Into the Dim Page 4

  When I loosened the reins, Ethel’s powerful muscles bunched and elongated under me. Strands of hair lashed my face as the wind whipped past. The roar of the river ahead pounded and my body began to relax, to move in rhythm with the horse’s gait.

  A pitted boulder appeared before us. I jerked on the reins, but Ethel apparently had a different idea. She raced straight toward the rock. My mouth opened in a scream that turned to a shout of pure joy as we soared over it.

  With the horse pounding beneath me, I felt alive. I felt free.

  A glint of reflected sunlight caught my eye. I reined up, squinting across the brush at a figure on horseback that had emerged from behind a large clump of rock. He—pretty sure it was a he—held something to his face that winked in the weakening sun.

  Binoculars? Is someone watching me?

  When I clucked at Ethel and headed toward him, the man veered his horse and raced off in the opposite direction. Curious now, I nudged the mare into an easy canter. Ahead of us, the stranger galloped away. Every once in a while he glanced back, as if gauging the distance. He was looking behind him when they crested a steep hill. His horse—apparently not in the mood for a jump—planted its hoofs. The rider went flying over the animal’s head, disappearing from view as the now-riderless horse shied and galloped away.

  “Oh. Crap,” I said, and kicked my heels hard into Ethel’s flanks.

  I dismounted beside a steep riverbank. Below, the clear brown water dashed against the boulders, drowning out any other noise.

  “Hey!” I yelled, but the guy had disappeared.

  When I edged closer, the damp earth of an overhang crumbled beneath me. Arms pinwheeling, down the slope I went, crashing through mud and brush, before I fetched up—panting—at the pebbled edge of the surging river.

  I saw him then, tangled in a patch of undergrowth at the water’s edge, like a piece of driftwood. He was sprawled face-up across a flat rock, clothes splattered with mud, laces of his brown hiking boots floating in the swift current. He wasn’t moving.

  My jeans wicked up the frigid water as I splashed through the shallows toward him. His head lay cocked at an angle that hid his face. I couldn’t tell if he was even alive.

  “Oh God oh God oh God.” A crimson ribbon of blood trickled from his dark hair to stain the mossy rock.

  “Hey,” I called. “Hey, can you hear me? Are you okay?”

  The stranger’s ripped shirt lay open beneath a crumpled camp jacket, revealing a terrible scrape across a tanned chest. His visible hand hung bruised and still, the long tapered fingers dangling in the water.

  What if he’s dead? What do I do?

  Dread dug sharp claws into my spine as I splashed to his side. His chest moved up and down.

  Thank God.

  I carefully shook his shoulder. “Hey! You all right? Wake up. Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  My mind raced as I tried to decide what to do. Stay with him so he doesn’t roll off and drown? Ride back to the house and call 911? Do they even have 911 here? Dammit, why didn’t I bring my phone?

  An expensive-looking camera hung around his neck. The source of the glint I’d seen. The display screen had brightened to life when I shook him. When I saw the image it displayed, my mouth dropped open.

  “What the hell?”

  “Not bad, eh?” I nearly toppled over as he muttered in a voice creaky with pain. “Of course, it likely won’t win any prizes. But you have to admit, the composition’s quite lovely.”

  I didn’t respond as I jerked the camera toward me and scrolled through the images. He was right. The light, the setup, the arrangement of each image highlighted the stark, breathless beauty of the Scottish Highlands. It wasn’t the background that freaked me out, though. It was the subject.

  Every photo—more than a dozen—was a close-up of me.

  My eye twitched. “Who are you? Why were you taking pictures of me?”

  Dark, damp hair was plastered over his forehead, though with blood or water, I wasn’t sure. I could see now that he was around my age. Sixteen. Seventeen, maybe. He gave a little groan as he scraped the hair back and turned his face toward me.

  Then, he opened his eyes.

  Behind a fringe of black lashes, his left eye was a soft green, like sunlight on moss. The right, the brilliant blue of an October sky. As I stared down at him, the world warped around me.

  The rush of water grew muted and distant. My nose and chest filled with the stench of . . . smoke? Yes. Wood smoke, tinged with a sickly sweetness of charred meat. Somewhere, a fire crackled and popped like bacon in a pan. Screams. The thump of hooves. A winey scent of overripe apples.

