The Presence Part 5

She lifted a hand suddenly, obviously regaining some of her composure. "Sorry, I don't have any."

"Thankfully you didn't jimmy the wardrobe," he told her. "I'll be right back."

He went back through the bathroom and opened the wardrobe, found the brandy and poured two gla.s.ses from the left-hand shelf. Returning to the bride's room, he found that she had taken a seat in one of the old upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace.

He handed her a gla.s.s. She accepted it, her blue eyes speculatively on him. "Thanks," she told him.

"They say it will cure what ails you," he told her, lifting his gla.s.s. "Cheers."

"Cheers," she returned. A little s.h.i.+ver snaked through her as she took a long swallow. "Thanks," she said again.

He set his gla.s.s on the mantel, hunkered down and adjusted the logs again. A nice warmth was emanating from the blaze now.

He stood, collected his gla.s.s again and took the chair by her side.

"So.. .do you want to talk about it?"

A twisted smile curled her lips. She looked at him. "Sure. It was you."

"Me! I swear, I never left that room," he protested.

"I know. It was very strange. It was as if I had wakened and...there you were. Only, it wasn't really you. It was you--as you might have been--in historical costume. It was very, very real. Absolutely vivid."

"So I was just standing there, in historical costume? Well, I can see where that might be a bit unsettling, but those screams... It sounded as if the devil himself had arrived."

She flushed slightly.

"You were in more than costume."

"Oh?"

"Were it a picture, the caption might have read, 'Speak softly and carry a very big and b.l.o.o.d.y sword,'" she said.

"Ah. So I was about to lop off your head. Sorry, I may be irritated and rude, but I do stop short at head lopping," he told her, then turned, getting comfortable in the chair. "Don't you think you might have gotten a bit carried away with your historical fiction?"

"I have to admit, I've scared myself a bit," she murmured. "I made up a Bruce MacNiall, only to find out that he exists. Well, in the here and now, that is."

Bruce shook his head, wary now. "You must have known some of the local history."

"No, not really. We hadn't ever been to this area when we decided to attempt this venture," she a.s.sured him.

It sounded as if she was telling the truth. And yet...

He swirled the brandy in his gla.s.s, studying the color. Then he looked at her again. She couldn't be telling the truth.

"There was a Bruce MacNiall who fought with the Cavaliers. He opposed the armies Cromwell led and beat them mercilessly many times. At first, he even survived Cromwell's reign. But he and some other Scottish lairds kept at it, wanting to bring Charles II back from Europe and see him crowned king. He was eventually caught when one of the lairds supposedly on his side turned coat. That man was killed by MacNiall's comrades, but unfortunately MacNiall rode into a trap and was caught himself. He had defied the reigning power, which was Cromwell. You know the penalty for that. He received every barbarity of the day that was reserved for traitors."

She turned to him, blue eyes enormous. Then she closed them and leaned back, looking ashen.

"Hey, sorry. It's history. I didn't get the sense that you had a weak stomach."

She shook her head. "I don't," she said flatly, and he realized that the particular history he was giving her was more disturbing to her than it was to him.

She looked at him. "He didn't murder his wife in a fit of jealousy, did he?"

Bruce shrugged, watching her closely. "No one knows. There was some rumor that she kept company with a certain Cromwellian soldier--whether true or a pure invention, I don't know--and that she disappeared from the castle. It's historical fact that MacNiall was castrated, disemboweled, hanged, beheaded and generally chopped to pieces. But as to his wife, no one knows for certain. She disappeared from history, right when he was caught. He was trapped in the forest. And executed there, after a mock trial. At the time he died, he had a teenage son running with Charles II in France. Very soon after MacNiall's execution, Cromwell died, and the people, very weary of being good, were anxious to ask him back to take the throne. Charles proved to be a very entertaining king, and a truly interesting man. He might have dallied with dozens of mistresses, but he steadfastly refused to consider a divorce from his wife. So after him, his brother became king, and that was another disaster for history to record."

"It's.. .horrible!" Toni said.

He smiled grimly. "From what I hear, you didn't mind fleecing the public with such a horrible story."

"But it wasn't true when I told it!" she protested.

He waved a hand in the air impatiently. "Say you're telling me the truth--"

"Are you accusing me of lying?" she demanded indignantly. The anger was back in her eyes.

"I don't know you, do I?" he asked politely. "But even if you think you're telling the truth, it's quite possible that you heard the story somewhere else. Because you made it up to a tee."

She waved a hand in the air. "The land belonged to the MacNialls. And if there is anyone famous in Scottish history, it's Robert the Bruce. Bruce. A very common name here!"

"Aye, that's true. But you went a step further."

"How?"

He stared at her. She was either the finest actress in the world, or she really didn't know.

"MacNiall's wife," he said slowly, watching her every reaction.

"You just said that history didn't know about her!"

"Aye, that's true enough."

"Then...?"

"Her name," Bruce said softly.

"Lady MacNiall. That would be fairly obvious!" she said disdainfully.

"No, Toni. Her first name. Her given name. Annalise."

*3*

Could anyone act so well, or even lie with such aplomb?

"What?" Her eyes were saucers, and her color was as close to pure white as he had ever seen on a human being.

"Annalise. Our famous--or infamous--Bruce MacNiall was indeed married to an Annalise."

