The Immortals I_Lucas

by Cynthia Breeding

  “It certainly seems to be authentic,” Mr. Smith said as he carefully lifted a piece of brittle parchment and turned it over.

  She hoped so. She’d nearly gotten killed for it. Or maybe not. But either way, she had decided not to tell Mr. Smith of the adventure. He might not send her on any more trips if she did.

  “I hope the price wasn’t too high.”

  He waved away the thought. “My, dear, if this is truly a map that leads to the Holy Grail, no price is too high. Just think of what the collectors’ world would think…the Grail authenticated, but owned by the mysterious, reclusive “Mr. Smith”.” He giggled and clapped his hands at the thought.

  Sara wondered if her employer had any idea of what the spiritual value of finding the Grail would be. Probably not. He concerned himself acquiring objects. Mainly medieval weapons. She glanced at the far wall, across from the fireplace, where a collection of swords from the Scottish claymore to the Roman spatha hung.

  She really doubted that the manuscript would lead to the Grail. After all, it had been written centuries after the Grail disappeared. Not that she didn’t believe in the Grail. She did. She was a white witch, after all, a follower of the Goddess. And chalices were symbols of the Great Mother.

  “It’s too bad you don’t read Gaelic,” Mr. Smith said, eyeing her hopefully.

  Sara smiled. “I don’t. But I know someone who does.”

  His round face broke into a big smile. “Ah, I knew I could count on you! Who is it? Is it someone I know? We must invite him here, by all means.”

  She shook her head. “He was my professor in ancient Celtic history. He’s quite elderly now, confined to a wheelchair, and somewhat reclusive.”

  Mr. Smith’s eyebrows knit together. “But wasn’t Celtic history mostly a study of Ireland? This is Scotland we’re talking about.”

  Sometimes, it was hard to be patient with people and remember that not everyone had a love of history. Even if they did try to collect some of it.

  “Scotland was first Pictland, of course, and the Picts spoke their own language. But the Roman word for the Irish invaders was Scotti. The language is very similar.”

  His brow smoothed and he waved his hand in the air. “No problem then. I will simply make a copy of this document and you can take it to him. And you might tell him he will be well paid.”

  As he moved to the copy machine, Sara thought that the money would matter little to the old professor, although on an educator’s pension, he could certainly use it. But for him, the love of actually reading a document this old would be enough. She could hardly wait to see the look on his face when she showed it to him. Whatever it said, it was still a rare find for a historian.

  “I’ll tell him,” she said as she accepted the copies and put them in her purse. She looked up as Mr. Smith’s butler approached the doorway, looking somewhat flustered, which was highly unusual.

  “What is it, Benton?”

  “A visitor to see you, Sir.”

  Smith looked annoyed. “I’m busy. He doesn’t have an appointment, does he?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Then send him away.” Mr. Smith picked up another piece of parchment.

  But the butler hesitated and Sara’s ears perked up. Alcott Benton had been a very proper English butler whose employer in Britain had some trouble with one of the Royals over a financial investment—apparently Benton had felt the need to loyal and took up the point with the Royal’s butler—which resulted, ultimately, in his downfall. Mr. Smith had acquired him just like he did other unique objects. No one else he knew had a real English butler. Sara sometimes wondered if Smith ever realized that half of what Benton said was insult couched in smooth words. But that he didn’t immediately click his heels and give that short deferential bow spoke louder than any words.

  Smith looked back up. “You still here?”

  Benton grimaced ever so slightly. “Yes, Sir. The…gentleman…was quite insistent that he see you.”

  Her employer was working himself up into throwing a theatric fit for not having his wishes carried out immediately, so Sara interrupted.

  “Did he leave a card, Benton?”

  “Indeed.” The butler produced it from the pocket of his short jacket with a rather flourished air.

  Sara smiled. When Benton had first come to this rather strange household, he had tried placing the mail and business cards such as this on a small silver tray which Mr. Smith had carelessly put a sticky apple pie dish on. The pinched look on the butler’s face had been almost too much. Regency England and modern America just didn’t mix that well.