  “Hello?” a voice called from far away. I clung to it like a lifeline.

  The river’s gurgle returned, and I suddenly realized I was standing in the middle of a swift current, gaping down at a complete stranger.

  “I know what you’re thinking, love.” The words came out husky, his accent more blue-blood than Highlander. “You’re wondering how someone so strong, so handsome, and so obviously endowed with athletic ability could’ve gotten himself thrown from a bloody horse.” He winced as he sat up and swung long jean-clad legs over the side of the rock. “The answer is quite simple, really.”

  His camera still in my hand, I yanked on the strap. He groaned when it jerked his head forward. I tilted it to read the brass plate bolted to the side. PROPERTY OF BRAN CAMERON. IF FOUND, PLEASE RING . . . When I let go, the heavy camera struck against his chest with a satisfying thwack.

  Edging a few steps back, I asked through stiff lips, “Why were you taking pictures of me, Bran Cameron?”

  At first I thought he was ignoring me as he examined the blood smeared on his fingers. “Forgive me, won’t you? I’m, uh . . . feeling a bit off.”

  With a moan, his head dropped into his hands.

  “Crap,” I grumbled, torn between irritation and pity. “Are you okay?”

  And what the hell do you do if he’s not, Walton?

  Bran raised his head and gave me a wobbly grin. One of his canines was crooked. Oddly, it made me feel better, because the rest of him looked as if he’d been drafted by an architect. All clean lines and straight edges. He wasn’t beautiful, the nose a bit too long, the lips sculpted instead of full. Though his jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, it was his eyes I couldn’t look away from. Those peculiar, mismatched eyes.

  “I know you.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

  “I don’t think so, love.” He peered at me. “I can assure you if we’d ever met, I’d remember. I have an uncanny ability to remember pretty girls.”

  Pretty? Me? Yeah. Sure.

  His trim eyebrows waggled. “Unless of course you attend St. Sebastian Academy down in Kent? I admit, I’ve snuck past their fences a time or two. And I may have had a pint or three beforehand. So if we did, as you Americans like to say, ‘hook up,’ I wish to offer my sincerest apology for my poor memory.”

  Blood boiled into my face. In my sixteen years on this earth, no guy had ever, ever flirted with me. The redneck boys where I was from preferred girls like my cheerleader cousins. Size two. Blond. Busty. Brainless.

  “As you so astutely observed”—from his seated position, he gave a comical bow—“I am Bran Cameron. And, yes. I was photographing you. Though in truth, I was out stalking.”

  At my look, he chuckled. “Not in any depraved way, I assure you. I was merely hunting for the Highland stag. Some use guns to stalk. I prefer electronics.” He gave an exaggerated shudder that almost made me smile. “Less blood and entrails, that way. Then I saw a lovely vision on a horse and, well . . . I couldn’t resist.” He shivered. “And now that we are properly acquainted, would you mind terribly helping me off this rock and out of this bloody cold water?”

  I realized I was just standing there, gaping at him like a moron, while his lips turned blue with cold.

  “Oh.” I held out a hand. “Yeah, okay.”

  He took it, pulli
ng himself to his feet. Strong fingers squeezed mine as he bobbled, then steadied. My eyes were level with his chin. I focused on that, instead of his eyes.

  Back on dry land, I noticed blood pulsing in a steady stream down his neck, staining the collar of his jacket. I hurried over to Ethel and retrieved a scarf I’d tied to her saddle.

  “Here. You’re bleeding.”

  Looking up into his odd eyes, once again the disturbing sensation of familiarity rolled over me. When I stumbled, Bran steadied me before I could tumble headlong into the river.

  I was blinking too fast, trying to rid myself of the bizarre feeling, when he said, “I’m sorry, but did you tell me your name?”

  “Hope,” I managed. “My . . . I mean, I’m Hope Walton. And I’ve got to go.” I eased out of his grip and quickly moved to untie Ethel’s reins from the brush.

  “I don’t mean to be a bother,” he called, “but earlier you said you knew me from somewhere.” When I turned, he was close. Right beside me. “Do you?”

