happen. It can also mean entrapment.”

From her bed, Elisabeth said sleepily, “It was just a dream. Good night, Izzy.”

Isobella slept fitfully, tossing and turning until the bedding was twisted and tangled and her gown around her waist. She turned on the bed light, removed two Benadryl from a bottle and downed them with a gulp of bottled water. The Benadryl would ease the stuffiness in her head and make her sleepy—both welcome.

She dreamed of floating weightlessly through the mist and over the roar of the ocean, while strange shapes and colors produced weirdly distorted visions, a bizarre mixture of real and imaginary characters, places, and events. She heard waves crash, breathed the tang of salty air, and felt herself floating low over a vast body of water and into the darkness of a place she feared she would never leave.

Her soul was caught in the sweep of powerful forces, and she existed in a vague way above the earth, weightlessly adrift in an imaginary sphere of being. Her mind filled with pleasant thoughts, and fantasies crowded into her memory—beguiling shapes, beckoning shadows, whispered words, and hands that knew just how and where to caress. She breathed deeply, puzzled by the scent of wax candles that filled her nostrils, and when she stretched, she touched warm skin.

She wasn’t alone.

He was there, warm and alive, for she felt the honed smoothness of his flesh. Her eyes popped open. She was in a medieval castle. The trappings of a warrior lay scattered about the room. A candle burned down on a table by the bed and further over, in an enormous fireplace, a fire smoldered from its bed of glowing coals.

She thought him a mythological being with a face and body created by the gods, lying there, with his head propped up with one hand, watching her. The confident, drowsy, hungry look from his dangerous, mesmerizing eyes of vivid blue held her trapped.

He was dark, frighteningly and desirably bare to the waist, and, more than likely, bare beneath the bedding that covered him. His skin looked hard and smooth, beautifully sculpted with muscle. She tugged the bedcovering upward, for he gazed at her like he was starving and she was the only thing on the menu. Even in her darkest, deepest desires, she couldn’t imagine conjuring up a man this perfect. And he looked so real!

She poked him. He was real. Her body trembled. She felt a craving thirst for him that she couldn’t explain or understand. She wanted to feel the strength of his arm around her and to be warmed by the heat of his body against hers. Her gaze dropped lower, lingering upon his torso, so wickedly bare and beautifully toned, and then lower still, where the bedding rode dangerously low on his hips. Suddenly, his mouth was on hers, and a rippling of sensation cascaded through her, like a series of waterfalls tumbling over rocks.

And she was as naked as he. Another shiver rippled over her, and she opened her mouth, undecided if she should scream or invite him to keep up the good work. She had no time to think further, for he moved so swiftly that she was not aware he had moved at all, until she felt the delicious weight of him. She had a fleeting thought that they had yet to be introduced, but that did not seem terribly important at the moment.

He stared directly into her eyes, watching, inviting, and igniting a fire within her. Oh, my! She could feel the flex of powerful muscles, the kiss of his breath against her skin. This was unlike any dream ever. The room, her lover, it was all tangible. She must have had too much wine. Or had he cast a spell over her?

“Are you Merlin?”

Firelight danced in his eyes. “Nae, lass. I am no’ a magician.”

His voice was low, throbbing, soothing, and as seductive as the rest of him. It set her heart to pounding, and she began to think: medieval castle… candlelight, not electricity… a perceptibly irresistible Gaelic burr… animal skins, a tunic, and a mail shirt lying across a trunk.

“You are King Arthur.”

The faintest shadow of a smile tantalized her. “Nae, I am not an imaginary being but a mortal man in every sense of the word. Would ye like me to show ye?”

“Who are you?”

A hungry look settled upon his beautifully sculpted face. He spoke with a low, throbbing voice. “I am the man who will, in a moment hence, make love to ye. Abide wi’ me.” He kissed her intimately. “Abide wi’ me, my mysterious lass.” One talented finger drew an imaginary line from her lips, across her throat, and between her breasts.

Stupidly, she asked, “What are you going to do?” as if he had to draw her picture. Her brain didn’t seem to be functioning properly. Everything, each thought was distorted and her perception was all off. Way off.

“It is not so much what I will do but rather what we will do together.” His finger began to draw lazy circles around her navel.

She sucked in a breath, and when her eyes widened, he said, “Dinna worrit. No harm will come to ye.”

His hands traveled over her with unflappable skill, learning the texture of her skin, the curves, the indentions, the places that made her moan. Something low in her belly tightened, and she felt consumed by a wild heat unknown to her. She didn’t care who he was, what he was, or where he was from.

He wanted her, and she needed so desperately to be wanted, to be loved by a man who desired her and let her know it. He didn’t simply kiss her; he made love to her mouth, his tongue plunging and stroking her in a way that made her groan and ache for him to teach her the rest. Heat shot throughout her body.

He kissed her breasts, while strange, unfamiliar feelings fluttered inside. He whispered to her in Gaelic with a hot breath that made her want to mate with him, this stranger, this dream lover her mind created. She gave in to the aching need, the incredible pleasure.

Paralyzed with wanting, she relaxed and opened to him. Surrounded by his warmth, his nearness, his nakedness, and bewildered by her unrestrained desire for him, she lay passive, knowing that whatever consumed her was stronger than she was. He seduced her with hands that coaxed and persuaded with the promises of the erotic, the unknown.

I’m dreaming, and I don’t want to wake up. Please don’t disappear. I don’t think I could handle being rejected again. Not by my own dream.

Alysandir had no idea who she was, why she was there, or how she managed to get into his bed. But, she was naked and lying beside him, with the face of Helen of Troy and the body of Aphrodite. He wasn’t about to let her get away, this divinity among mortals, this giver of pleasure. He was adrift in a realm of desire where sea nymphs sweetened the salty sea air with their delights. She was both goddess and courtesan who offered him the joy of ecstasy and a long night of lovemaking; be it imaginary, idealized, or false in nature. She was here, and she was his.

In spite of her appearing quite suddenly and naked in his bed, she had a stormy look of uncertainty laced with fear that made him think she was a maiden. That was absurd. No maiden would be in his bed, inviting him to have his way with her. Where was she from? How did she get into his bedchamber without one of the guards stopping her? Or was this all a dream?

The sight and scent of her aroused him, and he had been too long without a woman. He chuckled as she drew the coverlet up beneath her chin. As if that would stop him. Firelight worshipped her face as he gazed into golden-green eyes full of puzzlement and something darker and arousing. This was not the wooing of a simple maid, nor would it be rape. Something about this night and their coming together transcended that. They were Adam and Eve in the Garden before sin entered the picture.