CHAPTER TWO
Kate wasn't sure what to make of Ross Malloch. Uninformative and dismissive as he had been, there was something intriguing about the guy. Not to mention how hot he had turned out to be. She could picture him on the cover of one of her favorite Scottish romance novels, shirtless, in a kilt with a huge claymore strapped to his back.
He was beautiful. That was the only word, really, that would do justice to the tall, dark-haired man with the vivid blue eyes who had swept her off his bloody island with such casual, born-to-command authority.
He was not handsome—that was too mild a word. Laird Malloch had worn a warrior’s face, austere and stern. His hair was unfashionably long, tied back from his honed face with a twist of leather. His mouth had been set at the start of their encounter in a rigid line that gave no hint of a smile. Slowly, as they’d bantered, that mouth had relaxed a bit, and those eyes had warmed and sparkled. She thought she'd sensed the flare of sexual attraction. Briefly, anyway. Before he'd started swearing at her.
Too bad he was so hostile toward outsiders. People in the village were the same. There was none of the friendliness she had encountered elsewhere in Scotland. Here in this weird place out of time she was the stranger, the interloper, the foreigner. They all seethed to be rid of her as quickly as possible.
Especially Ross Malloch. He wanted her gone. She wondered why. And why had he denied that there were legends about dragons associated with this area? There was a dragon carved into the stones of Mallochbirn—did he think she couldn't see it above the battlements?
Even getting something as simple as a cup of tea or coffee in the village seemed impossible. She tried a place that billed itself as an inn, but she was stiffly told they weren't serving. When would they be serving? At lunch time? No, they didn't do lunch. How about supper? Supper was only offered to paying guests who took a room for the night.
Partly because she was restless after her encounter with Malloch, Kate decided to push it. She needed another chance at the superhot Scot. "I'd like to book a room for tonight. What time is supper? I'll be sure to be back."
The innkeeper, a dour middle age woman, replied with a straight face, "We have no rooms available."
Kate cast an ironic glance around the empty common room. "That's odd. I don't see any other guests."
The woman remained stonily silent.
"I am going to try to locate the graves of my great-grandparents and other members of my family today, so I'll be out and about. But I'll return this evening. I would love to be able to count on having accommodations here."
As she had hoped, the mention of her family thawed the woman the tiniest bit. "Your family came from our village?"
"Yes, I think so. I'm trying to trace them. I'm not sure where they are buried."
"Have you tried up at the churchyard? The new vicar is said to be interested in local genealogy. Rev. Lambeth is his name. Rev. John Lambeth."
This was an unexpected piece of luck. "That's wonderful! Will I find him in the church? I'll go speak with him immediately."
"Aye, you should find him next door to the church in the rectory."
"Thank you. And may I count on that room for the night?"
The brief friendliness shut down again. "No, you may not. As I said, we have nothing available tonight. I suggest you speak to the vicar and then be out of town as quickly as possible. Certainly well before sunset."
"Why? What happens at sunset? Do the vampires come out?"
The innkeeper was not amused. "Of course not. But 'tis Midsummer’s Eve."
"Is there a village festival of some sort this evening, then?"
The innkeeper looked furtive. She busied herself wiping an invisible bit of dirt off the counter.
Kate cleared her throat. "Whatever the celebration is, I'll be going over to the castle tonight. I have an appointment with the laird."
She watched the innkeeper closely for her reaction to this lie, and she wasn't disappointed. The woman looked horrified. "That's impossible. No one is ever allowed to go there on sacrifice ni— I mean, festival night."
Sacrifice night? Had she just struck folklore gold?
"I know this is a Christian village," she said, "since you've already referred me to Rev. Lambeth. But the summer solstice is still celebrated in lots of cultures. What are the customs here?"
The innkeeper looked relieved, as if a wonderful idea had just occurred to her. "Old customs, yes, that's the way of it. There's a sort of play, you see, like the old mummers’ plays. Rev. Lambeth can explain it to you. He’s the right man for the job."
That was all she could be persuaded to say about the matter.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later Kate was seated in front of a comfortable hearth with Rev. John Lambeth, who was sipping coffee. He had offered her some, but she'd declined. Lambeth was courteous, but not genial. He gave the impression of a busy man who was beneficently making time for her.
A big orange tabby leapt into the room through an open window and brushed against its master's leg. Lambeth patted him fleetingly, but he also gave his trousers leg a twitch. The cat looked offended. Perhaps the Reverend didn't want cat hair on his clothing.
Kate stretched out a hand, uncertain if the kitty would come to a stranger. She was good with animals, though, and few could resist when she appealed to them. She projected warmth and welcome to the cat, who studied her. She decided to try a careful mental probe. It was something she had learned from Gramma Molly.
She envisioned a shimmering golden thread extending from her to the kitty, letting soothing thoughts flow along it. The cat cocked his head as the mental link was formed. Reassured and compliant, he strolled toward her and leapt up into her lap.
"You can push him down," Rev. Lambeth said. "I do apologize. He's a fine cat, but he sheds dreadfully."
"No need," she said, stroking the silky fur. "I love cats. What's his name?"
