Emerald Embrace (9 page)

“I did not mean to be so late; I apologize.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right!” Elaina assured her. And then Martise realized that Bruce Creeghan was standing behind her.

“Ah, so our dear Lady St. James has come to make her appearance at last!” he said. “Excuse me, Elaina,” he said smoothly to his sister, his hand then upon Martise’s elbow as he led her down the aisle toward the altar. It seemed he was bringing her to the priest, but then he paused and lowered his head, his whisper for her ears alone. “Have you decided to run and hide at last, milady? The wise course of action, I promise. If you wish it, I can have a carriage head you for a port this very evening.”

She spun around, lifting her chin, trying hard to maintain the dignity and maturity she was determined to believe her apparel gave her.

“I am not running, Laird Creeghan.” She spoke his name softly, in a long drawl that mocked the Highland accent. He smiled and inclined his head to her.

“Not from ghosts, milady?”

“Not from ghosts.”

“And not even from the living—whom you do fear?”

“Again, you flatter yourself, milord, if you think I am afraid. It’s what you want, isn’t it? You want me to be afraid.”

His smile deepened and even as he replied, he was stepping aside casually. “Forewarned, milady. Forewarned, and nothing more. Ah, here’s the good father—he’s been waiting for your appearance. You must meet him, of course. Come.”

He took her hand. As always, she felt the heat and the all-powerful energy that seemed to exude from him.

She was drawn up before the father, an elderly man with sharp brown eyes that belied the age in his snow-white hair. It was a wrinkled face, one well weathered by age and time, and yet a fascinating one, interested and interesting. “Ah, Bruce, so here’s our lass, eh?”

“Aye, Father,” Bruce agreed. “I give you the Lady St. James. Martise, Father Fenen Martin.”

“Lady St. James,” Father Martin said. “Welcome, welcome to the Highlands, though it be a sad occasion on which we do so. I knew your Mary and loved her well. So did all assembled here. She was sweet and dear.”

His accent was not so pronounced, and Martise wondered if his religion hadn’t sent him about the world before returning him to his home.

“Thank you,” Martise said, and added innocently, “Did you see—my sister, then, at the end, Father?”

“Alas, she was gone when I arrived that night!”

“Was she ill? Had she come to you?”

“Nervous, perhaps, pale, wan. Aye, she must have been ill, but wanted no one to realize. When the end came, she was gone very quickly.”

Martise was aware of Bruce Creeghan behind her—so supportively!—and yet she could not caution herself to silence. “Mary was afraid, Father, of something here.”

“Was she now? But she needn’t have been, she had her husband. And she did not let on. I’m sorry I canna say that I was there in her final moments, but I am convinced she has taken a proper place in heaven. Aye, indeed, if ye’ve a mind, I’ll start with the service now.”

“Of course,” Martise said.

A hand landed upon her shoulder. Heat waves coursed through her as she found herself being led—or manipulated—into the front pew by Bruce Creeghan.

And then Father Martin began his service.

She should have been listening; she should have been paying grave attention, and yet Martise could not concentrate on the service going on before her. She was too keenly aware of Bruce Creeghan, kneeling by her side, and of Conar, to her left. And when she lifted her eyes when she should have been at prayer, she noted a young, dark-haired girl on the other side of the church.

She was dressed in the simple clothing of a village girl, a full cotton skirt and well-scrubbed blouse, but that blouse sat low upon an abundant chest, and the charms of her physique were enhanced by the huge, dusky gray orbs of her eyes and the rich length of chestnut hair that curled lushly about her shoulders.

Her eyes were upon Bruce Creeghan, and they seemed naked of shame and hindrance. One emotion reigned within them, and that emotion was adoration.

Then the girl turned slightly and she was staring at Martise. Their eyes met and locked, and the emotion turned swiftly to a surefire hatred so intense it almost seemed a physical blow.

Martise almost turned away, but then held fast. This girl had no right to stare at Creeghan so. He had been Mary’s.

Aye, Mary’s. And yet Martise had felt the power and the danger and enchantment herself. She could not blame the girl.

And she could not help but wonder if Bruce Creeghan had ever told the girl that she should run, else he would bed her. And once he had given her the warning …

Had she run? Or had she stayed to warm the master’s bed?

