Chapter Eighteen

She curled up against him and buried her face in the crook of his neck, as if she was suddenly too shy to look at him. He had no idea of the time. They had made love twice, and already his body stirred at the feel and intoxicating scent of her skin. Guilt suddenly stabbed at his chest and he cursed himself silently. In his brutal, all-consuming need to make her his, he hadn’t spared her injured shoulder a thought and had probably been too rough. If truth be told, he had been quite incapable of thinking at all.

‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’ he asked, anxious now.

She snuggled closer. Her breath tickled his chest. ‘Not at all.’

‘I think I might have got a little carried away.’

She looked up. ‘At least now you understand why this old bed is so popular.’

It took a second to understand what she meant. He rolled on top of her, lifted her hands and pinned them on the pillow by either side of her head.

‘You mean you don’t think I could make love to you anywhere else but here?’

She laughed. ‘Probably not as well. This is a magic bed after all.’

He smiled, lowered his face to hers until their lips almost touched. ‘This is a challenge I can’t ignore. I must prove you wrong, starting right now.’

‘You seem very sure of yourself.’

Rolling off her, he got up, picked her dressing gown from the floor and handed it to her. ‘Come with me.’

She sat up, stifled a yawn and shook her hair. It fell in a mass of tangles on her shoulders, tantalising close to her breasts, conjuring images of him playing with the silken strands to stroke her and awaken her desire once more.

‘Where to?’ she asked.

‘The drawing room.’ He retrieved his clothes from a corner of the room and slipped them on.

‘I was only joking, you know,’ she said.

‘I wasn’t. Anyway,’ he added. ‘We could both do with a drink, and I want to check on the fire.’

‘Don’t worry, neither Dughall McBride nor Old Finghall will let anything bad happen to Raventhorn.’

He frowned. ‘Who?’

Then he remembered the names. They were Raventhorn’s house ghosts. Dughall, Finghall, a howling woman he’d forgotten the name of. And Isobel, of course. A shiver of unease crept down his spine. He didn’t want to think about Isobel, or whoever pretended to be her. Only a few hours ago he’d known without a doubt it was all a scam and someone was out there posing as the Raven Lady. Now he wasn’t so sure, and it annoyed the hell out of him.

He could easily dismiss the silhouettes he’d seen at the side of the road in Corby Woods or at the top of the ruined castle for trick of shadows and light, but he’d been sure he’d seen a woman in the loch – so sure he hadn’t hesitated to walk into freezing water. It was only a dream – some hallucination brought about by stress, not enough sleep, and Angus’s strong ale. Not to mention moon shadows on the water.

Rosalie was looking at him. ‘Don’t look so cross.’ She sounded worried.

He stroked her cheek with his index finger. ‘I’m not cross.’ At least not with her, never with her, he finished silently. ‘Come on, let’s go down and check on that fire.’

‘I need my nightdress,’ she said, looking around the bed.

‘Your dressing gown will do just fine.’ His hands tingled with the urge to touch her again. The way he was feeling right now, she would probably end up naked in his arms the moment they reached the drawing room – if they made it down there at all. This was ludicrous. He hadn’t lusted after a woman this much since he was a teenager.

She covered up and pointed to the post. ‘Aren’t you going to carve your mark? It’s tradition, you know.’

‘Not just yet … I’ll wait until I have a few.’

Once downstairs, Rosalie insisted on making hot drinks whilst he tended to the fire. He put several logs in the grate and poked at the embers until sparks flew and flames rose once more in the chimney.

She came back carrying a tray with a teapot, two mugs and a plate of chocolate biscuits she put down on the side table near the sofa.

‘We’re having tea. It’s too late for coffee, and I don’t think you need another of Angus’s special ales.’ She chuckled and poured them both a drink, then grabbed hold of a biscuit and bit into it.

‘I see you’ve been busy reading some of Geoff’s research papers,’ she said, pushing some of McBride’s books off the sofa to make space to sit down.

Marc lowered himself and sat at her feet. He reached out for his mug of tea, stretched his leg in front of him – the one he had hurt in the accident – and winced. It had been healing nicely but his swim in the freezing loch hadn’t done his wound any good. He drank a sip of tea, looked around the drawing room and let out a contented sigh.

