Rock Of Ages

ROCK OF AGES

by

Alexandra Duncan

Copyright 2001

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-55349-122-4

Published by Books for Pleasure at Smashwords

Dedication

With Love and Gratitude to Eileen and Meg

Disclaimer

Any similarity to persons living or dead, other than historical figures, is purely coincidental. The Celto-Christian relic, The Rock Of Ages, comes purely from imagination. Some artistic liberties have been taken with respect to setting, and the architecture.

The author would like to suggest, Molaise, written by Dr. Colum Kenny as additional educational reading.

Prologue

The Rock Of Ages sat on its royal purple pillow. Gleaming gold twisted around a palm sized silver orb into the four serpents of the ancient Scottish kingdoms—Dalriada, Lothian, Strathclyde and Pictland; their tails fashioned into the Christian symbols of the cross, burning bush, fish and crown of thorns; the Blood of Christ ruby supported by their gaping jaws.

Megan Cameron blinked as she approached the display case in the Edinburgh Museum of Antiquities. She forced her eyes to follow the intricate Celtic knot-work of the serpents. It was incredible to think that this precious and beautiful object, of such extreme religious and cultural significance, had remained buried beneath the rocks of the Holy Isle for almost fifteen hundred years with nothing but legend to keep its existence alive.

Absolutely breathtaking, said Megan’s godmother, Amelia, as she reached across the red velvet rope to touch the glass.

The high-ceilinged room erupted into the screeching of alarms and the two women were surrounded by burly uniformed guards.

Megan wrenched her arm from the grasp of a tall, bearded plain clothes security cop with a suspicious glitter in his eyes. We weren’t doing anything! she cried and lifted her chin in embarrassed defiance. The man’s demeanor softened, a suggestion of gentleness flickered, and he released her.

That’s okay, Ed. A slim figure slipped between them and the cop stepped back. Megan found herself staring into the lightly freckled face. Although no taller than herself, this man radiated an easy confidence and energy from beneath his unruly tuft of red hair. In contrast his voice was almost effeminate.

I’m the temporary curator here. The only person allowed near the Rock. We’re all very nervous about our newest treasure. However, if you’d like to inspect the Rock Of Ages closer, we have excellent replicas available, a limited edition casting. They’re for sale. Right over there. He pointed to the souvenir area where some eager tourists had their wallets open. I’ll come with you.

Intensely embarrassed, Megan turned away from both the curator and the souvenir table, preferring to inspect a photograph of Princes Street taken in the 1890s. Amelia, however, rushed over to the replicas and had bought one before Megan could stop her.

Let’s get out of here, she said, as she took her godmother by the elbow. I’d like to go somewhere quiet. There’s way too much nervous tension in this building. Oh, no, look! It’s pouring. We’ll be totally drenched by the time we get to our hotel.

Chapter One

March (a few months later)

The radio newscaster’s voice held a hint of disbelief.

...a startling event. It seems the newly discovered, priceless Rock Of Ages, which had been on display at the Edinburgh Museum of Antiquities for several months, has been stolen. Police and museum officials were reluctant to release details of their investigation for fear of alerting the robbers. The public’s patience and understanding is requested. That part of the exhibit will remain closed until the mystery is solved and Scotland’s newest, or is that the oldest symbol of Celto-Christianity is back again in safe keeping. And now for the football scores.

I don’t understand it. Amelia was aghast as she silenced the radio with the push of one elegant finger. Who would steal it? What right do they have? It’s unacceptable.

Megan realized her jaw had been hanging open throughout the broadcast. She now snapped it shut. Terrible. And it was so well-guarded. She recalled the fire in the eyes of the burly guard when Amelia had innocently and unintentionally set off the alarm in the museum.

And you were angry with me for buying that replica, stated Amelia somewhat triumphantly. I’m very glad now that I did.

Megan accepted the wave of fatigue that now flooded over her. This was a subject she and Amelia had discussed many times. She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips and sighed. The ledgers and pile of receipts she had been studying blurred in front of her aching eyes.

Amelia became defensive. Don’t sigh like that. I hate it. I do wish you’d return to your true self. I don’t much like the withdrawn, miserable person you’ve become. I miss the brave, cheerful girl you used to be before.

