Was it one of these two who’d been angered? They’d been dead nearly three hundred years, so what had changed? And were there other spirits involved in the alarming disturbance Cibalto Terduck had referenced? Or was it something else entirely? Grayson had read after Darnley’s murder, Mary lived with her third husband, James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, for a matter of days. Did the Earl of Bothwell play a role in what was happening? What really interested Grayson was the curse Mr. Terduck believed was from Mary herself. What could Cibalto Terduck have done to anger the long-dead queen? And why now? He’d been the commendator at Holyroodhouse for three years.
Even though the sun was bright overhead, the air was cool and Grayson tucked one of the carriage blankets more closely over Miranda. She sighed in her sleep and snuggled closer. Grayson picked up one of her gloved hands and began to play with her fingers. He saw suddenly in his mind’s eye her hand caressing him and his breath caught in his throat. He could practically feel her wonderful laughing mouth on his and on other parts of him as well. He remembered P.C. had once walked in on them embracing. Hands on hips, she’d said, “Mama, I don’t know if it is right for Mr. Straithmore to do this sort of thing. Shouldn’t he be about his task of ridding the world of demons and witches?” and she’d skipped out of the parlor to a waiting Brady, who’d whispered loud enough for Grayson and Miranda to hear, “P.C., you shouldn’t interrupt adults who are doing things we’ll be doing in ten years.” Grayson and Miranda had stared at each other, appalled, picturing Brady and P.C. kissing. In ten years? It fair to curdled their collective innards. Grayson adored the precocious little girl who worshipped his fictional hero Thomas Straithmore, most of the time considering Grayson and his hero one and the same. Whenever she really wanted to make a point, she called him Mr. Straithmore. What would she call him if he became her papa?
Too soon the smooth road became rutted, bouncing the carriage about, jerking Miranda awake. He lightly kissed her nose. She blinked, stared over at George and Lise Marie, two carriage blankets covering both of them, and wondered what their hands were doing beneath the blankets. She couldn’t help but notice George wore a big smile—understandable, since not only had his long-lost son been returned to him but he appeared to love his new bride. A blissfully happy man was George.
Grayson smiled at her. “Nice dream?”
Miranda said, “More a curious one.”
“Tell me before you forget.”
George and Lise Marie looked up. “Yes, please, Miranda,” Lise Marie said.
Miranda said, “I was standing at a fence watching a man ride a huge black horse—at least eighteen hands, I’d say—around an enclosed ring. Suddenly, out of a clear sky, there was a brilliant flash of lightning, and it struck the man right in the eye. He didn’t make a sound, just fell off the horse. Then he sat up and waved to me while the horse continued to canter gracefully around him as if nothing had happened.” Miranda paused, and her eyes met Grayson’s. “Then the oddest thing. The horse stopped and looked straight at me, then upward. The sky had darkened, but only over my head, and I knew a great rain was coming, lightning too. I woke up.”
Lise Marie said, “Miranda, did you recognize the man? The horse?”
“No. Well, I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. The horse, perhaps it was one of yours, George.”
Lise Marie said, “I wonder who the man was and why he waved at you. Hmm, and the horse looking upward?” Her voice fell to a whisper. “Some believe dreams are portents, warnings, perhaps.”
George laughed and lightly kissed his bride on her nose. “Dreams are naught more than splinters of a mad reality that invade our sleeping brains. Don’t worry, Miranda, the dream was probably the result of the prunes you ate at breakfast.”
At that moment, thunder boomed and lightning streaked over the darkening sky, a sky bright with sun only minutes before. Rain came down in sheets, striking the carriage windows like hurled stones from an angry god.
George pulled his bride close and said, his voice matter-of-fact, “A trip of only a day, and I’d hoped we’d make it to Edinburgh without rain.”
Lise Marie laughed. “It’s England, George. It’s always raining or thinking about raining or just finished raining. And Scotland is more so.” Her voice dropped, and she waggled her eyebrows. “Or mayhap it’s something else entirely. Maybe it’s the same rain in Miranda’s dream.”
Five minutes later the sky cleared, the sun appeared, and only a gentle breeze moved the air.
And Grayson wondered: Another message from Mary? If so, it made no sense. He decided to agree with George. Miranda’s dream was simply a splinter of a mad reality.
CHAPTER THREE
Townhome of the Earl and Countess of Ashburnham, Grayson’s aunt and uncle
Abbotsford Crescent
New Town
Edinburgh, Scotland
Late Tuesday afternoon
Young Angus, grandson of Old Angus, greeted the four adults, benevolently eyed the three children who stood in the black-and-white marbled entryway gawking at the old timbers overhead, and immediately turned them over to Young Agnes, granddaughter of Old Agnes. She ushered adults and children upstairs to proudly show them their rooms and the newly installed shower bath that actually delivered hot water, and, glory be, an attached water closet. Then beaming, she showed them yet another water closet. “Her ladyship, Lady Sinjun, wanted two water closets. Faced down his lordship, she did, him being a gentleman and believing only one was sufficient. ’Tis a wonder, no more trips to the privy,” she said with great relish.
P.C. said to Young Agnes, “Alas, the Great, my ancestor from the ark times, he won’t allow water closets in Wolffe Hall. He believes them an abomination.”
Young Agnes shook her head. “This Great, he sounds like a pigheaded relic. Och, he be set in the old ways, nay ready to give up his chamber pot, but yer not, Miss P.C.”
“I’m a modern miss,” P.C. informed her.
Brady said, “And I’m a modern mister.”
Pip asked, “How does hot water come to the shower bath?”
“Pipes, Master Pip, set under the floors. That’s all I can tell ye. Now, let me show ye the nursery.”
