Duncan's Rose Read online

  The lightning seemed to be coming in from both sides, as if the storm was trying to break straight through the windows. Miranda’s chest started to hurt a bit. It was a good time for a short, silent prayer.

  “I am not going to lie ta ya, Lassie. The island is in the middle of the storm, so hang on.”

  Oh, how wonderful, she thought. And he couldn’t give me just a tiny lie. Oh, more anger, good, good! The plane took a nose dive, along with her heart. She grabbed the back of his chair with two clinched hands, eyes open and alert.

  “Tighten your seatbelt, we are going ta crash, I can’t see in front of…” He switched the speaker on. “Mayday! Mayday! We are crashing into Fairman Island. Does anyone hear us? Please be prepared!” he screamed and pulled the wheel toward him as a dark mass of land appeared in front of them. “Bloody shit!” he cursed.

  Miranda screamed. A tear escaped her eyes, knowing she was about to meet a painful end.

  Chapter Two

  The plane dipped toward the unknown with such speed that Miranda was glued to her seat, her fingers clutched her handbag. The thundering sound of the plane falling mingled with the thumping of her heartbeats in her ears. She swallowed hard, and fought back the fear piling up. The speed and pressure kept Miranda’s eyes wide open. The dark closed in on them, and when a flash of lightning cleared her vision, she saw the wide, silvery ocean rushing up to meet them. Adair yanked the wheel even tighter toward himself.

  Yes, pull…pull!

  He finally lifted the nose of the plane upward seconds before hitting the water. The bottom of the plane touched the surface of the water slightly and the plane trembled and jerked, splashing water all around them. But he pulled the plane up again and it obeyed. Another flash of lightning illuminated the land: wet, white sand, bushes, and dark rocks.

  The plane skidded drunkenly on the water, then the loud crunch of metal eclipsed the roaring in Miranda’s ears. The seat belt held her in place as the plane shuddered violently before coming to a halt. She thanked her guardian angel and released a huge gulp of air but continued holding on to her seat.

  The plane floated atop the water, and in what seemed like seconds, they reached the wet white sand and swooshed up onto the beach, like ice-skating to hell. The plane’s left wing bumped into a boulder, which sent them spinning around. “Heavens!” Miranda held her head with her free hand, praying the plane would stop spinning and wouldn’t blow up. Maybe the wet sand would hold them from further sliding, she thought.

  “Damn it, stop,” Adair roared at his plane.

  The plane suddenly tipped onto its side. The hard, sudden jerk flipped Adair to the seat beside him as the window near his head shattered. A string of vile Scottish curses erupted from him as he pulled his hands up to protect his face from flying glass. A bolt of agony pierced her as a sudden jolt of the plane threw her forward. The motion finally shredded her seatbelt. Her body slammed into the pilot’s crumpled form and new torture hit her. She moaned as sharp pain enveloped her whole body.

  Finally, with a loud swoosh, they came to a stop on the wet sand. The smell of gasoline filled the air. Knifelike pain stung Miranda’s forehead, and a warm liquid slid down her cheek. She coughed and took a deep breath; dark foggy smoke stung her eyes, chest and nostrils.

  “Miss, get off me…oh, my ribs…Jesus.”

  They were upside down, her body squeezed into the tight space. His muscles shifted and he wheezed. He growled in pain, and she flinched.

  “Hold on, please. I am trying to get off you,” Miranda said through her clenched teeth. Their impending argument came to a halt as they became aware of the sound of a crowd gathering, car engines roaring, and people hollering.

  People…we’re saved!

  “Pull yourself up and open the door before the whole thing blows up,” the pilot yelled.

  She gathered her strength and adjusted her body to the tight space. She was careful not to step on the pilot, but her whole body was squashing him underneath her. “Ow, watch it,” he growled, as her hand pushed on him.

  “Oops, sorry.” She lifted her hand off his…crotch!

  The door was snatched open and a hand grasped her shoulder and pulled her out. She clung to the strong hand for dear life.

  “Miss, are you okay?” a man asked her. She turned her gaze up and looked into the face of a bald man with an egg-shaped head and a Kaiser mustache boasting curled-up ends. He pulled her into his bulky chest, carried her out, and set her down on the muddy ground. She had never felt better. The solid ground under her feet was more comforting than her mother’s apple pie.

