Chapter 2
Though the mist was rising, moonglow fell upon the earth, illuminating the ragged cliffs, the rocks, the sweeping plains and vales of the landscape. Soft light, countered by shadow, fell upon the shimmering loch, where again, great cliffs rose on either side of the shoreline in the central valley.
The night was warm for November in the Highlands, quiet and still.
Then the man rose from the water, alone and as naked as the bare rock surrounding him, a man as hard and unyielding as that same rock in shape and form, bred and born to the harsh and beautiful tors and craigs of the land around him.
His was both a wild and rugged breed of men, a people who had stood their ground for centuries, battled, won and lost, and even into the present day, preserved both honor and individuality.
Like many of his ancestors, he had suffered at the hands of the treacherous.
And again, like many of those who had come before him, he had survived the malicious intent of others and come back a more powerful and wary man.
Indeed, he was back.
Laird of all his land.
But none knew it. So far, he mused, he was king of the night. His castle was a cave.
His choice.
For now.
He stood, shaking back a thick length of dark hair. Despite the unseasonable warmth, it was cold enough for him to shiver fiercely, and long for the warmth of his clothing.
Yet he paused, staring upward, suddenly not noticing the chill that assailed him, for from where he had risen from the loch he was given an excellent view of the countryside.
Castle Rock to his far right upon the highest cliff, Castle MacGinnis to his far left, both commanding great sweeps of the landscape.
Indeed, neither was a manor that would be much coveted by modern standards.
Both structures had been built long ago, when Highland lairds had determined to take Norman architecture and use it to their own purposes.
When William the Conqueror had seized England and looked to Scotland, wary chieftains had seized upon the talented Norman stonemasons instead, and thus had risen these structures.
The years had added hidden alleyways and priests’ nooks, since religious wars had been waged and Jacobite princes had had to be hidden, but very little had been done to add the modern concepts of comfort and beauty to the strongholds.
Castle Rock was the older of the two edifices, standing upon the highest tor and overlooking the largest amount of property.
It was grander in scale, the seat of the Douglases of Castle Rock, a fortress of unique historical significance.
Castle Rock was his.
And he had come to reclaim it.
Yet even as he stared at the castle, he looked at what remained of the old stables, and a fire began to burn within him as fiercely as the inferno which had raged that night five long years ago. He could remember the heat.
And he could remember her.
The whispers, the pleas, the promises, that had brought him to destruction.
The ebony of her hair, splayed out upon the bunk.
The ivory silk of her flesh, the sky-blue promise in her eyes.
He remembered her arms around him, her fevered words.
A mint freshness in the warmth of her breath against his lips as she whispered her lies, the fire within her that made him heedless of the warmth igniting around him until he turned, too late…
…and entered into a world of damnation.
Ah, but miraculously, he was back. From the dead. A demon returned from the fires of hell to discover the truth.
She’d not been in it alone. And he’d come back as he had with no word or warning because he intended to know just what had happened, just who had been involved with her. And they would all be made to repent.
Ah…but she would be the first from whom he would demand justice for the past.
She would be the first…
The night air of autumn was beautiful, crisp, and clear against her cheeks and flesh.
It felt good to be out and good to run. She mocked herself, telling herself again that running in the moonlight probably certified her for madness.
It would not help her escape the past. Maybe she just wanted to run away from the future, maybe it would be harder to face Andrew Douglas now than it had been when David had died.
She was accustomed to running over this terrain, riding over it, swimming within the cold waters of the loch, but tonight, she didn’t seem to have her usual stamina. She was running from herself because she was…
…guilty.
Not guilty! She had never meant such awful harm to come to David.
She had been more than halfway in love with him most of her life.
Nay! Oh god, how proud and arrogant she had always been around him!
But she had been younger. He had been the great laird.
He’d known many women. Easy to admit now that she had been jealous, and therefore as disdainful as she could manage to be at all times.
Until that night.
