Labyrinth

by Tarah Scott

  Her eyes snapped open. The painting of Castle Morrison over the mantle in her room snapped into focus. She bucked harder. Flames in the fireplace glittered in a cacophony of lights an instant before orgasm rolled over her with an intensity that bowed her off the bed. She rocked into her fingers, once, twice, one last time, crying out as the pleasure gave way to a softer orgasm, then a softer one yet before dying with a ripple that spread through her body and faded as if the ecstasy had never existed.

  Chapter Six

  “Ms. Saulnier.”

  The deep male voice caused Margot to slow her walk along the east garden path and glance over her shoulder. A tall, sandy haired man approached. Blue jeans hugged long legs, and a brown bomber jacket stretched across broad shoulders. Arresting blue eyes held her gaze. Margot's pulse skipped a beat. Well, damn, Scotland was the place for good-looking men.

  She stopped and turned so he could catch up with her. “Sugar, I don’t think we’ve met, but I’m glad you didn’t let the possibility of rejection stop you. Not that there’s much chance you’ll get rejected.”

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “Special Director McNeil, at your service.”

  Margot startled. “What?” Before he could respond she murmured, “Hicks.”

  She was a fool. She’d known Chief Hicks enough years to know he wouldn’t let her walk out and not keep tabs on her.

  “You’re going to get me killed,” she said through tight lips.

  McNeil's brow lifted. “That could get me a discommendation.”

  “A comedian,” she muttered, then shot a glance past him at the castle battlements visible beyond the trees. Who had he talked to at the office? She turned and started down the path. He fell in alongside. “Want to tell me what you’re doing here?” she said.

  “Professional courtesy.”

  “Bull—” The brow shot up again and she gave him a sweet smile. “You’re checking up on me, sugar.”

  “A moment ago you seemed glad a stranger had the bullocks to approach you.”

  His cultured tone did nothing to belie the sensual undertone in his voice, and butterflies tickled the inside of her stomach at thought of those bullocks and the matching cock. A man appeared on the path ahead, pushing a wheelbarrow filled with gardening tools, and the erotic picture evaporated. Margot cursed at recognizing the head gardener. Reports of her meeting with a man in the garden would reach Cat within the hour.

  “Once Cat gets wind that the Northern Constabulary paid me a visit, she’ll know this isn’t the vacation it’s supposed to be,” Margot said.

  “That shouldn’t prove a problem,” he said. “I’m not with the Northern Constabulary.”

  She started to ask, then knew. “Scotland Yard.”

  He smiled, and she remained quiet as the gardener passed with a sidelong glance in their direction. Margot took a deep breath and waited until they reached a branching path, then turned left.

  “Look,” she said, “you’ve got to see this from my point of view.”

  “Actually, Ms. Saulnier, I don’t. You’re a visiting law enforcement officer. That accords you professional courtesy—as I said earlier—but make no mistake, I do not have to understand your point of view. Rather, you need to understand mine.” He paused. “Your police chief strongly suggests you return home.”

  “He’s not my police chief,” Margot corrected.

  “He said you’re good, the best, but you’re mistaken this time.”

  “Did it occur to you he might be mistaken?”

  “I’m not in a position to judge him.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re also not in any position to hassle me.”

  “Not hassle,” McNeil began in a mild voice, “let’s just say I am in a position to advise. Though, given a choice, I’d prefer another position, altogether.”

  She blinked. “You’re propositioning me?”

  He shrugged. “How often does a man meet a beautiful Mississippi Deputy Sheriff?”

  “Ex-Mississippi Deputy Sheriff.”

  “Your badge hasn’t yet grown cold.”

  “I doubt I’ll be here long enough for any position. By now, that gardener has reported to Cat, and she’s checking you out. By the time we're finished with this walk, she’ll know Scotland Yard paid me a visit.”

  He shook his head. “Cousin Harry sent me here to investigate the castle. He’s rich as the Devil, and is interested in bringing his wife here for holiday.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Margot shot back. “Cat will check you out—you ensured that by waylaying me.”