  The bald man returned to the pilot and helped him out. The wind blew the smoke all around them, and although the rain streamed down, she feared the plane would burst into flames. Miranda wanted to take off running, but she couldn’t move. Her shaky legs seemed about to collapse. Another man held her before she lost her balance, and he helped her walk away from the plane. Smoke arose around her; Miranda coughed until she shed tears. People had gathered around a black limousine and two black-suited men appeared, then stood like hawks waiting to attack. The crowd of onlookers was made up mostly of men and women in their forties and fifties. They stood in the rain and wind, gazing at the new arrivals with curiosity.

  “Look what you’ve done to my plane.” Adair came rushing toward her and pointing at his plane, which was in flames.

  One of the men stepped in, blocking the pilot from reaching Miranda with his outstretched hand. Adair almost lost his balance. “What? Wasn’t gonna hurt her,” Adair declared.

  Was it a dream she was still alive--the fall, the rescue, the crowd, the men in the black suits? Everything wobbled in front of her. But it wasn’t a dream. It was real. Everything happened fast. The rain and wind eased, she could see more clearly now. Miranda cleared her burning throat. “My fault? If you didn’t waste half an hour arguing about taking me, we would have escaped the storm We needed just few minutes to escape it.”

  “Oh, Miss-Know-It-All, aye?”

  “Watch how you speak to Mr. Wardlaw’s guest,” warned a well-built man with sleek hair and a clean-shaven face.

  People were held by a harsh glare from the black-suited men. None of the villagers dared to come closer to her or Adair.

  Were the black-suited men Mr. Wardlaw’s men? Jeez, why would a man living on an almost deserted island need guards around him? That made her wonder what he was hiding. There were at most a few hundred residents on the island, but heck, who was counting? Maybe he holds the authority on this island.

  She’d learned about Kenneth Wardlaw through the Internet, and from the research she’d done after her conversation with him on the phone. He inherited the mansion, restored the Wardlaw’s castle and resided in it for the past few years.

  One of the men was speaking on a cell phone in a respectful tone; he walked in long strides toward Adair and handed the phone to him.

  “Aye, Sir,” Adair said into the phone, stiffening as he spoke to the person on the other end of the line. His facial expressions were hard as stone. “Nay, she insisted on coming. I told her nay. It wasn’t a three-point landing, Sir, but I delivered ‘er alive.”

  “My plane? Totally destroyed. Your men are trying to put the fire out.” His voice quavered. Then, as he took a deep breath, a wide smile spread across his face. “You don’t ’ave to, Sir, but thank…” He shook his head, a shocked look on his face. He gazed at the cell as if it were a coiled snake, ready to strike at him.

  Miranda’s smoke-and water-damaged suitcase was tossed aside as the men in black suits put the fire out with the small fire extinguisher they had plus one they retrieved from the plane. The back end of the plane was destroyed. She sighed in dismay and hung tightly to her handbag, thanking God for her safety and the laptop.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, and sorry for the disturbance we caused.” She turned her gaze at one of the men. “Excuse me, can you guide me to the bed and breakfast?”

  “Ma’am, we were instructed to take you
to Mr. Wardlaw’s castle,” one of the men said.

  “Oh, but I would like to check into the bed and breakfast first…”

  “He is expecting you, and your reservations in the bed and breakfast have been canceled. You’ll be staying in the castle as Mr. Wardlaw’s guest.” The man offered her half a smile and turned back to the waiting car.

  She narrowed her eyes at the man’s superior air and shook her head. A sharp demand to go to the bed and breakfast was on her lips, but she held her tongue. If she refused the reclusive business man, he might rescind her invitation for an interview. Swallowing the harsh words on her tongue, she smiled. “Thank you. It’s very nice of him to offer me lodging.” She tried to ignore the niggling voice of doubt in the back of her mind. What harm could come from staying there? It wasn’t like she was being kidnapped. She was merely being bullied.

