Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

Such pretty, spinning stars, in bright neon colors.

It was her last thought before losing consciousness.

“Well now. What have we here?”

At the strange voice, Beth opened her eyes.

Standing over her was a plump little groundhog wearing a chef’s hat and a long white apron, and peering at her as though she had two heads. In the animal’s front paw was a giant wooden spoon that could have easily served as a paddle for a boat.

How was this possible? A talking groundhog? Dressed as a chef? The fall must have been much more serious than she’d thought. Her brain was muddled.

Still . . . she’d seen his face somewhere before, though she couldn’t recall where. “Who are . . . ?”

“I have baking to see to. Bones and phones to add to my scones.” He abruptly turned.

“Wait. Please don’t leave me.”

“I mustn’t be out at the start of a new moon or I might encounter . . .” He never even gave her a backward glance as he hobbled away.

She was left alone, with only silence.

Of course she was alone. She’d only dreamed her visitor.

She eased to a sitting position and felt her head swim. Touching a hand to the spot, she could feel the sticky warmth of blood.

Very slowly she picked up her purse and overnight bag before getting to her feet. She started walking in the direction the funny little groundhog had gone, though she had no idea where she was, or what might lie ahead. Dream or no dream, that creature was her only guide.

Why was the countryside so dark? Where were the street lights? Had the fall affected her vision? And where had she been headed? Oh yes. Stag’s Head Lodge. Thank heaven she had enough brainpower to remember that much.

As she came up over a rise she spotted a light up ahead. A light that seemed to be swaying, before abruptly moving away. Alarmed that she would be left behind in the dark, she started running and stumbling until she could make out the figure of a giant stag up ahead.

Hearing her footsteps, it turned, and twin beams of blazing red light were fixed on her with a look so fearsome, she covered her eyes and looked away.

When she looked up she realized her mistake. It wasn’t a stag, but a horseman holding a lantern as he headed away from her.

“Wait. Stop.” Dazed, confused, she began to run after him. “Can you help me? I seem to have lost my way.”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” In the darkness, the heavily accented Scottish voice was low with anger.

“I’m expected at the lodge. I’m Beth Campbell from New York.”

“A Campbell? On Gordon land? How dare—”

“I phoned to say I was on my . . .”

Feeling herself fading, she began to sway as the sky above her slowly circled.

The man was out of the saddle and managed to catch her before she hit the ground. With little effort he swung her up into his arms and mounted his horse.

“Thank y—” Her throat was so dry, she couldn’t seem to make her mouth work.

His breath was hot against her cheek. “It’s not thanks I want. I’d much prefer to see the back of you as you take your leave of my land. But for now, I suppose, I have no choice but to take you with me.”

He flicked the reins, and the great black horse started toward a darkened fortress in the distance.

Beth found herself in a most awkward position, being held in the strongest arms she’d ever known, her face nearly buried in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. She breathed in the scent of forest and evergreen, making her think of a wild, dangerous, primitive creature. She felt small and insignificant in his arms.

A feeling of sheer terror rose up and had her by the throat, but she couldn’t make a sound.

He was dressed in a rough woolen cloak, with the hood lowered, allowing his shoulder-length hair to flow out behind him.

As the horse’s hooves ate up the distance, he spoke not a word, leaving Beth to hear nothing but the pounding of her own heartbeat mingling with his. A strong, steady drumbeat that had her own pulse speeding up.

At last they arrived in some sort of courtyard. A dozen hounds swarmed around the horse, setting up a chorus of baying until the man gave a single command. At once they dropped to their haunches and remained still as statues, tongues lolling. He dismounted, still holding Beth in his arms as easily as if she weighed no more than a feather.

In the blink of an eye the hounds disappeared, to be replaced by a cluster of men, all dressed in similar fashion to her rescuer, in rough woolen cloaks, hair and beards long and unkempt.

A stooped, furry groundhog, a twin of the one in the chef’s hat and apron, caught the reins and led the horse away. The men formed a circle around the man holding Beth.

“What have ye here?” one of them asked.

“A Campbell. She seems ill or wounded. Possibly demented, by the odd way she speaks. I’ll have Maura see to her.”

Her rescuer carried her through a doorway and into a cavernous room lit only by the roaring flames of an enormous stone fireplace. The log ablaze on the grate was as big as a tree trunk.

The man lowered her to a fur-covered chaise set in front of the fire.

A plump gray rabbit hurried toward them. “Ye’ve need of me, m’laird?”

“Aye. This female seems to be in distress. See if she is injured, and minister to her needs.”

“Aye, m’laird. Will ye have ale?”

“I will, Maura. It’s been a long journey.”

The rabbit hopped away.

Minutes later Beth felt a cool, damp cloth on her forehead. She opened her eyes to see an old woman kneeling beside her, holding a bowl of steaming broth and a goblet of something warm and red.

“Are ye strong enough to drink this, lass?”

“What is it?”

“A bit of broth and some mead, lass. They’ll ease yer pain and give ye strength.”

Beth managed to sit up, taking several sips of broth before tasting the sweet, pungent, fermented mead. She managed only a few swallows before setting it on a side table. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be all right. My car’s engine died, and I started walking when suddenly I tripped and fell down some kind of black hole.”

The woman was staring at her as though she’d just spoken gibberish.

“Could you contact someone at Stag’s Head Lodge and ask them to send a driver to fetch me?”

The woman began to press her backward against the chaise. “You lie down now, lass, and rest a bit until yer mind clears.”

“My mind is clear. My name is—”

The old woman gave a quick shake of her head. “The laird told us yer name. Ye’d be wise not to speak the name Campbell here at Stag’s Head Lodge.”

“This is Stag’s Head?” Beth was up and on her feet, visibly swaying. “Then they’re expecting me. I phoned and told them I was on my way.”

The old woman glanced across the room. “Ye can see she’s not herself yet, m’laird.”

Beth turned and saw the man who’d carried her standing in front of the massive fireplace, holding a tankard of ale.

The men standing in a cluster around him were talking in low tones until he waved a hand, dismissing them. They walked to the far end of the room, where they stood watching and listening.

The man had shed his cloak and now wore a length of plaid tossed over his shoulder in a rakish manner and tied around his waist like a kilt. On his feet were leather boots. Other than that, his legs and chest were naked.

On any other man this whole pose of an ancient warrior would look phony. Like some cover model or actor hoping for his fifteen seconds of fame. But there was something about this man. Something dark and rough and dangerous that had him looking like the real thing, and had Beth’s breath backing up in her throat.