The Banshee's Wail by Nene Adams (page 2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Heath, as the village was referred to by the natives, was a cluster of shops, a stable, two taverns and a produce and fish market. Lady Evangeline immediately made inquiries as to the location of Dr. Clarke's practice and was given directions to Gooseberry Lane. 

The gleaming brass shingle that dangled from one eave proclaimed Dr. James Holyfield Clarke to be in residence. Lina and Rhiannon were shown in by the doctor's wife, a small, bird-like woman named Fanny. 

Fanny Clarke was shorter than Rhiannon by a head, and so tiny and petite that the secretary fancied she must wear child's boots, although her spotless apron and bottle-blue dress were made for an adult - even if the enormous leg-o-mutton sleeves were years out of date. But for all her lack of size, Dr. Clarke's wife had a temperment that was as fiery as her dark red hair. 

Fanny shooed her visitors into a drawing room that was shabbily elegant, saying, "In wi' ye! I'll be goin' to tell me husband yer here an' fetch some tea. Make yersel's comfortable, ladies." 

She bustled from the room; her loud voice, considerably out of proportion to her size, commanding her husband, "Come along, James, an' be quick about it, man! There's quality waitin', ya daft weevil!" 

Dr. James Clarke sheepishly entered the drawing room a few minutes later. "Lady Evangeline," he said, nodding to the waiting peer, and, "Miss Moore," he continued with a glance in the strawberry blonde's direction. "What can I do for you ladies this afternoon?" 

Lina smiled. "I was hoping you would be willing to answer a few questions regarding Miss Margaret Kincaid's death." 

Dr. Clarke seemed relieved. "Oh, yes, of course! Anything you like." He sat down on a chair next to Lady Evangeline and Rhiannon chose a tufted ottoman at her lover's feet. 

"What were your questions, milady?," Dr. Clarke asked. He was a young, earnest looking gentleman, with sleek black hair and mild hazel eyes. Clean-shaven, his chin sported a small spot of sticking plaster; he'd clearly washed and razored his face in a hurry that morning. 

"I understand you diagnosed Miss Kincaid's condition as gastric fever. What led you to that conclusion?" 

Once again, Rhiannon wished she had brought a notebook with her, but she knew Lina was capable, with her prodigious memory, of reproducing entire conversations days after the event. So she settled back, leaning against her lover's knees, hands clasped in her lap, and resolved to learn Lina's methods of interrogation. 

"Hmmm," Dr. Clarke mused, scratching his chin and involuntarily dislodging the plaster, which fell in his lap, revealing a small scab. "Miss Kincaid he suffered from spells of colicky abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting and, if you will excuse me for being blunt, runny bowels. These episodes came and went for weeks before she finally succumbed. In the end, she was quite weak and suffering from tremors and memory loss." 

"I see." Lina's emerald eyes sparkled with interest. "Did she suffer hair loss or dry mouth as well?" 

"Why, yes, now that I think of it, she did. How did you know? Do you volunteer at a hospital, Lady Evangeline?" Dr. Clarke seemed astonished. 

"No, doctor, I do not." The peer gazed off into the distance for a moment then focused back on the young man. "Those particular symptoms are not unusual for a patient suffering from gastric fever." 

There was something in the way the other woman pronounced those last two words that made a chill shiver down Rhiannon's spine. 

Lina was continuing, "Did these episodes of illness have any discernible pattern?" 

Again, Dr. Clarke scratched his chin. "Not that I'm aware of, milady. Although, in the last few days of her life they seemed to run closer and closer together. Frankly, her nurse, Mrs. Babcock, was a wonder. If not for her, I'd have been unable to attend to my other patients. And Sir Gregory was quite attentive himself." 

Lady Evangeline's beautiful face was expressionless. "I see," she said again. "Well, doctor, I am sure you are quite busy and I do not wish to take up any more of your time. Thank you for your indulgence. Good day." 

The two women left the room just as Fanny was entering with an enormous platter of tea and scones. As Rhiannon walked down the street, her arm linked with Lina's, she distinctly heard the doctor's wife's voice raised. "Now what ha' ye done, John Clarke!" 

Despite her sudden chill, Rhiannon chuckled. 

Lina was silent all the way back to the Abbey. She smoked cigarette after cigarette, her face stony. 

Rhiannon, who was by now quite familiar with her lover's many moods - especially the brooding one - sighed and watched the beautiful scenery roll past the window. 

It was not until they had returned to the Abbey that Lina spoke. "We must find that dog, Rhiannon," she said. "The hound is the key to this mystery." 

Rhiannon raised one brow questioningly. "What mystery? True, I haven't opened my Great-Aunt's box yet, but Margaret's life and the reason she broke off with her family are the only mysteries here that I can see. And that's easily solved." 

The dark-haired woman flicked a cigarette butt from the window and patted her curling ebony locks with one hand. "My dear, our friend Sherlock once admitted that contemplation of the quiet, serene countryside made his blood run cold. He said that more crime and more evil is committed in an average country farmhouse than in the wickedest street in London." 

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Lina vaulted from the conveyance before Rhiannon could ask what in the world she had meant by that remark. 
 
 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sir Gregory intercepted them outside the door of their bedchamber. "I thought you ladies would wish to know that Mrs. Babcock's death has been adjudged accidental in nature. It is as I originally feared; the poor woman was set upon by a wild dog while in the wood." 

Lady Evangeline looked at him coldly. "Or a wolf," she said. 

Sir Gregory raised his bushy eyebrows. "I believe I have explained that there are no wolves in Scotland, milady." 

"Perhaps, Sir Gregory. Perhaps." On the heels of this enigmatic remark, the peer drew Rhiannon into the bedchamber and shut the door. 

Once safely inside, Rhiannon said, exasperated, "Lina! Why were you so rude?! What's going on?" 

Lina began stripping off her dress with anxious fingers, tearing at the fabric impatiently until Rhiannon snorted and began helping her. "Never mind, my dear. Just promise me that you will on no account leave my side until we are away from this place." 

Now, Rhiannon's temper broke. She spun her astonished lover around by one arm and confronted her, the picture of wrath. Her cheeks bloomed with color and her sky-blue eyes snapped with sparks. "Lina," she said dangerously, "I think we've talked about secrets before, you and I. And you remember what I told you?" 

Lina ran her hands through her ebony hair, scattering hairpins and silk flowers in every direction. "How could I forget? But please... do not ask me to explain just yet. There is real danger here, Rhiannon. My first instinct is to whisk you away back to Edinburgh and thence to London, but knowing you as I do, I realize you would want to see this thing through to the end." 

"Which thing?!" Rhiannon cried. She grasped her skirts with both hands and shook them. "Lina, I can't stand it when you do this! Please, please, don't shut me out!" 

Instantly, the taller woman snatched Rhiannon to her bosom, putting a hand firmly over her mouth. Outraged eyes, darkened with fury to near sapphire, stared back at her. 

Lina whispered, "Sweetheart... you are my dearest, most precious love. But if you do not stop shouting, I shall certainly gag you. The walls have ears." 

The peer waited until the eyes that glared into her own softened a little. She removed her hand and replaced it with her lips. At first, Rhiannon resisted, but after a moment, her small hand slipped through Lina's dark curls and pulled her down for a more passionate embrace. 

When they both withdrew to catch their breath, Rhiannon said softly, "You do know me very well indeed, Lady Evangeline." She seemed less angry now than sad. Rhiannon continued mournfully, "But you still don't trust me." 

"It has nothing to do with trust, my love. We have had this discussion before." 

