Down the Rabbit Hole

“Wait. Please don’t leave me.”


“I mustn’t be out at the start of a new moon or I might encounter . . .” He never even gave her a backward glance as he hobbled away.

She was left alone, with only silence.

Of course she was alone. She’d only dreamed her visitor.

She eased to a sitting position and felt her head swim. Touching a hand to the spot, she could feel the sticky warmth of blood.

Very slowly she picked up her purse and overnight bag before getting to her feet. She started walking in the direction the funny little groundhog had gone, though she had no idea where she was, or what might lie ahead. Dream or no dream, that creature was her only guide.

Why was the countryside so dark? Where were the street lights? Had the fall affected her vision? And where had she been headed? Oh yes. Stag’s Head Lodge. Thank heaven she had enough brainpower to remember that much.

As she came up over a rise she spotted a light up ahead. A light that seemed to be swaying, before abruptly moving away. Alarmed that she would be left behind in the dark, she started running and stumbling until she could make out the figure of a giant stag up ahead.

Hearing her footsteps, it turned, and twin beams of blazing red light were fixed on her with a look so fearsome, she covered her eyes and looked away.

When she looked up she realized her mistake. It wasn’t a stag, but a horseman holding a lantern as he headed away from her.

“Wait. Stop.” Dazed, confused, she began to run after him. “Can you help me? I seem to have lost my way.”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” In the darkness, the heavily accented Scottish voice was low with anger.

“I’m expected at the lodge. I’m Beth Campbell from New York.”

“A Campbell? On Gordon land? How dare—”

“I phoned to say I was on my . . .”

Feeling herself fading, she began to sway as the sky above her slowly circled.

The man was out of the saddle and managed to catch her before she hit the ground. With little effort he swung her up into his arms and mounted his horse.

“Thank y—” Her throat was so dry, she couldn’t seem to make her mouth work.

His breath was hot against her cheek. “It’s not thanks I want. I’d much prefer to see the back of you as you take your leave of my land. But for now, I suppose, I have no choice but to take you with me.”

He flicked the reins, and the great black horse started toward a darkened fortress in the distance.

Beth found herself in a most awkward position, being held in the strongest arms she’d ever known, her face nearly buried in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. She breathed in the scent of forest and evergreen, making her think of a wild, dangerous, primitive creature. She felt small and insignificant in his arms.

A feeling of sheer terror rose up and had her by the throat, but she couldn’t make a sound.

He was dressed in a rough woolen cloak, with the hood lowered, allowing his shoulder-length hair to flow out behind him.

As the horse’s hooves ate up the distance, he spoke not a word, leaving Beth to hear nothing but the pounding of her own heartbeat mingling with his. A strong, steady drumbeat that had her own pulse speeding up.

At last they arrived in some sort of courtyard. A dozen hounds swarmed around the horse, setting up a chorus of baying until the man gave a single command. At once they dropped to their haunches and remained still as statues, tongues lolling. He dismounted, still holding Beth in his arms as easily as if she weighed no more than a feather.

In the blink of an eye the hounds disappeared, to be replaced by a cluster of men, all dressed in similar fashion to her rescuer, in rough woolen cloaks, hair and beards long and unkempt.

A stooped, furry groundhog, a twin of the one in the chef’s hat and apron, caught the reins and led the horse away. The men formed a circle around the man holding Beth.