Scotland, 1260
Ian fought for all he was worth. At eight, he was big for his age—sturdy as a pack horse his mother liked to say—and he bit, scratched, and kicked, earning him a cuff on the side of his head hard enough to fell him to his knees. But at last he was free.
“Mother!” He glanced wildly about, searching through legs, skirts, and feet, seeking his mother’s green gown as hard hands clamped on his arms, his shoulders, pulling him back again. “Mum!”
“Ian! Go inside, love! Go with Brodrick!”
The desperation in his mother’s voice spurred him to greater fury, and a kick to the knee of one of the men holding him resulted in a loosened grip as the man cursed and stumbled back. A bite to the fingers of the hand on his upper arm and he was free again.
Ian snaked through the crowd and it only took a few moments to find his mum in the crowd’s center. He squirmed around one of the men restraining her and wrapped both arms tightly about her waist.
“Oh, Ian. No, son. You cannot be here.” She kissed the top of his head, and struggled against the men holding her fast. “You need to stay with Joan and Brodrick. Please, dearest, can you not do this for me?”
“Nay. I’ll not leave ye.” Rough hands grabbed Ian by the waist and pulled. He tightened his grasp around his mother and wouldn’t let go. Fingers bit into his stomach, digging, stretching skin, hurting, and he cried out.
His mother started to struggle in earnest, her black braid swinging forward to fall against Ian’s face. “Do not hurt him! Do not touch him! I’ll talk to my son.”
The slap across her face startled Ian enough to loosen his grip so he could look up at her, and he was immediately torn away. He glanced between the adults, men he’d known his entire life, clutching and pushing at his mother. How could they have turned on them? “Let go of her! Let go! I’ll bash you!”
Clawing at the fingers holding him did no good, so he turned and bit the fleshy forearm of the man clutching him. The man let out a yell, released Ian, and backhanded him across the face. “Filthy witch’s get.”
The force and pain felled Ian to the ground, but when the man reached for him again, Ian scooted and scrambled between the legs of the men and women gathered around. He turned and crawled, kicked the hand that grabbed his foot, and when he reached his mother, latched onto the leg of one of the men holding her, and bit with all his might.
The man screamed, jerked his leg away, hauled back to deliver a kick, and suddenly Ian’s mother was there, covering him with her body, protecting him with arms wrapped tight about him. “Leave him be.” Tears fell hot against his neck. “Let him alone!”
Now that Ian was engulfed in his mother’s arms, in her scent, he started to sob, the fear of the last moments giving way, burning through him.
“There, there, lad.” She knelt in the dirt with him, clasping him tightly as if she’d never let him go. He was eight, not a baby anymore, but right now he was exactly where he needed to be. She started to rock him. “There, there, little man.” He couldn’t help the sobs that burst from him, nor the ones that followed, threatening to overwhelm him.
“Do not let her contaminate the child with her wickedness!” The voice, the new priest come to village this past fortnight, sent ice and fiery hatred through Ian’s veins. When harsh hands pulled and lifted them both, Ian clung with everything in him, clutching his mother as she clasped him in return. A blow to her back unbalanced them both and numbed his hands and another attacker jerked him away as she tried to cling. He thrust his fingers out as far as they’d reach. “Mum! Mum! Dinna touch her. I’ll kill you if you touch her!”
“You see? Already, she taints the child.”
His mother sobbed as she reached for him but her arms were captured and jerked behind her back. She drew a deep breath. “Joan!” His mother screamed for her friend and neighbor. “Take my son. Take him from here. I don’t want him to see this! Please keep him safe. Please keep him well, I beg you. He’s yours now.”
“No! Mum, no!”
Strong arms enclosed Ian as he was passed to Brodrick, Joan’s burly husband, and his mother was dragged in another direction as Brodrick shouldered his way through the crowd, clasping Ian tight, restraining his thrashing legs in a firm hold. Joan was suddenly there, fear stark on her pale face, the whites of her eyes showing as she moved with her husband toward their hut.
“Wait!”
That voice again.
Brodrick stopped and turned and Ian finally got clear view of the man standing on the back of a wagon, his fine red garment glowing bright in the afternoon sunlight, the large gold cross gleaming at his chest. When Ian first saw the man, the priest, he’d thought him a fine figure, tall, slim, and elegant, everything a man of God should be. Later, when the priest had cut himself on the edge of rough stone and visited his mother for a poultice, the man had given Ian a spiders-down-his-shirt feeling as he’d touched his mother’s hand and stared upon her.
Now he knew the man’s true character. Could see clearly that heart and soul, the man was the devil himself.
“I want the boy to watch. I want him to see what happens to witches when they practice their craft in the world of decent God-fearing men.”
“Liar! I’ll kill you! My mother isna a--”
Brodrick’s hard hand clamped tight over Ian’s mouth, but it didn’t stop Ian from glaring at the devil. He tried to convey that he may have fooled others, but not Ian. If it took the whole of his life, he’d find the man and send him back to the fiery pits from whence he’d sprung.
“He’s just a boy, your worship,” Brodrick said. “Big for his age, to be sure, but a boy nonetheless.”
“He’s old enough to understand murder, surely? And he’s threatened to kill me, has he not? Bring him forward.” He motioned to one of his men, a guard who pushed through the crowd to follow instructions.