Tonight, Raventhorn was a warm, welcoming cocoon. It felt like home, he thought, surprised. Leaving in the morning would be hard, and not only because he dreaded the emotional turmoil he would find Maguire in. He had no inclination to deal with office business or Kirsty’s imperious demands for his time and commitment to a New York project he did not support – to a company he no longer wanted to be part of. With a pang he realised he would gladly give up the life he was accustomed to and stay here, to drive the cab, listen to Rosalie talk and sing to her Happy Baby Radio, and make love to her all night …

Rosalie cast a quick glance at his profile as he stared at the fire. His hair stuck up at the front, and his hands curled around his steaming cup of tea – the very same hands that had earlier roamed over her body, and possessed her so thoroughly the very memory made her pulse beat harder and heat burn her cheeks. How wanton of her to give herself so completely to a man she’d only known for a few weeks, a man so different from her in every respect. A man she knew would leave in a few hours.

Her throat tightened. He had done the decent thing and warned her that there could be no relationship between them, that his life was far away from Raventhorn, and she had accepted his terms. Thinking about what might happen in one day, or one week, was pointless. She only wanted the here, and the now – or at least that’s what she’d claimed. The problem was that she had lied.

Her throat tightened. She discarded her half-eaten biscuit on the plate, swallowed some hot tea, and put her mug down before pulling one of the manuscripts onto her knees.

Her finger ran along the lines of fine, spidery writing that covered it. The paper was yellow and brittle, the ink had faded to a pale blue. This was probably a very old, very precious manuscript, yet Geoff now kept them in careless piles in the library. After her mother’s death, he had refused to hire anybody to catalogue his books. She had tried to help for a few weeks, but when she set up Love Taxis the library had descended into chaos.

She pointed to the rune-covered pages. ‘So you can’t really translate any of this?’

He shook his head. ‘I can only decipher a few lines, I’m afraid.’

‘Yet you told Rupert you were close to finding the location of Harald’s treasure.’

‘I lied. I don’t trust him. He seemed far more interested in McBride’s bank statements than in those personal papers and diary he claims to have lost.’

‘He looked through Geoff’s bank statements? Oh, I hate that man! I wish he’d stayed in London with his girlfriend, whoever she is.’ Unease and dread wrapped around her heart as she remembered the young woman at the holiday lodge and the man who’d shouted from the back room. The man whose cold, angry voice she couldn’t forget. In fact, she’d heard it in a nightmare so vivid a few nights ago she’d woken up in tears, her heart pounding with fear and calling for her mother like a little girl.

She shrugged to dispel the unpleasant feeling and looked down at the runes again. The ancient writing looked beautiful, mysterious, magical … and completely incomprehensible!

‘How did you learn? Geoff tried to teach me but he was never the most patient of men, and I wasn’t a good student.’

‘There were runestones scattered on my grandfather’s land and neighbouring farms. I used to copy the inscriptions in a notebook and my grandfather helped me make sense of some of them.’

‘What was he like, your grandfather?’

He stared at the fire. ‘He was quiet, reserved, hard-working. My father and he weren’t close, probably because they were so different. My father wanted to conquer the world. My grandfather was content with his farm.’

‘Yet you said you used to spend your holidays there, so your father must have wanted you to get to know him.’

‘True, but when I was thirteen he decided I should attend summer school and focus on exams. I often wondered if he was afraid I was growing too fond of life on the farm.’

‘Would you have liked to become a farmer?’

The idea of Marc managing a farm would have seemed ludicrous only a week before. Now she looked at his rugged profile sculpted against the light of the fire, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his T-shirt and his strong hands, and she wasn’t so sure.

He turned to her. ‘I don’t know. Probably not. My grandfather wasn’t just a farmer. He was also a self-taught scholar, and with him I learnt a lot about the Norse people, their history and culture. He used to read to me in the evenings – poetry, mythological tales or the sagas.’