Megan cut her off. Amelia, I love you dearly, but how many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want to discuss what happened in Glasgow. It’s deeply personal. And it’s ancient history. She paused for effect. As for you buying the rock—we can’t be throwing money around. The holiday in Edinburgh was super and worth every penny, but how you can justify paying one hundred and twenty pounds for a replica of some relic, however beautiful! Honestly! And where is it anyway, this purchase of yours?

Oh, I haven’t unpacked it yet. I’m thinking where best to put it. Tell me the truth, darling, are things really that bad? So bad that I can’t buy a souvenir or two?

Megan turned to challenge her godmother who hovered anxiously at her shoulder, and was struck as usual by Amelia’s smooth pink cheeks and beautifully tinted auburn coif. Although not related at all, Megan had always thought they could have been sisters with their hazel eyes and similar hair color—sisters twenty-five years apart.

I’m sorry to say it is getting quite bad. We don’t have the luxury of tossing money around, not paying attention to where the money’s going. Megan rose to refill her teacup and that of Amelia. When I became your partner last year you made it clear that part of my job would be to keep the books straight. The hotel books and your personal accounts. We’ve been fortunate with those new American tours bringing us all kinds of business. The Monk’s Hood will survive for a while yet. Please promise you’ll not make any more spontaneous purchases until we talk it over.

Amelia’s back straightened visibly. I don’t think I like the idea of having to report to you before I buy a box of chocolates.

That’s not what I’m getting at!

Or some new underwear.

At the sound of a man clearing his throat, Megan swung around and found herself glaring into a pair of intense blue eyes. Framed by long, dark lashes, they seemed out of place in the unshaven and grey face. His bone structure reminded her of a granite crag—strong and immovable without a stick or two of dynamite. She had the strangest fleeting notion that he was pleased to see her, which was nothing short of bizarre as she was positive they’d never met.

I’m sorry, he said, the moment gone. This seems to be a bad time. I’d like to check in. There’s nobody at the front.

Startled at being interrupted in the middle of a heated discussion, Megan’s bluntness rose of its own accord. You look positively green. Just off the ferry?

His shoulders sagged. It’s that obvious?

Don’t mind her, said Amelia with an annoyed glare in Megan’s direction. She’s in a bit of a mood. Normally, she’s a real treasure. Or she used to be.

Ben Scofield. He extended his hand for Amelia to shake.

Amelia Paddington. Pleased to meet you. Now, why don’t we just go to the front desk and get you all sorted out. And perhaps a cup of something hot, to take out the chill and settle your stomach.

Ben Scofield smiled down on her godmother and even from where she stood; Megan could feel the gratitude and genuine warmth in that smile. She wasn’t at all surprised when Amelia leaned slightly into him. Her godmother always had a soft spot for tall, dark and handsome men finding great enjoyment in pampering them, catering to them, and spending too much cash in the process.

Are you going to be on Arran long? Megan asked gently, hoping to undo any damage caused by her initial assessment of his appearance.

He replied carefully, As long as I have to be.

Megan hung back while Amelia began ushering Ben Scofield out of the room.

Please, call me Amelia. You’re not an American? We’ve had a few around this autumn and you don’t have the same accent.

Ben sidestepped the question. The sea was incredibly choppy today.

Let’s hope it settles a bit before my new chef arrives this afternoon, Amelia continued. Meanwhile, I’ll have some tea sent up for you. And you’re not Australian or South African?

No, ma’am. Now, please may I have my key? he asked in a bemused tone. I need to wash up. Thank you.

His footsteps echoed down the short hallway and up the stairs. Megan slumped back into her chair. The whole interchange between herself and the newest guest had started on the wrong foot. But he had taken her by surprise, sticking his head in like he had. Oh, well, she really didn’t have time to waste worrying, and she decided she’d had enough of numbers for a while. She tidied Amelia’s receipts and slipped them into the desk drawer. She should get back to writing her article for Tours and Travels. The deadline was fast approaching and as it was her very first assignment for the London magazine, she didn’t wish to appear incompetent. Being competent brought her satisfaction. At least that hadn’t changed over the years.

As she sharpened her pencil in the electric sharpener, to be ready for the next time she needed it, her memory of her doomed seven-year relationship, with its belittling, controlling attitudes forced its way to the fore. Megan could still hear the hurtful phrases about her being pityingly provincial and over-careful, too set in her ways to enjoy the world, a goody-goody. The words had grown over time into razor-sharp barbs designed to slice through her self-esteem and to prod her into many arguments.

