PROLOGUE
Loch Ness, Scotland, 1881
Thunder crashed and fat, heavy raindrops pelted Graeme Langford as he plunged the oars into the cold, murky depths of Loch Ness. The muscles in his arms burned from rowing, and despite the chill in the air, sweat beaded down his back. The storm made the loch choppy and his trek more difficult. Still, he rowed.
Through the sheets of rain, he could see the rocky beach ahead in the distance and the hills that rose behind the shore. Somewhere in those hills, he’d find the abbey. A foolish wealthy American had recently purchased the crumbling estate and intended to restore it to its former glory. They were supposed to start construction next week, so Graeme had to hurry and find what he sought before it was too late.
The small boat rocked against the angry waves, and Graeme fought against the current. His progress was slow, and he was damp to his bones. The newly formed blisters on his palms ached. Eventually, he made his way to the beach. He jumped out and pulled the boat onto the shore, cursing his aching muscles. Clearly, life in London was making him soft.
The last ribbons of light were partially hidden behind the storm clouds, compromising his visibility greatly. But he’d climbed enough hills throughout Scotland to know that he would be able to traverse these in limited light. He secured his bag across his body and started up into the hills. The highlands weren’t mountains; he’d seen true mountains in Spain. Still, the rocky hillsides were treacherous on their own account, so he minded his steps carefully. The rain slowed, and the thunder softened as the storm faded into the distance.
The crisp autumn air filled Graeme’s lungs as he climbed up the hill. As raw and untamed as parts of Scotland remained, he loved this land. Loved the history and the rough terrain, loved the people and their lore. Half of him rightfully belonged here by his mother’s blood, but it was his father’s English blood that ruled his life. Four years earlier, when his father had fallen ill and died, Graeme had taken his place as the Duke of Rothmore. And he did his duty as an English lord, although he longed for time to spend in his beloved Scotland.
The pull from his Scottish heritage was what drove his quest, his burning desire to find and restore what rightfully belonged to Scotland—the Stone of Destiny, a biblical relic that held mysterious powers. It had belonged to the Scottish monarchy for hundreds of years before it had been stolen by the English. Or so everyone had thought. Graeme had recently come to believe that the stone taken by the English was counterfeit. He intended to be the one to locate the original stone.
According to his latest research, there was a book that he needed to complete his quest. It lay somewhere within the dilapidated walls of this old abandoned abbey.
As if his mind had conjured the image, a massive stone building suddenly lay before him, nestled into the next hill. Arches towered over crumbling stone, like the ribs of some enormous animal picked clean by vultures. Only the building at the main entrance remained. Graeme stepped through an opening in the wall that had once protected the monks, but he was not alone as he’d expected. The workers for the reconstruction were already here, or at least their equipment was, as it littered the hillside. They were early, which meant that he just might be too late.
With night falling, it seemed unlikely that the men would still be working, so Graeme crept closer. He listened intently for the sounds of voices, but heard nothing. Finally, he reached the inner sanctum of the abbey. He pulled at the huge arched wooden door, and it opened with an echoing creak. Darkness surrounded him.
From his bag, he withdrew a simple beeswax candle and lit it. He unfolded a map and glanced at the rendition. The candlelight flickered as he studied the drawing, an illustration of this very structure—or more precisely, what lay beneath it.
Graeme stood in what had once been the chapel. Time and thieves had stolen the stained glass from the windows of the once glorious room. Tools and other construction supplies lay up against the wall. He crossed into the next room and found scaffolding between two pillars there.
He moved past the large columns, through the arched doorway, deeper into the ruins. Most of the stone floor remained in decent repair, though there were intermittent holes. When he’d heard someone had purchased the old building, Graeme had wondered if it was for residential purposes or if someone else sought the treasures that were believed hidden beneath. All the construction efforts he saw led him to believe that the new owner planned to live here.
It had been nearly a hundred years since monks had lived in this abbey, perhaps longer. Legend had it, those men of the cloth had once been guardians to many of the church’s ancient treasures—lost canons, the Spear of Christ, and the item that Graeme now sought: The Magi’s Book of Wisdom, an ancient text rumored to contain the most accurate description of the Stone of Destiny.
Hot wax dripped onto Graeme’s hand, burning and then congealing on his skin. The hall narrowed, then ended at a staircase. Graeme wound down the spiral stone stairs. He ended up in another hallway that revealed several smaller arched doorways. The hidden chamber still lay another level beneath the abbey, dug deep into the bowels of the hill.