Martise waited determinedly until the girl lowered her eyes; then she cast her own lashes down in prayer again.

She was startled when they rose, Bruce’s hand upon her elbow. The service was over. Mary’s service. And she had scarcely heard a word of it.

There was a murmuring, and Martise realized that the ceremony had not come to an end. A young girl beautifully and plainly clad in a white gown came toward her, a ringlet of flowers in her hand that nearly matched the circlet she wore atop her head. Martise realized that she was to take the flowers, and she did. Bruce’s hand was still upon her elbow, guiding her.

“They are for the grave,” he said softly.

She nodded. They walked then from the chapel in the lead, almost as if they had just been proclaimed man and wife, and Bruce opened the wrought-iron gates to the contemporary crypt and Martise followed.

All of the assembly did not come with them, yet she knew that Father Martin was behind her when she laid down the flowers and went to her knees once again.

She also knew, without looking, that the buxom farm lass with the chestnut curls had followed her, too.

She rose, again with Bruce’s assistance. The people were filing out of the chapel.

“’Tis time to come now. There’ll be refreshments for the mourners in the hall, yet nothing can begin until I appear.”

“Then you must appear speedily,” Martise said coolly. “I am not quite ready to leave as yet.”

He looked as if he were about to argue, to command her differently, and she wondered if she could have withstood a direct order from him. But he did not argue. He smiled grimly and lifted his hands. “I leave you, then, to our honored dead, milady.”

She was alone, she thought, as she watched his tall shoulders and broad back disappear beyond the gates. The moment that he was gone, the candles seemed to flicker. Absurd, she thought. She knelt again before the coffin and tried to make amends for the fact that she no longer seemed to be able to pray. “Oh, Mary! Let me do right by you, oh, please, Father in Heaven …”

Her thoughts trailed away. She had heard a scuffling, a noise. The sound of breathing.

The sound of a heartbeat.

She jumped up and spun around, trying to calm herself. She had been frightened once, and it had only been Elaina, praying on the other side of the coffin.

She had wanted to defy Creeghan, and so she was alone.

Not alone. Entombed with all these dead.

“Elaina?” she said sharply. But there was no answer. It seemed, though, that she still heard the breathing, still heard the heartbeat.

And then … the laughter.

And the wrought-iron gates to the crypt slammed closed.

“Elaina! Is that you?” she cried out, determined that she would not panic again. Someone was taunting her, someone wanted her to be afraid. She could not give that someone the satisfaction.

“Elaina, Bruce … ?” She tried to keep her voice steady and her footsteps sharp as she walked across the cold stone floor. But when she reached the wrought-iron gates, she found that the bolt had indeed been slid shut and that she was, in truth, entombed with the dead.

It was not so bad, she assured herself. These dead were safely, neatly, within coffins. They were not lying as the dead that Elaina had described to her, decaying in mortal splendor, flat upon their slabs, hidden only by the gauze of their shrouds. There was no need to panic, no need at all …

“Someone!” she called out sharply. “Help me, please! Oh, this is ridiculous!”

Then her words faded away. Someone was coming toward her. Coming from the gates to the older section of the crypt.

The candles were dying out. Darkness was fast descending. And even as the figure came closer and closer, it paused to douse more and more of the light.

She must not panic … she must not! she told herself. And then she remembered Elaina’s whispered words to her brother. There was a new coffin in the old section. Elaina had seen it. A new coffin.

Yet why be afraid of the new when it was the bony finger of an ancient decaying corpse that might be coming forth, the shroud flowing about the frame in the darkness of the crypt as it came ever closer and closer.

“Who—?” Despite her resolve, she had to try a second time to speak. “Who are you? What are you doing? Open this gate at once.”

Then she heard the laughter again, and just as panic nearly engulfed her, she saw that it was the girl.

“Lady St. James!” she whispered, and her voice was sweet. “’Tis sorry I am, and yet perhaps I shouldna be so, fer ye craved the time with yer dear dead sister, did ye not?”

“Indeed, I did,” Martise said carefully, wanting the girl to open the gates before taking any chances on upsetting her. “But now I believe that we shall be missed; we should go upstairs.”