“No!” Ian’s mother’s voice suddenly rang out. “Let him be!”
Ian was grasped with hard hands but Brodrick wrenched away and gave the man his broad back.
“What is this?” The priest’s voice was amused. “I’m not surprised by the witch’s defiance, but would you directly challenge a man of God? Do you wish to join the witch in the flames? Or perhaps it’s your wife who has been spending too much time with her friend?”
“My wife is a God-fearing woman,” Brodrick’s voice was stark, overloud. “She is good with the young ones, that is all, and wouldna want to see one scared or hurt.”
“Release the boy.”
Brodrick slowly loosened his hold on Ian and he ran toward his mother, but was quickly intercepted by one of the priest’s men and thrown roughly over a shoulder.
“Bring him here.”
“No!” His mother screamed the word. “What is wrong with you all? Let him go!”
Ian was dumped on the ground and secured by two men, one of whom cupped his chin, urging his face upward, forcing him to stare into the triumphant eyes of the fiend himself.
His mother’s voice rang out. “How can you do this? Have I not tended your young? Healed your wounds? Dugan,” her voice broke. “Remember when you injured your arm?”
The devil, still gazing into Ian’s eyes, lifted both hands into the air. “He has her look. Dark hair, pretty features, and green eyes.” He raised his voice. “Mayhap he is a witch in the making?”
“Laird MacGregor! He is your son! Your blood. Take him from here, Sinclair. Please help him.”
All eyes turned toward the laird, including Ian’s. His son? What did she mean?
“Take him to England. To my family. Or I swear by all I hold sacred I will haunt you and your wife,” she spat the last word, “for the rest of your short lives.”
The laird’s wife drew herself up. “She curses us. Did you hear?”
“Burn her,” the priest intoned. “Before she can do more damage. And burn her spawn, as well.”
“Sinclair! Do something.”
The laird stepped forward. “Not the boy.”
“He has her eyes.”
“I said no. Are not little children innocent before God?”
With cold fury in his eyes, the priest bowed his head. “As you wish, Laird. But I hope you’ll not live to regret your interference. But I insist the boy watch. As a warning against following in his mother’s destructive path.”
Ian’s mother was wrestled and tied to the beam in the center of the village, already black from previous burnings. “I want him taken to my family, do you hear?” One of the priest’s men moved forward to thrust a torch into the wood and straw.
Fire licked hungrily toward his mother.
Ian bucked against the guards. “Noooo. Nooooo! Stop!”
He met his mother’s eyes, and she gazed upon him for a long moment, before smoke started to obscure his view. “I love you, Ian. Never forget it. Now close your eyes, my love. Look away.” And then the fire reached for her and she screamed.
Ian, eyes and mouth wide, shrieked until he was hoarse, his vision blocked by tears and smoke as the minutes and horror dragged on. He clenched his eyes tight when he smelled her, burnt and quiet now, surely dead, gone from him forever. He collapsed, hanging limp and exhausted in the guard’s grasp.
“You may take him from here,” the priest said.
Ian, his body shaking, studied the man responsible for his mother’s murder. He noted the clean clothes, the jewels, the man’s smug expression. Ian had truly thought him God’s messenger when he’d first seen him, his finery so bright and impressive.
But with his figure silhouetted against the darkening sky, the fire’s light dancing across his face, playing over the scratches his mother had marked upon his cheek the night before, how could his kinsmen not see the devil himself, masquerading as a man of God?
Brodrick came forward and collected Ian again, carried him like a babe, his face pressed to Brodrick’s neck as Ian lay limp and exhausted against the big man’s shoulder. As they moved away, Ian, eyes burning hotly, watched the devil climb down from the wagon and stride away. When Ian was older and stronger, he vowed he’d send the demon back to his fiery home and rid this world of evil.
He swore it on his mother’s body.
#
New York, Present Day:
Using her key, Samantha Ryan let herself inside the brownstone house, ditched her coat on the sofa, and took her satchel into Grandfather’s room. He sat in bed, a blanket drawn up to his stomach, and was watching a game show, of all things—not his usual style. “Grandpa?”
He started. “Eh? Oh, hello, Sammi.” He reached for the remote and turned off the TV. “What are you doing here on a Friday afternoon?”
She bit her lip as she studied him. He looked more frail and more resigned than when she’d seen him two days before. His cancer was terminal, he knew it, and was just waiting to die. She sat on the chair beside the bed. “How is everything going?”
He made a dismissive noise. “What happened to your hair?”
Samantha pulled her ponytail forward to look at the bright, unnaturally red locks for a moment before tossing her hair behind her back again. “My boss hired a guy to pretty me up for my upcoming speech. It’s tonight, actually.”
“So he turned you into a cartoon character?”
Samantha laughed. “I forget about it until I look in the mirror. They also made me take a course on How to Win Friends and Influence People. Apparently I’m a little too abrasive for the sponsors. Too much like my Grandpa, I guess.”
He grinned, showing slightly yellowed, but strong teeth. “Learn anything useful you’d care to share?”
She shrugged. “How to play the game a little better, I guess.”
Grandfather’s brows furrowed and he looked at her darkly. “Those mealy-mouths at the university wouldn’t be doing this if you were a man. When you have tenure, you won’t have to put up with that sort of thing. In fact, you should already have tenure.”
