Chapter 2

Chapter Two

M aclean reached a village. It was a mere two dwellings and he did not recognize it; he was certain it had not stood here two hundred and fifty years ago. Glass windows were small and rare and precious, and the big bright squares of glass set in the walls of this dwelling were something he had never seen before. Warily, he noted that there were more of the monsters in front, smaller creatures these, of different colors. Several had passed him on his journey and he knew now that there were people inside them, making them work.

Maclean supposed he should have been shocked by these bizarre objects, but he wasn't. He was already assimilating them, accepting them as part of this new world he had been set free to roam. That did not mean he liked what he saw. The call of home was becoming even louder and more urgent in his head. He wanted to slam Castle Drumaird's thick doors and shut out all of this. He wanted the safety and security of home, his home. It was still his and if whoever occupied it now didn't like it, then too bad. He rested a big hand on the handle of his claidheamh mor .

Maclean would fight to reclaim what belonged to him.

He could see people behind the glass walls, seated at tables, eating and drinking. The smell of food was strong, but it was also unfamiliar. Strangely he felt no hunger. A man and woman strolled out of the door. They both wore trews, even the woman, and they were leading a dog. It wasn't like the dogs Maclean knew, neither a beast bred to hunt nor a catcher of rats and mice. He thought with a sneer that it was like something a namby-pamby gentleman might pet upon his lap.

They weren't looking at him, but he expected any moment that they would. He was a big man and he was standing by the red monster, and they were heading straight for it. The lapdog barked, showing its little fangs. The man turned and gave the animal a frown, while the woman cooed and spoke to it in a foolish voice. "Stop it, baby," she mock-scolded, lifting it into her arms.

The man said something to her and they laughed. Wearing his fiercest expression, Maclean waited. They walked right past him and climbed into the red monster. It growled and then it moved away, out onto the black road, leaving behind the usual heat and stink. Maclean was frozen, staring in disbelief. They had walked right past him. Worse than that, the woman actually walked through him.

As if he weren't there.

Behind him more voices. Two old men, their faces worn and lined by time. Desperate now, Maclean stepped forward, telling himself it must be a mistake.

"Dinna be afeared," he told them huskily.

The old men looked at him, looked through him, and walked to their monster, a yellow beast.

They canna see me.

A dreadful sense of loss, of sorrow, filled him. He was alive again, he had returned to the glens, but he was no more than a rattle in the reeds, a wisp of wind in the heather. A silent watching ghostie.

He lifted his head and howled out his grief and fury with a roar that echoed back to him from the hills. And no one heard.

* * *

By afternoon Brian had still not returned. Bella wondered again if he had gone to Edinburgh and forgotten her. She had worked hard at putting him out of her mind, concentrating on her book instead. She'd mapped out a section on Culloden only to delete it again. Nothing pleased her. Nothing seemed right . She looked instead at Maclean's return to Castle Drumaird and what followed, but there were still so many missing facts, lost parts of the jigsaw. And Bella wanted to find them. Maclean's portrait stared back at her, daring her, urging her to discover the man behind the legend.

Her gaze slid to the window over the sink.

The sky was the pale porcelain blue color she loved. Of course, it might rain at any moment, but for now it was beautiful and she wanted to be outside to enjoy it.

Bella could never have one of those lean, prepubescent figures, she wasn't built that way. And she accepted that, although she wasn't always happy about it; what woman was happy with her own size and shape? But lately Brian had been downright unpleasant. Bella was no petite and trim Georgiana, as he constantly reminded her, but she had plenty of traits to be proud of. It was just that Brian couldn't seem to see past her voluptuous curves. Now, every time she ordered dessert when they were together, he had that look on his face. As if he were judging her and finding her wanting.

Still, whatever her size or shape, there was absolutely nothing wrong with trying to get her body fit and healthy. And more importantly, there was a tub of chocolate peppermint ice cream in the freezer, and she'd feel less guilty about enjoying a bowl of it if she went for another walk.