Despite everything, she’d believed herself in love, until the ultimate betrayal forced her to face the truth. An emotional wreck, she’d gathered enough strength to pack up her belongings, sell the flat in Glasgow which she’d never truly liked, and move to her home on Arran.

She realized it had been almost one year ago that she’d received the timely offer from Amelia to be her partner. Coming back to Whiting Bay had proven good medicine. And Megan had been much too busy settling into the hotel business to fret overlong. The damage to her personality however, as Amelia had reminded her again today, seemed insurmountable, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

Shaking off her sadness and slipping on her anorak, Megan left through the back door of The Monk’s Hood and headed up the road to her cottage. She never tired of the walk. She loved the way her home, whitewashed and grey roofed, surrounded by a low brick wall, perched on the sloping hillside above Whiting Bay. And could there possibly be a better view anywhere in the world than the one from her gate? The curving shore, distant hills, the expanse of the powerful sea, and looming omniscient—the Holy Isle—blue, grey, green, mysterious. She would never leave Arran again. Never!

But today she frowned as she opened her front door. Amelia had generously given her the down payment on the cottage in lieu of a thirtieth birthday gift. Since then, not a day had gone by without Megan being silently thankful for Amelia’s generosity. Despising her hypocrisy, Megan vowed to find exactly the right way to help Amelia curtail her spending.

A few minutes later, Megan sat in front of her computer, putting the finishing touches on the pages she had written earlier about ancient holy treasures.

She hoped her work flowed and showed style. She was pleased she had taken her time, collecting all the facts, double checking the information. The trip to the museum in Edinburgh had proven invaluable, providing much-needed pictures and background on the artifacts in her article. It was mind-boggling to think of how long people had lived in Scotland and in particular on Arran. The archeological evidence of forgotten wealth dazzled her. And Amelia had been so taken with the recently unearthed Rock Of Ages, she’d had to spend a hundred and twenty pounds on silver and gold plated copy. Megan reached into her envelope of slides, chose the one she wanted and held it up to the light—The Rock Of Ages nestled on a bed of purple velvet. The orb was beautiful and she could almost understand why someone would steal it and why Amelia could be justified in wanting a copy. But a hundred and twenty pounds?

Megan scrolled to the beginning of her article once more in order to search for errors she may have overlooked previously. Just as she raised her index finger with a flourish to press save, the computer monitor started to fizzle and zap! Gone! Panic seized her but she willed herself to take a deep breath. Large white letters appeared on the black screen. ‘READ/WRITE ERROR’. Talking gently to herself as if she were some terrified child, she turned off the hard drive and then flicked it on again. She prayed that whatever had happened would only be a minor glitch that her article would miraculously reappear. The next message of ‘CANNOT READ BOOT SECTOR’ made her scalp sweat.

There was only one thing to do. Find Gordon Aird! She reached for the old black telephone and dialed his number. The answering machine clicked in after only two rings. Of course, Gordon wouldn’t be home. She remembered he always took a walk just before noon. But where? There were so many places he could go! Think rationally, she urged herself; he’s never missed his midday pint.

Back down the road she went, nodding marginally friendly greetings to her neighbors, avoiding all attempts at conversation, keeping her head down. She hated being distant. But she simply didn’t feel like chitchatting. What a day this was turning out to be! This complication with the computer, the unprofessional comment regarding Ben Scofield’s face, Amelia’s insane compulsion to throw money away.

She bumped suddenly against a man’s muscular arm.

I’m sorry, he said. Oh, it’s you. Hello again.

Ben Scofield stood before her, apologizing for the minor collision that was obviously her fault. Megan found herself drawn to his rugged good looks. She hated that cliché but couldn’t think of another more suitable phrase. His dark brown hair was combed back—freshly shampooed. His cheeks were newly shaved. His lips curved in the hint of a small smile and readied to widen with the least provocation. He smelled of soap and a tantalizing aftershave.

She started to mutter her excuses for her words in Amelia’s office and ended with, We go out of our way to be hospitable to our visitors. If there’s anything I can do...?

Okay then, he said with a teasing glint in those superb eyes. If you want to make amends, could you please tell me where I can find a house to rent? Or better yet, take me to see some available real estate.

Not at the moment.

