It must be a trick of light or the result of nearly drowning that caused her to see what she saw in his eyes. For her own wayward mind imagined seeing the same confusion in his gorgeous eyes, as though he were experiencing the same reckless excitement at being so near to her.
A wave crested against the mouth of the cave, crashing into them with enough force to nearly tear her from his arms, ripping the sensual web to shreds. He held her close, defying the power of the ocean. When the wave subsided, he grabbed her arm.
“Come with me.”
“Wait!” Ann shouted as he started hauling her toward the entrance.
Iain looked down at her. “In case you didn’t notice, the tide is coming in, and we’ll be fish bait unless we get out of here.”
His deep voice reverberated through her. It was colored with a soft Scottish burr that made her want to hear her name whispered in that dark vibrant voice.
“Dr. Fitzpatrick,” he said, his hand tensing on her arm. “Are you all right? Did you hit your head?”
Reality hit her squarely between the eyes. Her foot was stuck, the tide was rising, and she was staring at him like a demented schoolgirl. She collected her scattered wits and managed to make her voice work. “Yes.”
“You did hit your head?”
“No. I mean yes, I am fine. Sort of.” She shook her head, appalled at the way he could muddle her thoughts. “My left foot is caught.”
Iain bent to examine the situation. She braced her hand upon the wall of the cave while he gripped her calf and explored the trap hidden beneath the water. In spite of her best efforts to ignore the startling sensations careening through her, she could not. Not while his hand rested upon her calf. He had such strong hands.
Ann shook her head. How in the world could she be thinking of his hands when she was a hairsbreadth away from drowning? Obviously she was in danger of completely losing her mind.
A wave crested as he stood. The water slammed into him, knocking him into her. He cinched his arms around her and turned, taking the brunt of the blow when the water tossed them against the wall of the cave. He pressed his shoulder against the wall, holding her close while he fought against the pull of the water. When the surge waned, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his black slacks and withdrew a pocketknife.
Ann stared, her breath trapped in her throat, while he unsheathed a rather sharp-looking blade. “What are you going to do with that?”
Iain lifted one black brow. “Amputation seems to be the only way to free you.”
2
Ann pressed back against the wall. “You cannot truly mean to… my foot!”
Iain grinned at her, a glint of mischief entering his dark eyes. “Relax, Professor. I think I can manage to cut off your shoe without taking any flesh.”
He was teasing her. At a time like this, when she was scared to death, he had the audacity to tease her. She glared at him, the stern expression wasted, since he had already bent to his task. Ann pressed her shoulder against the wall and held her breath while he wielded the blade against the laces of her shoe and worked his fingers inside, until the leather gave way beneath his touch. He gripped her ankle and eased her foot from the trapped shoe, leaving her sock behind as well.
When she was free, he stood and slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Time to get out of here.”
Before she could say a word, he bent and hooked his other arm beneath her knees. A startled gasp escaped her lips when he lifted her. She clutched his sweater in an effort to steady herself. He grinned at her, his dark eyes alight with humor as he settled her high against his chest. This was a man accustomed to sweeping women off their feet. A man for whom laughter came as easily as his conquests. It was important to keep that in mind.
“No need to look so tense, Professor, I’m not about to drop you,” he said, that dark rich voice spilling through her.
Her tension had little to do with the fear of falling, even if the fall would be a long way. The man stood at least six-foot-three. Still, the powerful arms cinched around her provided ample security, at least from plunging into the water. As far as her wayward emotions were concerned, that was another story. Her heart thudded so hard, it threatened to bruise the wall of her chest.
She had lived nearly twenty-nine years, and this was the first time since she was a little girl that a man had swept her up into his arms. It was exciting. Far more exciting than she wanted to admit. Never in her life had she felt the immediate turmoil that this man evoked within her. Unfortunately that did not put her into a unique category.
Ann blinked against the misty sunlight as he carried her out of the cave. The thick muscles in his chest shifted as Iain trudged through the rising water, his body straining as he fought the pounding waves, the raw power of the man pitted against the raging might of the ocean. Still, she never doubted he would win. There was something about Iain Matheson, an aura of power and conviction, a confidence that came from a lifetime of success. From what she had read about him, Iain devoured life.
A narrow strip of beach remained dry near the embankment. A hundred feet above them, Dunmarin Castle stood poised on the edge of the cliffs. She expected Iain to put her down once they reached dry land. Instead he continued to carry her toward the path that cut upward through the tall swaying grass, sand, and rocks that lined the face of the cliff.
“I can walk,” she said, when it was clear he intended to carry her up the path. “My foot is fine.”
Iain glanced toward the path. “You cannot be climbing with a bare foot. You would cut yourself or twist an ankle.”
Ann acknowledged the wisdom in his words, even if she doubted the wisdom of remaining in such close proximity to this man. With each step he took, her side brushed against his chest, sending delicious sensations skittering across her skin. With each breath she pulled his scent deep into her lungs, where it smoldered like a mind-numbing drug. The lush masculine heat of his body radiated against her, seeping through her sodden clothes, warming her. If she was not careful, she would make a complete fool of herself over this man. Iain Matheson ate women like Ann for breakfast.
