“I can’t sleep until I’ve looked in on Fawna and Rory.” She had half a mind to move the pair of seven-year-old twins into the room with them until the strange happenings ceased. “We just moved them out of the nursery and into their own rooms. They might be frightened.” She snatched up a light wrap to cover the milk-stained front of her shift. “I won’t be gone long. At least now, they are close instead of across the keep in the nursery.”
He kissed her forehead. “Be vigilant, m’love.” He took a small book from the shelves beside the hearth. “Take this with ye. The wee ones’ prayer book. Father Rubric already blessed it.”
She accepted it, pecked a quick kiss to his cheek, then hurried out into the sitting room. Thankfully, all seemed calm in here, darker with only the moonlight streaming in to light her way, but calm. She had defied everyone by keeping her babies with her rather than getting a wet nurse and releasing them to the watchfulness of Nanny Greer. Maybe she would allow them to stay in the nursery at night when they were older. More likely not. For now, they napped in the nursery, but nothing more.
After a distracted look at the long sitting room, she concluded that closing off one end would make a perfect space for the babies when they outgrew their cradles. Fawna and Rory occupied rooms on either side of the chieftain’s solar now. If more children came along, more rooms would need to be added to the floor. That idea chased away her worries and made her smile. She loved thewee ones, as Grant so often called them.
With her shawl clutched around her shoulders and the prayerbook in hand, she hurried out into the hall, thankful for the well-spaced sconces lighting her way. She hadn’t brought the chamberstick, knowing the sconces and the night candles in the children’s rooms would be enough. As she headed toward Fawna’s room, the same eerie coldness of earlier returned. She halted, hugging the prayerbook to her chest. “Whoever you are, it is time to move on. Go in peace and find your rest.”
Something shoved her from behind. She whirled around, then backed up against the wall. No one was in the hallway with her. She held up the prayerbook, trembling so much, she clutched it with both hands so as not to drop it. “In the name of Christ Almighty, I demand you leave!”
Whispering filled the air. First to her left. Then to her right. But she couldn’t make out the words. She sidled along the wall, moving toward Fawna’s door. She had to get to the child. Make certain she was safe. No. Not just safe. She would carry the little girl back to their room, then get Rory and do the same. Her stepchildren were her babies, too.
As soon as she touched the door latch, an icy grip grabbed her shoulder and squeezed. Biting back a scream, Lyla yanked free of its clutches, threw open the door, then slammed it behind her.
“Mama?” a sleepy voice called out.
“Yes, it’s Mama.” She rushed over, scooped the little girl up, and hugged her. “How would you like to sleep with me and Da tonight? Help us with the babies?”
“Aye.” Fawna snuggled close, tucking her face into the crook of Lyla’s neck, and falling back to sleep immediately.
Lyla blew out the candle on the mantel, then stared at the door. Time to face whatever had grabbed hold of her in the hall. She hitched the child higher in her arms and held the prayerbook pressed like a shield against the middle of Fawna’s back. With some difficulty, she unlatched the door and eased it open, listening and trying to sense any change in temperature. All seemed well enough, but she wouldn’t breathe easy until she, all the children, and Grant were together in the same room. After a deep breath, she swung the door open, loped down the hall, and charged into the sitting room, falling back against the door as it closed. Fawna never stirred. Still sound asleep.
She carried the sweet lass into the bedchamber, coming up short as Grant lunged out from the shadows with his dagger raised. “Daggers do not work on ghosts,” she said as she eased the child down into their bed. “I’m going back for Rory. I want us all in the same room.”
“Nay, I will get him.” Already dressed in kilt and léine, he looked prepared for battle. He resettled the weapon in his grasp. “This blade is holier than others. ’Tis my fealty blade. As honored as the Reddoch quaich. Tempered in holy water and blessed to strengthen the silver.” He handed it to her. “Use it and the prayerbook to protect yerself and the children.”
“Be careful. That thing is in the hall. It grabbed me.” Her shoulder still burned from the claws of the entity’s grasp.
“Show me.”
She turned while rolling her shoulder. “It still hurts. Feels like a bruised scratch or something. But I am sure it’s all in my mind.” She pressed a hand to her pounding heart, trying to calm her breathing. “I have never been so scared in all my life.”
“’Tis not in yer mind, m’love.” Grant’s voice rang with cold, hard fury. “Ye have bled through yer shift, and yer shoulder’s already mottling purple and blue.” He fetched a cloth, wet it in the basin, and pressed it to her shoulder.
“Get Rory.” Panic filled her. “I will be fine. Just get him!”
He charged from the room.
Hands shaking, she hurried to the cradles. The soft curve of her babies’ plump cheeks as they peacefully dreamed helped restore her calm and stoke her own fury. She hurried back to the bed, snatched up the dagger in one hand and the prayer book in the other. From the center of the room, she watched for the slightest sign of evil, ready to slash and fight to protect her children.
Grant burst back into the room, Rory in his arms. “In the bed with yer sister,” he said as he lowered the lad to the pillows.
“Why, Da?” Rory stretched and rubbed his eyes. “Have the English come? Do I need to get my sword?”
“No, my son. Get yer sleep. We will talk of it come morning.” Grant hugged Lyla to his side and took the dagger from her. “Rest if ye can, m’love. I shall stand watch.”
She shook her head. “I cannot rest. Not until we figure this out and get rid of whatever that is.” It had to be the bell. Before it arrived, Eadar Keep rang with love and laughter. Not mournful tolling and fear. “Where did that bell come from?”
“I dinna ken.” Grant shrugged. “Could be Edinburgh. Or brought in from the east. Malcolm and the others did a damned fine job of keeping it a secret so as not to spoil the surprise. Father Rubric was in on it as well. As far as I knew, we were only adding on to the chapel.”
“Adding on to the chapel.” She went to the window and looked to the south. The bell tower, next to the modest kirk, encroached on the graveyard. “They didn’t build the addition on top of any graves, did they?”
“Nay, they would never do that.” Grant joined her at the window. “That part of the cemetery was never used.” He sounded thoughtful.
“Why was it never used?”
“It was my first wife’s favorite place.” He nodded toward the area. “Even when her mind was at its worst, if the maids could get her to the bench that used to be beside the wall, she always calmed once seated there.”
