A Highlander for Christmas

by Christina Skye

  Jared could well imagine the result. Security was security, and there was no way Nicholas could hide the truth from the people who made a business of protecting England’s public buildings and the safety of the royal family “What do you want of me?”

  “Check the designer out. I’m certain that she had nothing to do with what happened, but if there’s any hint of criminal involvement, or if she has knowledge about those missing gems…” He bit back an oath. “In that case, I want to know now, before things go any further.”

  “And if I find nothing?”

  Nicholas picked up a vellum envelope from the desk beside him. “Then I want you to give her this. It’s an invitation to present her designs here as the highlight of our first exhibition.”

  “And you trust me to make the decision about her innocence?”

  “Without question.” Nicholas held out a folder. “Here’s a photograph and her address. I’ve also put in a background profile and your air ticket to New York.”

  “Presumptuous, aren’t you?” Jared glared into the fire. “What makes you so sure that I’ll go?”

  “Because you always pay what you consider to be your debts. You’re insufferable when it comes to that streak of honor. I won’t deny that this exhibition is important to Kacey and me, but you’re entirely free to accept or decline as you choose. Of course, this will make all the difference to Maggie Kincade’s career.”

  “I’m not interested, Nicholas.” Jared rose to his feet. “I can’t afford to be.”

  “Why?”

  Jared shoved his hands into his pockets, frowning. “I have my reasons.”

  “I’d like to hear them.”

  “Damn it, leave it alone.” The words were harsh with suppressed violence.

  “I would if I were anyone else. Or if you were anyone else. But as you know, it’s a Draycott trait to be stubborn as sin itself, and I know you too well to be turned away by a little Scottish hostility.”

  Jared rubbed his wrists, remembering bamboo handcuffs and wet ropes. He drew an angry breath “I’m not the same, Nicholas. Thailand changed me.”

  “Changed you how?”

  He wouldn’t leave it alone. Jared hadn’t really expected that he would. Yet how did you begin to explain things from a nightmare, things that most people considered to be part of the twilight realm of science fiction?

  Jared rubbed his wrists, choosing his words carefully. “It happened after one of the beatings. They cut a vein, and I bled for quite some time. No one came. It was night and I remember being cold—and then I remember being nothing at all.”

  Jared felt a glass pressed against his fingers. Frowning, he downed an inch of superb whisky. It might help him to complete the story he was about to tell.

  ‘‘Go on.”

  “I died that night, Nicholas. No pulse, no heartbeat. I bled to death on that cement floor and no one knew.”

  Dimly he heard the clink of glass and realized that Nicholas was downing his own drink. Perfectly understandable, since it wasn’t a particularly pleasant story to hear.

  “God rot their callous souls.” Nicholas touched his shoulder for a moment, and Jared managed—just barely—not to flinch at the contact.

  Even in that brief moment of touch he sensed the weight of his friend’s worry, which Nicholas had tried damnably hard to hide for weeks.

  Jared closed his eyes, fighting the weight of contact and the rush of bleak images. “You needn’t worry about me so much.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Yes, you do. You’re afraid I’ll do something drastic, but you don’t need to be.”

  Nicholas simply stared. “Have I ever implied such a thing?”

  “No.” That was exactly the problem, of course. “You don’t have to say a word, Nicholas. One touch, one brush of the hand, and I know.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That I can feel things. Mostly by touch or the random brush of fingers. It began that night after I passed out. After I died,” Jared said grimly. “When I came around, I was in a makeshift clinic with a chipped IV line in my arm, and I could sense emotions, feelings and unspoken thoughts. They were simply—there.”

  Nicholas sank into a chair before the fire. “Sweet heaven above, I had no idea. You seemed distant, aloof. Now I know why. Did you mention this new … ability in your debriefing in London?”

  “Why should I? So they could use me as a new lab rat?”

  “Perfectly understandable. I just wish you’d told me sooner, Jared. Not that it changes anything.”