  “Waylaying?” he repeated, voice laced with a heaping of amusement that made her want to throttle him. “Waylaying would be if I dragged you into those trees and had my way with you.”

  Margot did a double take with the mental picture of her pressed against a tree, dress bunched up to her waist as his cock thrust hard and fast into her. His face snapped back into focus and she found him staring.

  Heat spread across her cheeks at flashflood speed. “Cat won’t be fooled by a Scotland Yard cop showing up at Castle Morrison, no matter what story he spins.”

  “She won’t find Charles McNeil on any employee list,” he replied.

  “What? Scotland Yard’s cops aren’t clandestine.”

  “Correct. But SAS is.”

  “Special Air Services?” What kind of favor had Hicks called in? “What is special forces doing on a case like this?”

  “John realized that a visit from a Bobby might compromise your cover so he called me.”

  “John?”

  “John Gordon.”

  She gave a small nod. John Gordon, Chief Constable of the Northern Constabulary. She’d checked out local law enforcement before leaving the States. First Hicks was on her tail, now the head of the whole damn island.

  Margot gave McNeil an appraising look. “That’s some favor your constable called in.”

  “He’s a close friend.”

  “What’d he do, save your life?”

  “Something like that. So, where shall we go for dinner?”

  She stared. “Are you kidding?”

  He shrugged. “How better to keep you under surveillance?”

  “You could simply leave me alone.”

  He shook his head. “I have my orders.”

  “Just what kind of uncover work do you do?"

  He turned his gaze onto her “A kind sure to please you.”

  Her pulse skittered, but she forced her chilly cop's voice, "You're damned sure of yourself."

  “I'm a trained professional. Shell we say seven? I know the perfect restaurant.”

  Margot narrowed her eyes. “This is blackmail.”

  He shrugged. “All part of the professional courtesy.”

  "Professional courtesy, my ass," she muttered, and wondered what Hicks would do if she sent him a thank you note for keeping tabs on her.

  *****

  Margot stopped so suddenly just inside the doorway of Cat’s private office the maxi cotton dress she wore swirled around her calves. She stared at the armor displayed inside an alcove behind Cat’s massive cherry wood desk.

  “How do you work with that thing staring down at you?” Margot asked.

  Cat glanced over her shoulder and laughed. “It is imposing. Isn’t it?”

  Margot took two steps onto the massive oriental carpet that covered most of the floor and skirted the desk to the armor. “It looks so real.”

  “It is real.”

  “The helmet looks like something out of King Arthur’s court.”

  A long narrow opening for eyes spanned the front of the silver, bucket shaped helmet. Rivets ran along each side of the helmet and along the bottom where the helmet tapered to a small point in the middle of the chin. A large, eight pointed black cross spanned the chest and abdomen area of the thigh-length chain mail, with gold edging the zig zag hem. A shield hung on the wall to the left of the armor beside a floor length tapestry depicting mounted warriors. Brass trimmed the crackl
ed cream background of the shield. A blood red, eight pointed cross spanned the height and width of the curved shield. A massive stainless steel sword nearly four feet long hung horizontally above the shield.

  Margot ran a finger along the red cross at the top of the pommel. Two smaller brass crosses were engraved within circles farther down the pommel. Where pommel met hilt, two horsemen were engraved within a circle.

  She looked at Cat. “Why isn’t this displayed in the foyer? This would distract everyone from that silly legend.”

  “I wish,” Cat said. “These suits of armor are a dime a dozen in these old castles.”

  Margot let her hand drop from the sword. “What do the crosses denote? Crusades, maybe? No. That’s not right. They’re different. What is it…they look familiar.” Memory rose of a foreign film…white cloaks, red crosses—“Templars,” she exclaimed. “This is the Scottish Templar cross." She shifted her attention to Cat. “This could go back as far as twelfth or thirteenth century. The Templars were drummed out of business in the early fourteenth century.”