"You're right. I just... I don't like it when you keep things from me. It makes me feel as if I'm a child. You know that." 

Lina hugged her tightly. "Yes, I do. And I am truly sorrow, my dear. If it helps, I expect to have this case solved by tomorrow evening at the latest." 

"Well, until then, I'm going to open Great-Aunt Margaret's box. Maybe I'll solve my own mystery. Oh, and that first book she wrote... why, I could almost believe she had lived such a live herself! She was a very talented writer, Lina." 

For a moment, it seemed as if the peer had been struck by an axe handle; she stood there, stunned. Her emerald eyes glazed and she stiffened. Then, she said slowly, "Rhiannon, where is that book you were speaking of?" 

Rhiannon glanced around and pointed. "The Woman Scorned. Right where I left it, on the bedside table." 

Lina's gaze was drawn to the book as if tugged by invisible threads. "If you do not mind terribly, my dear, I think I shall read your Great-Aunt's book for a bit. Please, explore your prize; you need not wait for me." Without waiting for a reply, she crossed the room, picked up the volume and sat next to the window, thumbing through it with a frown of concentration on her beautiful face. 

Rhiannon sighed. Since when is she interested in romantic literature? she thought. Lina's always teasing me about my reading habits.

But finally, Rhiannon decided not to say a word and leave her partner to her own devices. I've fish enough of my own to fry.

The strawberry-blonde woman took up the iron box and the key, making herself comfortable on the great bed in Lina's chamber, piling feather pillows around and generally fussing about until Lina snapped, "Will you please stop making such a distraction, Rhiannon? Either be quiet or go to your own room." Lina immediately put her head back down, reading intently. 

Hurt, Rhiannon made a rude gesture she'd learned in Whitechapel from a street arab to the oblivious figure of her lover, then inserted the key into the box and threw back the lid. 

Inside, there were several leather bound journals along with bundles of ribbon wrapped letters. With a pang, Rhiannon realized that one such bundle had her mother's name. These must be the letters Great-Aunt Margaret exchanged with mother, she thought. Father must have returned them after she died.

She began rooting through the letters; after discovering they were bound together by year, Rhiannon sat back and began to read in earnest. 

A few hours later, she was snapped back to reality by Lina's voice. "My dear! Are you quite all right? I have been speaking to you for the past five minutes!" 

Rhiannon rubbed her eyes. "Yes, I'm fine," she replied. "I just got... a little lost, that's all." Her mind was whirling with images of Margaret Kincaid. 

Lina nodded. "Well, I am glad you found your way back, sweetheart. The dressing bell for dinner rang fifteen minutes ago; if we are to be made presentable, we must hurry." 

While they dressed, Rhiannon asked, "Did you finish your book?" 

"I did indeed. Your Great-Aunt was a courageous woman, Rhiannon. You should be exceedingly proud of her." Lina twisted her ebony hair into a neat coil, pinning it expertly. Her emerald green eyes sought Rhiannon's in the mirror. "As proud of her as I am of you, my dear." 

Remembering her Great-Aunt's exploits in Greece, Turkey, Russia, France, and even America, Rhiannon nodded, then blushed as she realized what else the peer had said. "She was an extraordinary woman, Lina. She contacted my mother shortly after I was born; they exchanged correspondence for years... until mother died. Father returned all her letters after that; I never saw them. I never even suspected I had a Great-Aunt! And now she's dead..." 

Lina turned around, hair half pinned, ebony curls dancing around her face. "My dear," she said, "I am truly sorry about Margaret. I would have liked to have known her myself." 

Rhiannon smiled sadly, then began doing up her own hair. "I'm sure she would have liked you as well. But... do you suspect something is going on here? Is that why you've been acting so mysteriously of late?" 

The dark-haired woman smiled, threading a pair of gold rings through her pierced ears. "I promise, you will be the first to hear the conclusion of this case. But first, let us eat! I have worked up quite the appetite this afternoon; now I realize why you find romantic literature so appealing. And why you are so hungry afterward! The exercise of emotions is nearly as invigorating as the exercise of the body." 

Rhiannon finished braiding her hair, then wound it around her head like a coronet, adding a pair of jeweled pins in the shapes of bobbing butterflies as a finishing touch. "I'll make a romantic of you yet, Lina," she replied teasingly. 

Lina grabbed her lover's hand and kissed the palm. "You already have, my love," she said. 

"See!" she hissed excitedly as Lady Evangeline took her place next to the teenager, "I told you someone would die! It was the banshee, just like I said!" Violet's crystalline eyes held a spark of febrile excitement. 

"Indeed," Lina replied dryly. "I trust the Montrose banshee will not make an appearance this evening? I could use a good night's sleep." 

Violet grabbed the peer's hand and squeezed fiercely. "The banshee is real, I tell you! Mrs. Babcock's dead, isn't she?" 

While Rhiannon sucked in her breath at the girl's effrontery, Lady Evangeline gave her a chilling little smile. "My dear Miss Violet," she said, baring her teeth like a starving wolf's, "I suggest you calm yourself. Some might consider your attitude a trifle... unnatural?" She raised an ebony brow and Violet snatched her hand away. 

Sir Gregory appeared at the table. "Violet," he asked gruffly, "are you bothering our guests?" 

As the large-bellied laird seated himself, Lady Evangeline shot the sullen teenager a warning glance. "Not at all," she replied airily. "We were just having the most delightful conversation before you arrived." 

Sir Gregory sniffed, then gestured for the footmen to begin serving dinner. 

Rhiannon ate in silence, while Lina and the laird talked casually of unimportant matters. 

Soon, however, Sir Gregory suggested they repair to the music room... "...and listen to my pretty little Violet. She's quite the accomplished musician, you know." He beamed with pride while his daughter colored in embarrassment. 

Lady Evangeline pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers and grimaced. "I fear I cannot avail myself of your kind gesture, Sir Gregory. I have the headache, you see. I believe I shall go upstairs and lie down a while." 

"Of course." Sir Gregory was all solicitousness as he pulled back the peer's chair and helped her rise, putting a pudgy paw beneath her elbow. "Shall I summon Mrs. Dalyrymple? Do you require assistance?" 

"Oh, no," Lina said a trifle breathlessly. "I am fine, truly. I simply require rest." When Rhiannon rose, intending to help the peer, Lina waved a hand. "Do not trouble yourself, my dear. Go enjoy yourself with Sir Gregory and his daughter. I shall do well enough on my own." 

Lina walked slowly up the stairs, feeling Rhiannon's gaze burning a hole between her shoulder blades as her wife tried to decide whether this was a trick or genuine illness. My poor love. I hate to do this to her, but I truly have no choice.

As soon as the recital had begun, Lady Evangeline slipped unnoticed out of the house, dressed in her men's costume, and stole a horse from Sir Gregory's extensive stable. 
 
 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Much later, Rhiannon entered their bedchamber, her ears still ringing. If I had to endure another half-hour of badly played and worse sung 'Greensleeves,' she thought, I would surely go mad. Miss Violet might be considered an accomplished musician in these parts, but my Lord! Her voice is so high, I was surprised bats weren't flying around the room.

"Lina?" Rhiannon said aloud as she walked in the door, "Are you all right?" 

When no one answered, she frowned. Rhiannon crossed the room and opened the connecting door to her own chamber but it, too, was empty. 

Rhiannon sat down on the edge of the bed, her dress half-unbuttoned... and waited. There was a look of implacable resolution on her face that had not been there before. 

She did not have to wait long. A scratching came from the window; the strawberry-blonde walked over to it and observed the face of her lover peering back at her through the bubbled glass. Lina had apparently climbed the ivy that clung to the stone walls of the Abbey; she dangled precariously three stories above the pristine lawn. 