  When she talked with Mr. Wardlaw, he never mentioned this invitation. She had even reassured him that she would not bother him for long and she would book a room in the bed and breakfast. He hadn’t argued. Why the sudden change of plans? She felt forced, kidnapped—but in a nice way. The way Adair lifted his eyebrows in surprise and the snort that escaped his belly alarmed her. Was that smug satisfaction?

  One of the men in black held her elbow gently to guide her to the black limo; the insistence of his grasp didn’t escape her. “What’s your name?” Miranda asked. If she was going with them, then at least she had to know their names. Wardlaw’s men didn’t speak much; they simply observed, wearing those unexplainable dark scowls on their faces.

  Still, he didn’t answer her. Fine, I’ll just call them the M.I.B.S

  He pushed her gently toward the back of the limo and helped her inside, following closely behind her as if she might escape if he didn’t block her way out. Her racing mind was telling her now was the time to panic. Why the stiff, stubborn urgency for her to go and see the old man?

  The four men climbed in the car, two in the front and two in the back, where she sat sandwiched between two. They all had muscled bodies and the same expression, as if they were constantly mad at something or someone. She hoped that anger didn’t spell her name. The car pulled away quickly, leaving Adair and the crowd behind. She glanced over her shoulder to get the last view of the fading crowd, burned plane, and Adair. Her stomach flipped and her nerves shook as anxiety kicked in. Adair and the plane suddenly looked safer than her new companions.

  “You all work for Mr. Wardlaw?” She smiled softly to ease the tension.

  Silence—scowls were all the response she got.

  “Welcome, Miss Blair. I’m relieved to know that you are safe,” a gentleman’s voice greeted her.

  She searched every scowling face, but their lips hadn’t moved. She definitely had not heard those words coming out of any of them; in fact, that soft voice couldn’t have come out of one of those humongous bodybuilders. It belonged to an articulate gentleman. The voice swept over her ears like warm honey. “Excuse me, who said that?”

  “I’m Mac Wardlaw. I apologize for this introduction, but I had to welcome you, and to assure you that you’re in safe hands. You’ll find that, despite their appearance, my men are most professional and as tame as kittens. So there’s no need to be alarmed. I’ll see you soon. Until then, relax and enjoy the ride.” The sound of a click announced the end of his conversation as she realized the gentleman’s voice had been coming from a speaker planted somewhere in the limo. He hadn’t even allowed her to ask any questions. Miranda didn’t think the voice belonged to old Mr. Wardlaw; this seemed to be the voice of a younger man. Although he hadn’t said what his relation to Mr. Wardlaw was, the voice had a strong, commanding nature that was mellifluent and enchanting. “Who is Mac Wardlaw?” she asked.

  Silence. Frown.

  One of the “kittens” poured a softly colored rose wine into a shining crystal glass and offered it to her; she accepted it with a shaky hand. Another man switched on the radio to soft, relaxing music. All the while, the two men beside her stared at her sipping her wine in silence. She almost choked on her wine, remembering the voice’s description of those men as kittens; hell, maybe he wasn’t aware that his kittens had grown into huge panthers.

  From the window of the limo, she saw they were on a hill near the ocean, closing in on a huge, dark wall. When the car stopped, she heard a sound of metal grinding, then of chains rolling.

  Jeez, what was that? A loud bang of a heavy object dropping echoed in the silent air. A drawbridge! The wooden bridge spanned a ditch leading to a gateway.

  The limo continued on the wooden surface, slowly. The water underneath them flickered in blue and gray. They reached another gate, which opened onto a long, narrow driveway; shadows of trees stretched across the road. After a few minutes ride, the car stopped.

  Miranda considered her situation: if she were killed in cold blood here, no one would ever know. She took a deep breath and gulped down the rest of her drink in one swallow.

  The bald man beside her opened the door, stepped out, and stretched his hand to help her, but she refused politely and struggled to her feet by herself instead. She glanced all the way up the dark gray blocks of smooth, square, stone walls, noting the wide, triangular windows at the top and the few flickers of light that escaped through the stained glass.

  Oh Jeez! The same castle she’d seen in her visions. She breathed in sharply. The mansion in her visions and many of her dreams had haunted her since the day she started documenting the murder case of the little boy, Marcas Wardlaw. She couldn’t help thinking of the way he died: burned alive.

