A Highlander for Christmas

by Christina Skye

  But thinking of Maggie made him remember the father who had betrayed her by feigning his death.

  “Nobody’s that good. If Kincade is alive there’s got to be a record of him somewhere.” Experience had taught Jared that no one lived without resources. If Daniel Kincade was alive, he needed financial assets and human help, and both of those could be traced.

  He tapped the keys again, using the passwords to a secure government database, the gift of a high ministry official who owed him a favor for rescuing his son from a messy political situation in Thailand. Once again Jared found no trace of Daniel Kincade.

  Frowning, Jared sprawled back against the couch and rubbed the knotted muscles in his neck. Tomorrow he would see what Izzy could do. Possibly he had missed something in his search. If so, Izzy would spot the mistake instantly.

  Jared closed his eyes, one hand on his neck, the other on the cat curled at his side. As always, the abbey left his senses humming. With each creak of the stairs and sigh of the wind against a leaded window, he imagined pacing feet and restless spirits from a distant age.

  Warriors and poets.

  Statesmen and fools.

  They had all walked the abbey’s silent halls. Even now their secrets lived on, part of the heart of this magnificent old house. At his side the computer screen flickered. The cat purred low and Jared felt himself relax, drifting into sleep. Deep in restless dreams, Jared did not see. Only the great cat saw, amber eyes unblinking on the night.

  Over the downs came the faint peal of church bells, low and ineffably sad. The sound made the cat ease to his paws and cross to the window. Unmoving, he stared out into the night.

  Waiting…

  ~ ~ ~

  He came as he always did, in a flutter of white lace and black satin. While light swirled above the abbey’s restless moat, the figure gathered shape and form. Around him the scent of roses grew, dense and sweet. Wind swayed the branches climbing over the weathered granite and brushed at the tall French doors.

  Adrian Draycott studied his lace-clad arms, then smoothed his waistcoat of black satin. In full, imposing form he paced the balcony.

  The clouds shifted. A single beam of moonlight touched the abbey, glinting over the rippling waters of the moat. Somewhere a night creature cried, low and shrill.

  The abbey ghost raised his head, listening.

  Behind him the curtains flared out. A gray form ghosted onto the balcony.

  “So there you are, Gideon. Is aught amiss inside?”

  The cat meowed once, eyes unblinking.

  “Asleep, is he? Hardly surprising, given the sort of night they’ve both endured.” Adrian rubbed his jaw, white lace agleam. “His sight has grown since last he walked these halls. I only wonder that he cannot feel it himself.”

  In one powerful movement, the cat leaped to the ornate rail atop the balcony.

  Adrian Draycott, the deceased eighth viscount Draycott, smiled at his companion. “Because he is distracted, you say. When did a beautiful woman ever fail to distract a mortal man?”

  The cat’s tail flicked.

  “History between them? Far too much, I fear.” The abbey’s brooding guardian stared out over the moat into the black woods to the north. “They would both feel that past now, Gideon. If only they allowed it.”

  A meow drifted from the scrolled balcony edge.

  “You propose that I should stir those memories? You know the price of interference, my friend. It is nothing to be undertaken lightly—alive or dead.”

  Light seemed to flicker deep within the cat’s amber eyes.

  “I know well that she already remembers. Aye, but see what pain it brings her. And her pain becomes my pain.”

  The abbey ghost stood rigid, elegant as his priceless portrait standing at the foot of the Long Gallery. He leaned over to the balcony, his face cold as the granite walls of the house he had loved so much in mortal life—and even more in death.

  Suddenly his hands tightened. “Do you feel it, Gideon? Out there past the Witch’s Pool?”

  The cat paced along the balcony. His ears slanted forward.

  “Danger,” Adrian whispered. “Always it comes. Old debts must ever be repaid, I fear.”

  The cat meowed, shoving against Adrian’s fist.

  “Let them try, by heaven. Let them seek an entrance. They’ll rue the cold midnight that they attempt it, as I live and breathe.”

