The Presence. Heather Graham

for a party myself to search the forest.”

      “Bruce, mind that MacNiall temper of yours, please, for the love of God!” Jonathan said. “I told you, we’ve taken a look in the forest. We’ll go back and search with greater effort if she isn’t found in the next few days.”

      “Good.” Bruce rose and started for the door.

      “Hey!” Jonathan called after him.

      “Aye?” Bruce said, pausing.

      “Did you close down your haunted castle tour for this evening?” Jonathan asked.

      “Actually, no. I’m joining it,” Bruce said.

      “You’re joining it?” Jonathan said, astonished. “You’ve never acted in your life!”

      “Well, that’s not really true, is it? We all act every day of our lives, don’t we?” Bruce asked him lightly.

      “Ach! Go figure!” Jonathan said, shaking his head. “It’s the blonde.”

      “It’s the fact that they are in a rather sorry predicament,” Bruce said. “And they did do a damn good job repairing a few of the walls. See you on Monday.”

      He exited the office, leaving the newspaper on Jonathan’s desk. He knew what the front page carried—a picture.

      She was young, with wide eyes and long, soft brown hair. She had originally hailed from Belfast, Northern Ireland. Apparently, she’d intended to head for London. But she’d never made it that far, discovering drugs and prostitution somewhere along the way instead. She’d gotten as far as Edinburgh, and been officially reported as missing when a haphazard group of “friends” realized that they hadn’t seen her in several days.

      News could die quickly, unless it was really sensational. The missing persons report on the first girl had run in the local papers and then been forgotten. Until Bruce had discovered her body in the forest while out riding, facedown, decomposed to a macabre degree.

      He’d missed the notice about the second disappearance. But there had been no missing the fact of where the body had been found—Tillingham Forest. Eban had found the second victim there, months later.

       Prostitutes. Drug addicts. The lost and the lonely. They’d needed help, not strangulation.

      He sat in his car for a minute, staring out the windshield.

      He was parked right in the center of town, where a fountain sat in the middle of a roundabout. Atop the fountain was the proud statue of a Cavalier. There was no plaque stating his name, or the dates of his birth or death, or extolling his deeds. But the locals all knew who the statue portrayed—the original Bruce MacNiall. And tonight, he’d play his ancestor.

      A sudden irritation seared through him. “You’d think they’d give you the benefit of the doubt, old boy. But let time go by and now you’re a hero—suspected of killing the love of his life!”

      There really was no proof that Bruce MacNiall had killed Annalise, but it made for a good story. And just as some historians saw the Stuart champion as a great hero, others saw him as a fool willing to risk the lives of far too many in his own pursuit for glory.

      The idea of Bruce MacNiall having killed his wife didn’t sit well with him. And still, he had said that he’d play the part. Life sure had it ironies.

      “Well, old fellow!” he muttered, “I’ve never heard it proved that you did any such thing, but it’s entertainment these days, eh?”

      He threw the car into gear and started toward the castle on its tor.

       Entertainment! Was someone killing prostitutes for fun?

      He drove by the forest and slowed the car to a crawl. He knew that to find anything within it, they’d have to delve deep into the woods and the streams.

      His heart ached for the girl. He knew she was already there, decaying in the woods. And he had known it as a certainty last night, when he had dreamed about seeing a body floating facedown.

      Except … in his dream, it had been the body of Toni Fraser.

      5

      “Hey! What are you doing out here?”

      Toni turned to see that David had come out to the stables. She was a little surprised. David liked horses well enough, but usually when they came to him or happened to be where he was. Ryan was the expert rider in their crew.

      She had been stroking the gorgeous black nose of Bruce MacNiall’s huge Shaunessy. The animal was mammoth and, she was certain, an amazing power when ridden. He was also well mannered and seemed to enjoy affection. Amazingly, he seemed to have nothing against Ryan’s gelding—at least, not so far as sharing the same living quarters.

      “I was just out exploring,” Toni told David, “and thought I’d come down here. I love that fellow Ryan bought—he’s a great horse for the money. But this guy—” she indicated Bruce MacNiall’s huge black “—he’s really something. Of course, I still love our horse best, but … he is gorgeous.”

      “Yes. And imposing, just like his master.”

      “The great Bruce MacNiall, who happened to ride in after we put our blood, sweat and tears into his place!” Toni commented.

      David grinned. “That’s Laird MacNiall to you, so I understand,” he teased.

      She waved a hand in the air.

      “Well, the situation is pretty sad,” he murmured. He strode across the stables then, coming to her side. He searched her eyes. “You okay, kid?”

      “Well, as okay as any of us,” she told him.