Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures Read online

  But he had called her Illora.

  I am not Illora! she persisted to herself. I cannot be Illora.

  Because the old woman said that I must take the blow.

  The battles are over. We are at peace with the British. Things have gone as things should have gone. Who would seek to harm me?

  No one. No one at all.

  And so she was dreaming, after all.

  "Marina!"

  Again she heard a whisper. Soft. Sensual. She turned. And she smiled slowly. He was with her again.

  He walked across the room to her. He knelt by the tub. He kissed her elbow, licking away a drop of water. He kissed her throat. He took her into his arms.

  "I love you," he said.

  "I love you, too, and it is all that matters," she said.

  And for a spell, she might have dreamed again. As darkness came, they dallied as lovers, nothing more and nothing less. A flesh and blood woman, a flesh and blood man, with no darkness near to haunt them. Again and again he made love to her. Again and again she returned his kiss, and made love to him in kind.

  Night fell. Peg tapped on the door to see if they needed anything.

  Nothing, Marina told her.

  Nothing, for they had all they needed in each other, Eric added.

  Peg's footsteps discreetly faded away.

  In time, Marina fell asleep. She was deliciously tired, and there was no way better, or sweeter, to sleep than on his chest, her fingers curled into the crisp red-gold hairs on his chest.

  But even as she slept, certain that any dreams that could plague her must certainly be good, she felt as if the darkness of a raven's wing was moving over her.

  She felt as if she were on the beach again, walking along the sand.

  And the raven came toward her. It made its unearthly cawing sound, sweeping down from above.

  Then, suddenly, it landed. The wings adjusted, the head rose. It was a bird no longer. It was the old woman she had met on the beach.

  "Now, Illora, now!"

  "I am not Illora!"

  "He will die!" the old crone warned, her arm snaking out to point toward the heavens, the black draping all around it. "With the morning's light, he will die!"

  "Nay, he will not die. I will not let him die. I read the tombstone. I do love him. I love him with all my heart."

  "Then hurry. Challenge him no more. Stop the blade that would pierce his heart. He has so little time... Look! Look at your hands! Already the blood flows."

  She stared down at her hands. The old woman was right. Blood was beginning to stain her palms.

  "Nay!" She shrieked the word, then screamed it out again and again, bolting up.

  She no longer slept. The dream was done.

  She was awake, and in her own room. Dreams were gone—

  But shadows were not.

  There in the darkness before her, she saw the shadow of a man. A man with his hand raised. Across the room, she could see his silhouette on the wall.

  And she could see the dagger raised above her.

  "Nay!" she shrieked again. And then she knew that Eric was up beside her, and that he was trying to cast himself over her, before the blade could fall against her flesh.

  "Nay, not again, not again!" she cried. And she did not care if she died; oh, so much better that she should perish than him! In those awful seconds she heard him cry her name.

  And she knew that it was her name.

  Illora...

  And twice she had lost him. Twice she had lived without him.

  She could not do so again.

  "Nay!"

  With all the force in her, she thrust him aside and leaped to her feet. The blade, already begun its motion, continued to fall.

  There was an awful tearing sound in the darkness. She screamed.

  "Marina, my love!" Then he was up, leaping to his feet, seeking out their assailant. "Bastard, henchman! Coward in the darkness!"

  Eric! Eric was crying out the words. He was all right.

  And she was all right...

  The door was pounded on and thrust open. Light flooded the room as Angus was followed in by Peg and a number of the chieftains, wearing their nightdresses but armed for battle with dirks and guns and swords and daggers.

  And in the sudden flood of light, Marina saw where the blade had fallen.

  And she knew what had ripped.

  Not flesh this time. She looked at her hands. There was no blood on them.

  She looked across the room to where Eric now had dragged their assailant to his feet, his arms wrenched behind him.

  "Kevin!" She gasped, astounded. And she stared at the cousin she had loved all her life.