Rhiannon stood there a moment, considering, while Lina made increasingly agitated gestures and faces at her through the glass. Finally, she opened the latch and helped Lady Evangeline into the room. 

"My dear!," the peer exclaimed, "Were you going to keep me out there all night?" She was splashed with mud from head to toe and a long scratch wealed one forearm. 

Rhiannon shrugged. "I thought about it," she said coolly, "but decided you'd wake the household when you broke your leg instead of your head." 

Lina, who had been struggling out of her filthy trousers, turned to face her wife. There had been a note in that voice that caused her hackles to rise. "I was only joking, my dear," she said weakly. 

"I wasn't," Rhiannon replied. There was a touch of frost in her tone; Lina suddenly realized she was skating on thin ice, indeed. 

The taller woman stopped stripping off her trousers; they had fallen only to her knees, and the binding made it difficult to move, but she shuffled over to Rhiannon, who had her arms crossed over her bosom and bore a ominous glint in her eyes. "Tell me what is wrong, Rhiannon," Lina asked seriously. 

Rhiannon's toe began to tap. "You did it again, didn't you?" she asked coldly. "You snuck out and left me behind yet again. And this time, you didn't even bother to leave a note." 

Lina's ears turned red. "I meant to be back before the recital was over," she mumbled, "but that damned nag threw a shoe, and me as well, and I was forced to walk her the last bloody mile." 

Rhiannon stared; her eyes might have been carved from a glacier's heart. "That's no excuse and you know it. Promises, promises, promises! At least I know what your word's worth now," she finished bleakly. 

Lina was stricken. "My dear," she said in anguish, "I did not mean to hurt you! It was simply... well, there was something I had to do, and I needed you to provide a distraction for Sir Gregory and his abominable daughter." 

"Then why didn't you discuss it with me beforehand? I'm good at taking direction, you know. Even a hint would have been nice!" 

The peer looked so mournful that Rhiannon's heart softened a little. She knew Lina meant well; it was just so infuriating to be treated like a cloth-headed idiot, especially since said treatment came from one who claimed to love her. 

For the first time since Lina's precipitate arrival, Rhiannon allowed herself to really look at the other woman. Her lover stood there, pants drooping around her skinned knees, the trail of her mud-covered shirt barely covering the dark fringe of curls between her thighs. As usual, Lina wore no undergarments beneath her men's costume. 

Lina's emerald eyes had filled with tears. "I am most dreadfully sorry, Rhiannon," she said, thumb unconsciously rubbing the wedding ring on her left hand. "I... I suppose I do not think at times; I am too caught up in the moment, in the excitement of the chase... can you forgive me?" 

Rhiannon tried to keep the stern expression on her face but failed. She loved Lina so much, and the sight of her lover - skinned knees, mud and all - as well as the contrite tears... it was just too pitiful for her to remain angry long. 

I feel as if I'm scolding a small adorable child, Rhiannon thought, anger draining away. If she starts crying, I'll be the one begging forgiveness. "All right," she said, "But! If you don't want to keep having this argument, Lina, you'll have to do much, much better than you have been. I mean it! This is the very last time, hear?" She strangled the urge to shake her finger in Lina's face. "I won't warn you again!" 

Lina gave her wife a tentative smile. Her raven-dark hair was a tangled mess, full of twigs and grass; she stank to high heaven of horse shit and stale sweat; but at that moment, Rhiannon thought her heart would break at the other woman's beauty. 

"Very well, my dear," Lina said contritely. "I have been properly admonished. My word! You would have made a formidable governess!'' 

Rhiannon smiled slightly. "Don't make me have to go through this again, Lina. You might think my threats are made all of air because I don't carry them through, but one day - if you keep up this beastly behavior - you'll find that my back, like the camel's, can be broken.'' 

''You have my word as well as my undying affection, my dear," Lina answered. "Now, would you like to hear about the plans I have made for us tonight?" 

Rhiannon had to smile again. There was no stopping Lina's enthusiasm sometimes. "Yes," she replied simply, "after you get cleaned up a little and I get out of this dress." 

"I will be glad to assist," Lina said eagerly, but was fended off by a laughing Rhiannon. 

"No!" Rhiannon exclaimed, "You're all over mud! Go down the hall and at least scrub off some of the county before you put your muddy paws all over my best dress!" 

Lina leaned over and kissed her wife anyway; Rhiannon's mouth opened beneath the peer's like a flower, and their tongues briefly sparred, sliding sensuously, tasting, touching... 

Rhiannon whimpered a little, hampered by Lina capturing her hands and holding them away firmly. Her body longed to touch her lover's, feel the firm muscles and silken skin. She arched her back but Lina drew herself away, having strength enough to allow the only contact between them to be that perfect, timeless kiss. 

Lina's mouth grew more demanding; Rhiannon yielded, passion flaring as the other woman's teeth sank into her lower lip and sucked fiercely, nearly drawing blood. 

Finally, Lina broke away, her eyes incandescent with desire. "I will go scrub up," she said, her voice trembling a little. "While I am gone, get out of that dress, my dear. I have quite the adventure planned tonight and I am certain you would not want to be caught unprepared." 

When her lover left, Rhiannon sat back down on the bed and touched her slightly bruised lips with one hand. 

Then she quickly skinned out of her dress, heedless of possible damage to the frock. She undid her hair and brushed it, pulling snarls away unmercifully. Finally, the strawberry-blonde arranged herself seductively on the bed, and leaped back up again to turn the gaslight down to a soft shimmer. 

 Rhiannon lay back down again, breathless. I'm as nervous as a new bride, she thought, practically quivering with anticipation. And her lips quirked up into a smile as she considered, in all its permutations, what her lover could have meant by the word "adventure." 

The best part of an argument is making up afterwards, Rhiannon thought, tingling all over.. 

When Lina came into the room, scrubbing her face dry with a hand towel, she took one look at her lover and burst out laughing. 

Rhiannon sat up, greatly embarrassed and not a little angry. "What's so funny?" she asked, sky-blue eyes glittering. 

It took a few minutes for her to get herself under control, but finally Lina gasped, "That is not the adventure I had in mind, my dear!" She broke down laughing again while Rhiannon pouted, arms crossed over her chest. 

At last, Lina was able to explain to her indignant lover, "I am sorry if you misunderstood me, sweetheart." She chuckled again, ignoring an irate sky-blue glare. "I meant... well, here. See for yourself." 

She handed Rhiannon a pair of clean trousers and a shirt. "What's this for?" the strawberry blonde asked. "Are we going to play barrister and felon instead of knight and fair lady?" 

Lina choked back another laugh, nearly turning purple. When she could trust herself to speak, she said, "I never thought of that, my dear. No; it means that you and I are going out tonight. Together. You wished to become more involved in my work, and now is your opportunity. I had that costume tailored for you, since you cannot keep borrowing James' best suit for investigating." 

Rhiannon's mouth dropped into an O of astonishment. "You mean...?" she squeaked. 

"Yes. Tonight, we track the dreaded banshee to its lair. And you, my dear," Lina continued, emerald eyes intent, "provided me with the key. Now, I am leaving in ten minutes. If you wish to accompany me, you will have to be quick." 

Rhiannon needed no further encouragement as she scrambled off the bed.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rhiannon held tight to Lina's hand as they walked through the eldritch wood. The moonlight was only a faint shimmer above their heads, but fortunately, the peer had brought a burglar's dark lantern - one shutter of the tiny shielded device had been opened to provide a single beam of light to guide their way. 

