Jamee gasped. “Ian, are you all right?”
He gripped the end of the table while red and blue lights flashed before his eyes.
“Ian?” Jamee was beside him, holding his shoulder. He caught the scent of her subtle perfume and the lights flashed all over again.
“Can you hear me? Can you talk?”
He eased one hand over the knot at his temple. Blood streaked his fingers. “I can talk. I might even live. If I’m lucky.” But not if he had to watch her in that skirt much longer.
“Sit down at the table and let me help.”
The last thing he wanted was Jamee’s fingers brushing his face. That pain would be worse than a dozen pans tossed onto his head. “There’s no need for you to—”
“Don’t be silly.” She pushed him firmly into a chair, then carefully brushed back his hair. Every movement sent heat straight to Ian’s groin.
“Jamee, I—”
“I doubt you’ll need stitches, though there is some blood. Sit still now. I have some dyeing alcohol in my bag.”
“You have everything in that bag.” Ian sighed and gave himself up to the pleasure of her voice and her gentle touch. There was no reason to deny himself. It was strictly a medical necessity.
“I’ve done this quite a bit, growing up with four brothers. One or the other was always limping inside with a scraped knee or a bleeding elbow.” She bent her head and brushed his forehead. “This may hurt.”
God, how it hurt—every sweep of her hands, every nudge of her breasts. Her thigh pressed against his back. Ian tried not to think about what would happen if he turned around and explored the warmth hidden beneath that incredible skirt of hers.
“Okay?”
He was sweating. His body was rigid. “Just fine. You have good hands.” The understatement of this or any other century.
“Adam tells me that. But he’s my brother, so he’s biased.” She rubbed gently, then bent closer, blowing across his skin. “This should help.”
Help? He was dying, swallowed alive by urges he had always been able to control before. Nothing had been the same since Jamee Night had thrown him to the ground, determined to save his life. “What I really need is some whiskey,” he rasped.
“There isn’t any whiskey in the cottage.”
Ian couldn’t help himself. He snagged her wrist and brought her palm to his mouth. The slow kiss was edged with the slightest pressure of his teeth. “You’re sure you’re not an angel?”
“Positive,” she said huskily. “Look, no wings.”
Ian didn’t want to look. It hurt to look at something he couldn’t touch. “Angels come in all shapes and forms, don’t you know? My nanny always said they could appear like the best or the least among us.”
“What a lovely thought.” Her breast nestled against his ribs.
Ian swallowed a curse. “Are you sure there’s no whiskey anywhere in that bag of yours?”
“I’m afraid not. I don’t drink. Except when—well, the Big Three.”
Ian took a slow breath. Her crooked smile played havoc with his pulse, starting guerrilla wars all over his body.
“Even if I had whiskey, I wouldn’t drink it with you. With you, I’d want to feel everything, remember everything.”
Ian’s eyes closed. He tried to fight the hot fantasy her words invoked. Nothing helped.
“Maybe there is one way I can make you more comfortable,” Jamee whispered.
Ian sat up rigidly. “As in the Big Three?” Now he was talking the same crazy language she did. “You think I’d let you do something that intimate just to distract me?”
“Intimate?” She laughed in shock. “No, I meant something else.”
Ian wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. “So a head wound doesn’t entitle me to the Ultimate Sacrifice?”
Her laugh filled the corners of the room and worked its way deep into Ian’s chest, cutting off his breath. “All you have to do is ask,” she said huskily. “Around you, it seems I’m easy, McCall.”
Ian closed his eyes and shook his head. This conversation was not happening. This situation was not going any further.
Something scraped on the wooden floor. Ian opened his eyes and found Jamee sitting in a chair beside him, her head cocked.
Ian sighed. “Just one glass, that’s all I ask. Two inches neat. Perfect single malt, with a smell like pine smoke and peat.”
“Forget the whiskey, McCall. Let me try something. Turn a little to the left.”
“What are you going to do?” he said suspiciously. “Nothing that involves tuning forks and New Age crystals, I hope.”