  Eric thrust Kevin toward Angus. He was one of their own. Angus and the chieftains would be left to deal with him. Marina ran to Eric, quickly finding shelter in his arms. She stared at Kevin again.

  "Why?" she asked in amazement.

  "Ah, Marina, why?" he replied bitterly. "I fought for the fortress, I bear the family name! I am a man, and I deserved to be laird of this isle. I did not seek to see ye suffer, lass. 'Twas not personal, fer I have cared fer ye, and deep. But I would be laird, ye see. And he,"—he inclined his head toward Eric—"well, he is laird by virturevirtue that he is yer husband. If ye were dead with no issue, then the isle would fall to me."

  "Get him out of here!" Angus cried with fury. "We dinna turn on our own! Betray our name!" he said with disgust. "Bah, blood of my blood!" he thundered. "My laird," he said to Eric, "what will ye have with him?"

  Eric was watching Marina, staring down into her eyes. "We will have it as my lady wishes," he said.

  "Banishment!" Marina cried. "I will have him banished. We'll not have the blood of a kinsman on our hands."

  "He meant to murder you," Eric reminded her.

  "Banishment, please!" she implored.

  Angus nodded to Eric. Kevin, his head lowered, was taken from the room.

  And then, suddenly, there was silence.

  "You shiver. You are cold," Eric said to her.

  Aye, she was shivering. She was shaking. She wanted to tell him about the dream.

  "I saw the danger coming, Eric," she said swiftly. "I was dreaming. The old woman was in the dream."

  "Was she now, lass?" he said softly. Blue eyes caressed her with the greatest tenderness. He picked her up gently into his arms and brought her before the fire.

  "Eric—"

  "Hush now, the danger is over."

  "But, Eric—"

  "Hush, love. I am with you."

  She wanted to talk; she needed to talk. But the words wouldn't come. And in his arms, she felt the greatest peace, and the greatest exhaustion.

  She should have been wide awake. She shouldn't have been able to sleep for all of the night.

  But she did sleep. She closed her eyes, and she slept. Deeply.

  With no dreams to plague her.

  * * *

  When she awoke in the morning, Eric was gone. She leaped up, feeling faint twinges of fear. She wasn't sure why she was so afraid—she remembered the night, but she knew that Kevin had been stopped. She still felt ill—she had loved Kevin, loved him deeply, and his betrayal was painful. It was incredible to think that he could have found the coldness in his own heart to murder her.

  But though she had loved Kevin, she did not love him as she loved her new husband. With the morning, she remembered that she had been dreaming of some danger when he had come, and that the dream had made her awaken, ; the dream had warned her of the danger. But try as she might, she could not remember the dream. It had something to do with a raven, and something to do with the warning, and something to do with the words, the legend, on Illora's tomb. But now it all escaped her.

  She was desperate only to assure herself that Eric was all right, and that he was near.

  She dressed quickly and started to run from the room, so very anxious to find him. She raced down the stairs, but he wasn't in the great hall, and Peg hadn't seen him. She ran back upst
airs and searched the gallery, but he wasn't there, either.

  At last she hurried to the stables, and found out from the groom that he had taken his great black war-horse and ridden out early that morning, and the groom had not seen him since.

  Growing more desperate by the moment, she asked for her bay to be brought out. She didn't even wait for the mare to be saddled but leaped on her, urging her into a canter the moment she was mounted.

  She knew where she was going. To the cliffs before the Irish Sea, and to the beach there. She closed her eyes, terrified that she would come to the beach...

  ... And would see him leaving. A Viking warrior again, laid out on a bier, riding the waves into eternity.

  It could not be...

  He was flesh and blood. She had touched him, loved him, lain with him. She had been tortured by dreams, nothing more. Even last night, the dreams had tormented her. Somehow saved her, but tormented her, too. And now the dreams were lost, and she could not remember them, but no matter how foolish she told herself she was being, she was afraid still.

  She came to the cliffs at last. She gave the bay free rein, and rode haphazardly over the steep and treacherous footing.