Once this initial excitement had past, she would be just fine, she assured herself. She was far too sensible, much too practical, to ever lose her head over a man like Iain Matheson. “I do not believe I thanked you for coming to my rescue,” she said, pleased with the composed sound of her voice.
“I am only happy I was here to help, lass.”
That soft Scottish burr brushed against her like warm velvet. She had a feeling the man could read a dissertation on the complexities of quantum theory, and she would sit enthralled by every word. “Rose said you were coming to Dunmarin on Thursday.”
“I decided to come home a few days early. I was anxious to meet you.”
She stared at him, her heart suspended near the top of her throat. “You were?”
“Aye. I am very interested to see the journal and hear about your plans for treasure hunting.”
The journal. Her plans. Of course, that would be the reason he would want to meet her. It certainly did not involve anything of a personal nature. “Yes. It was an exciting find. All of these years the journal has been hidden in my grandmother’s attic.”
“I am glad Gram mentioned you might have taken a notion to explore the caves this morning.” Iain smiled at her, and her temperature rose three degrees. “I only hope you don’t plan to make a practice of running about like a perfect hen-wit. Next time you might not be so fortunate.”
His words hit her like a cold glass of water. “A perfect hen-wit?”
“Aye. It’s reckless exploring the caves alone.” Iain paused when they reached the foot of the path. “Put your arm around my neck, to steady yourself a bit during the climb.”
Ann was too stunned by his assessment of her intellect to move. “I assure you, I do not go running about like a hen-wit.”
“No? And here I thought you were prowling about the caves by yourself. Is there someone else back there we
need to rescue?”
Ann bristled at the sarcasm in his dark voice. The breeze brushed her face, heavy with mist. “No, there is no one else. But that doesn’t mean I am a hen-wit.”
“I never said you were. I said running about the caves was a hen-witted thing to do. Far too reckless for your own good.”
She did not appreciate being lectured on proper behavior from a man who had taken the meaning of reckless to new heights. “I was careful.”
“Apparently not careful enough.”
“I was anxious to see if I might… and I checked the tides… it was just…” She paused, appalled at the heat creeping upward along her neck. She was babbling like the idiot he thought she was. “My great-grandfather believed there was a major archaeological site hidden in these caves. I suppose I was overly anxious to see if I might get a glimpse of something. Perhaps I did make a small error in judgment.”
“The caves are dangerous. Every year people wander in and don’t come out.”
“I know they are dangerous.” Her great-grandfather Owen had been one of those people who had wandered into the caves one morning and had never been found. She didn’t like to think about history repeating itself. Heat crept upward, burning her cheeks. She only hoped he thought it was the wind that brought the blush to her cheeks. It was embarrassing to be so quick to blush when one was almost thirty years old. “I didn’t go very far into the caves.”
“It is nothing short of reckless exploring on your own. And as long as you are staying at Dunmarin, I will insist you not be doing it again.”
“I am not a child. I do not appreciate being spoken to as though I were.”
“Then perhaps you ought to stop behaving like a child. Now put your arm about my neck.”
Ann had no intention of allowing this man to carry her back as though she were some poor helpless child. “You can put me down. I am quite capable of walking back to Dunmarin.”
“You’ll hurt your foot.”
Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized she was being stubborn. Yet she would not allow this man to treat her as though she were a foolish little girl. She had fought enough prejudice in her given field. She certainly would not take it from an infamous playboy such as Iain Matheson. “I can manage.”
He shrugged, then withdrew his arm from beneath her knees. Although he did nothing more than stand still and allow her to slide to the ground, the friction of her body against his was enough to vaporize the blood in her veins. By the time her feet touched the ground, her skin tingled with heat, which was almost as annoying as the pulse that had flared to life low in her belly. For the first time in her life she actually understood what it meant to have her knees turn to jelly.
Iain, on the other hand, looked completely unmoved. He stood smiling at her as though he found her amusing. Oh, she wanted to scream. She backed away from him, too quickly. Her instep came down hard on a rough-edged stone. The pain dragged a gasp from her lips. She stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed her arm.
“I see you are also more than a little stubborn.”
Ann rubbed her bruised foot and glared up at him. “I am not stubborn.”
“No? Well, I am glad to hear that. Then you won’t mind if I do this.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders, hooked his other arm beneath her knees, and lifted her into his arms.
She gripped the shoulder of his sweater. “You needn’t look so pleased with yourself.”
He laughed, the deep rich sound almost musical. “Now, why wouldn’t I be pleased to have a beautiful woman in my arms?”
Oh, he was good. In spite of the fact she knew perfectly well there was nothing behind the words but empty flattery, he still managed to send a ripple of pleasure through her. He had a way of looking at her that made her feel beautiful, even when she knew perfectly well she must look dreadful. She supposed that was simply one weapon in the arsenal any playboy needed to be successful in his given pursuit. No doubt seduction came as easily to him as breathing.
“Put your arm around my neck. It will steady you.”