The ruins of the church were only a few miles away but the darkness made it necessary to go slow - to avoid gopher holes, fallen trees and a host of other nocturnal dangers. The two women crept along, Rhiannon keeping her lips firmly closed against her questions. Lina had warned her back at the Abbey about the need for absolute silence, at least until they had reached their goal. 

During the few minutes it had taken for Rhiannon to put on the trousers and shirt and bind up her hair, Lina had explained everything she knew about the mysterious circumstances at the Abbey. As she had put it, "My puzzle is nearly complete, my dear. Once we have the banshee, this sorry business will be concluded." 

Her mind was still whirling with the shock of Lina's revelations. I still can't believe it!, the strawberry-blonde thought. Although I can understand why she didn't want to tell me anything before... but her thoughts were interrupted when Lina came to an abrupt stop. 

Rhiannon felt her lover's lips breathe warmly in her ear, "The church." 

They had arrived at their destination. 

Lina crept around the tumbled stones, keeping her lantern's light focused on the ground. Rhiannon waited to one side, rubbing her arms to keep them warm. Although still summer, the night was a little cool and the pretty secretary wished she had thought to bring a shawl. 

Suddenly, a low growl snapped Rhiannon back to the present. Lina had drawn back, away from a gaping black hole - a cave formed from several blocks of mitered stone. The light from her lantern revealed a pair of gleaming amber eyes peering back menacingly from the midnight recesses... 

Rhiannon held her breath; she was terrified, but stood her ground. I will not faint, she said to herself sternly. Much to her own surprise, she didn't. A sense of confidence flooded through her; she knew that no matter what happened, she was strong enough to face it. 

Something was stalking stiff-legged from the cave; some mythic creature out of legend, it seemed. It was enormous and shaggy-coated, with long, lean legs and a pointed muzzle filled with glittering ivory fangs. With a start, Rhiannon realized it was an Irish wolfhound, and suddenly, something snapped together in her mind. 

Ignoring Lina's urgent gestures to stay still, Rhiannon advanced on the wolfhound, one hand out, palm upward. "Here, Fyvie," she cooed soothingly. "Here, nice puppy. I'm Margaret's great-niece, Rhiannon. Come here, pretty doggie, sweet Fyvie. Come here and meet me." She knew, somehow, that the dog, despite its aggressive stance, wouldn't hurt her. 

The gigantic wolfhound, though still snarling, cocked her head to one side. Her plumed tail wagged slightly as Rhiannon drew closer, clicking her tongue and saying in a high voice as if to a child, "Nice doggie. C'mere, wee Fyvie. Come on, girl. It's only Rhiannon. Good Fyvie. Gentle puppy." 

Fyvie stopped growling and her tail wagged faster. Suddenly, much to Lina's consternation, the wolfhound bounded towards Rhiannon. Before the shocked peer could complete her abortive move (she had drawn a skinning knife from her boot and was prepared to sell Rhiannon's life dearly), Fyvie reared up, placing her huge paws on Rhiannon's shoulders, and her sharp toothed muzzle darted forward.

Lina nearly fainted with relief when the wolfhound began licking the giggling Rhiannon's face with long swipes of her wet tongue. Her knees still weak from fright, the peer sank down on a nearby block of stone, trying to control her breathing. 

Rhiannon grabbed two fistfuls of Fyvie's tangled coat and pushed the ecstatic hound down, saying, "Enough, girl! I'll have no face left if you keep that up! Sit! Sit, Fyvie! Good girl!" 

The wolfhound wagged her tail and crouched down at her new mistress' feet, amber eyes glowing with intelligence and delight. 

Rhiannon looked over to where she had last seen Lina, then hurried across the clearing. Lina was still clutching her knife in one hand; although it was impossible to see much color in the darkness, Rhiannon was sure her lover's complexion was as pale as fresh cream. 

"Lina? Love, are you all right?," the pretty secretary asked, sitting down next to her lover and touching her arm with one hand. 

Lina let her head droop forward. "My dear," she said weakly, "my heart nearly leaped from my chest! I thought the dog was attacking you!" 

"Oh." Rhiannon chuckled a little, earning a emerald glare from the other woman. "I'm sorry, Lina," she said, putting a comforting arm around the peer's broad shoulders. "I knew Fyvie wouldn't hurt me. I have a way with animals; sometimes, it's almost as though I know what they're thinking." 

"Indeed?" Lina put her head between her knees and breathed heavily, trying to control the nauseating sensations coursing through her body. She rested her arms on her knees, wrists dangling loosely. The knife dropped to the ground. "Please, the next time you intend do something like that, warn me first, sweetheart," Lina said indistinctly, her voice muffled. "Otherwise, I might succumb from sheer fright." 

Rhiannon leaned against the other woman. With gentle tugs she pulled Lina's torso up and brought her lover's face to rest against her bosom. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't realize you'd be so frightened." 

One of Lina's strong hands stroked Rhiannon's back as she replied, "My dearest love, when you are in danger, I cannot think. I can only react. That is why I strive to keep you from such situations. The thought of losing you is more than I can bear." 

Rhiannon kissed the top of Lina's head. "I promise, I'll be more careful. But really, Lina, I do have some instinct for self preservation. I wouldn't have confronted Fyvie if I'd thought she might attack." 

Both women looked at Fyvie; the wolfhound had stretched herself out on the ground, pointed muzzle resting on her paws. Her amber eyes returned their gaze, then the hound yawned hugely, tongue lolling, exposing what seemed like dozens of razor sharp teeth. 

After a moment, Lina snapped her fingers; Fyvie looked up. "Come, Fyvie," Lina commanded. The wolfhound yawned again and slewed her eyes at Rhiannon, who laughed at Lina's chagrin. 

"I suppose Fyvie thinks I'm the boss," the strawberry blonde said. "Fyvie! Come!" 

The wolfhound bounded to her feet and raced over, shoving her muzzle into Rhiannon's lap, tail whisking back and forth. While Rhiannon held the massive hound, cooing nonsense syllables and stroking her ears, Lina parted the gray-white strands of the hound's tangled coat. "Aha!" she said, and pulled a leather collar into partial view. "See here, my dear! An engraved brass plate set in the leather. So, you belonged to Margaret, eh, pretty beast?" 

Fyvie allowed the peer to pet her, but the moment Rhiannon began paying her attention again, the hound ignored Lina's overtures, preferring to dote on her new mistress. Lina laughed. "Well, sweetheart, it seems as if I am not your only admirer anymore!" 

Rhiannon chuckled. "What on earth are we going to do with her?," she asked. "I'll be glad to take care of her, but..." 

"But?" In the dim light of the little burglar's lamp, Lina's face seemed spectral, her skin made unnaturally pale by the contrasting slash of ebony brows, one of which was raised. 

"Well, I hate to sound like a child to her governess, Lina, but can we keep her?" 

"Will you give her baths, and feed her, and walk her?," the other woman teased, laughing at the abashed expression on Rhiannon's face. 

Lina put her arm around Rhiannon's shoulders and continued, "My dear, of course Fyvie will be returning with us to England. This brave hound will be a criminal's undoing; I should hardly think of rewarding Fyvie by abandoning her. Shall we be friends, do you think?," Lina concluded, looking at the huge wolfhound. 

As if in answer, Fyvie sat down and placed a plate-sized paw on Lina's leg. 

Rhiannon nearly choked, trying to smother a wild giggle at Lina's astonishment. "I'm told wolfhounds are very intelligent," she said when she had recovered. "This proves it. But you said we were hunting a banshee. Now that we've found Fyvie, shouldn't we keep looking?" 

