Jesus. Tag scrubbed a hand over his face, cursing his father to hell. Though he hoped that was now a redundant wish.
Well, there was no turning back now, he might as well admit that much. Screwing his father over was one thing, but on the other hand, he wasn’t going to blithely sign away a chunk of money that could be better spent here, by Jace and Zan and their future offspring for all he knew. He needed to understand the bigger picture first. Then he’d sign the papers one way or the other, maybe even send the box and its contents to this Maura Sinclair if he still felt, after going through everything, that she was best served by that decision. If not he’d leave it to Jace, or toss it away.
His attention returned to the letters. He noted how the earliest letter had been addressed to Mr. Taggart J. Morgan, Sr. As one would to a business associate. The next few had been addressed the same way. But after that, it had been simply Taggart Morgan on the envelopes. And M. Sinclair in the upper left corner. Glancing at the other packets, he noted that held true until the last few letters, when her full name had appeared again. Had she known he was dying? That someone else might be reading her letters?
Tag lifted the oldest packet of letters and leaned back, absently wincing at the creaking sound of the leather chair, a sound he’d always hated. In defense he propped his feet up on the pristine white blotter, crossed his ankles, and turned the stack over, so the first letter she’d written, or the first one he’d kept at any rate, was now on top.
Flipping open the neatly tucked flap, he slid out several sheets of folded writing paper. They bore the same cramped scrawl he’d noted on the envelope. He smoothed out the creases, ignoring the fact that his heart had begun to kick into gear, just like it did on the first day of a new dig. The anticipation of possible discovery, of unearthing the unknown. He was feeling all those things. Only this time another emotion threaded amongst the more familiar ones. Dread.
“Too late now,” he murmured, and began to read.
He had no idea how much time passed while he sat in that chair. Hadn’t heard Jace or Zan leave, though surely they both had by now. He was completely, irrevocably immersed in the story unfolding in his hands. Or the half of the story that was unfolding. Maura’s half.
Maura. She of the quick wit and charming self-deprecation, tossing out bold declarations with unabashed honesty, while exhibiting clear and obvious concern for a man she’d met only via correspondence, but who, according to her, had changed her life. Tag read every word she’d written. And, dozens of letters later, he felt as if he knew her. Like he would definitely recognize her if their paths were ever to cross.
And yet he still couldn’t answer any of his previous questions. Her age, her marital status, or even what she looked like. One thing he had learned was that she’d grown up in the castle, apparently raised by her uncle, meaning her last name was apparently no coincidence. But he was unclear on exactly what her role there had been, or what it really was now. She still lived there, obviously, and it was evident that she had a deep and abiding connection to the place, as he supposed someone would who’d lived there all her life and had a family history tied to it as well. But was she a paid caretaker, or was there something more to it, he had no idea. Hell, he still wasn’t entirely sure how his father had come to own the castle in the first place.
There had obviously been other correspondence between them before the more personal letters had begun. He’d glanced through the accompanying legal files, but other than what appeared to be progress reports on work being done to the castle, and the contracts themselves, which he hadn’t gone over in detail, he really didn’t know who had contacted whom initially.
But one thing was clear, and that was that she considered his father to be a savior of sorts and was quite happy with their arrangement. She did talk about the castle itself, but mostly her letters weren’t about that, or even herself, so much as her observations of life. Life in Ballantrae. A hard and demanding life for most, that, according to her letters, had been made better by his father’s grand beneficence.
Though, for all that, she didn’t exactly defer to him. She accorded him respect, but there was clearly a camaraderie between them that went beyond a mere business arrangement. Not a romance, however, at least not that he could discern, but certainly a close friendship of sorts. And as that friendship had blossomed, she’d written with an increasing confidence that surprised him. She spoke quite freely, and felt at ease enough to scold, argue, even tease. This last part flabbergasted him.