Jamee chuckled as she pulled him sideways and slid her hands across his shoulders. “I think this may help.”
Ian didn’t move. She did something to his neck, something slow and unbelievably wonderful.
She had marvelous hands, he thought, as she stroked down his neck and along his tense shoulders, tracing each knotted muscle gently.
But Ian couldn’t relax, not with the threat that waited somewhere in the fog. His physical reaction to her presence didn’t help, either.
“Why don’t you relax and stop fighting me?”
“That’s supposed to be my line,” he muttered.
“Not this time, Braveheart.”
Ian muttered darkly. But his whole body started to relax, beginning at the knot between his shoulder blades. Even the two inches of agony at his right temple began to feel fractionally better. “Where did you learn that?”
“I used to work for a man who was very tense. This was almost the only thing that could make him relax.”
Ian sat up straight. “Almost the only thing?” he growled. Something soft and firm pressed at his rib. He tried not to think what it was. “What else worked?”
Her fingers dug and feathered, stroked and skimmed. “Oh, this and that. Poetry sometimes. He liked me to play Chopin when nothing else worked.”
“God bless Chopin.” Ian groaned as her hands hit another pain point. “How did you learn the massage?”
“I picked it up in Japan and Asia. The Swedes have their own style, too. I’ve done a lot of traveling over the years.”
He gasped as she worked the tense muscles in his shoulder.
“Sorry. You’re tied up in knots. Is that better?”
“Yes.” His breath emerged in little puffs. “It feels—too good—to be legal.”
“I’m sorry that you’ve never had a real massage before. I’ll have to remedy your neglect.” She moved to the upper corner of his back. “You never told me your occupation, by the way.”
Ian thought he might be melting. “Being laird of a decrepit old castle isn’t enough?”
Her eyes crinkled. “I know a bit about the costs of repairing old properties. I also know a bit about British inheritance taxes. They’re crippling, I’m told. You must have some other moneymaking skill.” She tilted her head. “You have the look of a man who makes his living by…knowing people. Detecting how they think and reading their deepest desires. You would be very good at that. Are you a psychiatrist?” she asked gravely.
“No.”
“A doctor?”
“Definitely not.”
Her teeth snagged her lower lip. “You don’t look like one of the titled jet set.”
“I didn’t know that a particular look was required,” Ian said, happy to steer the subject away from his profession.
“Oh, absolutely.” Jamee pursed her lips. “Perfectly tailored double-breasted jacket. Bespoke at Bond Street, of course. Faded jeans, very well fitting. Very expensive. Probably with a designer label.”
Ian chuckled, recognizing a dozen of his London acquaintances in her description. “But of course.”
“Perfect bone structure. Arrogant manner and a year-round tan. Artificial, of course.” Her eyes narrowed. “I bet you don’t own a single piece of designer clothing,” she said accusingly.
“You lose.” He eased back into the curve of her shoulder while her finge
rs turned him into a quivering mass of mush.
“What? An Armani suit? For taking tea with the royal family.”
“Afraid not. No Armani suits anywhere at Glenlyle.”
“Shoes, then. Handmade in Milan by a fifth-generation shoemaker. The family business has a royal warrant from the Queen Mother. Not that the owner would ever be so gauche as to display it in public. The shoes are…” She wrinkled her nose. “Let me see, brown suede. Wing tip, but very subtle. Worth a fortune. You wear them with your Turnbull and Asser ties.”
Ian smiled broadly, enjoying the game. Enjoying the smile in her voice.
Especially enjoying the way her breath puffed against his neck and her breasts nudged his shoulder.
It shook him to realize how long it had been since he had been happy or even comfortable in the company of a woman. He had known physical pleasure with many women, had been generous with his own body and his slow, thorough exploration of theirs, but comfort was not a part of those memories.
There had always been a shadow since he was a teenager and his father’s ghillie had told him the story of Blind Laird’s Rock and the ancient curse that lay on every eldest Glenlyle son.
But it was hard to think of curses when Jamee’s fingers worked such exquisite magic. “Wrong again. No suede shoes, wing tip or otherwise. Does a pair of St. Laurent cuff links count?”