"Scrounge."
Indignation flowed through the thread between her and the cat. Prince, the animal corrected.
Kate grinned, and rubbed him under his chin. "You're beautiful, Prince," she told him silently.
He flopped down across her lap and began to purr.
Kate's initial approach to Lambeth had been the family history angle. It turned out that he was relatively new to his appointment, so he wasn't helpful in that respect, although he did offer to conduct her on a tour of the churchyard where the old graves were. She accepted with enthusiasm.
Rev. Lambeth led her up the road to the church, which was about a hundred yards distant from the rectory. The church was a charming old stone building that had probably graced the village for centuries, given its Gothic architecture. The churchyard surrounded it on three sides. It was dotted with gravestones and crosses, many of them very old, with their lettering worn away by wind and rain. The churchyard was well kept, though, with its grasses mown and a riot of cheerful flowers blooming.
"I like to do a bit of gardening," Rev. Lambeth explained.
"It's beautiful." Kate stroked the petals of a yellow climbing rose whose blossoms festooned the low wall around the graveyard. "You're the one who cares for the garden?"
"We have a sexton who does most of the upkeep of the church and garden, but I help out whenever I can."
This surprised Kate, since the reverend had seemed fastidious. She would have expected him to be the type of man who didn't care to dig about in the dirt. Rapid judgments of people were never wise, she reminded herself.
Scrounge, or Prince as he preferred to be called, followed them into the churchyard. He strolled around among the graves, his tail high, peering at the old headstones as if he could read them.
"The oldest graves are here, directly to the back of the east end of the church," the reverend told her, leading her to a neat area with thin stone slabs whose lettering was worn away almost to nothing. Although the stones were covered with moss and lichen, the graves were raked and trimmed. "Some of these go back to medieval times. What surnames are you looking for?"
She told him and they poked among the graves. "What's that large tomb in the corner?" she asked, pointing to a grass-covered mound with an iron gate and two mammoth Doric columns on either side of the black-painted iron door.
"That's the Malloch family tomb. It's as old as any of the graves here. The family has been the local elite for centuries."
Compared to the rest of the modest churchyard, the elaborate tomb seemed out of place. And perhaps a bit eerie. She remembered her joke to the innkeeper about vampires arising after sunset. She could almost imagine a couple of pale, deathly creatures emerging from that mound.
"Do they still bury their dead in there?"
"Aye, so I'm told. It's not been opened since I've been here, though. I believe the current laird's father died about a decade ago, and his mother not long afterwards."
Shortly thereafter, Rev. Lambeth informed her that he had to return to the rectory to attend to parish business. She was welcome to continue to explore on her own. The cat stayed with her as she bent over the old graves, trying to make out the names and dates. She found several Buchanans who had been laid to rest near the lairds' tomb. Several of these looked like more recent burials, and she was reminded of what Gramma Molly had told her about her family.
It had been her grandmother who had urged her to come to Mallochbirn. Her much-loved grandmother had lived nearby during all the years of her childhood and provided a warm, wise perspective whenever Kate got into the usual sort of mother-daughter conflicts with her own mum. Gramma Molly, whose birth name had been Buchannan, had been born here. She and her mother had emigrated to the U.S. after the Second World War, when her mother had married an American stationed in Britain. Gramma Molly's father had died in the Blitz, but her American stepfather had raised her as his own.
Gramma Molly had been quite young when she'd left Scotland, and younger still when her parents had left Mallochbirn to go south to London and help with the war effort. She'd admitted that most of the stories and legends she had heard about the area were a little outlandish. Her tales often began with the words, "Once upon a time at Mallochbirn a strange and wondrous thing happened. Of course, I didn't see it with my own eyes, but..."
"I've always wanted to go back to Mallochbirn, but I haven't had the chance yet," her grandmother had told her before Kate had left for her trip. "You go for me, lassie. Take lots of pictures. And if you happen to meet that old sea dragon, give the rascal a big hug for me."
After pulling out her camera and photographing all the Buchannan, Graham and MacFarlane graves she could find, Kate returned to the rectory.
"Did you find your ancestors?" Rev. Lambeth asked.
"I'm not sure. I saw some MacFarlanes, Grahams, and quite a lot of Buchanans. The names are common, though, so it's hard to be certain if any of them are my forebears."
"If you like, I could pull the old baptismal records, which go back for several generations. Would those be at all helpful?"
"They might be, yes. Thank you."
He brought her several dusty volumes and installed her in his living room with a cup of tea. Kate pulled out the family tree she'd downloaded from an online website and set about comparing names and dates.
The cat continued to follow her around. Soon she and Prince were good friends, and he was once again sprawled in her lap.
As the day wore on, Kate noticed that Rev. Lambeth seemed to be getting nervous. He came in to check on her progress every ten minutes or so, and although he was polite, she sensed that he would be more comfortable if she left. She decided to find out why.
"I understand there's to be a festival of some sort in the village this evening?"
"Yes, so they say. I don't know all the details."
"But you will be attending?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, I haven't exactly been invited, but yes, since I live here and since most of the villagers are part of my flock, I think it is my duty to attend."