Samantha shrugged. “In the meantime, I’ll toe the line. It’s the best archeology university in the country and they pretty much let me do what I want most of the time. I guess if they want me to look more presentable, I’ll do it. Anyway, I’m only twenty-eight. Tenure will come.”
“Hmmft. More presentable, is it?” He eyed her hair and snorted. “Don’t fool yourself. They’re just using your age as an excuse. Academia is big business. Always has been. And they only let you do what you want because you get results. Finding the Norwich Trove, the Cave of Bavaria, your work with the bog bodies, and Jamestown. And you debunked the Haliburton Hoax. They’re playing with you, my girl. And if they don’t give you tenure soon they’re going to risk losing you to a university that will appreciate you more.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I like New York. It’s home. Where else am I going to go? Besides, as I said, I’m only twenty-eight.”
“But you’ve been working in the field since you were nine.”
She grinned at him. “Thanks to you.”
He raised a brow. “Should I regret dragging you all over the world?”
“Why would you? I don’t, and you know it. You gave me the best and most interesting life a girl could ever have.” Unexpected tears welled in her eyes and she turned her head away.
He breathed in as he studied her for a moment. “If your parents hadn’t died, things would have been different for you.”
“I’d only be further behind in my career. I was born to do this, same as you.”
A slight smiled tugging at his lips and he nodded.
She glanced around the room, taking in the tray of uneaten food, the remote controls on the quilt, and the unusual tidiness. Even his Maori masks were hung and well dusted. “How’s it going here at home?”
“The nurse is an idiot. The man doesn’t know how to play a decent game of chess.”
“No?”
“No.” He studied her expression. “What is it? You look—”
She let out the grin she’d been holding back. “Happy? Excited? Ecstatic?”
“Have you met a boy, then?” he teased.
“You could say that.”
“About time, isn’t it?” he said, but he studied her, waiting.
She laughed and the sound, genuine and excited, finally got a reluctant smile out of him.
“So who is he?”
“Ian MacGregor.”
Grandpa snorted. “Himself, is it then?” he said in a fake Scottish accent. “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”
She grinned and leaned forward in her chair as she tried to figure out the best way to tell him.
He waited, his eyes starting to gleam. “What is it, girl?”
She took a breath. “Grandfather.” She paused as she anticipated his reaction, as her own excitement threatened to overwhelm her. “I’ve found it.”
“Found what, exactly?” he said the words carefully, his gaze watchful.
“The crown. The Crown of Scotland. At least I think I did.”
He sat up straighter. “Say again?”
She grinned. He’d always been fascinated by the crown, by what could have happened to it, and they’d spent many a night over a game of chess, debating where it could have gone. Who had taken it? Where had it ended up? Did it even exist anymore, or had it been melted and sold piece by piece long ago? She gripped the quilt, her fingers clenching and unclenching on the soft, well-worn material. “Historians used to claim Ian MacGregor had it, right?”
Grandfather’s eyes shone bright with interest. “Correct. He was originally a likely candidate. The crown disappeared when he left the king and took over Inverdeem as laird. A favor the king granted as his blood-right even though MacGregor was illegitimate. But his dying always looked suspicious, and eventually it was believed the king may have had a hand in it.” Grandfather shrugged. “So historians started thinking, the king giveth and the king taketh away.”
Samantha took a folder from her satchel and removed her notes and some photos. “Remember the monument in the middle of the village outside Castle Inverdeem?”
“The big rock? Of course. What about it?”
Samantha turned the photos around and showed him first the monument, then a close up of the small birds carved into the front; some barely visible, some likely faded away completely. Finally she handed him the enlarged photo of the side of the monument. “These marks aren’t more birds, Grandpa, it’s a paw. A lion’s paw. The three marks, they’re claws.” She drew her finger to fill in the faded areas. “And the claws are set off by themselves, on the side of the monument, near the base. Do you see it?”
He turned on his reading lamp, reached for his glasses, and took the enlarged photo. He studied it for a long moment, then reached for the others and examined them closely before looking at the claws again. After a long moment, he looked up. “A lion’s paw? The king’s emblem?”
Suddenly unsure, she rushed into speech, telling him things he already knew, but needing to say them out loud, to state her case. “As you said, Ian MacGregor had originally been high on everyone’s list of suspects for who took the crown. He died only a few months after becoming laird. Just long enough for him to hide the crown, but not really long enough to have sold it off. Not in that time period. There are writings that tell about the king’s men doing a thorough search of the castle, going so far as to break down walls. At the time, no one knew why. It wasn’t until later historians put together the thought that the crown disappeared after Ian MacGregor’s death and maybe he’d stolen it and been punished by the king. But when explorations didn’t recover it, in any century, everyone gave up the theory. The fact that he was half-English with strong ties to England sort of nixed the idea for most. But Grandpa, I think it’s still there.”
“Because?”
“I got to thinking there are such contradictory stories about MacGregor. He’d been a body guard for the king and was granted land, or, the king didn’t trust him and killed him and tore his castle apart. He was known to be harsh but fair, but by other accounts sly and sneaky. He may or may not have been a spy for the English. So which is it? His tournament wins suggest he was a great fighter. By some accounts he was a man’s man, big in stature, a bodyguard. And the king did grant him his family lands. So I thought, what if the king had taken a liking to him? Had trusted him?”