"We have already found the dreaded banshee," the dark-haired women said, putting a hand on Fyvie's head. 

Rhiannon's sky-blue eyes widened. "You mean, Fyvie was the banshee all along?" 

"Yes, my dear. Irish wolfhounds are more closely connected to their wolfish ancestry than almost any other breed of canine; authors have for centuries remarked on the wolf's mournful howl as one of the most melancholy and blood-chilling sounds in nature. It was Fyvie, mourning her mistress, that Violet heard. And again, when you and I were wakened by the so-called banshee's wail. Poor Fyvie - not only did she lose Margaret, she very nearly lost her life." 

"What do you mean?" 

Lina leaned over, unconcernedly tucking the animal's massive head beneath her arm and parted the hair on Fyvie's side. "See? That's a bullet wound, my dear; it ploughed along her side and gouged out a proper bit of flesh. I felt the scabs when I was petting her a few moments ago. If the marksman's aim had been more true, Fyvie would not be here." 

The dark-haired woman sat up. "Now, we shall return to the Abbey, all three of us. Along the way, you must help me plan how to smuggle an animal weighing nearly twelve stones into the house without any witnesses." 

Rhiannon giggled. "Maybe you could carry her up the ivy?" 

Lina's answering glare needed no words; it carried volumes of meaning all on its own. 
 
 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The following morning, neither woman went down to breakfast; instead, Rhiannon asked if trays could be sent up, and specifically requested such inordinate amounts of meat that Mrs. Dalyrymple wondered aloud that it was, "...only by God's grace neither one o' ta lassies has ta gout!" 

Fyvie bolted down bacon, sausages, kidneys and kippered herrings impartially. It was clear the wolfhound had not been eating well during her enforced exile. 

Rhiannon spent a little time brushing the hound's coat until every tangle had been smoothed from the rough, shaggy fur. Fyvie clearly enjoyed the attention and kept trying to lick Rhiannon's face while she labored, causing much giggling and contorting to avoid the hound's wet tongue. 

"I swear, Lina! Are you sure this dog isn't related to you?" Rhiannon spluttered after an exceptionally wet "kiss" from Fyvie. 

Lina handed her a handkerchief and snorted. "Of course she is, my dear. We both adore you tremendously. I would emulate my furry cousin but I fear this is neither the time nor the place for such adulation." 

Rhiannon chortled, wiping her face. "Well, I'm ready for anything, I suppose. What's your plan?" 

Swiftly, Lina explained her course of action. Rhiannon nodded, then rose, smoothing the skirts of her dark peach dressing gown. 

"Let's get dressed, then," Rhiannon replied, eyes darkened by pain and anger. "I want to get this sordid business over with and go home as soon as possible." 

Lina rose from the bed where she had been reclining and gathered Rhiannon close. "Sweetheart, I am sorry to have caused you this pain. As soon as we are able, we shall leave this place and I will do my utmost to make it up to you." 

Rhiannon wiped her eyes with a hand. "I know. It's just... the whole thing's so damned unfair!" she said angrily. 

Lina put a finger beneath Rhiannon's chin and tilted her face up. "My dear, I understand how you feel. But remember: Margaret is in a better place now; she cannot be hurt by this anymore and it is best that the truth be revealed." 

Rhiannon drew a deep breath, then removed herself from her lover's arms and marched over to the wardrobe. "All right, then. Help me pick out a dress; something severe, I think." 

Lina looked at her wife with sad eyes... and the two women remained silent while they donned their sartorial armor, prepared to shatter lives and reveal hidden truths that at least one occupant in the house would have preferred remained lost - and had committed murder to do so. 

Lina swept into Sir Gregory's study, a look of satisfaction on her aristocratic features. "Ah!" she exclaimed, "I see we are all here. Good morning." 

Sir Gregory's face was nearly maroon with rage. "What is the meaning of this, my lady?" he barked, mustache bristling with indignation. 

Rhiannon entered the study quietly and shut the door behind her. In the room had gathered all of the people that Lina had instructed to come: Sir Gregory, Violet, Dr. Clarke, Jack Darling, and even old Lord Thomas, who beamed at her from his wicker chair. 

The only stranger to Rhiannon was a tall, self-assured gentleman who stood quietly in one corner. However, she had anticipated his presence; Lina had told her that Inspector Jock McHale from the local constabulary had expressed an interest in the case and agreed to attend the proceedings. 

Lina answered the enraged laird, "Please, calm yourself, Sir Gregory. I assure you, my intentions shall be made plain in just a few moments." 

The tall, elegant beauty surveyed the room with sparkling emerald eyes. "I suppose you are all wondering why I have gathered you here today?" There was a general murmur of assent, and Lina continued, "It is because I wish to tell you a tale. Not a pretty one, I fear, but a tale of greed, blackmail... and murder." 

Sir Gregory shot to his feet. "Ridiculous!" he thundered. "What the Devil do you mean, woman?" 

Lina walked straight up to the laird, separated from him only by the width of the desk he sat behind. She leaned slightly, bringing her eyes at the level of his. "Sit down, Sir Gregory," she said softly, "or..." She left the threat unspoken, but the pudgy laird sank back down into his chair quietly. 

"Now then," the peer continued, walking over to the fireplace mantle. "In order for everyone to understand this tale, we must begin over forty years ago, when a young man met and loved a young woman. But this part of the tale ends tragically... does it not, Lord Thomas?" 

The Duke hung his head. When he looked up, tears glittered in his hazel eyes. "Aye, I loved my bonnie Margaret. But my father forbade ta match; Laird Walter was a hard mun, true. He wanted me ta marry Carolyn Finch-Hatton, a Bristol heiress - her family was inta munitions an' such. Plenty o' money, but ta woman was a cold fish. I dinna want to but.." 

He fell silent and Lina probed, "You did marry Lady Carolyn, didn't you?" 

"Aye." The Duke heaved a sigh. "Much agin' my own inclinations, but aye. Carolyn was a great beauty, an' wealthy ta boot, so I went up ta aisle wit' her even tho' I never loved her. Then I lost my bonnie Maggy, fer she ran away ta London town, an' I ne'er set eyes upon her again till five years ago, when she bought ta Abbey an' come ta visit me an' mine." 

Rhiannon gasped, "But... that's The Woman Scorned!" she exclaimed. "That's the plot!" 

"Precisely, my dear." Lina bestowed a look of fond affection on her partner. "I remember a novelist friend once told me that the greatest piece of advice he gave young authors was, 'Write what you know.' Margaret's first novel was extraordinary; only someone who had lived that tragedy could have invoked it so well." 

Lady Evangeline turned back to the Duke. "And what happened after your marriage, Your Grace? Or would you prefer me to continue it?" 

"Ye go on, Lady Lina. After my talk wit' ye last night, I've nae more stomach fer ta wretched, sorry tale." 

Lady Evangeline smiled slightly, every eye in the room fixed on her as she leaned one elbow casually against the mantle. Flicking her ruffled skirts, Lina said, "Well, then. Margaret Kincaid was with child when she fled Scotland; Lord Thomas did not know. For a while, Margaret worked in a tavern in Haymarket, until she became too far along for her to conceal her condition anymore. 

"Desperate and living in a workhouse for the poor, she wrote Lord Thomas, begging for his assistance - a letter which he never received. His new wife, Lady Carolyn, intercepted Margaret's plea and determined upon a malicious scheme. 