  The cat stirred softly on the rail. Beside him Adrian drew a hard breath, then laughed grimly. “As usual, you are entirely correct, my friend; I neither live nor breathe. But my power of protection remains. Whoever watches in the night will find their dark games more difficult than they imagine.”

  He toyed with the lace at one cuff.

  “Yes, perhaps some interference is in order. Nothing crude, of course. Perhaps … a dream or two.” A smile touched his arrogant mouth. “As I recall, the dreams worked well enough before, when that fellow Dickens came to visit. In the height of winter it was.”

  The cat’s tail flicked from side to side.

  “Of course I remember it was your idea. Yet in three nights he envisioned the greatest story of his career, and he had you to thank for it. I did think the summoning of Christmas Future was a stroke of true genius on my part, however.”

  Though the abbey ghost chuckled softly at his recollection, the tension did not leave his tall form. He could stir a dream or part a drawn curtain without the slightest strain, but he knew with cold certainty that more would shortly be required of him than dreams or legerdemain.

  In dreams it had begun, Adrian thought, and in dreams it would end. For once again the old treachery was upon them. But perhaps in dreams two stubborn people would find the peace an earlier age had denied them.

  Unmoving, he studied the ripples of the moat, seeking the restless patterns of the future that lay before them all.

  Beneath his hand the cat stirred.

  Adrian sighed. Like the dreams, hate did not die. Old betrayals ran before them now—just as they had long ago.

  Maybe he could send them away. The woman already felt the chill of the past within these walls, and the Scotsman would be easier to touch than she, for the sight burned in his blood lines. Yes, he could try, Adrian thought.

  Wind scoured the courtyard, tossing dry leaves against the gray walls. Anger filled the air, heavy and churning while Adrian Draycott stood caught in his tangled planning.

  And even now the whispers of betrayal rode the cold wind. Already Adrian knew it was too late. They could not leave—not in time.

  Lace rippled. Satin gleamed, though the moon was locked behind banked clouds. A bell rang once, low and sad.

  And then the balcony above the moat was empty.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Warmth poured across Maggie’s face. With a sigh she snuggled deeper into the cool sheets.

  The smell of roses filled the air.

  Roses?

  One eye blinked open. A crystal vase with red blooms gleamed on the side table. Maggie heard the soft trill of birdsong beyond the sun-kissed French doors, where water murmured, swept in restless patterns against banks of green.

  Draycott Abbey. A place of magic and secrets.

  As she sat up, images darted through her memories like small, quick fish. For a moment there was cold wind with the smell of peat smoke locked in fine old wool.

  Just a dream, she thought irritably, tugging on her long robe. It was one of Chessa’s creations, and Maggie knew that the rich peach satin sent a glow through her skin, a dramatic contrast to her caramel-colored hair. The heavy silk lay warm against her skin, like a lover’s kiss.

  Like a lover’s hands.

  The memory of Jared’s touch flashed through her. His icy calm during the drive from her hotel and then the heat of his hands when he had touched her in the cramped car.

  With a low, angry sound, Maggie shoved away the memories. She wasn’t looking for a fling, and she certainly wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship. Work
was all that mattered in her life now.

  Not men. Not sex, no matter how inventive it was.

  Muffling an oath, she slid from the bed. A quick shower did wonders for clearing the last fragments of her restless dreams. She slid a brush through her hair and tugged on one of Chessa’s soft, clinging sweaters with a matching skirt of pale gray cashmere, then went in search of her tool case.

  Last night the intricate scrollwork on the leaded windows had left her imagination racing, and she wanted to try a new design in silver wire against hammered gold. Inside the wire she would hang a single cabochon aquamarine. Or maybe one perfect black pearl.

  Maggie opened her small metal case with its neat rows of tools and wire. And then she froze. Something was wrong. Just as in her hotel room, something had been moved.

  Slowly she ran her fingers over the dozen narrow compartments.

  Silver alloy.

  Pliers.