She shook her head. "I swear to you, I had no idea! It has to be...chance. Coincidence. Okay, the most absurd coincidence imaginable, but...I honestly have never heard this story before. Stories like it, sure--your ancestor wasn't the only man to meet such a fate."

He wondered if she was trying to convince him or herself.

"Aye, that's true enough," he said. She was an audacious interloper in his home, he reminded himself. And yet... At this particular moment, he couldn't add to her distress. She needed some color back. h.e.l.l, she could pa.s.s out on him at any moment. She could be such a little demon, as self-righteous as Cromwell himself. But right now, she was simply far too vulnerable, and that vulnerability was calling out to whatever n.o.ble and protective virtues he might possess.

"Yes, it's true!" she said, desperately clinging to his words. "I've been to Edinburgh. I've seen the tomb built for Montrose, who was a Cavalier and who sided with the king, finally meeting his end in such a manner. And there were others.. .but I had no idea there was really a MacNiall! Or," she added, wincing, "an Annalise. Look!" She sat up straight, finding her backbone again, and stared at him with sudden hostility. "We did not come here to mock your precious history or your family. I am telling you, I did not know about your MacNiall or that he might have even existed!"

"Well, he did," he said flatly, and stared at the flames, anger filling him again. He loved this place. Granted, he hadn't given it much attention lately. Though he'd always intended to do so, there was always something else that needed to be done first. And now, with everything that had been going on...

"Don't you understand?" she demanded. "There's never been anything the least disrespectful in what we wanted to do. Every one of us came here and simply fell in love with the country. Unfortunately none of us is independently wealthy. Gina, however, is a marketing genius. She decided that she could take all of our talents and market them. That way, we could acquire a castle, work hard and give some of the magic to the public."

"Stupid idea," he murmured hotly, looking at the fire again.

"It's not a stupid idea!" she protested. "You saw how the people came."

"The locals will never enjoy such a spectacle."

"Maybe not, but the shows aren't intended for the locals. They will help the economy all around, don't you see that? People who come to the castle for the history, the splendor or even the spectacle will spend money in other places. It will be good for local stores, for restaurants. . .for everyone around."

"I don't agree," he said, fighting the rise of his temper again.

"Then you're a fool."

"Oh, really?"

"Indeed, a blind fool!" She turned toward him, no longer ashen, pa.s.sion in her voice, fire in her eyes. "You saw those people when they left here! They were thrilled. And they loved Scotland. Don't you want people to love your country?"

"Not a mockery of it," he told her.

"I told you, we're not mocking it!" She shook her head, growing aggravated. "Others give tours of the closes and graveyards in Edinburgh. People are fascinated. We like to think that we've come far from doing horrible things to one another, even under the pretext of law. We're not saying that the Scots were especially brutal, we're explaining that it was just a different time!"

"Voyeurs!" he said roughly, waving a hand in the air. "And that's Edinburgh. A big city. We're talking about a small village here."

"It's hard these days to buy a castle in the middle of town," she said sarcastically.

"Many people don't want to be reminded of mayhem and murder," he said.

She let out a sigh of exasperation. "Don't you ever do anything for fun?" she asked him. "Have you ever seen a movie? A play? Gone to the opera?"

He looked at the fire again. "The point is, this is a small, remote village. It could be a dangerous place for tourists to wander."

"Dangerous!" she said dismissively.

He felt tension welling in him.

"There are forests, crags and bogs. Hillsides. Crannies and cairns. Places where the footing is treacherous at best," he said. "Places that are remote, dark and, aye, believe me, dangerous." His own argument sounded weak even to him.

Maybe he was a fool for being so suspicious, wary.. .when he need not be. But the la.s.ses were gone, were they not?

Gone. Two of them. Found dead. Here.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

He had no intention of trying to explain what had happened, or why he was so concerned. Even Jonathan Tavish thought it was a problem for others, for big city authorities. After all, the women had not disappeared from here. They had just been found here.

"Antoinette Fraser," he said suddenly, determined to change the subject. "So...your father was Scottish, or Scottish American?"

"He was half, but born here. His dad married during the war. On his side, my grandmother was French. My mother was Irish."

"Was?"

"I lost her my first year of college."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks."

"And your father?"

"I lost him, too," she said softly. "A few years ago. His heart gave out. I think that he missed my mother, actually."

"I'm sorry again."

"Thanks." She hesitated, then asked, "If you are the laird, then...?"

"Indeed, my parents went together. An automobile accident in London."

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Thank you," he acknowledged. "It was over a decade ago, now."

"You still miss people," she said.

"Indeed, you do." He didn't want the two of them growing morose together, so he brought a small smile to his lips. "Still..." he murmured.

"What?"

"You couldn't have bought a castle in Ireland, eh?"

She halfway smiled, but her eyes flashed. He realized that he had been breathing in her scent. She really was a stunning woman. Brilliant as an angel one second, claws extended, blue fire in her eyes the next.

She shouldn't be here.

He looked at his brandy gla.s.s again and swirled the liquid. "The truth of the matter is, I didn't rent this castle to anyone. I do own it, and you are trespa.s.sing." He added the last very quietly, and swallowed more of his brandy. The warmth was delicious.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, "I'll admit to having the sinking feeling that we were taken by a British scam artist."

"Might have been an American. They are here, you know, in vast numbers."