now than it did then. Why hurt the one person who’d always stood by her? And why get pissed off when she had invited Margot to Scotland ?
Twenty-five minutes later, Margot cursed. Not a single computer file was password protected. Only office supplies filled the drawers. The single oak file cabinet located in the far right hand corner contained invoices, employee records, and the like. This office belonged to a highly efficient businesswoman. End of story , as Chief Hicks would say.
Margot began prowling the room. Had Cat hidden the important information in her bedroom? Where would be the best place to hide sensitive information? Margot paused. Where would a person hide something in an old castle? The dungeon came to mind, but that was part of the public tour. She ran a finger along the mantle. Her gaze fell on the fireplace. She paused. No ashes. Margot snorted. No drafty winter nights for Cat. She’d had heat piped into her office—probably her bedroom too. Unlike her guests, she had no desire to endure seventeenth century life.
As if of its own accord, Margot's gaze shifted back to the armor. How much could the antiques be worth? Had to be a fortune, which meant they belonged in a museum. Of course, Cat had a point. For the kind of money her guests paid, they expected the real thing, not replicas. So why keep an authentic Scottish Templar suit of amour hidden in a private office?
Margot crossed to the suit of armor. Maybe this wasn’t an original. How would she know the difference? Cat had been surprised she recognized the Scottish Templar’s cross. Margot ran a finger along the edge of the shield. She hadn’t noticed it when talking to Cat, but while the metal had been polished to mirror-like shine, nicks on the surface indicated the shield had seen action.
She lifted her gaze to the sword. From pommel to tip, the sword was three and a half feet long. Like the shield, it shown to perfection, but nicks on the blade and wear on the pommel said the weapon had also been used—a lot. The helmet, too, showed signs of wear. When she examined the hem of the mail and found tiny bits of bent or twisted metal, she knew her guess was right. The luster of the armor couldn’t compare to the shield and sword, but weapons could be polished. If this wasn’t the real thing, it was a well-used replica.
Margot turned, dropped into the chair, and opened the browser on the computer. The high-powered computer had the window open in two seconds. Margot typed in Scottish Templar armor .
Hit after hit advertised stores selling replicated medieval armor. She typed in collectors, templar armor, and got six hits relating to people who bought various types of armor for collectors, as well as collections donated to museums. Page after page combined with different key words turned into another fifteen minutes that passed with having found only the London Museum exhibit of a Templar sword. She twisted and looked over her shoulder at the armor. Cat said suits of armor were a dime a dozen in these castles. That meant this armor came with Castle Morrison. Did that mean the lord of the manor had been of Templar stock?
She typed Scottish Templars in the Google bar, and began reading when the page loaded. The Scottish Order of the Knights Templar was one of Royal appointment, an Honor presented by the Royal Court . Only limited families were accepted into the Order and at the head of the organization were the heads of three families, seen to be of senior representation of the original Scottish Knights. These three families were: the House of Stewart; The House of Sinclair; and The House of Seton; which families were also recognized as representatives of the Carolingian bloodline.
Margot squinted at the screen and read out loud, “Carolingian bloodline.”
Five minutes later, she stared at a window that stated Merovingian bloodline: the royal bloodline of Jesus later merged with Carolingian bloodline.
Was Cat on some sort of hunt for
Twenty-five minutes later, Margot cursed. Not a single computer file was password protected. Only office supplies filled the drawers. The single oak file cabinet located in the far right hand corner contained invoices, employee records, and the like. This office belonged to a highly efficient businesswoman. End of story , as Chief Hicks would say.
Margot began prowling the room. Had Cat hidden the important information in her bedroom? Where would be the best place to hide sensitive information? Margot paused. Where would a person hide something in an old castle? The dungeon came to mind, but that was part of the public tour. She ran a finger along the mantle. Her gaze fell on the fireplace. She paused. No ashes. Margot snorted. No drafty winter nights for Cat. She’d had heat piped into her office—probably her bedroom too. Unlike her guests, she had no desire to endure seventeenth century life.
As if of its own accord, Margot's gaze shifted back to the armor. How much could the antiques be worth? Had to be a fortune, which meant they belonged in a museum. Of course, Cat had a point. For the kind of money her guests paid, they expected the real thing, not replicas. So why keep an authentic Scottish Templar suit of amour hidden in a private office?
Margot crossed to the suit of armor. Maybe this wasn’t an original. How would she know the difference? Cat had been surprised she recognized the Scottish Templar’s cross. Margot ran a finger along the edge of the shield. She hadn’t noticed it when talking to Cat, but while the metal had been polished to mirror-like shine, nicks on the surface indicated the shield had seen action.
She lifted her gaze to the sword. From pommel to tip, the sword was three and a half feet long. Like the shield, it shown to perfection, but nicks on the blade and wear on the pommel said the weapon had also been used—a lot. The helmet, too, showed signs of wear. When she examined the hem of the mail and found tiny bits of bent or twisted metal, she knew her guess was right. The luster of the armor couldn’t compare to the shield and sword, but weapons could be polished. If this wasn’t the real thing, it was a well-used replica.
Margot turned, dropped into the chair, and opened the browser on the computer. The high-powered computer had the window open in two seconds. Margot typed in Scottish Templar armor .
Hit after hit advertised stores selling replicated medieval armor. She typed in collectors, templar armor, and got six hits relating to people who bought various types of armor for collectors, as well as collections donated to museums. Page after page combined with different key words turned into another fifteen minutes that passed with having found only the London Museum exhibit of a Templar sword. She twisted and looked over her shoulder at the armor. Cat said suits of armor were a dime a dozen in these castles. That meant this armor came with Castle Morrison. Did that mean the lord of the manor had been of Templar stock?
She typed Scottish Templars in the Google bar, and began reading when the page loaded. The Scottish Order of the Knights Templar was one of Royal appointment, an Honor presented by the Royal Court . Only limited families were accepted into the Order and at the head of the organization were the heads of three families, seen to be of senior representation of the original Scottish Knights. These three families were: the House of Stewart; The House of Sinclair; and The House of Seton; which families were also recognized as representatives of the Carolingian bloodline.
Margot squinted at the screen and read out loud, “Carolingian bloodline.”
Five minutes later, she stared at a window that stated Merovingian bloodline: the royal bloodline of Jesus later merged with Carolingian bloodline.
Was Cat on some sort of hunt for
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