"Owing to an attack of fever as a young girl, Lady Carolyn was sterile; she could not bear children. And she knew Lord Thomas did not love her; had, in fact, preferred a poor, common man's daughter to her own blue blood. So, she went to London and sought Margaret out for two reasons; first, to gain a child of Thomas's blood to bind him to her; and second, for revenge against the woman her husband still loved." 

The Duke interrupted, "I ne'er forgot my Maggy! Not e'en when that she-devil wife o' mine told me she were dead, killed in childbed." 

Lina nodded. "Yes. Lady Carolyn told Margaret that Lord Thomas was uninterested in a cast-off, light-virtued woman but he would adopt the child she carried, since it carried some of his blood. Margaret believed her; she had no choice. Faced with a bleak future and an equally bleak past, Margaret gave up her newborn son to Lady Carolyn, hoping her child would be cherished and given all the things she could not. In return, she received five hundred pounds and a strong hint to leave England forever." 

By now, every eye had turned on Sir Gregory, who sat stock still in his chair. Lina continued, "You, Sir Gregory, were that child. Son of Lord Thomas and Margaret Kincaid. Lady Carolyn returned to Templemoor and gave His Grace a highly edited version of accounts, painting herself as a jealous wife who nevertheless, out of compassion, tried to take care of the ailing Margaret... and then lied, saying Margaret was dead." 

Sir Gregory's mouth worked. "You... you...," he sputtered, eyes glazed with shock. "How did you...?" 

"How did I find out?" Lina cocked her head to one side. "I suspected it from the moment I read The Woman Scorned. Last night, after pleading a headache, I crept back downstairs and went to Templemoor. Your father is far from addled, despite your efforts to bruit that pitiful story about. I persuaded His Grace to tell me the whole story. He further told me that you knew - you had known the truth about your heritage for months. Tell me - why did you not reveal to Rhiannon that you and she were cousins?" 

Sir Gregory's face paled. "I... I...," he began, but stopped. 

Lady Evangeline smiled but it did not touch her eyes, which were stormy with barely suppressed anger. "When you found out, you were, at first, appalled. Everything your mother, Lady Carolyn, had told you was a lie. But she raised you in the fine tradition of the British aristocracy, didn't she, Sir Gregory? And the first tenant of that tradition is: If you see something you want, take it! And that is when your dirty little scheme first began... 

"You needed money. Desperately. You knew Margaret had it; that poor woman welcomed you into her home, considering you her long lost son, wanting nothing more than to love you - and all you could think about was getting your hands on her money. You told me she was far from wealthy, but twenty thousand pounds could go a long way towards erasing your debts, and then there was the Abbey itself..." 

Violet said, "But we're rich! Aren't we, father?" Sir Gregory said nothing; he did not even glance at his daughter. His eyes were locked on the woman who leaned casually against the fireplace mantle. 

Lady Evangeline continued, "His Grace told me you had quite heavy gambling debts, Sir Gregory. That you were a poor businessman and he gave you an allowance that should have been sufficient for your needs... but it did not. You have expensive tastes; no amount would have been enough." 

Sir Gregory let out a strangled groan, his fists clenched. His pale daughter, Violet, was agog. "But... what?...," Violet stuttered miserably and was waved to silence by the implacable Lina. 

The peer fixed a stern gaze on the suffering figure of Sir Gregory. "I asked your father about his will last night. He told me that when he dies, the estate and title escheat to you, but all His Grace's wealth will go to Violet. You needed money, quickly, and would go to any lengths to get it. You knew your father would reject any question of a loan; his solicitor is in London, and it would be difficult to persuade that worthy to go along with a criminal fraud. That is when you began to think and wonder about Margaret. And soon, that wondering turned to action." 

Sir Gregory shook his head. "No, it wasn't like that... I swear!" 

Lady Evangeline shook her head. "It was a cold-blooded scheme, Sir Gregory. You began to poison Margaret with arsenic, a little at a time, increasing the dosage carefully to give the impression of a lingering illness." 

"What!" Dr. Clarke sprang to his feet, a lock of dark brown hair hanging over one eyes. "What do you mean, poisoned?" 

Lina chuckled. "You really mean to ask, 'How dare I accuse you of incompetence?' Oh, do sit down, doctor. You are a young man and scarcely to be blamed for your lack of experience. Many doctors, some of them veterans of the surgery, mistake arsenic poisoning for gastric fever; the symptoms are nearly identical, except for two things." 

She waited while Dr. Clarke thought. Slowly, he said, "Hair loss and dryness of the mouth..." 

"That is correct. I already had suspicions concerning Margaret's death. Your information confirmed them. Someone had poisoned her. As the ancient Romans suggest, I now had to ask myself one question: Sui bono? Who benefits?" Lady Evangeline looked at Sir Gregory again. "The answer was: Sir Gregory." 

He opened his mouth to deny this, but finally sank back in on himself, slowly deflating. "How? How did you guess?" 

"I never guess." Lina's voice was proud. "My deductions are based on my observations. You made two mistakes, Sir Gregory. The will... and Mrs. Babcock." 

Even Rhiannon, who had known all about this beforehand, leaned forward in breathless anticipation, echoing the posture of the spectators in the study. 

"Mrs. Babcock," Lina continued, "a greedy woman who was to prove your undoing." 
 
 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"As a professional nurse," Lina said, "she must have recognized the symptoms of the poison that was once called 'inheritance powder.' She confronted you and you took her into your confidence. That was a mistake, Sir Gregory. You should have known she could not be trusted." 

Sir Gregory grimaced. "That damned woman gave me no choice," he said. "It was either that or..." 

Lina gave him a grim little smile. "Or face black-hooded Jack Ketch on the gallows for poisoning your own mother? So, she wanted... what? Money is, I believe, the most likely answer." 

Sir Gregory nodded. His lobster-red face bore a faint sheen of sweat. "Yes. She wanted money." 

"But that was not all, was it? If Mrs. Babcock had merely taken her share and kept quiet, you could have lived with that. You are not a terribly brave man, Sir Gregory. You really do not have the stomach for cold-blooded murder. Which is why, after Mrs. Babcock babbled to Rhiannon and myself about Margaret's last days, you knew you had to kill her." 

"Yes." The laird's blue eyes were fogged by remembrance. "She nearly told you the secret, didn't she... she said I was as attentive as a son..." 

"I imagine you did not really plan it well. You lured her to the church ruins, probably with some story or another; the how of it is not important. But you had seen Fyvie, Margaret's wolfhound, near those ruins. Fyvie would not let you near her; she is a cunning animal and knew you had somehow caused harm to her mistress. So you fell upon Mrs. Babcock and sawed through her throat with one of your tribal weapons. The obsidian knife, was it not? The jagged edged weapon that hangs on the wall of the front room, along with the rest of your collection of weaponry?" 

"Yesssss," Sir Gregory hissed, his hands clenching and unclenching convulsively. 

"You wanted to make it appear as if Mrs. Babcock had been attacked by a wild animal. You also hoped that Fyvie would be blamed; you could not mention it yourself lest you be suspect, but believed that sooner or later, the wolfhound's lair in the ruins would be discovered and the natural connection made. However, when I examined the woman's death wound, I saw the marks could not have been made by an animal's fangs. The wound was too clean, the edges ragged but not ragged enough. I also found a splinter of obsidian in the wound, which I have already given to Inspector McHale. I imagine you were too frightened to make sure you left no trace of your weapon on the body." 

"I wiped away my footprints. I washed the knife off in the lake. But there was so much blood..." The laird's tone was sullen. 