  “Do I what?” I edged away, nervous at the intense look on his face.

  “Know me.”

  “No.” The word tasted like a lie, though I couldn’t explain why. “But then again, I’m not one of those slutty St. Sebastian girls.”

  He laughed out loud at that. Then groaned as he pressed the scarf against his head.

  “Actually,” I said, “I just got here last night, so we couldn’t have met. I-I’ve barely been out of my hometown before. See, it’s my first time overseas. I’m here visiting my aunt, and . . .”

  Shut up, Walton. Why are you babbling like an idiot to this stranger?

  I shoved the reins over Ethel’s head and tried to mount, but my knees felt shaky, and my wet foot slipped from the stirrup. Ethel took a nervous step, confused at my signals. Bran grabbed her bridle, and when I glanced over to thank him, I saw that his lingering smile had vanished.

  “Your aunt,” he said flatly. “Yes, of course. Lady Lucinda Carlyle.”

  “You know her?”

  He didn’t answer, and the blinding grin he turned on me seemed forced. I managed to make it onto Ethel’s back, but I didn’t leave.

  “I want to thank you for rescuing me, Hope Walton,” Bran said. “And, no, I am not acquainted with your aunt. I only know that this is her land.” He reached up and tugged on a thin leather cord around his neck. A silver medallion popped out from beneath his collar, which he absently brushed against his lips. “Say, might I ask a favor? I realize rescuing me from certain death is enough of an imposition, but I should like to ask anyway.”

  Still uneasy, I shrugged. “I guess?”

  “Would you mind terribly keeping our running into each other today to yourself? You see, this is private property, and I should hate very much to be fined for trespassing.”

  “I won’t say anything.”

  “Brilliant.” Bran pressed the wad of purple fabric to the side of his head with a hiss. “And. This might be utterly presumptuous of me, considering the circumstances,” he said, “but would you care to go for a proper ride sometime? I’m not a native, of course, but I’ve spent time in these parts. And I know some breathtaking spots you simply must see. Before you say no,” he said, raising a hand in oath, “I solemnly swear not to brain myself on a river rock. Or sneak photographs without your express permission.”

  “Oh,” I said, “I don’t . . .”

  His rueful expression was so exaggerated, a giggle bubbled up from my chest. It felt creaky and rusty from disuse as it passed my lips.

  A sudden crack of thunder split the sky and echoed down the valley toward us. Ethel quivered and pranced beneath me.

  I glanced up to where Christopher Manor crouched at the head of the valley. Ominous gray clouds rolled in over the mountain behind it, pulsing with bursts of lightning. Unlit against the odd, stark light of a purpling dusk, the manor appeared dark and somehow menacing. I shivered as I turned back to Bran, the wind cold against my back.

  Thunder rumbled again from the dark clouds, making Ethel strain against her bit, eager to be off. I wondered idly what Moira would think about me sneaking off to meet some trespassing stranger. I decided I didn’t care.

  “Okay,” I said. “That would be . . . I mean . . . yes, okay.”

  This time, Bran’s smile was genuine. “Then I shall look forward to it. If that cantankerous beast over there doesn’t throw me again and break my neck . . .” He made a face at the gelding, now peacefully grazing several yards away. “I will be here the same time each afternoon.” He executed a funny, formal bow. Till then, Mistress Walton. I must say, it was surprisingly pleasant to meet you.” His lovely, mismatched eyes widened a bit. “Surprising considering the situation, I mean.”

  I nodded, biting back a grin as the mare took off like a shot.

  Under a crack of thunder, I thought I heard a shout. “See you soon, Hope Walton.”

  The heavens opened as Ethel and I raced back toward the stable. Pebbles of rain drilled into me, stinging my face. My thighs chafed against the inside of damp jeans as I held on tight.

  I should have been miserable. But I barely felt it.

  Chapter 6

  JET LAG BLOWS.

  At least it was morning. Sort of, though according to the bedside clock it was hours till daylight. But Lucinda would be back today. I’d finally get some answers, which was good, ’cause I was really tired of all the secrecy.