  “It changes everything. I’m barely fit to keep myself company, much less anyone else. Touching another person triggers a storm of chaotic images and emotions that get twisted up with my own until I doubt my own sanity. I’m no good to you, Nicholas. Not for this project or anything else.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Nicholas hesitated, then held out his hand. There was a light of pure, devilish determination in his eyes.

  Jared studied the outstretched fingers, aware of his friends’ silent challenge. Then, with a sigh, he gripped those fingers with his own.

  In that moment, Jared felt Draycott’s steely determination and unquestioning trust in his abilities. He also saw that Nicholas would never give up.

  Jared frowned. “It won’t work, you know. I’ll make a mistake or I’ll offend someone. Maybe even you. How many of us can stand to have our minds picked clean by a stranger?”

  “I’ll take that chance.” Nicholas pushed to his feet. “Now I think you’d better go up and rest, because Kacey and Genevieve have something special planned tonight.”

  “More card games?” Jared gave a laugh that was slightly grim. “It’s getting hard to pretend that I don’t know exactly what they have. Every time they touch me I can see, Nicholas.”

  “I had no idea.” Nicholas gave a smile. “A useful ability, however. It could save a person a great deal of money.”

  “I’m serious, Nicholas. This is not something to laugh at.”

  “Sometimes it’s better to laugh. Kacey taught me that.” Nicholas stared at the framed photo of a woman with sunlight in her face and flowers braided into her long hair. “Maybe if you’re lucky, someone will teach you that, too. Now go and rest, because I’m not making your excuses tonight. Remember to study that file I gave you, too.”

  “I believe I know how Captain Bligh’s seamen felt two weeks out of Tahiti.”

  “Trust me, my friend, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The moon hung like an icy sickle, stark above the black woods. Out beyond the Witch’s Pool the wind rose in a shrill lament.

  The distant peal of bells rode the same current, sharp and sad over the rolling downs. Ten, eleven, twelve.

  And then once more, low and dim, more like a memory than any true stroke.

  In its wake the woods of Draycott Abbey lay still. Asleep. Almost as if in hushed expectation.

  Silence—and then something more. Something furtive that skirted the darkest of the night’s shadows.

  So it begins, thought the figure motionless on the high parapet. In silence his tall form slid from behind a chimney of twisted tiles. His shoulders took shape, elegant in black velvet. Even the lace cuffs at his wrist were muted gray in the dappled shadows.

  “Once more it begins,” he whispered, eyes to the moat and the home wood beyond. But where?

  The guardian ghost of Draycott Abbey frowned. His skills were far superior to those of any common mortal, but even he was not without his limits. He had met danger and faced violence many times in protection of his beloved abbey, but tonight the darkness held a scent of evil.

  There was something almost familiar about the fear rippling along his spine. Something that felt very … old.

  “Imagination,” he said sharply. “Too many nights of solitude.”

  At his feet, a figure slid from the darkness, gray body rising to keen amber eyes. A low meow drifted over the abbey’s w
alls.

  “So it calls to you too, my old friend? A stirring along the spine like whispers in a cold room?”

  The cat curled around Adrian’s booted feet, once and then again. His tail flicked sharply from side to side.

  “Somewhere to the north?” Adrian turned to face the shadows beyond the moat, his face hard as the weathered granite at his feet. “You can sense it?”

  The cat paced the roof and jumped to a stone parapet. There he stopped, his body frozen, just one more creature worked among the dozens of carvings.

  “What sounds? I hear nothing.” Adrian studied the patchwork of fields touched by moonlight. “It must be that feline imagination of yours.”

  Yet even as Adrian spoke, gossamer threads of sound drifted up to his ears. Haunting. Infinitely sad.

  And somehow familiar.

  Adrian’s strong hands closed. What trick was this? Who dared work such foul illusions here, in the heart of his beloved realm?

  The cat’s ears slid forward.

  Adrian caught the thought before it was complete. “The piper? Of course I remember, but—”

  This time the low notes were beyond ignoring. Faint and rich, they crossed the black fields and soared to the abbey’s cold roof.

  Adrian listened, unmoving, his face like night itself. “If the man has come back, she will soon follow.” The thought left him reeling. To remember now, after so long. To taste the pain of failure and cold betrayal.