Perhaps it was the distance, and the power of the pen, so to speak, that had emboldened her. After all, it was quite a different matter to put your thoughts to paper than it was to speak face-to-face. And, without seeing his father’s replies to her letters, he had no idea how he’d reacted. And yet, the relationship had continued, the letters had come in a steady stream. Indicating that his father had, at the very least, not discouraged her.
He smiled a little then, thinking Maura Sinclair was not a woman easily discouraged. Then shook his head at his own deduction. As if reading a handful of letters was really enough to feel he knew her that well. And yet, he felt he did. The curiosity that had sparked him to open the chest, to look at contents, read the letters, had caught and flamed fully to life with every passing sentence he read. And with each ensuing letter, that flame had burned brighter, the need to know more about her, about Ballantrae, about this place that was part of his heritage, had built up inside him until he could no longer deny that a handful of letters, no matter how skillfully and colorfully written, wouldn’t be enough.
He wanted to meet her. To see Ballantrae with his own eyes, instead of only through hers. The very place Teague Morgan and his band of rowdies had fled, escaping the hangman’s noose, in pursuit of a better life in the colonies.
He was still able to deny that this had anything to do with his father. He didn’t much care about the whats or whys of his father’s association with her, or his feelings about the place, or what he hoped came of his investment there. For the first time since entering college, Tag wanted to explore his own heritage, only now it had nothing to do with his father’s impact on it.
Back then it had been a knee-jerk reaction to his father’s insistence that they stamp out their collective past, whitewash over it. He’d thought to prove to him the value of the past and what it said about those who came after. But he’d barely begun his first dig when he’d done an almost immediate one-eighty, realizing he’d never gain his father’s approval. And had spent a bit of time castigating himself for being foolish enough to want to try. So he’d gone in a completely opposite direction, studied an ancient culture that was nothing like his own.
Now his father was gone and Tag was free to feel however he wanted about his ancestry, to do whatever he felt like doing about it. Which, at the moment, he was still undecided about. But one thing he knew for certain was that anything he did now would be for himself, and only himself. His gaze fell to the crumpled note card that had landed next to the trash can. His father’s words came back to him.
Are you man enough for it?
Tag downed what was left of the whiskey he’d poured some hours back. “Yes, by damn, I am,” he swore, wincing as it burned the back of his throat. “More a man than you ever were.”
Then he carefully folded the last letter, before tucking them all back in the box, closing the lid, and carrying the whole thing with him from the office room. Like that day, long ago, he left without looking back.
And when the sun rose the following morning, and Tag was on the phone booking a flight to Glasgow, he wasn’t thinking about his father, or the taunt from beyond the grave. He was thinking of Ballantrae. And Maura Sinclair. And wondering if her voice was anywhere near close to the one he’d come to imagine in his mind, while reading her vividly descriptive letters. It wouldn’t be long before he found out.
Chapter 4
“Ruddy bastard!” Maura dropped the damp bath towel she’d found laying by the front door, and l
et fly with the first hard thing she could grab. Her mobile phone flew like a silver bullet toward the down-filled double bed—her down-filled double bed—and the two people presently occupying it.
“Now, Mo, wait just a—Ouch!” Jory MacTavish flinched as Maura followed up with her key ring, which bounced off his fine, muscled bum.
The very same fine muscled bum she’d just caught clenching in all its well-defined glory as he gave that other fine part of himself to a slender brunette. Maura had no idea who she was, but then she hadn’t gotten a look at the woman’s face. Mostly because she’d been on all fours at the time. Oddly enough, what pissed her off most was that, after six months with the guy, how come she didn’t know he liked to do it doggy style?
“Jesus, Mo, careful with yer aim.”
“Aye,” she agreed readily. “I was off by about, oh seven inches with that last shot. I won’t be with my next one.”
“Now, now, hold off. See, Mo, I can explain,” Jory began, scrambling off the woman, who quickly tried to slither from the bed on her stomach.
