clock rang one, then two. And still Bruce did not return.
Rose put the costume aside, rubbed her weary eyes and laid down on the bed. If only she could rest a while, perhaps Bruce would be back by the time she woke up. She curled into a ball, but too many anxious thoughts swirled inside her mind and it felt like a long time before she drifted off to sleep.
She wasnât in her room at the Kirkhouse Inn any longer but on the cliff top near Wrath. Ribbons of mist coiled and floated around her, leaving beads of freezing, salty dew on her skin and hair. Something wasnât right. Wrath Lodge stood dark and forbidding in the distance. No light glowed at the windows, no smoke rose from the tall chimneys. It was empty, abandoned, filled with shadows and death.
The sound of a galloping horse resounded in the distance. As it got closer she felt the ground beat like a heart under her feet, and she recognised it. Tall, black, magnificent and wild. It was Shadow and it was heading straight for the cliff edge. Help him, dancing girl, or heâll die . The voice sheâd heard before spoke her warning once more, and terror squeezed Roseâs heart into a tight ball. She called Bruceâs name but he didnât stop, he didnât even slow down. He merely glanced at her before urging Shadow into the void and being swallowed up by stormy, dark waves.
Rose woke her with a start, sat up, her hand pressed against her pounding heart. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She glanced around the room, filled with the grey shadows of dusk. It was a nightmare. She hadnât really touched the cold layers of mist on the cliff, heard the crunch of frozen snow under Shadowâs hooves or seen the quiet resignation in Bruceâs eyes before he jumped to his death.
And yet it felt so realâ¦
An impulse pushed her to get up and search her bag for the gold chain to which she had clasped Bruceâs medallion. She almost cried with relief when she slipped it around her neck, tucked it under her dress and felt its cool weight against her overheated skin. As long as she wore it, nothing bad would happen to Bruce.
The thunder of horsesâ hooves on the cobbles and menâs voices shouting at one another resounded outside. She rushed to the window to see a handful of riders dismount in the courtyard. One of them, a stoutly built man in a dark grey coat turned towards his companions and barked an order. Even though it was getting dark and she had only seen him once before, she had no problem recognising his brutish features.
It was Morven.
The man next to him attracted her attention. Dressed in a long brown coat, he had dark hair and a mean scowl on his face. Sheâd seen him before, but where? It could have been at the Nagâs Head at the ceilidh , or in Porthaven during the riots.
Then she remembered. She had seen him at Wrath Lodge. His name was â she frowned â Mc-Something or other. McNeil, yes, that was it, and he worked for Bruce. But what was he doing here with Morven and his gang? Hiding behind the curtains she tried to catch what the men were saying, but their accent was too thick and they spoke too fast, and she didnât understand a word.
As they walked towards the stables, McNeil said something which made Morven laugh out loud. He gave him a slap in the back, the way men do when they are friendly with one another.
She couldnât imagine why Bruce would tolerate one of his men being a friend of Cameronâs factor, nor could she understand why a friend of Morvenâs would work at Wrath Lodge. It didnât make sense, not with the way things stood between the McGunns and McRaes. Unlessâ¦
Her eyes grew wider, her hand flew to her mouth. The only plausible explanation was that McNeil was Morvenâs spy at Wrath.
She had to know, and that meant sneaking downstairs to try and listen to the menâs conversation. She tiptoed down the stairs, lifted a brown cloak hanging from a peg in
Rose put the costume aside, rubbed her weary eyes and laid down on the bed. If only she could rest a while, perhaps Bruce would be back by the time she woke up. She curled into a ball, but too many anxious thoughts swirled inside her mind and it felt like a long time before she drifted off to sleep.
She wasnât in her room at the Kirkhouse Inn any longer but on the cliff top near Wrath. Ribbons of mist coiled and floated around her, leaving beads of freezing, salty dew on her skin and hair. Something wasnât right. Wrath Lodge stood dark and forbidding in the distance. No light glowed at the windows, no smoke rose from the tall chimneys. It was empty, abandoned, filled with shadows and death.
The sound of a galloping horse resounded in the distance. As it got closer she felt the ground beat like a heart under her feet, and she recognised it. Tall, black, magnificent and wild. It was Shadow and it was heading straight for the cliff edge. Help him, dancing girl, or heâll die . The voice sheâd heard before spoke her warning once more, and terror squeezed Roseâs heart into a tight ball. She called Bruceâs name but he didnât stop, he didnât even slow down. He merely glanced at her before urging Shadow into the void and being swallowed up by stormy, dark waves.
Rose woke her with a start, sat up, her hand pressed against her pounding heart. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She glanced around the room, filled with the grey shadows of dusk. It was a nightmare. She hadnât really touched the cold layers of mist on the cliff, heard the crunch of frozen snow under Shadowâs hooves or seen the quiet resignation in Bruceâs eyes before he jumped to his death.
And yet it felt so realâ¦
An impulse pushed her to get up and search her bag for the gold chain to which she had clasped Bruceâs medallion. She almost cried with relief when she slipped it around her neck, tucked it under her dress and felt its cool weight against her overheated skin. As long as she wore it, nothing bad would happen to Bruce.
The thunder of horsesâ hooves on the cobbles and menâs voices shouting at one another resounded outside. She rushed to the window to see a handful of riders dismount in the courtyard. One of them, a stoutly built man in a dark grey coat turned towards his companions and barked an order. Even though it was getting dark and she had only seen him once before, she had no problem recognising his brutish features.
It was Morven.
The man next to him attracted her attention. Dressed in a long brown coat, he had dark hair and a mean scowl on his face. Sheâd seen him before, but where? It could have been at the Nagâs Head at the ceilidh , or in Porthaven during the riots.
Then she remembered. She had seen him at Wrath Lodge. His name was â she frowned â Mc-Something or other. McNeil, yes, that was it, and he worked for Bruce. But what was he doing here with Morven and his gang? Hiding behind the curtains she tried to catch what the men were saying, but their accent was too thick and they spoke too fast, and she didnât understand a word.
As they walked towards the stables, McNeil said something which made Morven laugh out loud. He gave him a slap in the back, the way men do when they are friendly with one another.
She couldnât imagine why Bruce would tolerate one of his men being a friend of Cameronâs factor, nor could she understand why a friend of Morvenâs would work at Wrath Lodge. It didnât make sense, not with the way things stood between the McGunns and McRaes. Unlessâ¦
Her eyes grew wider, her hand flew to her mouth. The only plausible explanation was that McNeil was Morvenâs spy at Wrath.
She had to know, and that meant sneaking downstairs to try and listen to the menâs conversation. She tiptoed down the stairs, lifted a brown cloak hanging from a peg in