  Wire.

  Cross-lock tweezers.

  Her breath caught. The wire was upside down, and her tweezers had been shifted. The silver alloy was in the wrong compartment.

  Someone had touched her case. While she’d slept, someone had slipped inside, invading her privacy. She locked her fists, fighting a wave of panic. Who had come into her room? How had he breached all the abbey’s defenses?

  Maggie saw a piece of paper shoved beneath her flat-nose pliers. With trembling fingers, she slid the folded envelope free.

  And read the single word scrawled in bold black letters.

  Her name.

  No figment of her imagination now. No dream or illusion. Inside the envelope she found her camisole, one she realized had been missing from her hotel dresser. The lace was crumpled, as if hard fingers had stretched it with violent strength.

  She swayed, catching herself against the tall oak armoire, and then fought back a whimper of shock.

  He was here.

  “Jared,” she whispered, arms locked tight. “I need you.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The bedroom was in shadow. Jared lay twisted in the sheets, with Max sprawled on his chest, a small dark clump who produced periodic soft snores.

  At any other time Maggie would have laughed at the sight of the two of them together, but not now. “Jared.”

  His powerful shoulders snapped upward, and Max slid onto the pillow, still snoring.

  “Maggie?” Jared sat up, frowning. “What’s happened?”

  She held out the envelope with shaky fingers, fighting to keep her voice steady. “He was here, Jared. Last night. He came into my room while I slept.”

  “Who?”

  “Read it.”

  Jared shoved a hand through his hair and twisted the sheet around his waist. Dimly Maggie realized there was probably nothing beneath it except solid muscle.

  His fingers locked with hers as he pulled her down beside him on the bed. “Relax and then tell me where you found it.” Every word was slow, calm.

  So calm that Maggie wanted to scream or curse or shake him. “I found it—” She took a hard breath. “I found it with my tools. This was inside the envelope.” She tossed the crumpled camisole down onto the bed and turned away, feeling sick and violated.

  Feeling like a victim. That made her angriest of all. “He … touched it. You can see how it’s pulled out of shape.” Her voice shook. “He did those things as a message. It was some kind of sick warning.”

  Jared ran a hand over her arm and she felt the play of his skin, warm with sleep. Then she closed her eyes as his arms enfolded her.

  “He was h-here, Jared. Somehow he got inside.” Her voice was unsteady.

  “I don’t think so. I think he left that envelope in your hotel room, Maggie. Did you check your case yesterday?”

  “I looked inside quickly. I suppose this letter might have been shoved beneath a sheet of metal. I wasn’t really thinking. All I wanted to do was leave after I realized he’d been there.”

  His fingers eased through her hair.

  “It is a warning, isn’t it? He’s trying to frighten me.”

  “Maybe.” Jared’s jaw clenched as he studied the camisole. “Or maybe it’s a warning to us both. Either way, I don’t like it.” He dropped the lacy fabric. “If you don’t feel safe here, I can make other arrangements.”

  She stared at him. “What kind of other arrangements?”

  “Someplace completely anonymous. Team protection if you want it.”

  “Would that make me any safer? Can you guarantee that?”

  He muttered softly and stood up, tucking the sheet firmly at his hips. “No.”

  He was all muscle and tan skin where the white fabric stopped. Maggie saw his shoulders flex as he stood stiffly before her. She realized then that all his cool logic had been an act. Inside he was fighting a silent, white-hot anger.

  Somehow that made her feel better.

  “I’m frightened.” She balled the camisole between her fists. “I still don’t believe my father is alive, but I’ve got to be sure. You and Nicholas were right about that. So I’m staying. If this lunatic can find me here, he’ll surely find me somewhere else.” With an angry sound she threw the camisole down onto the bed, where it unrolled slowly, hanging from one torn, shredded seam “He’s not going to win.”

  “No, he’s not.” Jared lifted the envelope by one corner and slid it into a manila folder on his dresser.

  “For prints?”