Bella slipped on her pink padded jacket. Outside, the wind was chill and she felt it sting her cheeks into color as she looked up at the steep hill behind the cottage. There against that pale blue sky was the stark, vertical ruin of Castle Drumaird, a stronghold that had once overlooked the loch and all the land around it, as well as the people who lived here. The Black Maclean's people. The view from the ruins was well worth the climb.

Bella set herself upon the narrow twisting path to the top. He had once climbed this path, the Black Maclean. It was from here that he had set out with his men for the battlefield at Culloden, and so had begun the story that was now legend.

Two hundred and fifty years ago.

Hadn't the hag said that in her dream? He's been away for two hundred and fifty years, and now he's almost home. Bella stumbled, only just saving herself from falling. "Of course the hag said that," she reminded herself crossly. "She was part of your dream and that makes her part of you. You made it . . . her up." The hag said plenty of other things, too, none of which made much sense.

Halfway up the hillside the rain fell, a brief shower that made her dark hair curl and her trainers slosh. Bella continued up, determined now to reach the top. Her breathing was hard and painful—God, how out of shape was she?—but she told herself it was doing her good, and besides, the view was worth it.

She came over the crest of the hill. Broken and tumbled stone lay everywhere. Part of the keep still stood, the outer wall smooth and black and shiny from the rain. You could see how thick those walls had once been, how secure the inhabitants felt when their enemies came marching to make war upon them.

Maclean must have thought himself invincible as he gazed over his isolated kingdom. He must have truly believed he could live forever.

Bella took a breath, feeling her heartbeat begin to slow, as she, too, looked out over the glittering loch and moorland. It was empty now, deserted apart from a few of Gregor's sheep, but despite its tragic and bloody history Fasail was still beautiful. Lonely, sometimes bleak, but always beautiful.

It was strange, and she had never told Brian this, knowing he would deride her, but from the moment she'd set foot here Bella had felt as if she'd come home. After thirty-two years of wandering the world and feeling like a stranger in her father's houses, she'd finally found somewhere she belonged.

* * *

He was almost there. Home. The bewilderment and rage that pounded through him eased a little. The questions in his head ceased their endless demands. His lands were as empty as the glens he'd just walked through—where were his people?—but everything else was so extraordinary he did not want to consider the meaning of it now. He didn't dare begin to think of that. He just wanted to reach the security of his home.

Heavy rain was coming down into his eyes, and although he could barely see a yard in front of him he strode on, the powerful muscles in his legs working, his faded kilt swinging, his long dark hair plastered to his head.

Maclean passed a cottage, dim light shining out into the gloaming, smoke trickling from the chimney. It was odd that it was here, where no cottage had ever been before, but he wasn't going to waste thought on it when he was so close. So close to the place where he had been born and where he had lived and ruled. Men had feared and admired him, women had given him their bodies and their hearts. They had trusted him, followed him in the ancient unquestioning manner of a clan its chief.

And so they would again.

He reached the lip of the hill just as the rain stopped. There was a girl with a pale face and long dark hair, huddling beneath the doorway to the great hall. He wondered if she was real or a dream. And then he was looking up and up, and for a moment it was there, Castle Drumaird, soaring bleakly into the sky.

Then just as suddenly it was gone.

He blinked to clear his sight, thinking it was the rain. Only the rain. It could not be . . . his castle, his home. Broken, torn down, like some giant had swung his boot and kicked aside the pieces.

How could it be? That he had returned from the grave only to find everything he loved was gone.

Loneliness overwhelmed him as the rain lashed his face. In his quiet despair he wanted to weep, but the Maclean did not cry. He wanted to rail and shout, but he was too sick at heart to make a sound. He wanted to fall to his knees and allow death to claim him. But he was already dead, he must be . . . and yet he lived. The Fiosaiche had brought him back from death. His hands closed into fists at his sides, the rainwater dripped down his face and soaked into his clothing, and he stood in silence and faced the dreadful sight before him.

He lived, but now he had nothing to live for.

The girl was picking her way through the tumbled stones of what had been mighty Castle Drumaird. He watched her numbly, not allowing himself to hope that this time someone might see him. And, of course, she didn't. She reached a young rowan tree and grasped the slender trunk to steady herself as she jumped down into the sodden grass. It was overgrown and reached to her thighs, and she grimaced as she waded toward him.