Well, he was dead and buried, and she was at least partly to blame.
Her lungs were growing sore. Her thoughts were robbing her of breath. Even as she ran, she knew that she had to pause. She stopped at the ancient Druid Stones to catch her breath, inhaling, exhaling, raggedly.
Leaning against the stones, she studied them in the moonlight.
There were twelve of them, each stone standing at least ten feet high.
Time and exposure had eroded whatever ancient writings might have been upon them, but some of the deep etchings of men, women, and animals remained.
The stones were quite beautiful, arranged in a circular pattern, with a thirteenth stone set horizontally in the center, like an altar.
Just to the side of it was a circular stone weighing a good two tons, a stone that still cast shadows from which people could tell the time of day.
Shawna loved the stones. They had all played here as children, she and her cousins as well as the Douglases, though David had been older and only tolerant of their games rather than a part of them.
Shawna had wanted the stones to be on MacGinnis property, but they were not.
She had made up stories when she was little that changed the events of history and gave the stones to the Clan MacGinnis.
David had told her curtly once that she should not be so fond of them.
The altar had most probably been used for human sacrifice in ancient times.
She should have realized that—since they still celebrated so many of the holidays around the stones.
Christian holidays.
That just happened to coincide with many of the old pagan celebrations of the ancient inhabitants of the Highlands.
She ran her hand over the cool roughness of the tallest stone. The old ways were enchanting. She was grown now, but she still loved the stories and the legends. Yet as she touched the stone, she suddenly became certain that she heard a noise.
A footstep?
One…
…and then another.
Aye, footsteps. Someone else, out in the night.
She moved suddenly and swiftly from one of the stones to the next.
Again, she thought she heard footsteps.
Someone was following her.
Unease swept through her.
In the middle of the night, when all the world lay still, someone was following her. Someone was coming behind her in the night. Someone…
You are losing your mind, she thought. This is madness! She told herself sternly that she had to be imagining the sounds…no one would come after her so furtively in the night. There was no reason to be afraid.
Again, she moved a few steps forward, moving on to a third stone, and paused.
She just barely caught the sound of shuffling feet before those footsteps paused as well.
This was her home. These were her people. She’d never been afraid of the dark. She’d never been afraid here because she knew everyone who lived in and around Castle Rock.
She kept very still, waiting and listening.
Nothing.
She was afraid, imagining things, because of her nightmares, she told herself.
She’d been remembering all the stories they had told and all the games they had played by the stones, which were still considered sacred and mystical by many superstitious villagers.
She was letting her imagination run away with her.
No.
She had really heard footsteps. Or something. A rustle in the grass. A soft pounding on the earth.
Fear was settling into her.
“Who’s there?” she called out in the night.
In answer, the wind seemed to rise, keening suddenly against moonglow and shadow. She waited, pressed now against one of the stones, but she heard nothing else.
No one would come after her. She had no reason to be afraid!
“Answer me!” she said sharply. “Who’s there?”
Still nothing.
She pushed away from the stone and started walking once again. This time, she decided to leave the stones behind her. She moved easily, barefoot over the heather toward the shore. The strangest sensation of unease swept along her spine.
There was nothing at first. No sounds of anyone following her.
Then again she heard a rustling.
She turned back.
She saw a shadow, slipping behind one of the stones.
Or did she?
In the night, light and shadows blended. The Druid Stones cast strange lines against the hills and vales. Had she seen movement? Or had the moon shifted and lengthened the eerie play of light and dark that filled the night?
“Who is it? Who’s there?” she cried out sharply.
No reply.
Yet there was someone or something in the night. She was convinced of it.
Looking back at the stones, she was suddenly quite certain she was being watched. Icy water seemed to run in rivulets down her neck and spine.
What kind of fool had she been to leave the castle and run into the night? she asked herself. Not a fool, she countered herself passionately. She had known this land all her life, knew the earth, the stone, the loch, the cliffs and hills and rocks.