  “If we’re lucky. Paper isn’t the friendliest medium. I’ll need to dust your tool case too. But even if something does show up…” He frowned down at the sheet. “I’d better dress.”

  “Wait. Tell me what you were going to say.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Even if we’re lucky enough to pull a decent print or two, I have a feeling we’ll find nothing on our man.”

  “You mean because he’s a professional. He has ways to see he’s not identified.”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Then how can he be stopped?”

  A muscle flashed at Jared’s jaw. “There are ways, Maggie, but it will take time. Are you prepared for that? Can you stay calm when you know he’s out there waiting, hoping one of us will make a slip?”

  “Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. I have no choice. This madman might know something about my father and how he died. Maybe he was even involved.” She turned sharply, bracing one hand against the window, her body tense.

  Jared stood motionless, watching her and feeling her anger. He had a raw urge to pull her into his arms and slip his hands into the warm tangle of her hair. He wanted to feel her sigh as his mouth opened over hers. Then he wanted to drop his sheet, tug her back on the bed and find out what it took to make her arch against him with blind pleasure.

  But it didn’t require a man of his insights to know that the time was impossibly wrong for mindless sex, no matter how intoxicating. She was confused and she was in danger. Right now her mind was miles away, lost in an airplane crash site while she searched for answers that had pained her for months.

  She wasn’t a quitter and she wasn’t a coward. She desperately wanted to close the door on her sad past, but she needed solid reasons.

  Jared couldn’t give her the reasons she wanted. Daniel Kincade’s recent sighting in Asia brought too many questions back into sharp focus. Contact with the rumpled camisole had generated no spark of energy, and Jared suspected their enemy had worn gloves, like a true professional. But if Maggie needed answers, he would find them. He would walk through fire for her and open his mind, no matter the cost to himself.

  And there was always a cost.

  Sunlight touched her hair, a dozen shades of gold and chestnut. Jared turned away, afraid he would give in to the temptation to probe the swift, restless flow of her thoughts. With her, only her, the temptation was almost beyond resisting.

  “No matter what happens, I want to thank you. This isn’t your fight.” She spoke unsteadily from the window, her back turned. Jared saw her hand slip over one cheek.

&n
bsp; He made a tight, angry sound. “Maggie, you don’t have to—”

  “Yes, I do. I know there will be risks, Jared. I don’t understand what my father did to make these people so determined, but I owe it to us both to find out. It’s not your fight, though. You have every right to walk away before you’re dragged in any deeper.”

  “That changed last night when that backhoe came after us.”

  She turned slowly, and sunlight poured over her face. “Are you sure? I need to know what I’m getting into, Jared. Most of all, I need to know who I can count on if things get worse.”

  “They will get worse.” Hard experience had taught Jared that. But he was in, regardless of what threat came next. The fingerprints on her tool case, or the lack of them, would be a clear clue. If their pursuer was a professional, there would be no hint of a print anywhere on the metal. Worse yet, a print might lead them to a dead end, such as an American senator, a French general, or a college professor who had been dead for twenty years.

  Their unknown enemy would laugh at them, playing with them. Showing them just how good he was.

  “You can still leave,” she whispered.

  “Yes, I can. So could you. I doubt it would be a success for either of us. That’s the sort of people we are.”

  “I don’t want to owe you, Jared. It’s not something I do well. My father left me nothing except for debts—financial and emotional.” Her hands locked, twisting restlessly. “I can’t take on any more.”

  “You don’t owe me anything, Maggie.”

  She took a raw breath and then looked away. “But there’s something you need to know. In my mind there was never a question of my father being guilty. It doesn’t make sense that he would suddenly become a cold-blooded thief. He was smart enough to know he couldn’t cheat two governments out of a fortune in gems, especially gems that could never be sold or displayed. The Cullinan IV and the Star of Lahore could never go on public display in a museum. As for selling them—even a weekend rock hound would recognize those stones on sight.”

  “Unless they were somehow changed,” Jared mused. “Recut, perhaps.”