  Cat stared. “How do you know so much about medieval history?”

  Margot laughed. “Movies.”

  Cat’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, then her face relaxed and she shook her head. “Leave it to you to actually pay attention to that stuff.”

  Margot rounded the desk and sat in the overstuffed leather chair across from Cat. The computer and multi-lined phone sitting on the desk, with a fax/copier located to her right were a stark contrast to the armor.

  “Kind of odd, isn’t it?” she said.

  “What’s that?” Cat asked.

  “Old meets new.”

  “You get used to it.”

  Margot doubted that. “So, how did you end up with that thing?” She nodded toward the armor.

  “Like I said, these castles are filled with this stuff.”

  “Templar armor? No way. That has to be worth some money.”

  “Everything here is worth money. That’s why I can sell the package at such a high price.”

  “It’s just so hard to believe.”

  Cat studied her. “I never knew you were into medieval history.”

  Margot grinned. “About as much as you were into Scottish castles.”

  Cat grinned back. “Some shocker, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Margot agreed. A real shocker. “I arrived two days ago and we haven’t had a moment to talk. I want to know what got you all the way to Scotland and Castle Morrison.”

  “I’m dying to fill you in, but it’ll have to wait.”

  Margot frowned. “Not work again.” She nodded toward the narrow stained glass window on the right wall. “The sun is shining. From what I understand, that doesn’t happen very often here. I’m on vacation and you’re supposed to play with me.”

  “I know, but the contractors ran into a problem yesterday, and I can’t afford to be away until we get it worked out. Besides, we’ve got loads of time. You said you were staying at least a month. How did you get Hicks to agree to that? I thought he couldn’t live without you.”

  “When I told him I hadn’t had a good lay in five years, and that if I didn’t get one now, I’d start working through the boys in Wilkinson Count, he practically ordered me to leave the county.”

  Cat grimaced. “Scared the shit out of the old boy.”

  “It did. He knows I’m capable of it.”

  “More than capable, you were made for it.”

  She sounded so much like the old Cat, Margot couldn’t take offense. The two of them had raised as much hell as any of the boys in Wilkinson County.

  “You keep taking care of business on your own and you won’t get that lay.” Cat waggled her eyebrows.

  Margot laughed. “The dream I had night before last can’t compare to last night.” It couldn’t. Yet, in the light of day, something about that second dream sent a small but distinct chill down her back. She shook off the feeling. Dreams were odd by nature. Margot refocused on Cat to find her staring. “Something wrong?”

  “You started to tell me about last night, then went quiet. What happened?”

  Margot shook her head. “Too much talk of legends and seducing ghosts. Where’d you get all that stuff?”

  “That story outlined in the picture is the well known part of the legend. I hadn’t intended on including the detail about Lord Morrison murdering Rita Jones. That’s Ghost Hunters Inc.’s work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I opened Castle Morrison’s doors, their sleuths went to work and uncovered that tidbit. I could have murdered them.”

  Margot just bet she could. “Why’d they do it?”

  “Apparently, they’re always on the lookout for a new haunted castle to add to their list. They wanted Castle Morrison to be number three in Great Britain’s top ten most haunted places. I turned them down.”

  “Why? I would think that would be great for business.”

  “A ghost who murders women because they can’t set him free?” Cat’s mouth twisted down in disgust. “Pretty gruesome, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah,” Margot agreed. “Damned gruesome.” But not gruesome enough to discourage her from buying the place—or perpetuating the legend at the dinner table. “If Tory Hanley is any indication, you might want to reconsider Ghost Hunters Inc.’s offer. Tours could be a huge source of revenue.”

  “Not a chance. My rich guests come here to get away from the common man. Not to mention, being named one of the top ten haunted places in Great Britain would bring every nut between here and Mississippi out of the woodwork to exorcise my ghost.”

  Margot lifted a brow. “Your ghost?”

  She shrugged. “My castle, my ghost. I paid enough for them.”