He was looking at the picture, tilting his glasses so he could see better. “Oh, you tricky, tricky Scot.” He looked up and smiled. “It would be just like him to hide the thing in plain sight.” He huffed out a laugh. “How long have you worked on this?”
“Two years, on and off. I started with the castle and the grounds, and eliminated hiding places one by one. I eventually ended up in the village.”
It hadn’t been hard. She’d never admit it to her grandfather—he already teased her enough about it—but digging into the man’s life had become both a pleasure and a distraction.
As contradictory as the accounts of his character were, everyone pretty much agreed the man was a head taller than most, with thick dark hair that fell down his back, braided more often than not. It was rumored his face was so pretty he wore a beard to hide his features from the ladies at court. An extremely good fighter, by all accounts he was a hard man to best. Sneaky and sly had been applied to his character, and while he’d been both those things, he’d been intelligent. Not the type to steal from the hand that fed him.
She watched her grandfather read her notes, sat back, and waited for his verdict. He read for ten more minutes, then slowly took off his glasses. “When do you leave for Scotland? Why aren’t you already on an airplane?”
She laughed, hugged him, and kissed his cheek. “I leave tomorrow. We have that fundraiser at the university tonight. I have a fancy black dress and everything, paid for by the university. I have to show up to win friends and influence people. If I don’t, I’m fired. My boss was clear on that.”
He waved the folder in the air. “They can’t fire you. You dig up the crown and they wouldn’t dare. They’d be kissing your feet for the prestige and donations it’ll bring to the university. Everyone likes to back a winner.”
“If I dig up the crown.”
Eyes as sharp as ever--and interested, thank goodness--he studied her face then nodded slowly. “You’re right. Nothing is ever certain. 750 years is a long time. If it really was there, it could be long gone by now, melted down and turned into anything.”
“I’ve asked for time off starting tomorrow. I have so much leave accrued they didn’t dare turn me down. I’m actually going tonight, right after the fundraiser.”
Visibly tired, Grandpa leaned back against the pillows again. “Oh, Digger, how I envy you.”
Samantha smiled at the old nickname, given to her when she’d accompanied him on her first dig to Asia Minor at the age of nine and promptly gotten to work.
“I’m proud of you, you know?”
Her chest tightened. “I know.”
“Try and meet someone, will you? I don’t want you to be alone after I’m gone. What happened to that nice young man you were seeing?”
“It didn’t work out.” It never did. She just wasn’t the sort of girl that guys went for. Too straightforward, too obsessed with her work, too out of touch, she supposed.
“Don’t you worry. You’ll find someone. But try and find someone living, eh?” He lifted her notes. “This attachment you have to Ian MacGregor won’t get you a family and children.”
She laughed, and felt her face warming. “He’s a lot more interesting than most of the guys I’ve dated.”
“Wily is the word I’d use. But don’t you worry. You’ll find someone in the here and now. You’re too beautiful and hardworking not to.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Too bad you’re the only one who sees me that way.”
“You’re the last of our line. You have to find someone sometime. It’s your duty. You say you’re leaving tonight?”
“I’m already packed and I have all the permits. We start digging in three days.” She paused. Swallowed hard. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
He drew in a deep breath, then let it out as he stared at the blank TV across the room. “I’m not sure, Digger.”
She gulped and sudden tears flooded her eyes as she realized that with the advice he’d given, he’d been saying goodbye. “But—”
“I’m ready to go.” His brown-eyed gaze met hers. “I think it’s time, don’t you?”
“But what about the crown? It’s the find of a lifetime. If you’re not here when I get back…” Tears filled her eyes and she sniffed. “Maybe I should wait.”
He laughed softly. “As if I’d let you.” After a long moment in which neither of them spoke, he sighed. “You’re so much trouble. Too smart for your own good. I never should have taken you in. After your parents died, I should have placed you with some nice family and given you young parents. If I had, you’d be married by now with two kids, not traipsing around the world, and worrying about me. I ruined you. You should have been playing with dolls, not digging up bodies.”
She laughed through her tears at the old familiar rant. “So in lieu of these great parents I missed out on, will you be here?”
He blew out a breath. “I’ll be here. I’ve got to see the crown, don’t I?”
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “You really do, Grandpa. You don’t want to miss this.” She clearly saw his fragility and weakness. She thought about the time involved, the bureaucracy, the fact that all he could ever really see would be photos. Scotland wouldn’t be handing over its treasures, and he wouldn’t be flying there. “Do you know what? Hang the permits. I’m going to go and dig up the crown and bring it back here with no one the wiser. I can always rebury it, and then find the blasted thing again, right? You are going to see it before you go, and hold it in your hands. That’s a promise.”
His brows drew together. “Now, Sammi. I taught you better than that.” His tone was chiding, but the sparkle in his eyes gave her hope. He’d caught the scent, same as her, and it would give him something to live for, a reason to wait.
“I promise I’ll document.” She quickly stood. “Now, I’m off to give a speech, then I’m off to Scotland. Don’t go until I get back. Promise me.”
He nodded once, then settled back with a sigh. “I promise.” He gave her a slight smile. “In the meantime, say hello to Ian MacGregor for me, will you?”
