Page 2 of Love Beyond Words
I rested my forehead against my palm as I shook my head.
“No. There are so many things wrong with that message. It doesn’t even deserve a response. First of all, I don’t know this man. I don’t know where the hell he gets off calling me ‘babe.’ Second of all…” The shockingly tiny appendage flashed through my mind and I started to laugh as well. “Second of all…ew. Just block his number for me.”
Giggling, Kate turned and left as I disappeared beneath the bubbles.
* * *
I stayed in the tub until I was thoroughly warmed and wrinkled, and I saw Mr. Crinkles’ paw swipe underneath the closed bathroom door as he tried to get inside. The solid black cat was my sister’s baby and the reason she’d not escaped the fire that had destroyed her home unmarred. Not that I could blame her. The cat was ornery, lovable, and incredibly cuddly. After the past six months of having him live under my roof, I was completely in love with him. I would’ve done exactly as my sister had done if the situation had been reversed.
“Hang on just a second, mister. I’ll let you in.”
Slipping on my robe and slippers, I opened the bathroom door to allow the cat to slink inside. He immediately dragged his body against my leg before flopping over onto his side between my legs as he purred and begged for me to touch him.
My sister wasn’t the only one who lost something in the fire that had pulled me away from my once-in-a-lifetime trip to Scotland so many months ago. Mr. Crinkles—injured by the same beam that had fallen on my sister’s right arm—had lost his eye. While it must have been an adjustment for the cat, I quite liked the way he looked with just the one eye—it gave him character and added a little bit of edge to his otherwise friendly disposition.
“Hey, Laurel, if you’re out of the tub, come here for a second. I want to show you something.”
“You heard her. We’ve been summoned.”
Mr. Crinkles meowed as I lifted him from the floor and carried him into the living room where Kate sat with her eyes glued to the television screen.
“Have you heard of this castle before? Maybe it will provide you some inspiration for your next book.”
My next book, which was months past due, didn’t exist. I’d been unable to write anything in over a year. I seriously doubted that some television documentary would give me the inspiration I needed to dive back in. Inspiration was the reason I’d left for Scotland, with Marcus in tow as my sidekick, in the first place. I needed an idea, needed to see the sights and the people in the flesh to know which direction my new stories needed to go. I’d almost found it in Scotland, thanks to a mysterious book and an even more mysterious message inside, but just as I’d been about to go in search of answers to the questions the book had posed, we received word of the fire back home, and my trip had come to an immediate end.
“I don’t know. What castle is it?”
Lifting her legs, I scooted underneath them as I snuggled into the couch next to her.
“The Castle of Eight Lairds is what it is known as now. I’m sure at one time it had another name, but the documentary hasn’t mentioned what it was. Just watch. There’s a really fascinating legend behind it.”
Something about the name of the castle sounded familiar, but I couldn’t recall why. As the commercial ended and the program resumed, I turned my attention to the screen and listened in.
Kate was right. It certainly was an interesting legend, and one, surprisingly, I’d never heard before. If anything was capable of stirring my imagination enough to make me write again, it was this. For the first time in many, many months, an idea began to bud in my mind.
An isle off the mainland of Scotland—much like the name of its castle—was known as The Isle of Eight Lairds, and the story surrounding its legend went back over four hundred years.
The legend went that eight druids must always pledge their magic to the territory and its castle to prevent a hidden darkness from re-emerging and destroying the people of the village. Each generation of eight must pick a new eight to follow them, for if ever one of the eight passes and they are left with just seven, the evil within the castle will rise again and destroy the isle until it is but a blip in Scotland’s memory.
The story, as depicted by below-average actors and the narrator’s deep baritone voice, weaved a tale of heartbreak, magic, and lore. Of ghosts and banshees and witches. The general consensus now was that little of the legend was true, but I couldn’t help but think of the parallels between this story and the one I’d discovered inside Conall Castle so many months ago—of Morna’s strange tale of magic and love, and her insistence from the notes inside that all of it was true.
I’d felt the magic throughout Scotland every day I’d been there. I couldn’t so easily dismiss the stories, for all stories have some basis in truth. I desperately wanted to know just how much of it was real.
Just as the documentary ended, there was a crash to our left and we both turned to see Mr. Crinkles causing a ruckus on the shelf of one of my bookcases. As I watched one of the books drop to the floor, I realized why the name of the castle had sounded so familiar. Just two weeks earlier, I’d found a book in the middle of the street just a few blocks from my apartment—it was a book about The Castle of Eight Lairds. I’d yet to open it. At the time, the only thing that had been on my mind was how I couldn’t bear to see any book left abandoned in the street, so I brought it home. Now, I couldn’t wait to look inside.
“Kate, that book that your cat just shoved onto the floor is the one I found the other day. I didn’t make the connection until now, but look at what it’s called.”
Standing, I moved across the room to grab the book. After glancing at the title, I extended it toward Kate’s remaining hand.
With eyes wide, she stared down at the cover as her jaw slowly opened in surprise.
“Wow, what are the chances of that? This is a sign, Laurel. This castle is what you’re supposed to write about.”
My sister was a bit of a wannabe mystic. She ate up horoscopes, signs, and all things whimsical like candy. But in this instance, I couldn’t deny that the coincidence did indeed feel like a sign.
“Maybe so. It definitely has sparked more ideas than I’ve had in a very long time.”
My sister was no longer listening. She’d flipped the book open to a double-spread portrait towards the middle of the book and was staring at the image intensely.