  The night before, Phoebe had obviously still been banished, since only Mac, Moira, and I shared the quiet dinner of lamb, curried peas, and something called Spotted Dick, which sounded horrifying but was actually a delicious, rich cake filled with currants and covered in a thick custard.

  I’d expected to crash hard, to sleep off the wearying hours of flight and disappointment. My brain apparently had a different agenda, however, and I only managed a few fitful hours of sleep. As I flipped and flopped in the ridiculously lavish bed, my thoughts drifted to the boy from the river. Bran Cameron. I’d kept my promise. Hadn’t told a soul about his trespassing. He wasn’t hurting anyone, after all.

  And he wants to see you again. I twisted over and buried my face in the down pillow. Let’s just hope he forgets the way you stared like a moron when you saw his eyes.

  What the hell was that about, anyway?

  The antique bedframe creaked as I flopped back over. Staring up at the deep blue canopy, I wondered how long it had been since someone inspected the aging wood that supported all those yards of heavy velvet.

  I scrambled out of the high bed as if it were on fire and wrenched on my ratty flannel bathrobe. I needed a good old, dry history book. That’s just the ticket to take my mind off things.

  As I crept downstairs in the quiet of predawn, a step groaned beneath my weight. When no one emerged to order me back to my room, I went on, keeping to the edge of the steps. Generations of grumpy-looking Carlyles and MacPhersons glared at me from their gilded frames as I descended.

  “Problem?” I challenged a snooty matron with a poofy bun and squinty eyes. When she didn’t answer, I flicked her painted nose. “That’s what I thought.”

  Only two lamps now illuminated the once-cheery library. Shutting the doors behind me, I reached for the nearest bookshelf, then froze.

  Is that . . . music?

  I skirted back and forth across the room, pausing occasionally to listen. Still barely audible, the music seemed to grow a bit louder as I weaved my way toward the rear wall. Next to a faded tapestry, I leaned in and placed my palm against a bare spot on the wall. Through the heavy wood paneling, I felt the definite thump of bass notes.

  A puff of air that smelled like dirt and wet stone whiffed across my bare legs, ruffling the hanging’s embroidered sheep in their woven pasture.

  I grinned, and peeled the weighty fabric aside, revealing the hidden door behind it. It stood slightly ajar, held open by a bronze spaniel someone had placed in the crack as a doorstop. An enormous padlock splayed open and dangled from its hasp.

&nb
sp; Please. I prayed as I grasped the crystal doorknob. Please don’t let this be the room where they hide the deformed cannibal cousin. ’Cause it’s just too damn early for that.

  I jerked the door open to find . . . brooms. Nothing inside the deep closet but exactly what you’d expect. Brooms and mops and, oh—how thrilling—a shelf of dusting supplies. I let my head roll back to stare at the ceiling. Nothing but a stupid, ordinary broom closet.

  Disgusted, I started to ease the door shut, then hesitated, certain my senses were playing tricks. Nope. The music was definitely louder here. And, at the very back corner, a thin strip of yellow marred the perfect darkness.

  Using my new buddy “Brassy the Wonderdog,” I propped the door open, then reached in and tentatively poked at a slick, wooden broom handle. It didn’t move. Didn’t budge, in fact. I began to tug on one after the other, until I realized they were—each and every one—fastened to the back wall. Bolted, as if they were only a display.

  Then I saw it. The stray cotton strand of an upside-down mop that was pinned, snagged in the seam of light. When I yanked hard on the knotted thread, the entire thing—brooms and all—opened noiselessly toward me. Music poured over me, washing up a set of wooden steps that led downward into the shadows.

  I grinned. “Gotcha.”

  One seemingly endless flight down, I emerged into what appeared to be the manor’s cellar. The space was enormous. A low, barrel-vaulted ceiling was supported by a row of stone pillars that curved away into a shadowy darkness.

  I shivered in the chill. My slippered feet whispered on the paving stones as I wove through the detritus left behind by two centuries of Carlyles and MacPhersons. Modern light fixtures mounted at intervals to the rough brick wall cast shadows on the swept-clean path. Muscles tense, I breathed in musty air and the rich, mineral smell of earth.