He smiled. ‘I have to confess that more often than not, he would send me to sleep, especially after I’d been playing in the sand dunes all day.’

He pointed to the papers on her lap and narrowed his eyes as he focused on the signs. ‘If I’m not mistaken, these are runes from the Elder Futhark alphabet. McBride probably told you that there were twenty-four of them, and that each one had a name with a specific meaning, chosen to represent the sound of the rune itself. Let me see … This one, for example,’ he pointed to a sign shaped like a giant X, ‘sounds like a “g” and meant “gift”. And that one, from what I can remember, is “m” for “man”, and these funny lozenge shapes represent the sound “n” and the god “Ingwaz”.

He paused and read the manuscript more closely. ‘It looks like McBride translated most of the inscriptions already, like this one about “a mighty warrior who travelled to foreign lands, bringing fame and fortune to his family.” There were similar stones on my grandfather’s farm that commemorated kinsmen who had travelled to faraway lands.’

He looked at the papers again. ‘Here McBride has translated another inscription, this time about a warrior called Kolli who too died on foreign land. This is intriguing. It says that after Kolli fell on the battlefield his soul came back to his homeland in the shape of a great raven.’

He frowned and added in a thoughtful voice, ‘So it seems we’re back to ravens.’

‘Wait a minute. You just reminded me of something I’ve read.’ Rosalie flicked through the bundle of pages on her knees. ‘There’s something else about souls here. Listen. “Is Harald’s soul wandering? He is the raven at Isobel’s side.”’

‘Let me see.’ He narrowed his eyes to read the document. ‘This is nonsense, of course. There is no Isobel, no ghostly raven, and Harald’s soul is certainly not flying around Raventhorn like a bird of ill omen.’

She bit her lower lip, unwilling to remind him about the legend that said that men who saw Isobel several times ended up drowning in the loch, and how close he had come to doing just that himself tonight. Instead she gathered the papers and piled them up on the sofa.

‘I’m sure Geoff will explain everything when he feels better.’

‘We’ll have a lot more to discuss than ravens, runestones or Harald’s wandering soul, believe me,’ he said.

She forced a smile. ‘Yes, I suppose you will. Although you may not think much about Geoff’s research, many of his academic contacts agree about Harald being the bearer of precious gifts to the royal wedding. There is an account of him travelling from Orkney with a silver chest containing presents.’

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Including the famous Raven Banner, I suppose?’

She nodded. ‘At least that’s what Geoff believes. You know how important raven banners were, don’t you?’

‘Viking warlords believed they had magic powers and brought luck in battle.’

‘That’s right. A very old poem claimed that the banner was woven from men’s entrails by Valkyries using a loom made of dead warriors’ body parts.’

She pulled a face. ‘Another, less gruesome, story stated that it was made of pure white silk and a raven would appear on it during the battle and flap its wings to announce victory, but if it stayed still it meant that the army would be defeated. The most famous warlords had one. King Harald Hadrada had one, as did Sigurd the Stout, who was the first earl of Orkney. According to the sagas, it was Sigurd’s own mother, a sorceress, who had made it. When she gave it to him she claimed it would bring victory to the man riding behind it but death to the man carrying it.’

‘Yes, I know the story. He had to carry it into battle one day and got himself killed.’ Marc smiled. ‘I didn’t realise you knew so much about this.’

‘That’s because I grew up with Geoff’s stories.’

‘Why does he believe Harald had a raven banner?’

She leafed through the pile of documents and pulled a photo out. ‘Because of this.’

‘It looks like an ancient burial mound.’

‘It’s Maeshowe, on Orkney, on what used to be Harald’s land. It is a Neolithic tomb but it was broken into by various groups of Norse or Viking groups in later times and some of them left graffiti in rune – very interesting graffiti as far as Geoff is concerned, even if they have been the cause of heated arguments with his academic friends over the past few years.’

He arched his eyebrows. ‘In what way?’