Rhiannon was fascinated by Sir Gregory in spite of herself. He was rocking back and forth a little now, his lower lips pushed out like a spoiled child who has been denied a treat. With a flash, she suddenly realized that this was precisely what the laird was - a spoiled, overly pampered child who had been denied nothing in his life... and had turned to murder to obtain what he wanted but couldn't have any other way. 

Lina continued, "I suspect you did not know how much blood there would be, gushing from such a severe throat wound. You hurried back to the Abbey and washed up, burning your blood stained shirt." 

Lady Evangeline reached into the pocket of her skirt and produced a small, blackened object. "I found this sleeve stud in the fireplace grate of your bedroom, Sir Gregory. I recognized it as one I had seen that evening at dinner - in your shirt sleeve." 

For the first time, Jock McHale spoke. "May I have that, milady?," he asked mildly. 

The peer handed the stud to the Inspector, who examined it and placed it in the pocket of his uniform tunic. At Dr. Clarke's questioning look, McHale said solemnly, "Evidence." 

Lina smiled. "You should also commandeer the obsidian blade I mentioned, Constable. I believe the normal laboratory tests should indicate that the rust-stains evident on the handle are human blood." 

McHale nodded. 

"As to the will," Lady Evangeline said, "Here we have an entirely different kettle of fish. The will which was read to us the other night was nothing more than a forgery, a fraud. In fact, Margaret left everything to someone other than yourself, Sir Gregory." She radiated such calm assurance that the laird nodded automatically. 

"It was Mrs. Babcock who gave me my first clue as to that. She told us that after one of Margaret's attacks, she was too weak to do anything but lay there with Fyvie beside her. I found a fruit knife on the bedside table in the sickroom; the blade was silver and uncommonly dull. Since I have frequently sliced my finger on a fruit knife or two, I knew this was not the normal state of affairs - such articles are kept razor keen. It was then that I knew what Margaret had been doing... and why." 

Rhiannon looked at Sir Gregory, sky-blue eyes filled with venom. "Even at the end, she defied you!" she spat. "You made up the false will and forced her to sign it, and having Mrs. Babcock there only made it better for you - she knew what you were doing and participated out of greed. But Great-Aunt Margaret was stronger than you could ever imagine, you bastard." Her eyes welled with tears and her voice shook. 

Lina crossed the room and laid a comforting hand on Rhiannon's shoulder. "Yes, Margaret was a cunning and resourceful woman. Knowing her loyal servants had been dismissed by Sir Gregory, she had no one to turn to... except you, Mr. Darling. Will you share with us, please, what you know?" 

The weathered gardener touched his cap with one finger. "I was passin' by ta window, milady, when I heard Fyvie barkin' fit ta beat ta Devil. So, I come into ta house, figurin' Miss Kincaid was dyin' an' wantin' ta pay my respects. She were a great lady, that one. 

"Nobody seen me or I'da been dismissed on ta spot. Only she weren't dead. Miss Kincaid asked me ta bring her some papers out o' her study; she told me where they were an' all. I did it; only I never knew what them papers might o' been." Darling gave the peer a rueful grin. 

"That is quite all right, Mr. Darling. In her original will, Margaret must have left some sums to you and to Rhiannon; Lord Gregory dared not change too much, lest she might have mentioned the contents of her will to someone he could not control or put off... like his father." Lady Evangeline crossed back to the fireplace. 

"Day after day she lay there, lucid despite frequent fits of agony. Margaret must have known you were responsible for her condition, although I imagine at first, she must have rejected the idea out of hand. But when you brought the false will, demanding that she sign, she had to have realized that you and Mrs. Babcock were in collusion. So she did the only thing she could do - she hid her original will, hoping it would be found and Sir Gregory's perfidy exposed." 

Sir Gregory spoke; his voice was dull and heavy, his shoulders bowed. "Where did she hide it? I turned the sickroom upside-down when I realized it was missing." 

Lina smiled triumphantly. "The answer to that question will be with us shortly." The dark-haired woman strode to the study door and opened it, emitting a piercing whistle. 
 
 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A gray-brown blur shot through the door, stopping at Rhiannon's knee. It was Fyvie; the wolfhound was panting with excitement, her tail whipping back and forth gleefully. 

Rhiannon put her arms around the dog and patted her. "Good girl," she whispered, and Fyvie licked her ear. 

But when the wolfhound noticed Sir Gregory, she lifted her upper lip and growled, moving stiff-legged to interpose herself between Rhiannon and the wide-eyed laird. 

Lady Evangeline shut the door and walked back to the fireplace. "Fyvie," she said, "was truer to her mistress then she will ever know. Did you know she wears a very thick, very heavy leather collar?" The peer patted her thigh with one hand and said, "Come here, Fyvie." 

Reluctantly, the wolfhound obeyed the peer's command. Every hair on the dog's shaggy coat stood on end and she eyed Sir Gregory with hate-filled amber orbs. Ignoring the dog's behavior, Lady Evangeline bent and removed Fyvie's collar. 

"Do you remember the fruit knife? Margaret was too weak to conceal the will in the house. She also feared that, if it were left in the Abbey, Sir Gregory would find it and destroy it. Margaret did the only thing she could - she trusted her beloved hound, a gift from the man she had loved for over forty years." 

Lina held up the collar. With the strength of her hands, she pulled two sides apart from a slit that had been made on the underside of the thick leather, and pulled out several sheets of foolscap, tightly fan-folded into a thin cylinder. "This is how she concealed it, Sir Gregory. Every day, she used that silver fruit knife to surreptitiously carve a cavity into the depths of Fyvie's collar. That is why she insisted on having Fyvie with her at all hours; she needed the time to work. And neither Mrs. Babcock nor you ever suspected a thing." 

She brandished the papers before unfolding them. Clearing her throat, the peer read, "I, Margaret Gloriana Kincaid, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament..." 

As Lina continued to read, Rhiannon pressed one hand to her bosom. Mrs. Babcock had not been mentioned at all; Jack Darling's legacy increased by a further two thousand pounds; and she - she was to inherit Montrose Abbey and everything else! 

Sir Gregory watched Lina with dull blue eyes and lips so stiff they were bloodless. The dark-haired woman read, "...and to my natural son, Sir Gregory MacLellan, I leave the letters I wrote to his cousin, Mary, in the hopes he will seek her daughter, Rhiannon, and welcome her into his family. I further leave him the sum of five hundred pounds and pray that he may forgive me for abandoning him when he was but a newborn child." 

Lina looked at Sir Gregory and said ironically, "It was not necessary to change much, was it? A mere matter of a substitution of names, the deletion of a little material, and voila! A new will spun from nothing but thin air and your own imagination." 

She handed the will to Inspector McHale, who took it and scanned it gravely before folding it back up and holding out his large hand for the collar. Lina gave it to him, continuing, "Margaret hoped someone would find the true will. You must have known the contents; did you draw it up for her?" 

"Yes," Sir Gregory replied. His blue eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembled. "After I made it for her... that ungrateful bitch!," he spat suddenly. "All I did for her and she left me some worthless papers and a few pounds! I put those blasted letters back into the box - I cared nothing for them. I hated Margaret for that; father must have told her how my creditors were breathing down my neck, and she would go on and on about how much she loved me... but she never offered a bloody penny!" 

The Duke spoke up. "Nay, boy," he said sadly, "Maggy dinna know aboot yer circumstances, fer I did not tell her. She was so happy, you see, just havin' ye near agin'; I could nae destroy her happiness by tellin' her that her wee baby boy was a no good wastrel, an' a waster, an' a rogue ta boot." 

