Savage Possession Page 10

“Are you coping all right?” she asked anxiously as they made their way inside.

  “Aye, your brother’s not a bad cook.”

  “What did you plan on having for lunch? I could start getting it ready.”

  “Make me some scones, Bethie, the stove is lit.”

  As she prepared the scone dough, Fergus smoked his pipe.

  “Do you know much about Sam Bainbridge?” she asked.

  “Aye, spent a lot of years away from the castle after a terrible row with Black Jack.”

  She was about to ask for the details when she heard Alistair whistling as he came up the path. The door banged. “Beth! Has Mulvaney released you from prison?”

  “He brought me over because he’s got business with a man near here.”

  They were drinking a cup of tea when Martin strode in unannounced a couple of hours later.

  Beth stood and smoothed down her skirt. “Time to go already?”

  Tension twanged through the air, the atmosphere became fraught. “Ye should wait to be invited into a man’s house,” Fergus muttered.

  “I did knock,” Martin shot back. “Hurry up, Elizabeth.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No thank you.” He lounged against the table and lit a cigar.

  “Don’t smoke those filthy things in my house?” Fergus growled.

  Martin muttered a curse before grinding the cigar out on his heel. “Come on, Elizabeth, before I lose my temper.”

  “Please don’t fight all the time,” she pleaded.

  “I want Bethie to stay here with us.”

  “Listen old man, Elizabeth is my wife, her place is with me.” Martin stormed out of the cabin.

  “You shouldn’t have spoken to him like that grandfather, he isn’t a bad man. Why can’t you be friends?”

  The old Highlander set his chin stubbornly.

  “I’ll see you off.” Alistair walked with her onto the porch.

  “Can’t you make him see reason?”

  He shrugged. “You know what he’s like, can’t bear to be anywhere near Mulvaney. The best thing to do is keep them apart. Are you sure he’s treating you properly? You’re white as a ghost,” he added with brotherly candor.

  “I’m all right, it’s having the baby. I’ve been sick a lot in the mornings, but Mrs. Irvine says it’s normal and goes away after a while.” They hugged each other.

  Martin lifted her up into the buggy and nodded to Alistair before they set off, with a now docile Satan trotting along behind them.

  “I rode him hard on the way back.” Martin followed Beth’s eyes to the black stallion. “Too worn out to play up now.”

  “I’m sorry about grandfather speaking to you like he did. I hoped you might bury the hatchet.” She gave a wistful sigh.

  “Don’t upset yourself. If old Fergus had a hatchet handy, he’d bury it in my head.”

  “How can you say such an awful thing?”

  “We’ll never get along, there’s too much bitterness between us. Tell me, when Alistair came over and your memory returned, what did the touching of your wrists signify?”

  His question surprised her. Why would he want to know that? “It’s a secret blood oath. When we were about ten, we both cut our wrists so our blood mingled, and made a pact to never let each other down.”

  “And the foreign chant?”

  “Gaelic, grandfather taught us a few words. ‘Cruachan’ is the battle cry of the Campbells.”

  * * *

  Because of the heavy rains over the last few days after their visit to grandfather’s, Beth could not go out for her customary morning walk or even pay a visit to Sam. This would be a good chance to explore the other wing of the castle.

  A cold eeriness pervaded this unused upstairs section. The floorboards creaked, damp patches stained the walls and she shivered from head to toe. Somehow, she had lost her bearings. “Don’t be idiotic, a person can’t get lost in a house,” she said out aloud, trying to control her panic.

  Coming to a wooden door, she pushed it open. A staircase, thank goodness. At least she could get to the ground floor now. Her boots clattered so loudly on the stone steps that if any ghosts slept here, they would be woken from their slumber. Behind a second wooden door, another flight of steps led downward. Martin had mentioned something about a cellar under the house.

  These steps were also stone, and as she descended them, they turned right and became quite steep. Cobwebs brushed her face; no one had passed this way for years. Her heart pounded so hard against her rib cage she found it difficult to breathe. The moisture in her mouth dried up, her throat felt scratchy. Calling on all her resilience, she forced her wavering limbs forward. Finally, she came to a heavy iron door.

