Every time he heard even a pebble shift, fresh terror scoured him. Yet by some miracle, he did not trigger another cave-in.
Miss Morningstar returned, and he barely glanced up to acknowledge her. He was like a machine now. Aye, his muscles ached and burned to prove he was still human, but he’d become a single-minded, rhythmic flurry of repetitive motion. He used the shovel when it was safe and his bare hands when it wasn’t.
Finally, he broke through the last of the mess. He would have fallen to his knees with relief if he hadn’t been already on them. The bulkof the passageway still remained intact. The ancients had a knack for building sturdy structures—fitting dry stones together in a manner that defied not just the elements but time itself. But it seemed like tonight age had won the battle—at least at the tunnel entrance.
“I’ll go first,” Miss Morningstar said, “as mine is the more familiar face.”
“The tomb could collapse. I’m not sure how much damage the tunnel and vault have sustained.”
“She’s my best friend.” Miss Morningstar resolutely slipped into the tunnel and disappeared as quickly as an Orkney vole scampering through its own burrow.
Sinclair followed at a much slower pace. As a lad, when he and Reggie had first explored it, he’d had no difficulty scrambling through. Now his broad shoulders gave him a devil of a time. But he managed, as did the other men who helped to distill the bere whiskey.
When he struggled into the main chamber, he found it untouched by the cave-in. The copper still stood at one end, looking like a chubby sentry. None of the walls had crumbled. The shelves that held the ancestral bone looked as stable as ever. Relief and horror warred inside Sinclair. The distillery was safe, but there was no sign of Miss Van Etten.
“Shite! She’s trapped in the skull room.” Sinclair immediately headed toward it.
“The skull room?” Miss Morningstar asked, her voice clearly torn between concern for her friend and professional curiosity.
“Aye,” Sinclair said as he ducked into the alcove with Miss Morningstar on his heels.
At the sight of a physically unscathed Miss Van Etten, Sinclair started to take his first good gulp of air since Miss Morningstar had told him about the cave-in at Fornhowe. But before he could finish the breath, his lungs seemed to collapse on themselves. Miss Van Etten was frozen in a corner, her topaz eyes large and unseeing. A painful fissure burned through Sinclair’s heart. The normally indomitablewoman clutched at the fabric of her coat, clenching something that hung around her neck. She made no movement except an occasional blink. Terror marred her face, her pale skin taut and almost translucent.
Every fiber of Sinclair yearned to go to Miss Van Etten—to gather her into his arms like he did one of the bairns after a nightmare. He wanted with an almost physical need to be the one to soothe her, to hold her until her vivacious spirit returned, her cheeks pinkened, and her eyes flashed back to life.
But that was not his place.
Miss Van Etten needed the security of a well-known companion—not a recent stranger turned employee.
Miss Morningstar paid no attention to what, to her, must be a marvelous archaeological discovery. Instead, she focused solely on her friend. Crouching down, she moved close to Miss Van Etten but did not touch her.
“Rose? Rosie? It’s me, Myrtle.”
Miss Van Etten did not respond.
Miss Morningstar reached into her pocket and withdrew a peppermint. The sharp, pungent smell of the candy filled the small alcove. Miss Van Etten seemed to inhale a little more deeply, perhaps detecting the scent.
“We’re in the mound, Rose.” Miss Morningstar kept talking, her voice pleasantly conversational. “Remember? There was the still, and then we found evidence of the peoples who first built this cairn. I went back to Muckle Skaill for my tools. There was a cave-in before I returned, but Mr.Sinclair dug out the passageway. Everything is fine. We’re all safe.
“You remember Mr.Sinclair. Your Viking?”
HerViking? A fiery warmth blazed a path through the miasma of worry and fear thundering inside Sinclair. He did not know why the notion of belonging to someone, belonging toRose, pleased him, butfor the moment, he simply accepted that it did. He had no time to be analyzing his feelings with Miss Van Etten suffering from shell shock.
A spark flickered in the heiress’s eyes that did not appear to be generated by her friend’s lantern. She shifted her head ever so slightly, her gaze first falling on Miss Morningstar and then him.
Miss Morningstar touched Miss Van Etten’s gloved hand. The heiress slowly shifted to glance down at her friend’s fingers, as if emerging from slumber—or, more accurately, a nightmare.
“Here’s a peppermint,” Miss Morningstar said gently, dropping the candy onto Miss Van Etten’s palm.
“Thank you.” Miss Van Etten’s voice sounded a bit distant still but not weak—not weak. Sinclair’s knees went soft, and he briefly rested his hand against the rock wall. It seemed Miss Van Etten’s spirit was indeed made of stern stuff.
As she sucked on the candy, Miss Van Etten still gripped her friend’s hand. Now that the lady seemed to be on her way to recovery, Sinclair wondered for a moment if he should retreat to the main chamber. He did not really belong here, encroaching on his employer’s private moment as if he were part of her intimate circle.
Before Sinclair could step back, Miss Van Etten began to rise from the ground. Her movements were a bit jerky, but she shook her head when he stepped forward to assist her and also refused Miss Morningstar’s other hand. Sinclair watched in amazement as Miss Van Etten both physically and mentally gathered herself. As she made a production of dusting off her skirts with her trembling fingers, her expression shifted from flat and hollow to determined, which then promptly morphed into a facade of cheer. The woman wielded her joie de vivre like a claymore, and her sheer strength humbled Sinclair. He’d been a fool to ever think that her blitheness came from cavalier privilege. Her good nature was a hard-won battle.
“Well, I believe I’ve had enough of dark holes and human bones for one night,” Miss Van Etten said, her voice strengthening witheach word. “I am afraid you might have to record your findings alone tonight, Myrtle.”
“I am no longer in the mood for archaeology,” Miss Morningstar said. “Let’s walk back to Muckle Skaill. It will be nice strolling under the stars, getting our bearings again.”