  He had failed her then. They all had paid the bitter price.

  As if sensing his pain, the cat turned, amber eyes keen and bright. His liquid meow touched Adrian’s mind like warm fingers.

  “Thank you, my friend.” His voice was not steady for all his efforts. Grimly, the abbey ghost paced to the roof’s edge and stared down sixty feet and more to the shimmering line of the moat. For the first time he allowed himself to remember in full clarity, despite the pain it brought.

  By the stone wall the pair had met. In a past nearly too dim to recall, fate had cast their lives and hearts together. By the bright roses they had laughed and bent to their first sweet kiss. And there by the roses Adrian had failed them. Never mind that he’d had a different name then, a different form. His guilt was exactly the same.

  Pain wrapped about his heart. So much sadness. So much he would prefer not to remember. The old betrayals had never healed.

  And now they were coming back to his abbey, back to the dangers that had stalked them centuries before.

  The knowledge fell like the weight of the house itself, crushing down upon Adrian’s shoulders. He could not fail them again.

  Gradually, he grew aware of a shape at his hand. Blinking, he looked down to keen eyes and sleek gray fur. “So you see it all again, too. How they met. How their laughter rang over the green lawns, then stilled to far more than laughter. I should have known they would find joy in each other. He wooed her with his music and with his smile he broached her heart. Damnation, I should have guessed what would happen before it was too late…”

  The cat brushed hard against his tense fingers. The movement brought Adrian back to the chill night and the faint thread of sound drifting from the north.

  “Yes, we shall watch. Together as always, Gideon. Perhaps, with God’s help this time, we shall not detect the madman’s coils too late…”

  Together they stood, two shapes that might have been stone or yet no more than the fabric of shadows, while the haunting strain of the pipes rose around them, no more real than any other part of the abbey’s magic.

  And all the while something hard and dangerous waited in the restless night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  New York City

  Late October

  Maggie Kincade held her breath, cradling a faceted 8-carat Burma ruby. Carefully she nudged the blood-red brilliant into a hand-cut bezel of pure silver.

  Then she stood back. And smiled slowly.

  Perfect.

  She ignored the knotted muscles at her neck. With luck, the piece would be gone within the week, the first of a dozen designs ordered by clients for Christmas gifts. Taking commissions required the skill of a master and the patience of a saint, but Maggie thrived on the constant challenge. Now, with a positive cash flow, she could finally fill her depleted inventory.

  Patience, she thought. Her mother had always warned her that success came in its own time and its own way, and for Maggie the process was far too slow. After two years as a freelance jewelry designer, she had acquired a loyal following but not nearly enough clients for the dreams she confided to no one.

  And dream, she did.

  Of etched silver and hammered gold. Of emeralds dangling from a hand-pulled silver chains. Maybe even a school to train a new generation of artists in shaping precious metal. And she imagined her own showroom, its windows filled with braided silver and etched gold. One day sunlight would gleam off an elegant door with a brass sign: M. E. Kincade, goldsmith. Fine jewelry by design.

  Her fingers tightened on the ruby. And what if you fail, Maggie Kincade? What happens then?

  The silver bezel tossed back the image of her face, with a mouth that was too wide. Maggie wondered if anyone else noticed the circles beneath her eyes formed by long nights of worry.

  She jumped at the shrill peal of her phone, muttering as she nearly dropped the ruby. For long heartbeats she stared at the phone and thought about letting it ring. She was tired of the questions, tired of the intrusions. Finally habit won out over self-preservation. “Yes?”

  “Okay, a little bird tells me you have two men in there and they’ve been there with you since last night.”

  Maggie smiled at that familiar, smoky voice belonging to her cousin Chessa. Both of her cousins possessed the scary ability to call whenever anything important was going on in Maggie’s life. No doubt in an earlier age Chessa and Faith Kincade would have been burned as witches, but thankfully those days had passed.

