Operation

by Barbara Bretton

  The old woman worked quickly, and in record time Sam was presented with two perfectly toasted pieces of dark-grained bread, a crock of butter and some orange marmalade. Before she had the chance to finish the first slice, Mag placed a bowl of steaming oatmeal in front of her.

  “Thank you,” Sam said, “but I couldn’t possibly.”

  “You could and you will,” Mag said, pouring fresh milk into the bowl. “Think of the baby, lassie.”

  Sam shuddered. “What if I—”

  “It will not happen again today,” Mag said with great confidence.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Eight babies of my own, all still living, is how I can be so sure.”

  Sam’s eyes nearly popped as she looked at the tiny slip of a woman who stood before her. “Eight!”

  “Aye, and no birth took longer than six hours.”

  Sam considered her carefully. “And you ate oatmeal?”

  Was that the beginning of a smile tugging at the corners of Old Mag’s disapproving mouth? “Every morning.”

  Sam sighed and picked up her spoon. “Then who am I to argue with success?”

  She dug in.

  Chapter 10

  Sam ate what she could of the oatmeal under Old Mag’s watchful eye. They said little to each other, but Sam sensed they’d turned a corner in the relationship and she was glad. It was obvious that the housekeeper would throw herself on a sword for Duncan, and Sam knew her life at the castle would be a great deal easier if she had the fierce old woman on her side.

  Mag was busy paring potatoes when Sam finished the last of the cereal, so she washed her dishes then dried them and put them away in the cupboard.

  “Thank you for breakfast,” she said to Mag. “It was delicious.”

  “You don’t have to wash up next time, lassie. ‘Tis my job to do for you.”

  “A little work won’t kill me,” Sam said, smiling easily for the first time.

  “You’re a good one,” Mag pronounced. “He chose well this time.”

  Sam took a deep breath and decided to plunge in. “That’s the second time you’ve said something like that.”

  Mag looked away. “I’m an old woman. Sometimes my tongue runs away with me.”

  “Why did you dislike his first wife so much? What—”

  “Robby calls me,” Mag said, then hurried from the kitchen as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.

  So much for discovering any of Duncan’s secrets.

  Sam went upstairs to brush her teeth and fix her makeup. And, she admitted to herself, to see if her husband might have returned to their bedroom. Unfortunately, everything was exactly the way she’d left it an hour ago. She straightened the bed, then sat by the window. It wasn’t quite nine in the morning and the day stretched out in front of her, an endless string of empty hours waiting to be filled.

  She could either spend them wondering about her husband’s past or she could get on with building her new life. She didn’t need to be told which was the better bet.

  With a little luck, her work files would arrive by the end of the week, which meant she had to have someplace to store them. A work space, she thought. An office, even. She was living in a gazillion-room castle. It shouldn’t be too terribly difficult to come up with a place where she could work.

  She would have to ask Duncan to show her around and help her pick the best spot. Of course, to do that she’d have to find him first.

  Sam went downstairs. She peeked into the library, the parlor and the dining room, then walked to the kitchen. Neither Old Mag nor Robby was anywhere to be seen. She stepped out the back door into the garden, where she discovered bed after bed of chervil and oregano and thyme and rosemary, among many others, all planted in neat rows on either side of the stone path. In another month or so, the scent would be downright heavenly.

  She followed the path past a gardener’s shed and what looked to be the remnants of some sort of arsenal. You could almost see the shimmer of history, like the mist curling up from the sea. Knowing that her child would be linked to all who had come before filled Sam with a sense of wonder she’d never known.

  The path led past the garage, where Robby and two young men were busy doing something that required lots of power and equal amounts of noise. Sam waved at them and continued walking. She considered asking them if they’d seen Duncan anywhere but decided against it.

  A small stone building, obviously modern, stood about one hundred yards away from the garage. It had a high, flat roof and enormous windows and looked as if it had been dropped on the castle grounds by mistake. She wondered if it was a guest house, although why you’d need a guest house when you owned a castle was beyond her.

  She approached the building and tried to peer through one of the windows. The only thing she saw was her reflection peering back at her. Mirrored glass. Wouldn’t you know it? She walked around the side of the building and found the same thing, and from there she went to the front where she was pleased to find the door was slightly ajar.

  She didn’t hesitate a second. She pushed it open then stepped inside and she instantly understood where she was.

  Duncan’s studio.

  The room was awash in the purest light imaginable and all of it seemed to be centered on the man himself. Her chest felt tight as she looked at him. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, and her eye was drawn to the way the muscles of his forearms tensed each time he tapped hammer to chisel. Chips of marble glittered like diamonds in the sunlight as they flew up and away from his chisel.

  She stood quietly by the door, scarcely breathing. So this was how magic happened, from hard muscular work and genius. She should have known. The earthy sensuality of his sculptures wasn’t the result of some intellectual exercise. It was born in the body, of muscle and sinew and sweat, and those things are what gave it dimension.

  A voluptuous shiver rippled through her as he shifted position. His chest and forearms glistened, and she found herself longing to draw the tip of her tongue along each swell of muscle.