  She had asked for it, and she wanted to be here. Although she’d traveled as part of her research for her books before, this one seemed to be screaming for her to investigate.

  The mansion, according to her research, belonged to his family—but what was her connection to the mansion? The intensity of her visions, as well as the frequency, increased when she started working on this story. That was the reason for her trip. She wouldn’t get rid of her nightmares until she resolved the secret.

  Visiting her psychiatrist hadn’t helped. He’d wanted her to be hypnotized. “We need to uncover the past,” he had said.

  Hell, what past?

  Miranda enjoyed a normal childhood and loving parents. She went to school and had friends, and had lived life to the fullest. But she had been plagued by near-visions, which grew stronger as she grew up. After her father passed away, they became full visions. In them, she could vividly feel, smell and even communicate with people, unlike in her nightmares. She could handle even the most frightening nightmares more easily than these visions.

  What puzzled her most was that, in those visions, Miranda was in the body of another woman. She saw herself as a beautiful brunette, tall and delicate. A feeling of sadness for a lost love and guilt clung to Miranda throughout the visions. Miranda didn’t know why she felt this way, or how these visions were related to her. One detail she could not explain scared her: the name of the woman in the visions, Rose. That was too close for comfort. It was Miranda’s middle name.

  Miranda felt a strange attraction toward Rose, although they were different in many ways. Miranda was a redhead and shorter than Rose. Yet they had the same green eyes. Miranda remembered looking at her reflection in the mirror during one of her visions, and she saw piercing green eyes…Rose’s. Miranda felt as though she stared into her own soul, and that scared the crap out of her. Then the visions stopped for a while.

  Why, in God’s name, had the visions come back so strongly after she started working on the little boy’s murder case? What made it even worse was discovering the mansion she’d seen in her visions actually existed. When she had foolishly told her doctor, his eyes had grown huge. He asked if she was claiming the possibility of a past life?

  That day, she left his office politely mumbling, “I am not crazy.” Maybe he believed in past lives, but Miranda certainly did not. Or maybe I am crazy, after all. But then why, in her visions, did she feel
she was living in another age, maybe the 1800s or even 1700s? Why was she dressed in a long, gorgeous ball gown?

  I look like I’m a woman from two hundred years ago, she had thought, recalling the visions. That couldn’t be possible. Maybe I really am going mad.

  As the men guided her to the main, carved oak door, she noticed there was no bell, just a golden wolf head doorknocker the size of a basket ball with the initial “W” etched into it. The bald man pulled the knocker and pushed it, and the golden metal piece made a drumbeat noise. In a few seconds, another man wearing a black suit and white shirt opened the door.

  “Welcome, Miss Blair.” He bowed. “I’m the butler, William, at your service.” His voice was steady and warm.

  “Hello, William, thank you.” She walked into the hallway, her sneakers squeaking with each step on the shiny marble tiles. The escorts disappeared in the blink of an eye. “This way, Miss Blair,” the butler said. He showed her to a winding staircase. “I heard your trip was dreadful.” A concerned smile spread on his warm face.

  “I’m glad it’s over,” she replied, “but my belongings—all of them—burned with the plane.” She winced, remembering that she didn’t have anything to wear except her jeans and the shirt and sweater she had on. She didn’t even have her toothbrush.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, Miss,” William said. “Everything will be ready for you in your room by the time you are ready to retire for the evening.” They walked through a wide hall on the upper story, lined with windows as tall as the ceiling and covered with sapphire, French-style draperies with frames carved with golden wolf heads. The wolf head seemed to be the castle’s theme. The light of the chandeliers spread a warm light, easy on the eyes, throughout the corridor. They turned left, and Miranda stood in front of an oak door that covered half of the wall.

  “One moment, please,” the butler said, excusing himself. He knocked and opened the door with such ease it amazed her. As she waited, the fragrance of lilac hit her nostrils. She loved that smell, but she hadn’t used it for a long time because it reminded her of Rose in her visions. Rose wore that scent all the time. Miranda’s heart pumped with anxiety at the memory. After a few tense moments, William opened the door and led her in. “I’ll bring tea for you,” he said before he left, closing the door behind him.