  She turned the handle several times. Nothing happened so she pushed with all her strength until it creaked open. It might be a dull day, but this place brooded in semi darkness.

  The floor appeared damp and slippery with slime, the air musty and foul. After her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she was shocked to find herself in a dungeon. Martin’s father most probably used convict labor in the early days. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the screams. Rusted leg and wrist irons dangled from wall hooks. A long wooden table had rotting leather thongs still attached.

  A cat-o-nine tails dangled from a flogging triangle. Thinking about the poor wretches who endured their days down here made her want to weep. This horrible place smelt of death and decay. She turned to run and tripped on the slippery, uneven surface.

  Panic stricken, she lost her bearings. Where was the way out? In the semi darkness, she noticed a heap of bones and rags in one corner. Moving closer she was horrified to find the skeleton of a child, a little girl wearing a pink dress and matching bonnet.

  Screams of shock froze in her throat. She stood there, arms wrapped around her body, rocking from side to side with grief, staring at the pathetic little bundle. Could this be Amy Campbell? How did the child get down here?

  Beth didn’t know why, even though she felt dead inside, her brain kept functioning. She edged closer. The child’s skeleton lay at a strange angle, like a broken doll dropped from a great height.

  Glancing up she saw what appeared to be a wooden trapdoor. Did the poor little girl fall down, or did someone push her? Dear God, this would be the worst experience in her whole life.

  What had the newspapers said? Amy wagged school and went over to the castle with two little friends searching for ghosts. She was separated from the other two girls who thought she had made her own way home. Not until hours later when her frantic parents questioned her companions, did the authorities instigate a search, but they never found the child.

  You poor little soul. Beth’s heart bled for her. Had Amy lain here praying for rescue, or had God shown some mercy and let her die quickly? From the way that the skeleton lay, death would have been instantaneous. Please, God, let that be the way of it.

  How the parents must have suffered, never knowing for sure what had happened. Always living in hope some miracle would occur and their daughter would return to them.

  A strange calmness settled over Beth. If she remained trapped down here and died, she would not be alone because of Amy. Maybe the child’s soul still floated around, waiting for one of her kin to join her before she could journey to the afterlife.

  She edged even closer, some power beyond her control forced her quaking legs forward. From beneath the bonnet strands of dirty blonde hair straggled over the child’s shoulders. One of her hands still held the remains of what appeared to be a bunch of flowers.

  She must have been picking flowers at the time and fallen through a hidden trap door. Thankfully, she would have been happy, skipping along clutching the pretty blooms, unaware of what lay beneath her tiny feet.

  Grandfather always blamed the Mulvaneys. He thought they murdered the only child of his cousin.

  If it was murder, could Martin have been involved? His face had turned ashen when she mentioned the newspa
per story. Despicable to even think this way. Deep down she knew he wasn’t a cruel man. Could Black Jack have done it as revenge for grandfather having him sent to prison?

  I must not think like this. I have to picture Amy skipping along picking flowers. If I die down here, no one would ever know what happened to me. Like Amy, she would lie undetected for years, maybe never to be found.

  The shock would kill grandfather, Alistair would be devastated, and what of Martin? Would he care that his wife was gone, his baby also lost to him?

  I can’t let it happen, I mustn’t. My baby has to live. Amy’s parents must learn what happened to her and she deserved to be buried in consecrated ground. I have to be the one to do this. The tears fell. She could not stop them, yet they brought her paralyzed legs to life. She had to get out. Must get out.

  “I have to go, Amy, I can’t let this lonely place be your tomb forever.” Turning away, she tried to retrace her footsteps, forcing herself to search for a way out of this dark spooky place.

  Finally, she came to a closed door and leaned her full weight against it. For a moment, it did not budge. Fear of being entombed down here, gave her extra strength. It opened with a noisy grating of rusty hinges. Stone steps led up to another steel studded door, and she half ran, half crawled to it. Repeatedly she pushed, until, with a sudden shuddering groan the door gave way.