Graeme walked through the sleeping quarters, one room leading to another, twisting and turning through hallways until he came to a dead end. He knew he needed to go down below this level of the abbey, but he hadn’t come across any stairs. Damnation, he must have made a wrong turn somewhere along the way.
He pulled out the illustration again and studied the image. His destination was a large room filled with books and treasure, where monks had once guarded the entryway. He’d found this bloody picture in the journal of a dead village priest who’d had a penchant for ancient folklore.
A short burst of wind swirled around him. His stubby candle died. Darkness enclosed him. He dug into his bag to retrieve another, then struck a match on the stone wall. The match flickered to life with a spark, and the new candle illuminated the space in front of him. Then the flame died as if someone had blown it out. There was air coming from somewhere.
He leaned against the wall, moving his hands against the cold stone, but found nothing. This entire search might prove futile. He moved his feet, and his boot touched something protruding from the wall. He knelt and ran his hand against the protrusion. It was a lever. He pushed it, shoving it flat against the stone. Something below him shifted. The floor separated and then he was moving downward. It was a lift. Evidently the monks had been rather advanced in their technology. He just hoped this ancient thing worked as well going back up.
The stone chute surrounded him, scraping against his shoulders as he continued to descend, but in the darkness, he still could see nothing. Chains creaked and groaned beneath him. Then the platform jerked to a stop.
Graeme waited until all the noises ceased before he stepped forward. He relit his candle, and to his right, he found a wall sconce with a tallow-dipped torch. Once lit, it illuminated the area around him. He stood on a dirt floor and directly in front of him lay a deep chasm, an underground gorge.
It was far too dark to see what lay beyond the gorge, but if the illustration was correct, then across the expanse he would find a chamber. He stepped to the edge of the cliff and stared out into the dark abyss. How was he to get across? He moved slowly to his left, searching for any sign of a bridge. When his boot scuffed over something, he kicked the dirt out of the way and found a rope stretching out from his feet, across the canyon. There was another rope above his head attached firmly to a metal loop anchored to the stone wall. He pulled on it, and it slackened, lowering the rope until it was about chest high. The two-rope bridge provided one rope to hold on to, and one to walk on. These had been ingenious monks.
He inhaled slowly. This was not the sort of bridge that he’d been hoping for. He hated heights. Having nothing but an aged rope between him and the nothingness below did not evoke confidence. But he was running out of time. The American who had bought this place would certainly discover this area eventually. If Graeme didn’t find that book now, it would likely be lost forever.
It would be impossible to cross the rope bridge while holding the candle, so he pinched the wick between his fingers and dropped the candle in his bag. The torch lit the area behind him, but once he stepped out onto the rope, he’d be shrouded in darkness. He checked his bag to make certain it was secure, then he put one boot onto the rope. It gave beneath his weight, but held firm to the anchor on the other side.
He took a step with his other foot and grabbed hold of the balance rope. Slowly he began his way across, sliding his left foot and then following with the right. The rope swayed and moved, jostling him around as he crossed over the canyon. What the hell had these monks been thinking? Evidently, they’d guarded some valuable pieces to go to such lengths to protect them.
His eyes tried to grow accustomed to the blackness around him, but with no light to be found, he still could see nothing. He kept moving. Finally, his foot hit against the rock on the other side. He’d made it.
Graeme stepped onto the ledge. Quickly he relit his candle and found a series of torches along the wall that illuminated a hallway. He crouched as he moved through the space, his height a hindrance in the small area. He lit more torches along the way.
A room opened before him, and Graeme stepped down into it. A large, not-quite-circular space, it was filled with trunks and chests and stone tables covered with a variety of items from goblets to jewels. Alcoves carved into the stone wall held other, smaller trunks. He began his search, opening the lid of every trunk and rummaging through their contents, going over every surface and examining each item. If the rest of these priceless treasures remained, then certainly that book was here somewhere.
One of the smaller trunks contained every gemstone he could imagine, and another overflowed with gold pieces. If the American owner became aware of these treasures, his wealth would more than double overnight. Graeme pulled a trunk out of one of the wall niches. A series of high-pitched screeches filled the area, then bats flew at him. He ducked, but one of them smacked into the top of his head, then kept flying. Dammed vile creatures.