His face fell. That’s fine. Sorry to have bothered you. And he strode off, up the hill, past Megan’s cottage, towards Kildonan.

Exasperated, Megan bit down on her bottom lip. No doubt, after two chance meetings during which she was snippy and distant, he thought her rude and bad-tempered. But he could have waited to hear her explanation. That she was preoccupied temporarily with computer troubles. She hadn’t said she wouldn’t help him. She just couldn’t at that moment. He shouldn’t be so impatient and quick to judge.

She stomped towards The Monk’s Hood, more unreasonably angry with herself than she could ever recall. She had to agree with Amelia. The old Megan had been a much better person.

***

Amelia met her in the hotel foyer.

Did you see Ben? He just left, she said, gently. I think you came across a bit heavy-handed earlier, darling.

Megan muttered under her breath. Well, it’s a good job you weren’t witness to our meeting two minutes ago. She opened the study door and picked up a calendar from the desk. Didn’t you say that new chef was arriving today?

Francois should be arriving on the two o’clock ferry. Amelia grabbed her hands in excitement. I can’t wait. Did I tell you he worked in Paris?

Megan smiled indulgently. Many times.

Amelia examined her cuticles. Look at these nails! I need a manicure. I want to be at my best with so many handsome men descending on us.

Megan put the calendar down. The island is loaded with handsome men. Anyway, Ben Scofield won’t be staying with us long. He’s looking for a house to rent.

Amelia threw her an exasperated look. Honestly, Megan. You really have to try to be a bit more charming to our newest guest. It’s not his fault you’re mad at me all the time.

I’m not! Megan felt instantly remorseful in using a hard tone with her godmother who’d been nothing but considerate and loving. And I don’t think I’m the reason Ben Scofield wants to rent something. He looks the type who’d want a bit of privacy. She escaped into the lounge before a reply was possible.

When she entered, she smiled at a few of the Whiting Bay locals and was ecstatic to see Gordon Aird sitting at the bar with the chief of the local constabulary, Sergeant Colin Spence. If the color red-orange could be personified, it would be in the form of Gordon Aird with his red hair and eyebrows, ruddy complexion, red tartan cap and scarf.

Beside him, fine-boned and grey-haired Colin looked positively pale and wraithlike. But Megan knew his exterior to be deceiving. Sergeant Spence had an iron constitution and a mind like a steel trap. She nodded a welcome at Colin and leaned close to Gordon.

Can you please go round later and have a look at my computer? The house is open. I’ve got a deadline and I’m probably going to have to work all night. She explained what had happened.

Sure thing, lass, he said, beaming with pleasure when she finished. I’m glad somebody appreciates the true genius of a retired schoolteacher.

Oh, go on. She nudged him playfully. There’s nobody understands modern technology like you. You know fine most people with computers on this island would be lost without you even though you’ve only been here a few weeks.

Gordon nodded. I’ll go right after I finish this pint.

The pint’s on me, she said. Just a wee thank you.

***

At the prescribed hour, Megan parked as close to the dock at Brodick as she could. Realizing she had no idea what the new chef looked like, she hurriedly searched the back seat of the car for her large notebook. She tore out a page and wrote ‘Francois’ in big, bold letters, and made her way to join the crowd waiting for the ferry.

Before long, a man carrying only a small suitcase, pointed at the sign.

I’m Francois Armand. Who are you?

Megan Cameron. Amelia’s partner.

She waved her hand in the direction of the Volvo and glared at the bunch of giggling girls who had followed a grinning Francois off the ferry. His long, blonde hair had been securely tied into a ponytail. A diamond stud glittered from one earlobe. Of slight build and medium height, his most redeeming features, as far as Megan was concerned, lay in his youthful face and deep brown eyes. She figured him to be in his late twenties and prayed he could cook. It would have been just like Amelia to hire him strictly on his appearance. Megan wished she hadn’t been on the mainland during his interview on Arran.

It’s very kind of you to meet me, Francois was saying as they got in the car. Most places I’ve been I’ve had to find the hotel on my own.

Arran’s not that big. I’m sure you would’ve found it easily enough. She put on her most hospitable smile. There would be no accusations of rudeness this time.

He grinned again, his whole face crinkling in the process. It’s still very kind of you.

She pulled away from the curb and headed the car out of Brodick. Francois asked her a great many questions during the short drive to The Monk’s Hood. Megan found his interest in the island endearing and tried