Down the Rabbit Hole

“What have ye here?” one of them asked.

“A Campbell. She seems ill or wounded. Possibly demented, by the odd way she speaks. I’ll have Maura see to her.”

Her rescuer carried her through a doorway and into a cavernous room lit only by the roaring flames of an enormous stone fireplace. The log ablaze on the grate was as big as a tree trunk.

The man lowered her to a fur-covered chaise set in front of the fire.

A plump gray rabbit hurried toward them. “Ye’ve need of me, m’laird?”

“Aye. This female seems to be in distress. See if she is injured, and minister to her needs.”

“Aye, m’laird. Will ye have ale?”

“I will, Maura. It’s been a long journey.”

The rabbit hopped away.

Minutes later Beth felt a cool, damp cloth on her forehead. She opened her eyes to see an old woman kneeling beside her, holding a bowl of steaming broth and a goblet of something warm and red.

“Are ye strong enough to drink this, lass?”

“What is it?”

“A bit of broth and some mead, lass. They’ll ease yer pain and give ye strength.”

Beth managed to sit up, taking several sips of broth before tasting the sweet, pungent, fermented mead. She managed only a few swallows before setting it on a side table. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be all right. My car’s engine died, and I started walking when suddenly I tripped and fell down some kind of black hole.”

The woman was staring at her as though she’d just spoken gibberish.

“Could you contact someone at Stag’s Head Lodge and ask them to send a driver to fetch me?”

The woman began to press her backward against the chaise. “You lie down now, lass, and rest a bit until yer mind clears.”

“My mind is clear. My name is—”

The old woman gave a quick shake of her head. “The laird told us yer name. Ye’d be wise not to speak the name Campbell here at Stag’s Head Lodge.”

“This is Stag’s Head?” Beth was up and on her feet, visibly swaying. “Then they’re expecting me. I phoned and told them I was on my way.”

The old woman glanced across the room. “Ye can see she’s not herself yet, m’laird.”

Beth turned and saw the man who’d carried her standing in front of the massive fireplace, holding a tankard of ale.

The men standing in a cluster around him were talking in low tones until he waved a hand, dismissing them. They walked to the far end of the room, where they stood watching and listening.

The man had shed his cloak and now wore a length of plaid tossed over his shoulder in a rakish manner and tied around his waist like a kilt. On his feet were leather boots. Other than that, his legs and chest were naked.

On any other man this whole pose of an ancient warrior would look phony. Like some cover model or actor hoping for his fifteen seconds of fame. But there was something about this man. Something dark and rough and dangerous that had him looking like the real thing, and had Beth’s breath backing up in her throat.

He shot her an angry look. “Now you’ll tell me what a Campbell is doing on Gordon soil.”

“I have an appointment with Colin Gordon.”

He set down his tankard with enough temper to have the ale sloshing over the rim. “I am Laird Colin Gordon, woman. And I’ve never before met you.”

Beth swallowed and decided to try a reasonable approach. “I can see that I’ve crashed your masquerade party. I’m truly sorry. But my firm arranged this meeting, and nobody told me about the party.” She tried a tentative smile. “If you’d rather, we can certainly postpone our meeting until tomorrow, at your convenience.”

The man looked beyond her to the old woman. “It’s as I feared. Demented, she is. Take her above stairs and see that she’s made comfortable until I figure out what’s to be done with her.”

“Aye, m’laird.”

As the old woman began to lead Beth away, the man added, “And, Maura, see that she’s not left alone.”