THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

at each other rather than with each other, for what felt like hours.
    Beth finally gave up.
    Now, she simply wanted to hide from his furious perusal. Her eyes felt blood-shot and her nose...she didn’t want to think about. It had the nasty habit of turning scarlet from bridge to tip whenever tears threatened and they’d done more than threaten in the last half-hour. She suspected she looked like a baboon’s ass, which, no doubt, did little to enhance her credibility.
    She stood and walked to the window while Duncan, an obviously unhappy man, tried to digest what she’d told him.
    “Ye be wode, woman, if ye truly believe yerself a spirit.”
    Great. Not only did he have no memory of her, he still didn’t understand. To make matters worse, he had called her wode frequently enough for her to understand he thought her insane. “No, Duncan, I’m not a spirit. I do know—-ken—-I’m flesh and blood.”
    She twisted the ring on her hand. Was she the first wife to wear it or the fourth? Thank heaven she’d found Duncan’s diary and had spoken to him before this nightmare began. If she hadn’t, she’d likely be jumping out the window after enduring his ceaseless ranting and glaring.
    “Duncan, stop.” She held up her hands in defeat. “We’re not getting anywhere. You can’t or won’t help me, and I’m too tired right now to care.” The dull throb at her temples had converted to stabbing needles of pain behind her eyes. Her teeth were even beginning to ache. “I need something to eat.”
    Obviously exasperated, Duncan threw up his hands. When he resumed his thick burred grumbling and huffing at a staccato pace before the fireplace, she walked out the door.
    ~#~
     
    “She then turned her back to me and walked out! On me, her laird! ” Parched, Duncan reached for the tankard on the hall table and took a deep swallow of ale. “I tell ye, Angus, this woman isna long for the grave. Had I not already lost three wives, I swear I would have smote her then and there, putting us both out of our miseries.” The utter gall of the wench!
    “My lord?”
    He turned to find Flora at his elbow, grinning like a cat with a mouth full of feathers. “ What? ”
    “Yer lady, sire. She’s not at Vespers. The priest is most anxious. He canna start without her and she canna be found.”
    Duncan clamped down on an oath. “Start without her.”
    “But—”
    “Do as I say!” He waved her away. When she curtsied and slid away looking none to pleased, Duncan cursed.
    Angus grinned. “Now what?”
    Duncan took another swallow and came to his feet. “We find her, then haul her to the chapel, trussed if need be.”
    ~#~
    When Beth’s capsized launch was discovered bobbing in the harbor, a hue and cry raced through Drasmoor. Women, keening, raced along the beaches and headlands in search of Beth. Men, swearing and praying, ran for their boats and grappling hooks. Tom Silverstein raced to his launch and headed for Blackstone.
    The ride across the harbor felt like the longest of his life though he pushed the throttle to maximum speed. With his gaze raking the boulders at Blackstone’s base for Beth, he nearly collided with Blackstone’s quay. He threw the engine into reverse. As the engine choked and the sea churned, nearly swamping the stern, he threw a line around a cast iron pole and jumped.
      Yelling Beth’s name at the top of his lungs, he tore through the bailey and into the keep. Heart pounding, palms sweating, he ran up the stairs and into the solar. The room stood empty. He sniffed the still air. Something had caught fire, but what? He bellowed for her again. Silence answered.
      Shaken, fearing Beth had truly drowned and been washed out to sea, he walked to the rumpled bed and spied a bit of torn leather and a wink of gold. He moved the covers and couldn’t believe his eyes. He was staring at the famed Broach of Lorne—-the only tangible proof the MacDougall clan had defeated Robert the Bruce in battle—rested among the coverlet’s folds. His heart nearly stopped. No one had seen the Bruce’s bejeweled ornament in six centuries. He’d come to believe it a legend, just as his treacherous heart had begun to suspect the coming of the one had to be. He reached out a tentative hand to pick it up and realized the bedding was wet. He brought the damask to his nose and sniffed. There was no mistaking the clammy scent. Seawater.
      His heart stuttered with understanding. “She hasna drowned.” His laird