  She was free.

  Rain lashed her face with vicious intensity, soaking into her clothes as she fell into the thick bushes covering the entrance. Scratched and torn, head down, she staggered in the direction of the castle and banged into a hard wall of flesh.

  “What in tarnation!”

  “Martin.” She collapsed against him and he wrapped his arms around her. She babbled incoherently between cries and sobs. He scooped her up in his arms and hurried through the deluge to the back door. His heart pounded in her ear, strong, determined.

  “What on earth happened?”

  “I went exploring and found the dungeons. There were chains and whips.” Her tremors intensified. “I found little Amy Campbell.”

  “What!” His body became rigid.

  “Amy, I found little Amy. She must have fallen through the roof and lain there all those years.”

  “Sonofabitch.” The color faded from his face giving his skin a sickly tinge.

  He kicked the kitchen door open and entered the kitchen, yelling at Mrs. Irvine. “Get her upstairs and out of those wet clothes. I’ll get some brandy. Little fool wandered down to the cellar. Said she found Amy Campbell, the missing schoolgirl.”

  The housekeeper’s face turned white. “Are you sure, sir?”

  “That’s what she said. Oh, my God.” As Martin stood Beth up, she swayed. With a muffled curse, he swung her up into his arms again and carried her upstairs to the bedroom with Mrs. Irvine a step or two behind.

  After they tucked her up in bed, and Mrs. Irvine returned downstairs. Martin paced the room, his wet clothes dripping water on to the carpet.

  “What made you go down there in the first place?”

  “I went exploring and got lost.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. Mrs. Irvine had dried her hair and it now fell in a loose damp cloud about her shoulders.

  He sat down on the bed. “I want you to stay here for the rest of the day; you’ve had a terrible shock. What am I to do with you, hmm?” His fingers caressed her wrist.

  “I’ve never seen anything so horrible. All those leg irons, a cat-o-nine tails and poor wee Amy lying there with a bunch of flowers clutched in her hand. She must have been picking them in the garden and fell through the trap door.” Beth shuddered.

  When she turned her face up to him, Martin gasped in shock, having never witnessed such pain or grief in anyone’s eyes before. He pulled her into his arms and she sobbed. Once the tears started, they came in a torrent.

  She cried for hours, until eventually falling into an exhausted sleep. He sat with her most of the night, dozing on and off in a chair. He had not prayed in years, had not even thought about God, but sent up a desperate prayer nonetheless. What if something happened to her? If she lost their baby? He wanted this child more than anything in his whole life before. Its unconditional love would ease the pain of marriage to a woman who could never love him. Who hated and despised him because of what he had done. Elizabeth could never hate him as much as he hated himself.

  On awaking next morning from a troubled sleep, she appeared in an even worse state than when he first saw her collapsed on his doorstep on a dark stormy night, in what seemed another lifetime. Now numb with grief and shock, she couldn’t speak, refused to eat or drink.

  Mrs. Irvine wrung her hands. “So soon after her amnesia and in her delicate condition. She’s heading for a complete mental breakdown.”

  “How much more can her mind stand?” Martin asked Sam when he arrived at the castle. “She hasn’t eaten since yesterday, won’t speak, can’t sleep properly. What can I do?”

  Sam placed his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “She’s in deep shock. I think you should get Fergus or the brother.”

  “You think that old man would come here,” Martin said bitterly. “He hates my guts.”

  “For Elizabeth he would walk through the gates of hell and back, you know he would. I’ll come with you.”

  “No, stay here, she’s always liked you. I’ll go, it’s my responsibility.”

  Weighed down like a man with the world resting on his shoulders, Martin ordered a groom to saddle up for him and started for the Campbell farm. Fergus would probably greet him with a shotgun, but he had to take the risk, a small price to pay for Elizabeth’s mental and physical wellbeing. He had not felt so desperate and helpless in years. With an ounce of luck Alistair would be home, the boy was a hotheaded young fool, but not vengeful like the old man.