  Margot knew she wasn’t talking about money, but the four year sentence with Donny she’d been forced to pay in order to collect her money. Margot relaxed against her seat. “Last night, your ghost took me on another wild wet dream. I don’t remember the whole thing.” And damn, if she hadn’t tried “But the bits and pieces are yummy.” She released a disgusted breath. “I pulled out of it before I got my just desserts. Must be my church upbringing.”

  Cat snorted. “After thirty-four years?”

  Margot laughed. “Yeah, it’s a stretch.” She crossed her legs, her shoe bumping into the front of the desk. “What’s the problem with the contractors?”

  Cat hesitated. “You can’t mention this to anyone. Word gets out, and I could lose every booking from now into the twenty-second century.”

  “What is it?” Margot kept the surprise from her voice. Of all the people Cat might confide in, the cop who knew she'd murdered her husband should be the last person.

  Was it possible Cat had no idea Margot suspected her? Margot always believed Cat knew, and her disappearance from Wilkinson County confirmed that suspicion for Margot. Could she have been wrong about Donny’s death? She’d asked herself that question a thousand times and, each time, the answer came in the form of Etta Mae Anderson, the most renowned witch in the four-county Mississippi, Louisiana area.

  A week before Donny drowned Etta Mae had given Cat a potion for woman problems. Every witch in Mississippi and Louisiana knew practicing abortion without a medical degree meant serious jail time, so they offered potions for woman troubles, and swore the herbs would cure any ailment a woman had.

  Etta Mae’s voodoo magic had put more than one girl in the hospital, and a few had been buried in early graves, but Margot figured Cat wasn’t about to chance an abortion at any clinic in the south, nor was she going to carry to term a baby who could lay claim to half the inheritance she was entitled to after Donald’s death.

  “There’s a problem with the foundation on the east wall,” Cat’s voice snapped Margot’s attention back onto her.

  “What?”

  “The east wall, there’s a problem with the foundation.”

  “How much will that run you?”

  “I can’t be sure until they determine the ex
tent of the damage, but it’ll start at three hundred thousand.”

  Margot released a slow whistle. “You said you’re booked a year in advance. You must have deposits that’ll cover it?”

  “The bookings for the next four months are held with a thirty percent deposit, half of which is nonrefundable. Anything over four months, I get a fifteen percent deposit, of which ten percent is nonrefundable. All deposits become nonrefundable six weeks before the booking date. I can’t use the refundable portions of the deposits, and have to pay taxes on the nonrefundable deposits before I can use that. If the damage is contained in that corner, I’ll have enough to cover it. Problem is, that money is needed for operating costs until I get into full swing.”

  Margot wondered how Cat had managed to blow through four million, even with the purchase and renovation of the castle, but asked, instead, “How long will that take?”

  “A year before I can breathe, two before I have six months operating costs in the bank.”

  “That’s not bad. Most businesses take five years to start making any profit at all.”

  “I have no intention of slaving for five years before living my life again,” Cat said with a vehemence that started a crawl of tension up Margot’s spine.

  “No?” she replied, then cursed inwardly at the realization that she’d used her calculating deputy sheriff voice. Twelve years as a cop had really seeped into her ego.

  Cat’s gaze sharpened. She leaned back in her chair and nodded toward the door. “You go on, Margot. I’ve got to play grownup today.”

  Surprise gave way to anger. She and Cat had been best friends since second grade when Dottie Harris called Cat white trash and said her rich daddy could buy and sell Cat’s mother—and probably already had. The accusation was true, but Margot bloodied Dottie’s nose and got suspended for a week. Dottie never bothered Cat again, and Margot and Cat became inseparable.

  “Maybe you ought to find that good looking Charles McNeil you were with in the gardens and see if you can do something about getting that lay,” Cat said.

  Margot didn’t flinch. As expected, word had reached Cat as quickly as it would have in Wilkinson County, and the note of resentment in her voice confirmed Margot’s fears. While it would take serious connections to get information on an undercover agent, Cat was the suspicious sort.