“Oh, aye, we must!” The girl’s eyes were innocently wide, but vengeance lurked within their depths. “We must indeed, fer ye’re so very, very pale, milady! Did ye think that the ghosts of the Creeghan dead were welcoming ye to their bosoms? Alas, I didna mean to frighten ye so!”

It was a lie. A bold, taunting lie. The girl had very much wanted to scare her.

The girl shivered, staring at her through the bars. “The ghosts only come out at night. I’ve seen them, mind ye. I’ve heard their wailin’, and I’ve seen their lights. So much death, and so much murder. Aye, murder, Lady St. James. And ’tis the victims of the murders, they do say, who walk the halls. Dear Mary is perhaps among them.”

“Lord Creeghan will come looking for me very soon,” Martise said sharply.

The girl’s smile faded to a sullen frown. “I didna mean to shut ye in. I didna see ye there upon yer knees. Of course now, ’tis not like being locked in the other, ye know. When the eyes lay open and gaze at ye and the bones slowly lose their flesh and the smell of decay is all about.”

“No, it’s not like that at all,” Martise said evenly. “Now, if you would be so kind as to slide the bolt once again?”

The girl did so. And the second Martise was free, the girl turned and fled.

Martise felt like doing the same, running as fast as she could. Now, she knew, she was truly alone in the crypt.

Her footsteps moved swiftly over the stone. Then she couldn’t help it. She started to run. And when she reached the winding stairs, she continued to fly up them until she almost ran into a body. Her hand flew to her mouth as she tried to hold back a scream.

“Martise!” It was Ian, smiling, charming, elegantly dressed. “We’d wondered what was keeping you. I ken your need to say a prayer, but … Bruce missed you.”

“Did he?” Martise murmured sweetly. “I am so sorry. I was, er, waylaid.”

“Waylaid?” Ian took her elbow and escorted her on the narrow stairs. She looked down. A tumble from this distance to the floor below would almost certainly mean death.

But Ian’s hand on her arm was prodding her up the stairs, and she continued, Ian behind her. “Aye,” she said. She was at the top of the stairs. She could hear voices from the hall. She turned around as Ian joined her on the landing. “A certain young lady ‘accidentally’ bolted me into the crypt.”

A grim smile slashed across Ian’s handsome features. “That would be Clarissa,” he told her. “I believe she was quite jealous of your sister. I don’t imagine she is happy to have another beautiful St. James woman in the castle.”

“Was she engaged to or involved with Bruce?”

“Of course not. She’s simply a village lass. It would not have been proper.”

“Ah,” Martise said softly.

Ian grinned. “Well, you may raise your Americanized nose if you like, milady, but here, well, there are traditions which must be maintained, and that is that. She would never have been a proper bride for Bruce.”

“Not a bride, but perhaps something other?” she questioned, searching out his eyes.

He cast back his head and laughed and seemed very much like his arrogant cousin at that moment. “Village girls by the scores have adored Bruce with their eyes. ’Tis the Creeghan mystique, so they say. He has not bedded them all, I assure you.”

“Ian—” she began, but broke off, aware without looking that Bruce Creeghan was coming upon them. His footsteps were silent, so it was not that she heard his movement. She was simply becoming so attuned to him that she sensed him, felt the electricity, the tension, in the air.

She spun about.

“Why, milady, we were beginning to fear that our ghosts, in vengeance for your disbelief, had swept you into their fold,” he said lightly. His eyes burned into her despite the soft tone of his words.

“I met a friend of yours,” Martise said sweetly. “Clarissa.”

He arched a brow to Ian. Ian shrugged.

Bruce said nothing about Clarissa. He offered an arm to Martise. “Milady, there are many waiting to meet you. And there’s one introduction that I’ve been anxious to make. Dr. MacTeague is here, and I know that you want to talk to him.”

“Dr. MacTeague?” she said.

“Mary’s attending physician. Well, you do want to ask him if she wasn’t really strangled, don’t you?”

She could read nothing in his eyes, but his touch made her tremble as he curled his fingers over her own and placed them on his arm. “Indeed, I do,” she assured him sweetly. He smiled wickedly. They entered the hall with Ian behind them, and a moment later, she stood before an attractive dark-haired man with grave blue eyes and a crisp neat mustache.

“Dr. MacTeague, Lady St. James. I will leave the two of you to get acquainted.”