Jamee shook her head, sighing dramatically. “McCall, you are destroying all my illusions about the leisured rich. Next you’ll tell me that you don’t even have a valet.”
“You’re damn right I don’t have a valet,” Ian muttered.
“A pastry chef?”
“None at Glenlyle, nor ever has been.” He closed his eyes and groaned as her fingers laid furrows of unbelievable pleasure down both sides of his spine. “I think I’ll have to call you Joan of Arc Night from now on.”
Her laughter ruffled the dark hair at his neck. Again that strange, slow heaviness invaded his chest.
“Joan of Arc Night. It has a kind of ring to it. Never heard of her, though. I thought I knew all the saints.”
Her perfume wafted over him and Ian realized she was bending closer. A pillow slid behind his back. “What now? I doubt you can manage to top yourself.” Unfortunately, as soon as the words were out, Ian knew how she could do just that.
He cleared his throat. “So what do I look like? If not one of the idle rich.”
Jamee traced his cheek from nose to ear as if she were trying to read what lay beneath the skin. “Like one of the fierce clansmen who rescued Alasdair MacIan after the massacre of Glencoe. Someone who has seen the darker side of life.”
“My ancestors did shelter the MacIans in the days following the Campbell treachery,” Ian said gravely.
Jamee touched the other side of his jaw. “Like one of the warriors who stood with Wallace at Stirling and Bannockburn. A man who would never give up, no matter how bleak the odds.”
“There was a McCall at both of those battles. Another McCall hung when Wallace died.” Ian opened his eyes and saw Jamee staring at him. Just staring, her cheeks bright with color.
Her gaze told him that he looked like a hero.
God help them both when she found out the truth.
HIGH ABOVE the darkened wooded hills, Draycott Abbey glistened in the moonlight. A shadowed figure paced the weathered roof, his hands locked behind his back.
“I mean it, Gideon. It’s damnably dull here at the abbey. No interesting people come to visit, only those blasted diplomatic types that the viscount has to entertain. Currying favor with the National Trust, he calls it. A blasted nuisance, that’s what I call it. These people have no sense of humor. Even a good, solid apparition in the bedroom can’t shake a chuckle out of them.”
Out of the shadows a great gray cat appeared, his eyes glimmering in the moonlight.
Adrian frowned. “Yes, I know I’ve been out of sorts.”
The cat flicked his tail.
“Oh, very well, I’ve been utterly irascible, I admit it. It’s the season, I’m afraid. Something about Christmas brings all my worst inclinations to life. Life,” the guardian ghost of Draycott Abbey repeated mockingly. “There was a bad choice of words. I haven’t trod on real soil for almost two centuries.” He sighed and the white lace at his cuffs rippled in the wind. “I remember many a Christmas of gaiety, one with that Dickens fellow in particular. One night of determined apparitions was all it took to send him flying back to London.”
At his feet the cat meowed softly.
“Of course, I love Christmas. I love the porcelain angels, the silver candlesticks and the holly and the pine draped everywhere. But this year, I have something different in mind,” Adrian said slowly.
The cat curled about his booted feet.
“No, I do not mean the apparition of the Great Huntsman charging through the front hall and up the main stairwell,” Adrian said irritably. “That was simply a youthful prank.”
The cat purred softly.
“I’m glad to hear that you enjoyed it, Gideon. Nicholas’s father was not so happy, as I recall.” He tapped his jaw thoughtfully, studying the lace at one cuff. “What I had in mind was tracking down a gift that will be perfect for Gray. It is books she loves, Gideon, and I want the rarest book of all for her as my gift this year.”
The cat sat back on his powerful haunches, gray tail twitching.
“No, I do not mean that Magna Carta,” Adrian said in exasperation. “Nor do I mean a first edition of the Gutenberg Bible. Much fun she would have reading those to me beside a roaring fire. No, I’ve been thinking about that Dickens fellow. A first edition of his would put the glow back into her cheeks, I know it. And I have a strong suspicion that I can find that specific volume at Dunraven Castle.”