  “Step inside and close the door, lassie.”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice. “How did you know I was standing here?”

  “Your perfume,” he said.

  Another shiver went through her as she shut the door.

  “I didn’t realize this was your studio,” she said.

  “Come closer,” he said, drawing the back of his arm across his eyes.

  “I’m fine right here.”

  “You’re in my light, lassie.”

  In his light? That hardly seemed possible. The place was flooded with sun. Still, she moved deeper into the room, aware of the feel of her breasts beneath her sweater, of the unfamiliar sway of her hips with each step she took. She wondered if she would ever get used to her new, more womanly body or if she would spend the rest of her pregnancy feeling like a stranger in her own skin.

  She stopped a few feet away from Duncan, who was still absorbed in his work. His concentration was almost palpable, like a force field that kept the rest of the world at bay. She wondered how it would feel to be the focus of all that intensity, to have him look at her that way, as if there was nothing and nobody else on earth that mattered.

  The thought made her light-headed. She’d never inspired that kind of intensity in a man. There was certainly no reason to believe she’d ever inspire it in her new husband. She hadn’t even been able to inspire him to spend the entire night in the same bed.

  He drew the back of his arm across his eyes again, and the male grace of the gesture made her breath catch in her throat. Hormones, she told herself. In a few months she wouldn’t even notice gestures like that.

  He positioned the chisel once more and tapped the hammer against it, three times in rapid succession, then grimaced.

  “What are you working on?” she asked. His body shielded the piece from her eyes.

  He stepped away from the bench and wiped his hands on his thighs. “Look for yourself, lassie.”
>
  She approached cautiously, aware of his nearness, of the fact that this was so clearly his territory and his alone. A block of marble lay sideways across the table. It wasn’t terribly impressive in size, certainly no more than two feet wide and half that deep. That was what she noticed first. The marble was a pale ivory color, tinted faintly yellow from the sunlight splashing across it. At first she saw nothing but angles and edges, and she felt a sharp stab of disappointment that his genius could seem so ordinary up close.

  Then, suddenly, she focused in. Rising somehow from the marble itself was the gentle S curve of a woman’s back and the suggestion of a strong jawline and long neck. A jolt of recognition shot through her and she looked at Duncan. “That’s me,” she said quietly. “Isn’t it?”

  “Aye,” he said, “or it will be.”

  She bent low over the marble and ran the tip of her index finger along the curve. “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say nothing, lassie. Just stand there and let me capture the angle of your shoulders.”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist and stepped back. “You’re joking.”

  The look in his eyes told her otherwise.

  “I don’t know the first thing about modeling.”

  “There is nothing you need to know.” He placed his index finger under her chin and tilted her head. Then he angled her right shoulder down, down, until she felt the elongation of her spine, the shimmering S curve she’d seen rising from the marble. “Hold that…”

  As if she could do anything else when he was looking at her that way.

  The only sound in the room was the rhythmic tap of hammer to chisel. He circled the slab of marble, quickly etching a curve here, an angle there. His intensity was overwhelming. It seemed to draw the oxygen from her lungs.

  Her nose itched but she held the pose steady. When her right arm began to tremble, she ignored it rather than disturb his concentration. However, when he gestured for her to turn to the left, she shook her head. “My leg’s asleep,” she said by way of apology. “If I turn, I’ll fall over.”

  He dragged a chaise longue from the corner to the middle of the room then led her to it.

  “I’m not a model, Duncan,” she protested as he helped her swing her legs onto the chair. “This is crazy.”

  “A few more minutes,” he said, positioning her body in the elongated sweep of his sculpture.

  There was something highly provocative about the position but she couldn’t say how or why. She was fully clothed. She wasn’t touching herself in any way that might be deemed erotic. And yet she felt as if every muscle in her body was being primed somehow for the act of love. For sex in all its infinite variety and joy. Was that the secret to his art, then, this ability to translate the ordinary stuff of life into pure sizzle and burn? Whatever it was, she felt the heat move through her like wildfire.

  She found herself relaxing, enjoying the sensation of being the focus of his concentration. There was something heady and exciting about it, to know that it was the sweep of her throat, the curve of her spine, that inspired him.

  He stopped every so often and guided her gently into another position, subtle alterations of line and angle that seemed to trigger an artistic response from him. Magic was rising from that cold block of marble, and it thrilled her to be a part of it.

  * * *

  DUNCAN WORKED as swiftly as he could, trying to capture her line before she grew too tired. There was something endearing about her self-consciousness, and he found himself trying to convey that uncertainty beneath the sheer beauty of her physical form.

  Because that was the miracle of it all. She was, in all ways, a goddess yet unaware of the extraordinary power granted to her. The early stages of pregnancy had softened her beauty, turned her slim-hipped, coltish quality into something womanly and deeply alluring. Clothes seemed an abomination. She should be proudly naked, her ripe beauty there to be worshiped by mere mortals.