Appropriate, Mo thought, considering she was a snake in the grass. Or ass, as the case may be. She’d deal with her in a minute. She faced Jory, who remained unconcernedly naked. “I’ve seen quite enough, thanks. And the only thing you’re going to see is a swirl of stars twinkling about your head if you don’t get your lying, two-timing ass off my bed and out of my home. My home, Jory! Jesus and Mary.”
“Home? Don’t ye mean the elephant on yer back? The very same one you’ve been a slave to for as long as I’ve known you,” he shot back.
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you’re going to be wanting to mince words with me at the moment. Say what you will about the rest of the place, aye it’s a burden and one ye should thank yer lucky stars your laze arse isn’t in charge of maintaining. But this?” She gestured at the room, the whole of it. “This tower is mine. And yes, it’s my home as much as your rent-free little apartment over yer father’s pub is yours.”
“And we could hardly go there, could we now?” he said, completely missing her point. “The whole town would know.”
Incredulous, she grabbed the small crystal vase that sat on the small table beneath the mirror, and unceremoniously dumped both water and flowers from it onto the wooden floor. She’d be sure to regret it later when she had to buff out the water marks, but at the moment, it was far down on her list of things she’d wished she’d thought twice about before doing. She swung the heavy crystal up, the neck tight in her fist. “So, you brought her here for some privacy?”
“I didn’t bring her anywhere, I was already here. You should know that, you just left here an hour ago.”
Her eyes threatened to bulge from her head. “Yes,” she all but shrieked. “I did. What, since you were already in a nice warm bed, you figured you’d just ring her up and see if she could join you?”
“It wasn’t like that, it—”
“I mean, Christ Jory, if you can’t keep your goddamn dick in your pants for more than an hour at a time, there’s eleven other bedrooms in the main house of this ‘white elephant’ you could have used. You didn’t have to screw her in mine!”
“But it’s the only one with electric heat and—”
“Jesus and Mary, Jory, shut your trap,” the other woman grumbled beneath her breath.
Maura turned her steely glare on the woman presently grabbing around the floor for her clothes. And got her second shock of the afternoon. Her anger wheezed out of her, along with her breath. “Priss?”
Her best—former best—friend paused in mid-panty retrieval and attempted an apologetic smile. Her thick brown hair was a rat’s nest, probably from Jory grabbing the back of it in his fist, and her neck—and her thighs, bitch—were red and splotchy from razor burn. Topping it off was the flushed glow and glassy-eyed satisfaction, both oh so familiar to Maura. Somehow the apologetic smile didn’t go a long way toward easing the tension screaming between them. Or even a short way. Because, in truth, this betrayal was far harder to take than Jory’s.
“How could you do it to me?” she asked, her voice choked with hurt and stunned disbelief. It was harsh enough discovering how cavalierly the bond of a trusted friendship could be broken and tossed aside. She’d be damned if she’d give either one of them an inch of her pride. Anger made a welcome and strong resurgence.
Priss lifted one softly rounded shoulder. Everything about Priss was softly rounded. And petite. In direct contrast with Maura, who was a wee bit taller than average, with long, wiry limbs and a narrow frame. It had never really been a sore point for her before. Funny how things change.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly, remorse clear in her eyes.
“I trusted you,” Maura said. “With… everything. I’ve bared my soul to you. And this is how you honor that? By baring yours to the guy I’m sleeping with?”
“Hey, now—” Jory began, only to be waved silent by both women.
Priss gathered herself, her mouth pursing, as a hint of steel came into her own blue-eyed gaze. “I said I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t exactly plan this. I have no excuse. Well, an explanation maybe, but you’re not in any frame of mind to hear it now. And nothing excuses this,” she gestured to the bed, to a still-naked Jory. “I know. But, Mo, honestly, it’s not like you two were any great love match. I know that better than anyone. Besides, we both know your track record at long-term relationships, and, well, it’s been six months. That’s a record for you. You two wouldn’t have lasted the winter and you know it.” She didn’t so much speak with defiance, as with, well, pity. As if this was all the result of Maura being somehow lacking, and therefore should have expected something like this to happen.