Ian fought for all he was worth. At eight, he was big for his age—sturdy as a pack horse his mother liked to say—and he bit, scratched, and kicked, earning him a cuff on the side of his head hard enough to fell him to his knees. But at last he was free.
“Mother!” He glanced wildly about, searching through legs, skirts, and feet, seeking his mother’s green gown as hard hands clamped on his arms, his shoulders, pulling him back again. “Mum!”
“Ian! Go inside, love! Go with Brodrick!”
The desperation in his mother’s voice spurred him to greater fury, and a kick to the knee of one of the men holding him resulted in a loosened grip as the man cursed and stumbled back. A bite to the fingers of the hand on his upper arm and he was free again.
Ian snaked through the crowd and it only took a few moments to find his mum in the crowd’s center. He squirmed around one of the men restraining her and wrapped both arms tightly about her waist.
“Oh, Ian. No, son. You cannot be here.” She kissed the top of his head, and struggled against the men holding her fast. “You need to stay with Joan and Brodrick. Please, dearest, can you not do this for me?”
“Nay. I’ll not leave ye.” Rough hands grabbed Ian by the waist and pulled. He tightened his grasp around his mother and wouldn’t let go. Fingers bit into his stomach, digging, stretching skin, hurting, and he cried out.
His mother started to struggle in earnest, her black braid swinging forward to fall against Ian’s face. “Do not hurt him! Do not touch him! I’ll talk to my son.”
The slap across her face startled Ian enough to loosen his grip so he could look up at her, and he was immediately torn away. He glanced between the adults, men he’d known his entire life, clutching and pushing at his mother. How could they have turned on them? “Let go of her! Let go! I’ll bash you!”
Clawing at the fingers holding him did no good, so he turned and bit the fleshy forearm of the man clutching him. The man let out a yell, released Ian, and backhanded him across the face. “Filthy witch’s get.”
The force and pain felled Ian to the ground, but when the man reached for him again, Ian scooted and scrambled between the legs of the men and women gathered around. He turned and crawled, kicked the hand that grabbed his foot, and when he reached his mother, latched onto the leg of one of the men holding her, and bit with all his might.
The man screamed, jerked his leg away, hauled back to deliver a kick, and suddenly Ian’s mother was there, covering him with her body, protecting him with arms wrapped tight about him. “Leave him be.” Tears fell hot against his neck. “Let him alone!”
Now that Ian was engulfed in his mother’s arms, in her scent, he started to sob, the fear of the last moments giving way, burning through him.
“There, there, lad.” She knelt in the dirt with him, clasping him tightly as if she’d never let him go. He was eight, not a baby anymore, but right now he was exactly where he needed to be. She started to rock him. “There, there, little man.” He couldn’t help the sobs that burst from him, nor the ones that followed, threatening to overwhelm him.
“Do not let her contaminate the child with her wickedness!” The voice, the new priest come to village this past fortnight, sent ice and fiery hatred through Ian’s veins. When harsh hands pulled and lifted them both, Ian clung with everything in him, clutching his mother as she clasped him in return. A blow to her back unbalanced them both and numbed his hands and another attacker jerked him away as she tried to cling. He thrust his fingers out as far as they’d reach. “Mum! Mum! Dinna touch her. I’ll kill you if you touch her!”
“You see? Already, she taints the child.”
His mother sobbed as she reached for him but her arms were captured and jerked behind her back. She drew a deep breath. “Joan!” His mother screamed for her friend and neighbor. “Take my son. Take him from here. I don’t want him to see this! Please keep him safe. Please keep him well, I beg you. He’s yours now.”
“No! Mum, no!”
Strong arms enclosed Ian as he was passed to Brodrick, Joan’s burly husband, and his mother was dragged in another direction as Brodrick shouldered his way through the crowd, clasping Ian tight, restraining his thrashing legs in a firm hold. Joan was suddenly there, fear stark on her pale face, the whites of her eyes showing as she moved with her husband toward their hut.
“Wait!”
That voice again.
Brodrick stopped and turned and Ian finally got clear view of the man standing on the back of a wagon, his fine red garment glowing bright in the afternoon sunlight, the large gold cross gleaming at his chest. When Ian first saw the man, the priest, he’d thought him a fine figure, tall, slim, and elegant, everything a man of God should be. Later, when the priest had cut himself on the edge of rough stone and visited his mother for a poultice, the man had given Ian a spiders-down-his-shirt feeling as he’d touched his mother’s hand and stared upon her.
Now he knew the man’s true character. Could see clearly that heart and soul, the man was the devil himself.
“I want the boy to watch. I want him to see what happens to witches when they practice their craft in the world of decent God-fearing men.”
“Liar! I’ll kill you! My mother isna a--”
Brodrick’s hard hand clamped tight over Ian’s mouth, but it didn’t stop Ian from glaring at the devil. He tried to convey that he may have fooled others, but not Ian. If it took the whole of his life, he’d find the man and send him back to the fiery pits from whence he’d sprung.
“He’s just a boy, your worship,” Brodrick said. “Big for his age, to be sure, but a boy nonetheless.”
“He’s old enough to understand murder, surely? And he’s threatened to kill me, has he not? Bring him forward.” He motioned to one of his men, a guard who pushed through the crowd to follow instructions.