The cat sat up abruptly.
“Do stop carrying on so. I know you love the salmon there, you bloodthirsty beast. Not a single fish is safe when you’re anywhere north of the Tweed. But there will be no fishing until we’ve done our work, do you understand? We need to find that gift for Gray.”
The cat paced restlessly, his great amber eyes agleam. For a moment, just a moment, it almost seemed as if a ghostly fish flashed through the air, silver scales bright in the moonlight.
“Yes, I know very well what a salmon looks like, Gideon. I’m afraid they don’t delight me as they do you, however. But help me finish my search and I’ll be more than happy to watch you eat your fill.” The abbey ghost stared thoughtfully at the moon glowing above the horizon. “I suspect we might even find our incompetent visitor there, too.”
The cat’s ears twitched.
“Yes, I do have my ways. He’s gone to Scotland, something to do with that mission he mentioned.” Adrian smoothed his lace cuffs. “I suppose I must see that he doesn’t make an absolute ruination of the job. I shall leave in two days. That will give me ample time to convince the viscount and his wife that they need to take a little trip to the north.” He looked down at the granite roof. “Yes, I said me. Alone. Because you, my dearest friend, are leaving for Scotland now.” Adrian rubbed his jaw. “I’m afraid your friend is going to need some help up there.” His soft laughter drifted over the abbey roof and merged with the murmur of the moat. “Ready?”
At Adrian’s feet the great cat stretched once, then twitched his tail.
“Remember the method, do you?”
Silver scales flashed in the air, one phantom fish, then two more. The cat sniffed delicately and raised one paw.
As Adrian watched, his old friend simply walked into the shimmer of air and water and vanished.
“Heaven be with you and guard you,” the abbey ghost whispered.
WIND WHISTLED around his ears.
A strange wind, full of strange scents.
His gray paws twitched, then struck muddy turf. He listened intently, ears pricked forward. Here was fowl and sheep and salt-sea air.
And man. Several of them.
Gideon moved silently forward into the fog, his
eyes ablaze.
CHAPTER NINE
IAN HUNCHED one shoulder against the weathered stone of the storage shed and fingered his cellular phone, waiting for the hiss of static that had plagued all his earlier calls.
“Dunraven Castle.” The words rang out with crystal clarity.
“Can you hear me?” Ian fairly shouted the question. “This is Ian McCall.”
Static crackled briefly, then fled. “Ian, it’s Kara. Where in heaven’s name are you?”
“Caught in the bloody fog, that’s where. Tell that lumbering husband of yours we’ve been holed up in the crofter’s cottage above the cliffs since yesterday.”
“At least you’re safe. We were starting to worry, because there have been any number of accidents on the shore road. Duncan swears it will be clearing first thing tomorrow. His Scottish Sight at work, you know.” Kara MacKinnon laughed. “At least that’s what he tells me. I suspect he heard the forecast.”
“I hope he’s right. I’m getting tired of my own cooking.”
“But I thought you said ‘we.’ You aren’t alone up there?”
“No.” Ian hesitated, reluctant to say more over the phone.
“Here’s Duncan now. Take care, won’t you? We’re saving a seat for you by the fire.”
“And a tall glass of whiskey to go with it, I devoutly hope.”
“Done,” the laird’s American wife said with a chuckle. Ian heard the phone change hands.
“Where are you, man? Angus has had fresh scones and goose pâté waiting for two days now.”
“In the bloody fog at the crofter’s cottage. Not ten kilometers from Dunraven, and it might as well be the moon.”
“You did the right thing to keep off the road,” Duncan said. “It would be suicide to take those cliffs now. The fog is expected to clear by the early morning.”
“So Kara said.” Ian frowned. “Listen, Duncan, I’m not sure how long before this line breaks up, but I should tell you that I’m not alone up here. I also suggest we switch to Gaelic.”
“I see. I spoke to Nicholas yesterday and he filled me in.” Duncan continued in the liquid sounds of the old tongue both men had learned as children. “Have you had any trouble?”
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