Hawk Douglas had come.
“Alistair!” Hawk greeted him, his hands on his hips as he stared up at the crucifix as well. Then he glanced Alistair’s way, his green eyes sparkling. “I hadn’t thought you so religious as to spend time in the chapel.”
“I—” Alistair began and paused, then arched a brow. “I hadn’t thought you so religious. In fact, don’t you people—” He hesitated again, smiling ruefully. “Sorry. Don’t the Sioux have a rather different religion?”
“Aye, gods and goddesses, the power of wind, the rain, the earth,” Hawk said, taking no offense. Alistair thought it uncanny that in his height and build, and even in some of his movements and mannerisms, Hawk could so resemble his brother, while still having the look of his mother’s people about him as well. He was dressed very much like the American today, in a light blue denim work shirt, darker breeches, and American-made boots. Hawk grinned at Alistair. “I’m still quite convinced that there is one great power—and it’s all the same, no matter what we call our religious choices.”
“So, you have come to the chapel to commune with this ‘great power?’ If so, I shall leave you in peace?—”
“I’ve not come to commune with anything—I’m passing through.”
“To—?”
“The crypts.”
“The crypts?”
“I understand that you heard something coming from the chapel last night but found nothing.”
“Aye,” Alistair said. He shrugged. “You know how these ancient places creak and groan.”
“I know—and so do you. Far better than I, since you’ve been living here. If you heard something, I’m sure there was something to hear.”
“I found nothing?—”
“But you didn’t look down in the crypts.”
Alistair shrugged.
“Well, I want to investigate there. Come with me. I’ll appreciate the company.”
Hawk Douglas started for the gateway, lighting a match to set flame to a lantern hanging from a hook on the wall. “Are you coming?” he queried politely. He turned, pushed open the iron gate, and started down the steps to the crypts.
Alistair felt a trickle of sweat slipping down his neck.
He followed Hawk Douglas.
Despite her exhaustion,Shawna hadn’t imagined that she’d be able to sleep that day, especially since dawn had nearly broken when they had reached the castle, and David had departed.
But it felt as if she had barely been in her room long enough to shed David’s tartan, wash enthusiastically with soap despite the small amount of water in her ewer and washbowl, and lie down to close her eyes before there came a tapping on her door. She awoke in something of a panic, froze, then quickly called out, “Who is it?”
“Mary Jane.”
“One minute!”
She leaped out of bed, saw to it that David’s tartan was kicked firmly behind the dressing screen, and hurried to the door.
Mary Jane smiled, but she looked quite tired. “Good day, Shawna. Laird Hawk has sent me to see if you’d be so good asto join the family for a late breakfast, before everyone sets off to search for Miss Sabrina again.”
“Aye, certainly. I’ll be down.”
“Good. You look so tired.”
“You look exhausted.”
“Well now, we’ve all been up, worrying about poor Miss Connor, so it seems. Though, of course, perhaps the constable was right—we none of us quite know what will happen if the right man comes along, now, do we?”
Shawna glanced at Mary Jane, arching a brow. “Not Sabrina Connor,” she said.