“No!” Ian’s mother’s voice suddenly rang out. “Let him be!”
Ian was grasped with hard hands but Brodrick wrenched away and gave the man his broad back.
“What is this?” The priest’s voice was amused. “I’m not surprised by the witch’s defiance, but would you directly challenge a man of God? Do you wish to join the witch in the flames? Or perhaps it’s your wife who has been spending too much time with her friend?”
“My wife is a God-fearing woman,” Brodrick’s voice was stark, overloud. “She is good with the young ones, that is all, and wouldna want to see one scared or hurt.”
“Release the boy.”
Brodrick slowly loosened his hold on Ian and he ran toward his mother, but was quickly intercepted by one of the priest’s men and thrown roughly over a shoulder.
“Bring him here.”
“No!” His mother screamed the word. “What is wrong with you all? Let him go!”
Ian was dumped on the ground and secured by two men, one of whom cupped his chin, urging his face upward, forcing him to stare into the triumphant eyes of the fiend himself.
His mother’s voice rang out. “How can you do this? Have I not tended your young? Healed your wounds? Dugan,” her voice broke. “Remember when you injured your arm?”
The devil, still gazing into Ian’s eyes, lifted both hands into the air. “He has her look. Dark hair, pretty features, and green eyes.” He raised his voice. “Mayhap he is a witch in the making?”
“Laird MacGregor! He is your son! Your blood. Take him from here, Sinclair. Please help him.”
All eyes turned toward the laird, including Ian’s. His son? What did she mean?
“Take him to England. To my family. Or I swear by all I hold sacred I will haunt you and your wife,” she spat the last word, “for the rest of your short lives.”
The laird’s wife drew herself up. “She curses us. Did you hear?”
“Burn her,” the priest intoned. “Before she can do more damage. And burn her spawn, as well.”
“Sinclair! Do something.”
The laird stepped forward. “Not the boy.”
“He has her eyes.”
“I said no. Are not little children innocent before God?”
With cold fury in his eyes, the priest bowed his head. “As you wish, Laird. But I hope you’ll not live to regret your interference. But I insist the boy watch. As a warning against following in his mother’s destructive path.”
Ian’s mother was wrestled and tied to the beam in the center of the village, already black from previous burnings. “I want him taken to my family, do you hear?” One of the priest’s men moved forward to thrust a torch into the wood and straw.
Fire licked hungrily toward his mother.
Ian bucked against the guards. “Noooo. Nooooo! Stop!”
He met his mother’s eyes, and she gazed upon him for a long moment, before smoke started to obscure his view. “I love you, Ian. Never forget it. Now close your eyes, my love. Look away.” And then the fire reached for her and she screamed.
Ian, eyes and mouth wide, shrieked until he was hoarse, his vision blocked by tears and smoke as the minutes and horror dragged on. He clenched his eyes tight when he smelled her, burnt and quiet now, surely dead, gone from him forever. He collapsed, hanging limp and exhausted in the guard’s grasp.
“You may take him from here,” the priest said.
Ian, his body shaking, studied the man responsible for his mother’s murder. He noted the clean clothes, the jewels, the man’s smug expression. Ian had truly thought him God’s messenger when he’d first seen him, his finery so bright and impressive.
But with his figure silhouetted against the darkening sky, the fire’s light dancing across his face, playing over the scratches his mother had marked upon his cheek the night before, how could his kinsmen not see the devil himself, masquerading as a man of God?
Brodrick came forward and collected Ian again, carried him like a babe, his face pressed to Brodrick’s neck as Ian lay limp and exhausted against the big man’s shoulder. As they moved away, Ian, eyes burning hotly, watched the devil climb down from the wagon and stride away. When Ian was older and stronger, he vowed he’d send the demon back to his fiery home and rid this world of evil.
He swore it on his mother’s body.
#
New York, Present Day:
Using her key, Samantha Ryan let herself inside the brownstone house, ditched her coat on the sofa, and took her satchel into Grandfather’s room. He sat in bed, a blanket drawn up to his stomach, and was watching a game show, of all things—not his usual style. “Grandpa?”
He started. “Eh? Oh, hello, Sammi.” He reached for the remote and turned off the TV. “What are you doing here on a Friday afternoon?”
She bit her lip as she studied him. He looked more frail and more resigned than when she’d seen him two days before. His cancer was terminal, he knew it, and was just waiting to die. She sat on the chair beside the bed. “How is everything going?”
He made a dismissive noise. “What happened to your hair?”
Samantha pulled her ponytail forward to look at the bright, unnaturally red locks for a moment before tossing her hair behind her back again. “My boss hired a guy to pretty me up for my upcoming speech. It’s tonight, actually.”
“So he turned you into a cartoon character?”
Samantha laughed. “I forget about it until I look in the mirror. They also made me take a course on How to Win Friends and Influence People. Apparently I’m a little too abrasive for the sponsors. Too much like my Grandpa, I guess.”
He grinned, showing slightly yellowed, but strong teeth. “Learn anything useful you’d care to share?”
She shrugged. “How to play the game a little better, I guess.”
Grandfather’s brows furrowed and he looked at her darkly. “Those mealy-mouths at the university wouldn’t be doing this if you were a man. When you have tenure, you won’t have to put up with that sort of thing. In fact, you should already have tenure.”