Lord Thomas looked at Lina and spread his crippled hands wide. "I know I shoulda ta'en better care o' ta lad when he was younger, but ta truth was I was still grievin' fer Maggy. Carolyn... she twisted Gregory when he was a wee child, fillin' his head with all sorts o' nonsense. By ta time I twigged on what was happenin', it was too late. He were ruined. An' now he's gone and killed my Maggy... Oh, my boy! How could ye?" A single tear traced its way down the Duke's wrinkled cheek. 

Lina looked at the Duke with compassion. "I am truly sorry, Your Grace. But I could not allow a murderer to get off freely." 

She turned to Inspector McHale and asked, "Do you have any questions?" 

Jock McHale considered for a moment, then shook his head. "Nay," he said, "I believe I've heard enough. Sir Gregory MacLellan, I charge you wit' ta murders o' Mrs. Amanda Babcock and Miss Margaret Kincaid. I'm sure ta coroner will wish an exhumation of both bodies; if arsenic is found in Miss Kincaid's, ye'll hang fer sure." 

Sir Gregory sat there a long moment, his daughter Violet weeping, her face buried in her hands. He rose and lifted his face... and his burning blue eyes sought the figure of the woman who had been his undoing. 

With an inarticulate bellow of maddened rage, the laird launched himself at the startled peer, moving at an incredible speed despite his bulk. In one hand, he held a letter opener that had been on his desk, and the little blade flashed in the morning sunlight, looking sharp enough to slash the wind. 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Time seemed to slow down to a syrupy crawl.

McHale cried out and moved to stop the laird, but fell back, the long, deep cut across his face spurting blood.

The Duke flung out his hand in a futile gesture.

Dr. Clarke cowered back a moment, then leaped to his feet, too late.

Violet screamed.

And Rhiannon leaped to her feet and began a desperate charge that would put her own body between her lover and the insane Sir Gregory. 

A thundering snarl of pure hatred filled the room, as hair raising and soul chilling as the banshee's wail. A gray-brown blur flew through the air as Fyvie, enraged at this threat to her newly beloved mistress by one she already despised, launched her one hundred and sixty-four pounds of pure muscle and fury straight towards Sir Gregory's throat. 

The laird went down beneath the attack... and time speeded up again. 

Lina drew a shaking hand through her dark hair. She had been prepared to meet Sir Gregory's charge, her trained reflexes responding to the threat, but her heart had nearly stopped when Rhiannon had thrown herself into danger's path. 

Without her staff, Lina thought, my sweetheart would be helpless against a man who outweighs her by a good hundred pounds or better. I had best coax her into that baritsu training as soon as we return to London. 

Rhiannon, after a glance at Lina to make sure she was all right, stood over Fyvie and Sir Gregory. The wolfhound growled softly, her white fangs denting the skin of the laird's throat. A trickle of blood came from her side where the desperate man had thrust the letter opener at the animal; the knife was buried to the hilt in Fyvie's rough coat. 

No one moved; no one even dared breathe. Except Rhiannon. 

The strawberry-blonde laid her hand gently on Fyvie's head, ignoring the dog's small snarl. "Let him go, Fyvie," she said softly. "It's all right, girl. Let him go." 

Reluctantly, still growling beneath her breath, Fyvie obeyed, backing away but keeping herself between the terrified laird and Rhiannon. 

When Sir Gregory made as if to get up, Fyvie snarled savagely, the ruff around her neck rising. The laird hastily lay back down again; the insane rage that had been in his blue eyes replaced by fear. 

Inspector McHale loomed over the fallen man, Dr. Clarke's handkerchief pressed to the cut on his face. "Ye'll hafta come wit' me now, Sir Gregory," he said. "An' come along quiet now, or..." He held up one fist that looked as big and strong as an oak knot. 

Rhiannon and Lina exchanged a glance and a small smile of relief as the laird was led away by McHale, Sir Gregory's shoulders hunched, an expression of sheer defeat on his florid face. 

Two days later, Lady Evangeline reclined on the sofa in the sitting room of their private railcar 'The Princess Bride' as it sped back to England on the back of The Flying Scotsman train. Rhiannon was puttering around in the tiny kitchen; before they'd left Edinburgh, Lina had it restocked from one of that city's finest restaurants. 

Rhiannon emerged carrying a tray. "Do you remember the last time I brought you lunch?" she asked mischievously. 

Lina smiled. "How could I forget! I did not know you were so enamored of  Tom Jones, sweetheart. Or so inventive." 

Rhiannon returned her over's smile. She wore a sheer silk dressing gown of teal blue flounced with ruffles and lace... and nothing underneath. 

Rhiannon gracefully set the tray down on a table and perched down on the edge of the sofa next to the reclining peer. "Since I now have wealth in my own right, love, I'll be able to give you some fine gifts as well." 

Lina took Rhiannon's fine-boned hand and kissed it. "You are the only gift I require, my dear," she said gallantly while the strawberry-blonde blushed. 

Fyvie lay down in one corner of the room. The wolfhound's powerful jaws cracked a marrowbone she held between two paws; her old leather collar commandeered by the police, she now wore a brand new collar of dark blue studded with silver. Across her middle was stretched a band of linen; she was healing well from her wound, thanks to the services of a chagrined Dr. Clarke. 

Rhiannon glanced at the wolfhound. "Thank you for letting me bring her, Lina," she said. 

The peer answered simply, "How could I refuse? She saved your life and possibly mine as well." Lina shuddered. "If only I could make you realize, Rhiannon, how much you mean to me! If Sir Gregory had harmed you... well, I could not live if anything were to happen to you." 

Rhiannon stroked Lina's face gently. "I know. And now you know, love, how I feel every time you leave me to go on one of your mad quests. Every moment, I can't help wondering where you are, if you're hurt, if a peeler will come knocking, helmet in hand, to tell me you're dead. At least if I were there, if I tried... but you rarely give me the chance." 

Lina pulled Rhiannon down on top of her, feeling the other woman's heart beating against her chest. "Yes. I think I finally understand, my dear. Is that truly how you feel?" 

"Yes," Rhiannon answered fiercely. "I love you, Evangeline. I want to live the rest of my life with you." She interlaced her fingers with Lina's and squeezed. "I'm so terrified at the thought of you getting hurt! I know you were doing this sort of thing a long time before you met me but I'm frightened all the same!" 

Lina kissed the top of Rhiannon's head. "All right, my dear. I fully understand how you feel, now that it has been drummed into my thick skull often enough. Rest assured - I will never fail to consider your feelings again, if you will promise to do the same." 

Rhiannon snuggled her face down between the valley of Lina's breasts. "I promise," she replied. "Do you think Sir Gregory will hang?" 

Lina looked thoughtful. "I honestly do not know. It is possible, despite the admittedly slender evidence against him, that a jury will declare him guilty. If they do not, however, His Grace has determined to have his son placed in a private sanitarium; either way, my love, he will never trouble anyone again." 

"Poor Violet," Rhiannon murmured. "Her father a murderer twice over. I did offer to let her stay at the Abbey." 

"Yes, you did, and it was a gallant gesture, my dear. But I think the chit is better off with her grandfather; the Duke is certainly not going to put up with her morbid airs for long. In time, she might even grow to be a fairly normal young woman." 

Rhiannon sighed. "I did invite her to visit us in London, you know. And I promised Lord Thomas we'd visit him sometime next year." 

"Yes, my dear," Lina said, stroking Rhiannon's hair. "Perhaps next season, if you wish. But for right now... my own plans are simple: I want to go home." 

Rhiannon kissed Lina's collarbone. "Me, too," she replied simply. 

They lay together, wrapped in love and contentment, as the train sped back to London... 

Taking them back, far away from murder and madness... taking them home.