  Last year Faith had moved to England, where she was busy designing accurate period gardens, while Chessa managed a small, elegant shop in New York’s fashionable Soho. There she showcased her striking fabric designs, along with Maggie’s jewelry. And Chessa never let a day go by without checking on her younger cousin.

  “Who told?”

  “Hey, I never divulge my sources. But trust me, they’re good.”

  “What two men?”

  “Johnny Depp and Russell Crowe. So rumor says.”

  Maggie stared at her ruby with a grin. “Haven’t seen either of them for days.”

  “Oh, yeah? How many days?”

  “Three or four at least.” Maggie’s eyes glinted. “A woman needs some time to rest.”

  “Jeez, Mag, you never could share, even when you were a whining five-year-old in pigtails. First the Barbie Dolls, now you hold out on me with Robin Hood. It’s criminal.”

  As usual, her outrageous cousin managed to make Maggie laugh, and laughter had been a rare commodity in Maggie’s life over the last months. “I’ll be sure to tell Sherlock that you’re interested. His people will get in touch with your people.”

  “Yeah, yeah they all say that.” Somewhere a sewing machine hammered like distant artillery and fabric rustled. Probably silk, Maggie thought.

  Chessa Kincade sniffed loudly. “You working?”

  “Finishing a necklace.”

  “Hmm.” The sewing noises grew quieter. Maggie heard the sound of a door closing. “Are you okay, Mag?”

  “I’m fine.” Maggie avoided the calendar on the opposite wall and the date circled in red pen. She ignored the ache in her neck and the two deep welts on the inside of her palm. “Life is just perfect.”

  “You sound distracted.”

  Maggie ran a hand through the chaos of her hair. “Of course I’m distracted. I was trying to work.”

  Nails clicked lightly on the other end of the line. “How long has it been since you ate?”

  “A meal, you mean?” Maggie frowned. There had been a banana at dawn as sunlight b
urned over her wooden floor. A handful of nuts and a cup of tea as the morning light faded into afternoon. The truth was, she never had been too good with eating. Snacks were taken on the run, and nourishment often came in the form of a powdered shake while she bent over a sheet of 24K gold or a flawless Siberian diamond.

  When she was caught up in a design, Maggie never thought of food—or anything else.

  Chessa sniffed. “I thought so. I’ll be right over.”

  The phone went dead.

  Maggie stiffened as a furry brown shape raced under her worktable, skirted a wan asparagus fern, and vanished into the cracked brick wall. The mouse again.

  Somewhere outside a truck backfired and a taxi driver screamed profanities in a foreign tongue. Another glamorous day in Manhattan, Maggie thought.

  She sank into the room’s only chair and cradled the ruby, shaky with the exhaustion that always struck at the end of a project. Only then did the strain of hours of painfully detailed work hit her. But the result was always worth the discomfort.

  Right now the polished stone gleamed in her fingers, sparks of pink, gold and blue dancing with life in the focused light. The facets were clear, and the bezel curved flawlessly to cradle the ruby. Now came the final step.

  Moving to her worktable, Maggie eased the stone onto a choker of hammered silver set with inlaid gold. Then she smiled slowly.

  Sensuous. Simple. Absolutely stunning.

  All the hallmarks of a Kincade design.

  The choker made her forget the street horns, the unpaid bills, and the headache building behind her eyelids. But there was something Maggie couldn’t possibly forget. She looked past the decorated Christmas tree, a gift from Chessa meant to conjure up a proper mood for the designs Maggie had to complete before Christmas. Above the tree hung a calendar full of moody Scottish lochs and imposing granite castles. But it was the circled date that caught Maggie’s eye.

  Seven months since she’d lost her father. Silly to feel a sharp pang, she told herself. Silly to care so much. Carefully she set the completed choker in her steel display case underneath a row of faceted white Siberian diamonds that winked with cold, almost unnatural perfection. They were not Maggie’s favorite stones, but her father had loved their clarity. Despite her financial straits, she refused to sell them, keeping them as a link to the father she had always loved but had never come close to understanding. Daniel Kincade had been a master at his craft with a legendary artistic vision. No client ever walked away unsatisfied with his work.