Samantha shrugged. “In the meantime, I’ll toe the line. It’s the best archeology university in the country and they pretty much let me do what I want most of the time. I guess if they want me to look more presentable, I’ll do it. Anyway, I’m only twenty-eight. Tenure will come.”
“Hmmft. More presentable, is it?” He eyed her hair and snorted. “Don’t fool yourself. They’re just using your age as an excuse. Academia is big business. Always has been. And they only let you do what you want because you get results. Finding the Norwich Trove, the Cave of Bavaria, your work with the bog bodies, and Jamestown. And you debunked the Haliburton Hoax. They’re playing with you, my girl. And if they don’t give you tenure soon they’re going to risk losing you to a university that will appreciate you more.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I like New York. It’s home. Where else am I going to go? Besides, as I said, I’m only twenty-eight.”
“But you’ve been working in the field since you were nine.”
She grinned at him. “Thanks to you.”
He raised a brow. “Should I regret dragging you all over the world?”
“Why would you? I don’t, and you know it. You gave me the best and most interesting life a girl could ever have.” Unexpected tears welled in her eyes and she turned her head away.
He breathed in as he studied her for a moment. “If your parents hadn’t died, things would have been different for you.”
“I’d only be further behind in my career. I was born to do this, same as you.”
A slight smiled tugging at his lips and he nodded.
She glanced around the room, taking in the tray of uneaten food, the remote controls on the quilt, and the unusual tidiness. Even his Maori masks were hung and well dusted. “How’s it going here at home?”
“The nurse is an idiot. The man doesn’t know how to play a decent game of chess.”
“No?”
“No.” He studied her expression. “What is it? You look—”
She let out the grin she’d been holding back. “Happy? Excited? Ecstatic?”
“Have you met a boy, then?” he teased.
“You could say that.”
“About time, isn’t it?” he said, but he studied her, waiting.
She laughed and the sound, genuine and excited, finally got a reluctant smile out of him.
“So who is he?”
“Ian MacGregor.”
Grandpa snorted. “Himself, is it then?” he said in a fake Scottish accent. “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”
She grinned and leaned forward in her chair as she tried to figure out the best way to tell him.
He waited, his eyes starting to gleam. “What is it, girl?”
She took a breath. “Grandfather.” She paused as she anticipated his reaction, as her own excitement threatened to overwhelm her. “I’ve found it.”
“Found what, exactly?” he said the words carefully, his gaze watchful.
“The crown. The Crown of Scotland. At least I think I did.”
He sat up straighter. “Say again?”
She grinned. He’d always been fascinated by the crown, by what could have happened to it, and they’d spent many a night over a game of chess, debating where it could have gone. Who had taken it? Where had it ended up? Did it even exist anymore, or had it been melted and sold piece by piece long ago? She gripped the quilt, her fingers clenching and unclenching on the soft, well-worn material. “Historians used to claim Ian MacGregor had it, right?”
Grandfather’s eyes shone bright with interest. “Correct. He was originally a likely candidate. The crown disappeared when he left the king and took over Inverdeem as laird. A favor the king granted as his blood-right even though MacGregor was illegitimate. But his dying always looked suspicious, and eventually it was believed the king may have had a hand in it.” Grandfather shrugged. “So historians started thinking, the king giveth and the king taketh away.”
Samantha took a folder from her satchel and removed her notes and some photos. “Remember the monument in the middle of the village outside Castle Inverdeem?”
“The big rock? Of course. What about it?”
Samantha turned the photos around and showed him first the monument, then a close up of the small birds carved into the front; some barely visible, some likely faded away completely. Finally she handed him the enlarged photo of the side of the monument. “These marks aren’t more birds, Grandpa, it’s a paw. A lion’s paw. The three marks, they’re claws.” She drew her finger to fill in the faded areas. “And the claws are set off by themselves, on the side of the monument, near the base. Do you see it?”
He turned on his reading lamp, reached for his glasses, and took the enlarged photo. He studied it for a long moment, then reached for the others and examined them closely before looking at the claws again. After a long moment, he looked up. “A lion’s paw? The king’s emblem?”
Suddenly unsure, she rushed into speech, telling him things he already knew, but needing to say them out loud, to state her case. “As you said, Ian MacGregor had originally been high on everyone’s list of suspects for who took the crown. He died only a few months after becoming laird. Just long enough for him to hide the crown, but not really long enough to have sold it off. Not in that time period. There are writings that tell about the king’s men doing a thorough search of the castle, going so far as to break down walls. At the time, no one knew why. It wasn’t until later historians put together the thought that the crown disappeared after Ian MacGregor’s death and maybe he’d stolen it and been punished by the king. But when explorations didn’t recover it, in any century, everyone gave up the theory. The fact that he was half-English with strong ties to England sort of nixed the idea for most. But Grandpa, I think it’s still there.”
“Because?”
“I got to thinking there are such contradictory stories about MacGregor. He’d been a body guard for the king and was granted land, or, the king didn’t trust him and killed him and tore his castle apart. He was known to be harsh but fair, but by other accounts sly and sneaky. He may or may not have been a spy for the English. So which is it? His tournament wins suggest he was a great fighter. By some accounts he was a man’s man, big in stature, a bodyguard. And the king did grant him his family lands. So I thought, what if the king had taken a liking to him? Had trusted him?”