  A miracle Fergus’ hatred hadn’t twisted Elizabeth’s mind over the years, spewing out lies and poisonous distortions. Sam was right, the past should be buried. Maybe now Amy Campbell had been found, and it was obvious the child had fallen rather than been murdered, the whispers and suspicions tainting the Mulvaney name would be lifted. The instruments of torture in the cellar had nothing to do with convicts, and everything to do with Black Jack’s sexual depravity, but Elizabeth must never know this.

  His plans of marriage to Estelle Cunningham had been ruined once Fergus informed Sir Harold Cunningham about the scandal of Amy Campbell. Sir Harold only wanted the best for his precious Estelle, and that was not Martin Mulvaney. I’ll wager he didn’t know she murdered my baby, or maybe he did. He would not want the tainted Mulvaney blood mixing with that of his daughter’s.

  She had been a selfish, petulant creature, but so beautiful he had loved her with all the passion of a hot-blooded young man. After all these years, he didn’t give a damn except to mourn the loss of his unborn child. All he wanted now was his storm girl back, and for their child to be well and strong, free from the bitterness dogging his every footstep. Black Jack’s reputation had cast a long, dark shadow and blighted his life.

  Smoke drifted up from the chimney of the Campbell cabin. Elizabeth had said the last cattle drive took a lot out of the old man so it would be his final one, Alistair would go instead next time. That’s if he wasn’t in jail for consorting with outlaws. If the old man had any brains, he would get him out of the district and keep him out.

  As Martin stepped on to the front porch, the sound of hammering rang out from the backyard, so he strode toward the noise.

  The snowy head was bent over a wooden box, and the gnarled hands wielded the hammer with surprising strength.

  “Campbell.”

  Fergus’ head jerked up. “Get off my land, Mulvaney.” He advanced, the hammer raised.

  Martin stood his ground. “I came about Elizabeth, she’s ill.”

  “What!” Animosity gave way to panic and the old man lowered the hammer. “What’s wrong with my wee Bethie?”

  “I want you to come over to the castle.”

  “N
ever.”

  “Elizabeth is ill and needs you.”

  “Bring her home. Bring her home to me.” Fergus’ accent became so broad Martin strained to understand him.

  “I can’t, she’s not well enough.”

  “What’s wrong? If ye hurt my-”

  “I did nothing to her,” Martin interrupted. “She’s in shock. Been crying and distraught since yesterday. We can’t console her. I fear for her sanity if you don’t come and calm her down.”

  “I made a vow never to set foot on that cursed place of yours.”

  “You selfish, vindictive old man. You’d risk your granddaughter’s health and that of her child, just to revenge yourself on the Mulvaneys?”

  The old man’s shoulders slumped. “What’s wrong with the lass?”

  “She went exploring in the cellars under the castle yesterday and got lost in the dark. She, um,” he hesitated, “found the remains of little Amy Campbell.”

  “What!” The old man sank to his knees, his faded blue eyes glistening with tears. Martin almost felt sorry for him.

  “I’ve informed the police who won’t arrive until this afternoon, too busy chasing the Kelly gang and personal glory to look after law-abiding citizens. I want you to calm Elizabeth and get her to sleep. I don’t want her to be awake when they remove the remains, either. I’ve been down to the cellar. The child appears to have fallen through a trap door and broken her neck.” He was brutally frank, but did not know how to put it any other way. “Will you come?”

  “Aye.”

  He watched his old enemy, bent almost double with grief, shuffle off to get his horse and he pitied this once proud Highlander.

  They rode along in silence until Martin asked. “What about the child’s parents, should I notify them?”

  “Too late. Her father drank himself to death not long after the wee soul disappeared and her mother died of a broken heart a few years later. We’ll see to the funeral. She’s my cousin’s bairn, and the Campbells always look after their own.”

  The sky hung sullen with black clouds, and the castle brooded in the dullness. Martin hated the place sometimes. As a child, it had frightened him because Black Jack’s aura of evil seemed to permeate every room. I’ll get the trees cut back, and let in more light. As it stood now, the place was not fit to raise a child in, not fit for a young wife, either, and he should have realized this sooner.