A woman, he realized, not a girl.

Dark wet hair, a pale oval face and a lush body beneath loose, shapeless clothing. She turned her head and looked over her shoulder at the remains of the tower, and for a moment her profile was etched against the stormy sky. Despite his own grinding pain Maclean was struck by her beauty, and the cloak of tranquillity that enveloped her. She owned a still calm that Maclean in his pain ached to embrace.

The woman fastened her jacket with a shiver and moved in his direction, intending to go down the path he had just climbed up. As she passed him he smelled her scent, flowery and warm. She barely came up to his shoulder, but he was a big man. A chill gust of wind blew a lock of her long dark hair toward him . . . and through him. And then she was gone.

Maclean looked upon what had once been his beloved home and slowly, stiffly walked toward it. He did not understand what had happened here. He could only assume that during the long centuries when he lay dead, all he loved had crumbled away, leaving this sad monument to the past.

His head began to pound. There had been a battle, but not here. Brief vivid scenes of savagery. Culloden Moor? That name was familiar. The smell of campfires and food cooking, the low murmur of men and a sense of impending doom. Aye, it must be. He had fought at Culloden Moor and died there.

But with remembrances came a warning. Somewhere in his mind there was a nasty beastie, lurking, waiting to creep up on him when he wasn't looking and tear him to pieces. It was a pity he couldn't remember its name.

Maclean stayed among the ruins well into the darkness. His lands were empty and his home was gone; where else was he to go? Now and again there were flashes of long-gone faces, the call of dead voices, moments of merriment and sorrow, of everyday life. Again his head pounded, the memories making it ache, but he persisted. The night before the march to join the prince's army he had sent out the fiery cross to call his clan together, and they had feasted and drunk. He had sat at the head of the table in his chair that was more like a throne and gazed upon all that was his.

Lord George Murray has called me to join him at Culloden Moor, but dinna fear. Nothing and no one can hurt you. I will not allow it to happen.

They had believed in him, their father, their master, their king. In his arrogance he had thought himself un-touchable. Only his wife-to-be, Ishbel, had reminded him in her cold and precise voice that he was not.

You are a man, Maclean, and all men can bleed and die.

Ishbel . . . aye, there was something else to be remembered about his betrothed, but instead he heard his father's voice.

Women are to be used and no' to be trusted. Do no' let them inside your heart, lad. They will destroy ye.

Maclean agreed. No woman had ever meant more to him than his broadsword and his dogs. And yet . . . Ishbel. Why did the name tease at him, as if there were something he was not seeing? Just as he had not seen it two hundred and fifty years ago.

Another rain shower came and he crouched and shivered. Why was it that although he was a ghost he could still feel? Still suffer? Still ache with sorrow?

A whiff of smoke came up from the cottage below and then the smell of cooking. Maclean lifted his head and sniffed. He was not hungry, but the homely smell brought with it a desperate need to find the company of others. To not be alone.

Slowly, stiffly, he rose to his feet and began the climb down the narrow path.

There was another monster sitting outside the cottage and despite his earlier distraction he did not think it had been there before. As Maclean stepped around it, felt the heat from beneath its hard outer shell, he heard voices from inside the cottage.

The light was still shining from the window, and he could see inside. The room was bright, and there were foodstuffs laid out upon a table. The woman he had seen earlier was preparing them by slicing them with a knife. Her dark hair had dried and lay about her back and shoulders in a mass of long, loose curls. She wore a blue robe, covering all but a V at her throat. He could see the shape of her breasts and the narrow curve of her waist where she had tied a belt of the same cloth as the robe. Her cheeks were flushed and as she leaned forward a lock of her hair fell into her eyes.

The fair-headed man standing behind her was taller, his face fleshy and ruddy as if he were jolly by nature. But from his narrowed eyes and pinched mouth Maclean knew he wasn't feeling very jolly just now. He was angry.

"This is a mistake." The man spat that last word out, and the woman flinched.