He was looking at the picture, tilting his glasses so he could see better. “Oh, you tricky, tricky Scot.” He looked up and smiled. “It would be just like him to hide the thing in plain sight.” He huffed out a laugh. “How long have you worked on this?”
“Two years, on and off. I started with the castle and the grounds, and eliminated hiding places one by one. I eventually ended up in the village.”
It hadn’t been hard. She’d never admit it to her grandfather—he already teased her enough about it—but digging into the man’s life had become both a pleasure and a distraction.
As contradictory as the accounts of his character were, everyone pretty much agreed the man was a head taller than most, with thick dark hair that fell down his back, braided more often than not. It was rumored his face was so pretty he wore a beard to hide his features from the ladies at court. An extremely good fighter, by all accounts he was a hard man to best. Sneaky and sly had been applied to his character, and while he’d been both those things, he’d been intelligent. Not the type to steal from the hand that fed him.
She watched her grandfather read her notes, sat back, and waited for his verdict. He read for ten more minutes, then slowly took off his glasses. “When do you leave for Scotland? Why aren’t you already on an airplane?”
She laughed, hugged him, and kissed his cheek. “I leave tomorrow. We have that fundraiser at the university tonight. I have a fancy black dress and everything, paid for by the university. I have to show up to win friends and influence people. If I don’t, I’m fired. My boss was clear on that.”
He waved the folder in the air. “They can’t fire you. You dig up the crown and they wouldn’t dare. They’d be kissing your feet for the prestige and donations it’ll bring to the university. Everyone likes to back a winner.”
“If I dig up the crown.”
Eyes as sharp as ever--and interested, thank goodness--he studied her face then nodded slowly. “You’re right. Nothing is ever certain. 750 years is a long time. If it really was there, it could be long gone by now, melted down and turned into anything.”
“I’ve asked for time off starting tomorrow. I have so much leave accrued they didn’t dare turn me down. I’m actually going tonight, right after the fundraiser.”
Visibly tired, Grandpa leaned back against the pillows again. “Oh, Digger, how I envy you.”
Samantha smiled at the old nickname, given to her when she’d accompanied him on her first dig to Asia Minor at the age of nine and promptly gotten to work.
“I’m proud of you, you know?”
Her chest tightened. “I know.”
“Try and meet someone, will you? I don’t want you to be alone after I’m gone. What happened to that nice young man you were seeing?”
“It didn’t work out.” It never did. She just wasn’t the sort of girl that guys went for. Too straightforward, too obsessed with her work, too out of touch, she supposed.
“Don’t you worry. You’ll find someone. But try and find someone living, eh?” He lifted her notes. “This attachment you have to Ian MacGregor won’t get you a family and children.”
She laughed, and felt her face warming. “He’s a lot more interesting than most of the guys I’ve dated.”
“Wily is the word I’d use. But don’t you worry. You’ll find someone in the here and now. You’re too beautiful and hardworking not to.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Too bad you’re the only one who sees me that way.”
“You’re the last of our line. You have to find someone sometime. It’s your duty. You say you’re leaving tonight?”
“I’m already packed and I have all the permits. We start digging in three days.” She paused. Swallowed hard. “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
He drew in a deep breath, then let it out as he stared at the blank TV across the room. “I’m not sure, Digger.”
She gulped and sudden tears flooded her eyes as she realized that with the advice he’d given, he’d been saying goodbye. “But—”
“I’m ready to go.” His brown-eyed gaze met hers. “I think it’s time, don’t you?”
“But what about the crown? It’s the find of a lifetime. If you’re not here when I get back…” Tears filled her eyes and she sniffed. “Maybe I should wait.”
He laughed softly. “As if I’d let you.” After a long moment in which neither of them spoke, he sighed. “You’re so much trouble. Too smart for your own good. I never should have taken you in. After your parents died, I should have placed you with some nice family and given you young parents. If I had, you’d be married by now with two kids, not traipsing around the world, and worrying about me. I ruined you. You should have been playing with dolls, not digging up bodies.”
She laughed through her tears at the old familiar rant. “So in lieu of these great parents I missed out on, will you be here?”
He blew out a breath. “I’ll be here. I’ve got to see the crown, don’t I?”
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “You really do, Grandpa. You don’t want to miss this.” She clearly saw his fragility and weakness. She thought about the time involved, the bureaucracy, the fact that all he could ever really see would be photos. Scotland wouldn’t be handing over its treasures, and he wouldn’t be flying there. “Do you know what? Hang the permits. I’m going to go and dig up the crown and bring it back here with no one the wiser. I can always rebury it, and then find the blasted thing again, right? You are going to see it before you go, and hold it in your hands. That’s a promise.”
His brows drew together. “Now, Sammi. I taught you better than that.” His tone was chiding, but the sparkle in his eyes gave her hope. He’d caught the scent, same as her, and it would give him something to live for, a reason to wait.
“I promise I’ll document.” She quickly stood. “Now, I’m off to give a speech, then I’m off to Scotland. Don’t go until I get back. Promise me.”
He nodded once, then settled back with a sigh. “I promise.” He gave her a slight smile. “In the meantime, say hello to Ian MacGregor for me, will you?”