  He wondered what she would do if he asked her to strip off her clothes for him right then and there. He put down the hammer and chisel and moved toward her. She was so beautiful with the sunlight turning her pale hair to molten gold that he wished he could stop time and live in that moment forever.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked as he drew close.

  He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “You’re perfect.”

  Her eyes widened and she broke the pose. “Duncan, I—”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders, feeling the delicate bone structure beneath his fingertips, letting that knowledge work its way into his subconscious. A tiny vein in her right temple pulsed wildly, and it took all his self-control to keep from placing his lips against the spot.

  She tensed. He could feel the slightest trembling and he murmured something low, something he didn’t expect her to understand, then moved his hands across her shoulders and down her arms, stroking her. She sighed, a softly sibilant sound, and he took it as encouragement. Gently he eased her sweater off her right shoulder, exposing the smooth skin and exquisite line.

  “Duncan?” She sounded both puzzled and pleased.

  “I need to see you,” he said, then eased her sweater off her left shoulder, as well.

  She dipped her head, and her cascade of hair fell across both shoulders.

  “No,” he said, gathering the silky fall into his hands. “I want to see you.” He resisted the urge to bury his face against the fragrant mass.

  She nodded then lowered the sweater farther, revealing the curving swell of her breasts. The gesture touched him deeply, for he knew how difficult it was for her.

  “Aye,” he said, “that’s it.” Although it was only part of what he wanted from her. Still, it was more than he’d thought he would find.

  He picked up his hammer and chisel again, determined to find a way to turn mere marble into something worthy of her splendor. He wanted to see her breasts revealed to his eyes, he wanted to see the swell of her belly and know it cradled his child. He wanted—

  “Did you hear something?” she asked.

  Only the sound of my heart, lassie. “I dinna think so.”

  “I’m sure I heard something, Duncan. Listen.”

  He did and quickly realized she was right. “There’s someone at the door,” he said.

  She tugged her sweater into position. “Do you usually have visitors when you’re working?”

  He shook his head. “Never.” He waited while she smoothed her hair then he went to open the door.

  “Took you long enough!” Old Mag railed at him from the doorway. She glanced curiously at Samantha who smiled at her from the chaise longue. “There’s a telephone call for you, missus.”

  Sam stood and smoothed her skirt. “A phone call?”

  “Says she’s your mother and that she needs to speak with you right now.”

  “That sounds like my mother,” Sam said to Duncan. “I’d better take the call.”

  She hurried from the studio, and most of the light in the room seemed to vanish with her.

  “And what are you looking at, old woman?” he asked Mag. “You don’t have work of your own?”

  “She does not love you yet, laddie, but she will in time.”

  He stared at her. “What in bloody hell does that mean?”

  “It means give her time.”

  “You’re talking nonsense, old woman. We’re married.”

  “I have eyes to see with, don’t think I don’t, and this marriage isn’t all it should be.”

  He hated when she did that, saw through his lies to the heart of the matter. “This marriage is not your business,” he said.

  “Tell her, laddie. You might be surprised.”

  The only thing that surprised him was that Old Mag still had her position.

  * * *

  IT TOOK SAM a few minutes but she finally tracked down the telephone in the dining room, of all places.

  “Tell me you’re not married,” Julia greeted her. “Tell me this letter is a te
rrible joke.”

  “Hello to you, too, Mother,” she said, sitting down at the highly polished mahogany table. “I’m afraid there’s no joke.”

  Julia’s groan hurt Sam’s eardrum. “How could you, darling? What on earth possessed you to get married?”

  “I’m thirty-two years old,” Sam countered. “Wouldn’t you say it was about time?”

  “You’ve lost your mind,” Julia said, her voice rising in agitation. “I can’t think of another reason for such a foolish, foolish act.”

  “Love?” Sam asked, enjoying her role as devil’s advocate. “Isn’t that why most people get married?”

  Julia made a dismissive sound that neatly conveyed her basic distrust in the institution of marriage. “I know you too well, my darling. There’s more to this than meets the eye.”

  “You’re right about that,” Sam said, wearying of her mother’s outrage. “I’m pregnant.” She waited for a reaction but when none was forthcoming she went on. “You’re very quiet, Mother. Are you overwhelmed at the thought of becoming a grandmother?”

  “Oh, God.” Julia groaned loudly. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

  “Wouldn’t you say it’s about time for that, too? I’m thirty-two, which makes you—”

  “Old enough to know better than to discuss my age.”

  “So why did you call, Julia?” Sam found herself resenting this intrusion into her new life. “And how on earth did you get the number?” She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had telephoned her. It had to be at least three years.

  “I called to tell you I’m here for you if you decide you made a mistake.”

  Sam stared at the phone as if it had sprouted wings and a tail. The statement was so unlike Julia as to sound downright foreign. “I’m happily married, Mother. I haven’t made a mistake.”

  “Duncan Stewart is a difficult man, darling.”

  “What did you say?”

  Julia’s sigh rippled through the wires. “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear what I said. Your husband is well-known as a difficult man. There’s no crime in failure.”