Even though she obeyed, she was determined to remain unmoved by the scoundrel. She stared at the ocean while he climbed the path. Still, she could not shut out the image of him in her periphery. In spite of her best effort, she caught herself turning her head to get a better look at him. His lips were full and smooth looking, lips that made women long to be kissed. She had never considered herself one of those foolishly romantic women. He was proving her wrong. She caught herself staring at the inviting hollow at the base of his neck, revealed by the round neck of his sweater, and an odd sensation coiled through her.
Strange, although she had not met him until today, she felt she knew him. She supposed it was simply from the stories she had read about him over the years. Yet being close to him like this felt so familiar, as if she had spent a lifetime being held by this man. Odd how the mind could play tricks on you.
He glanced at her and caught her staring at him. Staring in the same foolish lovesick manner in which she had always stared at Mike Campbell in high school. She was no longer the gawky girl in the back of the third-period English class, she reminded herself. She was far too old to indulge in foolish infatuations.
“I’m curious, Professor—how did Adair Matheson’s journal end up in your grandmother’s attic?”
“Apparently my great-grandfather bought it at a rare-book store in London,” she said, relieved to have the conversation center on her work.
Iain’s expression reflected his doubts. “If it is authentic, somehow it managed to slip out of the possession of my family. Which I find peculiar. I cannot imagine why a family journal would end up in a rare-book store.”
“I can’t say how it ended up in the store. But my great-grandfather was certain it was genuine. I had the journal examined. It dates from the period. And it appears as though the writing matches the writing on the photocopies of the letters your grandmother sent me, letters that are known to have been written by Adair.”
“It’s possible it is authentic. I suppose someone might have sold it without realizing the significance of it.” Iain drew in a deep breath, his chest expanding against her side. “Still, I have to say, looking for the jewels is like chasing after a moonbeam. You have as much chance of actually grabbing hold of it. It certainly isn’t worth taking risks with your life.”
“I did not think I was taking any risks with my life when I went exploring this morning. I just wanted to have a look at the place where my great-grandfather Owen disappeared. And then I found this truly fascinating obelisk, sculpted black stone with symbols carved along two sides. It shall be very interesting to see what those symbols represent. If I hadn’t found it, I most certainly would have remembered the tide, and you would not be so inconvenienced at the moment. I am afraid I lost track of the time. If not, I would have seen that crevice. But it was underwater, and I just stepped into it.” She was babbling. She knew it. Yet there was little she could do about it. It was a nervous habit. Iain made her nervous and restless and defensive. “I never do anything that is reckless. I checked on the times of high tide before I left this morning. It was the obelisk that distracted me.”
A pair of gulls swooped overhead on their way to the beach, their shrill cries rising above the sound of waves crashing against stone. “I can see where the obelisk might have distracted you.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Aye. As far as I have been able to decipher them, the symbols on it deal with the passage of the moon and of time.”
“You have deciphered the symbols?”
“I was raised on Dunmarin. From the time I was a lad, I have explored the castle and the land. There is little of the island I have not seen. I was naturally curious about the symbols I kept finding in various places. My father taught me. Before I went to university, I was already fairly good at reading the ancient ogham.”
She stared at him, wondering if he might be teasing her again. “You can read ancient ogham?�
��
“Aye.” He paused on the rocky path and fixed her in a steady look. “Now why is it that you are so astonished, Professor?”
The breeze ruffled his damp hair, tossing a thick ebony lock over his brow. Although his looks had been described as “Hollywood Handsome,” he possessed a masculine appeal seldom found in leading men today. Two years ago he had been included in an issue of a magazine touting the most beautiful people in the world. He had been number nine out of fifty. Obviously the editors of that magazine had never stood with him on a misty Scottish beach, otherwise the entire issue would have been devoted to him. From everything she had read of the man, she was surprised his interests extended beyond the next woman he took to his bed. “It is… ah… I just… you don’t really look like a man who would be interested in something such as ogham.”
“Tell me, Professor, have you already slipped me into a nice neat little category?” Iain leaned toward her, his lips tipping into a crooked grin. “You wouldn’t be one of those women who enjoy reading gossip magazines and newspapers, would you?”
Ann never did more than glance at the tabloids and popular magazines her grandma Evie devoured. Unless of course it had a story about Iain Matheson. She had to admit, she had been following his escapades ever since she was in college. It was convenient to say her fascination with Iain stemmed from the connection her great-grandfather had had with the Mathesons. Yet the truth was, she had been captivated by the handsome rakehell who was holding her close against his chest since she had first seen a photograph of him. “You are a bit infamous.”
If she had not been so close, if she had not been so aware of him, she might have missed the flicker of annoyance in his expression. Yet he was so near, each exhalation of his breath brushed her lips. “Things are not always what they seem, Dr. Fitzpatrick.”
Heat prickled her neck and crept upward into her cheeks. She refrained from citing some of the more scandalous episodes from his past. His past, his present, his future, had nothing at all to do with her. She had come here with one goal, and it had nothing at all to do with Iain Matheson. “With the journal, we have an excellent chance of finding the jewels.”
My Scottish Summer Page 17