  But then she came to the other side. And a burst of gladness seemed to fill her heart like the startling gold of the rise of the sun.

  She blinked against the fierce light. Aye, he was there, a man. For the briefest moment, she was certain that he stood tall in leather leggings and the short tunic of an ancient Viking warrior.

  He stood tall, a ghostly figure of mist and legend.

  A Viking, looking to the sea...

  Nay!

  It was a trick of the sunlight, nothing more. A trick within her own mind.

  He was there.

  Not a ghost disappearing on an ancient Viking ship, veiled in the mist of the isles. He was there, in the flesh. By agreement with the English, he had forsworn his colors, and so he stood in hose and breeches and shirt and frock coat, his tam cockaded but unadorned. His hands clasped behind his back, he looked out to the sea.

  Aye, he was there.

  Returned to her from the mists of legend? Or a man, nothing more, nothing less, come upon the isle just at the time of her distress.

  Could she be a princess, risen for a chance once again to taste the sweetness of life, and of love?

  Nay...

  She did not know.

  And it did not matter.

  All that mattered was that they did have each other, and that they did have love, and now, life. Sweet, sweet life. Together.

  "Eric!"

  She shouted his name, leading the bay over the last of the rocks. He turned to her and smiled slowly.

  In seconds she had the bay racing across the sands. The mare pounded the surf until she arrived before him. There, she leaped down and into his arms.

  Strong and sure, they folded around her.

  "I was afraid! So afraid!" she whispered.

  "Why, love?" he asked, holding her from him. "The danger was gone with the night."

  His eyes searched hers, puzzled, so very blue.

  "I—-I don't know," she whispered. "You weren't there. I was afraid."

  "I'll never leave you now, you know. Never," he told her.

  She smiled slowly. "You were willing to die for me," she said.

  "And you were willing to die for me." He stretched out a hand, staring at it against the golden sunlight. "Flesh and blood," he murmured softly. He gazed down at her. "Are you going to ask me again where I came from, Marina?"

  She smiled and shook her head slowly. "I don't care where you came from. Only that you are here to stay."

  He wrapped her in his arms once again, and then they started down the beach together, arm in arm. His great black war-horse and her bay followed slowly behind.

  Soon they neared the cliffs. Eric turned and lifted Marina, setting her back atop the bay. He leaped up easily on the black, then paused, frowning, as he watched her stare at the caves within the cliff.

  Toward Illora's gravesite.

  She smiled slowly and looked at her husband. "I think that I shall let her rest in peace, my laird. What do you think?"

  He smiled in turn. "Aye, lady, I think that that would be best. Let them both rest in peace. Let the Viking Ulhric and his Illora go down in legend." He brought his mount closer to hers. "And as for us, my lady, I say, let us live this life, and savor each moment, for life is precious, and love even more so."

  She cast back her head, feeling the sun on her face. "Indeed, my laird, aye!" She nudged her horse's flanks, and the mare pranced gracefully forward, ready to climb the cliffs again. Marina turned back, a light, a fire of mischief in her eyes. "Come then, Laird Eric, ride with me, live with me, savor the sunlight with me. For I—"

  "I will love you forever!" he interrupted with a gallant cry.

  And she laughed, and his laughter mingled with hers, and echoed throughout the cliffs, even as they rode off hard together.

  Lovers, in love, forever.

  The mist rolled out to sea, and the sun rose high above the Isle of the Angels.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than 125 novels, HEATHER GRAHAM has been featured in the Double Day Book Club and the Literary Guild. She has won numerous awards as both a romance writer and an author of thrillers, including: The Romance Writers of America Lifetime Achievement Award and the Thriller Writers Silver Bullet Award.

  Heather hosts the Writers for New Orleans Conference each year in the city that she loves NOLA.

  Find more information and links on Heather Graham and 13Thirty Books, be sure to sign up for the 13Thrity Newsletter at 13Thirtybooks.com

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