‘The rune graffiti indicate that Maeshowe was broken into several times, the first time to be used as a burial chamber for a Viking warlord in the early days of Norse settlement in Orkney. One inscription is about a “fated banner” – another word for a raven banner – that was found there, a treasure, and right next to it are carvings of ravens very similar to a shield believed to have belonged to Harald. We actually have the shield in the tower upstairs. Geoff thinks the treasure was removed by ancestors of Harald’s and that he was taking it, or what was left of it, as a mark of respect and allegiance.’

‘Hmm. I can understand why he would take precious objects but an old banner …’

‘That one was special. Some of the graffiti at Maeshowe were carved by the sons of King Ragnar Lodbrok. Geoff believes that the banner belonged to him.’

This time Marc laughed. ‘Wait a minute. Are you talking about the King Ragnar? The very same who killed an enormous serpent to rescue a fair maiden, raided England and France and in the end was thrown into a pit of snakes? He was a legend, a mythical figure, not a real man.’

Rosalie shook her head. ‘Not at all. Geoff believes he was based on a real character, who also had a raven banner. In fact, according to Geoff and a few of his contacts, Ragnar’s nickname, which is usually translated as “hairy breeches” because of the shaggy coat he put on to fight the serpent, can also be interpreted as “fated banner”.’

‘Like the inscription in the burial chamber … So McBride thinks that Harald had in his possession the banner of legendary King Ragnar?’

She nodded. ‘And he believes that Harald’s honour, and the fate of his very bloodline, was linked to the preservation of the raven banner.’

‘So that when he lost the banner, he was cursed and lost his honour.’

‘Yes,’ Rosalie agreed. ‘That’s it, exactly. Geoff is convinced that Harald and his men managed to hide the chest before they were attacked by the Armitage clan. It is clear from Geoff’s notes …’ she gestured towards the paper on which Geoff had scribbled ‘… that he believes Harald is under some kind of curse, or spell, until he can retrieve the banner.’

A sudden gust of wind down the chimney made the flames hiss and rise high. They both turned to look at it. Rosalie shivered as a fanciful thought crossed her mind. Was that Isobel’s way of letting them know she was right?

‘A nice fantasy,’ Marc snapped, his face stony and his eyes dark as slate. ‘I wish McBride put as much energy and imagination into the management of Raventhorn. I don’t know why we’re wasting time discussing this fairy tale when we only have a few hours left together.’

Tomorrow he would leave and she would be alone. Even though her chest tightened, she managed to keep her voice calm and detached.

‘How long will you be away for?’

‘A week, maybe more. I’ll take the opportunity of being in London to sort out some urgent business. I may even make a quick trip to Paris.’

She smiled, bravely.

He looked at her. ‘You must be careful while I’m away. There may not have been any more prank calls this past week or so, but I still don’t want you to drive at night or take any new customers. I don’t think you should be alone at Raventhorn either. Perhaps you could ask Alice to stay here with you in the evenings.’

He was right. It would be far too sad and lonely for her to be alone here at Raventhorn. ‘I’ll ask Alice if to come over.’

‘Good.’

‘You be careful too,’ she said then. ‘I really don’t like the idea of you flying, especially in this weather.’

He smiled. ‘It’s strange, that phobia of yours, and completely irrational. Flying is very safe, a lot safer than driving.’

‘That’s what people say, but I can’t imagine myself on an aeroplane, ever.’ She shuddered. ‘In fact, I often have this nightmare where I’m on a plane. Suddenly it starts shaking and making a terrible noise, and it dives through the clouds towards the ground and everybody starts screaming and—’

He stood up. ‘Shh … Don’t think about it. It’s only a dream. I have taken lots of planes and nothing like that has ever happened. Now, it’s time I took you up on your challenge.’

She didn’t need to ask what he meant. The smouldering look in his eyes was enough for her to understand. She swallowed hard. ‘Now? Here?’

‘That’s right.’ He took her hands and pulled her to her feet, then bent down to nuzzle the side of her neck whilst tugging at the belt of her robe. The silky fabric slipped off her shoulders and fell to her feet like a peach cloud. She now stood naked in front of him.

‘If there are any ghosts lurking around,’ he said in a hoarse voice as he trailed kisses along her throat, ‘I suggest they return to their broom cupboard, their tower or wherever they usually hide right now.’