"I get the feeling that the villagers are mistrustful of outsiders," she said in what she hoped was a neutral tone.
"Indeed they are. I was born here, but my parents moved away when I was an infant. Even so, I felt quite unwelcome when I returned," he confided. "Of course, it's better now that I've come to know my parishioners."
"What sort of festival is it?"
"A lot of pagan nonsense, but a very old tradition, if I understand correctly. I hold the laird responsible. The villagers, many of them, don’t know any better. But he’s an educated man."
The Ross Malloch she had met had been rough around the edges, but yes, he'd had the manner and address of a well-educated man. "So I’m to understand that Mr. Malloch is participating in this pagan ritual?"
"Well, he controls the sea dragon, you see. So he must be."
Ah hah! Had Gramma Molly been right about the local legends? "The sea dragon?" She tried to keep her delight limited to a note of mild inquiry.
"Yes, well, I know what you’re thinking. And you’re correct, of course—whatever the creature is, it can’t be a sea dragon. Perhaps it’s a whale. Or a dolphin. I’ve never actually seen it myself. I haven't had the opportunity to witness this event previously." His voice dropped. "Some people say that Ross Malloch is a sorcerer, and that he conjures this demon up from hell every year, to celebrate the pagan holidays."
Kate felt a laugh bubbling up inside her, and had to struggle to keep her expression severe. The cat seemed to find the conversation amusing, too.
"I've met Mr. Malloch, and he did not strike me as the sorcerer type," she said mischievously.
Lambeth’s eyes went round. "Have you indeed? Well, perhaps you know better than I, but it’s difficult to imagine a laird who practices human sacrifice would be regarded as an ordinary chap."
"Human sacrifice? Really, Reverend. Are you seriously accusing the Mallochs, who have held this land for nearly nine hundred years, of human sacrifice?"
"Well," He looked flustered. "It might not be human sacrifice, but 'twould be improper for me to say exactly what it does involve."
Kate leaned forward, putting on her best intimidating stare. Not that she had ever been good at intimidation. "Although everyone in this village seems to be living in an earlier century, may I remind you that this is not the Victorian Age. If there is some sort of orgy going on at the castle, I'd like to hear about it. I might even join in."
Rev. Lambeth drew himself up straight in his chair. "Very well, Miss Beaton, but I did warn you."
She could have sworn there was a hint of glee in his eyes as he intoned: "Once a year, by ancient tradition, on Midsummer's Eve, the villagers select a young woman to satisfy the lusts of the Mallochbirn sea dragon. The chosen girl is bound to a rock at moonrise and abandoned to her fate."
Kate could feel her eyes widen as she listened. Rev. Lambeth nodded as if to say "I told you so." He continued, "as I said, I haven’t been back long enough to witness this, but I've been told what happens next. There is a harsh hissing sound, the seas part, and the creature comes out of the deep. Everybody screams and carries on, including the sacrificial victim. The sea dragon comes ashore, seizes the girl, and has his way with her.
"Some say he turns into a man for this part of the ritual, while others insist he remains in dragon form. The girl is never injured. Or at least not seriously. In the morning, she is found safe and sound, in a deep sleep. Although she is hazy about her experience, there is universal agreement among the women who have served the sea dragon’s pleasure that he is surprisingly, er, skilled. Some even volunteer to be sacrificed a second time, but that is not permitted."
Kate endeavored to beat down the slight flush that had risen over her skin at his description. Fucked by a sea dragon? There was something deliciously kinky about that. She tried to envision what a sea dragon looked like, but she couldn't quite picture it.
"You say, Rev. Lambeth, that you have never witnessed this spectacle?"
"Tonight will be the first time," he said, with obvious relish.
"Is there any chance the villagers have united to make you the victim of a jest?"
"Think what you like, but it will be time soon, and you’ll be able to see for yourself that I’m telling you the truth."
Indeed I will, she thought, glad she'd ignored the laird's instructions to leave. "Why did you accuse Mr. Malloch of being responsible for this sea monster?"
"If you know the history of Mallochbirn, you know that in their more warlike years, the family members were known as the Dragons from the Sea. It is said that the Malloch clan and some of their kin have a mysterious ability to enter the minds of various animals and control them. The ritual is known as ‘Malloch’s lust.’ Perhaps it’s a remnant of the old droit de seigneur from feudal times?
"No one seems to know whether the lords of Mallochbirn conjure the beast or simply control it, but even the laird himself doesn’t deny that he is involved."
"I see." This all fit nicely with the stories she'd heard from Gramma Molly. Although her grandmother hadn't mentioned the sacrificial maiden.
"So, Miss Beaton, what do you think now?"
"I think I need to check it out." With reluctance, Kate informed Prince that her lap would no longer be available. The big cat gracefully leapt down. As he did, he sent her a message:
The sea creature likes you.
She often didn't understand the thoughts of animals, which weren't verbal in the usual sense. They sent her images, sounds and smells, many of which she couldn't clearly perceive. She was probably misinterpreting what the kitty meant. How did it even know any sea creatures? Cats rarely went swimming.