Maura felt like she’d been slapped twice.
It didn’t matter that, for the most part, what Priss said was true. Sure, six months pretty much matched her personal best for relationship longevity, and yes, she’d been questioning whether she was keeping Jory around because she honestly saw their relationship going somewhere, or because she’d been going through a tough time lately and winters in Ballantrae were cold and lonely enough as it was. But that didn’t give Priss the right to make that decision for her. “So what, you thought you’d help me out?” She struggled to decide how she should feel, how to act. Anger and hurt and confusion were all twisted up inside her. “You couldn’t have waited? You didn’t even tell me you were interested in him.”
Priss began pulling on enough clothing to be decent. Which, of course, was all a matter of opinion. Maura was of a mind that while Priss’s little black skirt and skimpy white stretch top might have covered her former best friend’s bits and pieces, it could hardly be called decent. “I wanted to,” she said at last, and with surprising emotion, “many times. But what was I going to say? ‘If you’re not going to get serious, could I have a go at him?’ ” She sighed heavily, and if Maura wasn’t mistaken, Priss was just as twisted up emotionally at the moment as she was.
Of course, Maura wasn’t feeling particularly sympathetic about that.
“I was going to wait,” Priss said. “I didn’t come up here to see him, I came up here to see you. And, well, Jory answered the door in a bath towel and—” She glanced at Jory and her cheeks flushed. She tried to look repentant when she glanced back at Maura, but didn’t even come close. So she did the shoulder lift again.
Typically Maura was the kind of person who would do whatever it took to make things work. Life was tough enough, and being a hard-ass every time she encountered another stumbling block was only going to make it harder on her. Having trusted only a handful of people in her life, she well understood the value of friendship. In her heart, she knew she didn’t want to lose the one she had with Priss. She knew she should make some kind of last-ditch effort to salvage at least one relationship from the ashes of this fiasco.
As it turned out, she wasn’t feeling that generous. “Funny, I didn’t think you were the type for sloppy seconds,” she said, apparently more pissed off th
an she’d realized. And once she’d given in to the anger and pain, the hurt of it all, it just kept flowing. She might not be proud of herself tomorrow, but at the moment, it felt pretty damn good. “I suppose it’s a good thing he’d already showered me off of him before giving you a go, eh?” She didn’t enjoy the little punch of hurt that opened Priss’s eyes wide, but she was a bit too wounded at the moment to feel particularly bad about it either. Instead she glanced dismissively at Jory. “He’s certainly all yours now.” She tucked the vase under her arm and clapped her hands. “Well done, both of you. Really.” She looked at Priss. “Of course, I don’t suppose I need to tell you how good he is in bed, seeing as you took the details I shared in private as a ringing endorsement. Perhaps I should think twice about broadcasting such an explicit advert next time.” She blinked back the sudden burning sensation crowding at the corners of her eyes. Clinging to her wounded pride was the only thing keeping the tears at bay. “I only hope he was worth it.” She stepped back to clear the path to the door.
“Mo, come on, we can talk this out,” Priss began, clutching her black leather boots to her chest. She took a step back when Maura glared at her. “Not now, of course, but later. I want to explain it all to you. Will you at least promise me you’ll hear me out? It wasn’t just sex.”
Since being shushed, Jory had wisely stayed out of it. He’d remained sitting on the bed, still quite naked and making no attempt whatsoever to cover himself up. Of course, it had been his absolute comfort in his own skin, and his ability to make her feel the same, that had drawn her to the charming bastard in the first place.
But his ego—which was just as healthy as his appetite for sex, and justly so she’d always thought, up until now anyway—couldn’t let that last comment pass. “What d’ya mean, ‘just sex,’ ” he demanded of Priss, all male affront and stung pride. “Sure, I had you coming less than a minute after I slid my hand in your panties, but it was you who put my hand there in the first place. Otherwise, I’d have—”
Catch Me If You Can Page 4