  She looked at the card and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “It says he’s an archeologist. Lucas Ramsey. Specializes in medieval Celtic artifacts. ”

  Mr. Smith pursed his mouth and let out a little whoosh of air. “How strange since I just happen to be looking at one.”

  “Not so strange,” a voice said from the doorway. “I was on the dig in the Highlands where your manuscript was found.”

  Sara twisted around in her chair and was suddenly very glad she was sitting down. He was the stranger from the plane. The one who looked like he had been on the cover of a dozen bodice-ripper romance novels. Only today, he looked more like he might have stepped right out of history itself, even with the dark glasses he still wore.

  His golden hair was pulled back with a leather thong. Without the distraction of wanting to run her fingers through it, she realized she was also looking at her rescuer. Black leather boots came nearly to his knees and his black jeans hugged and defined very well-muscled thighs. A crisp, white linen shirt, its sleeves rolled up over strong, tanned forearms, stretched across wide shoulders and tucked into a narrow waist. Across his chest he wore a red, green and blue tartan sash. Slung diagonally across lean hips was a leather belt and sporran. A Highlander come to life, sans kilt. Sara began to wonder if she was suffering from more severe jet-lag than she thought or if watching a repeat of The Highlander last night had suddenly gone to her brain. And she wasn’t sure she cared. This man was hot. And then reason kicked in and she sat up straighter. He was at the auction and on the plane with me.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Standin’ in this wee doorway at the moment, lass,” he answered with an easy smile and rich baritone brogue that reminded her of smoky wooden casks of smooth Scotch whisky and heather moors. “May I come in?”

  “It appears you are, indeed, in, Sir.” Benton raised his head and sniffed.

  Mr. Smith laid down his paper and gestured. “Please have a seat.” He turned to the butler. “You can go.”

  “As you wish. I shall be close by.” He looked at the stranger and then back to his employer. “If you need me, Sir, simply ring.”

  A small smile quirked up one corner of Lucas’ mouth as he sat down on the settee beside Sara. Instantly, she was all too aware of the maleness of him. He smelled like leather and soap and his body gave off a heat that sent her own blood racing through her veins. Or maybe she was having am estrogen moment. Did he have to sit so close?

  Hah! Like you mind that! Her faerie had suddenly materialized beside her ear. Sara tried to ignore her, thankful that the imp was invisible to the rest of the world. Trust Nim to pick this day to follow her to work. She usually stayed home.

  “I can assure you,” he said, “that I am not armed, although it’s reasonable of your butler to be concerned.” He turned to Sara with a slow smile that quirked up one side of his sensual mouth. “I’m glad to see ye are well.”

  The smile was pure animal magnetism. Luckily, she was immune to such things. Really. She lifted her chin. “Thank you,” she replied well aware that Mr. Smith ears perked up like a terrier’s. “Have we met?”

  He hesitated a minute and the smile spread into a grin. He took off the shades and held out his hand. “I’m Lucas Ramsey.”

  His eyes. They were slanted a bit at the corners and were the same tawny color as his hair. Clear as single malt Scotch, she
wasn’t sure she’d ever seen eyes the color of amber before. And they were penetrating too, looking right through to her very soul. Her senses sharpened and she felt her aura expanding toward him. Great. So much for immunity.

  He cleared his throat, only it sounded like a small growl. Sara realized she was gawking and felt her face flush. I’m almost thirty years old, for crying out loud! I’m no schoolgirl! “I’m Sara Kincaid,” she said and took his hand.

  Big mistake. If she’d been warm just sitting near him, now she sizzled. The touch was almost electrifying, sending pulsations to nerve endings everywhere. Including, she realized as her face grew even hotter, down there. Abruptly, she pulled her hand away and managed to regain some control.

  “Ummm,” Nim said dreamily. “This one’s a keeper.”

  “Stop it!” She turned away from the giggling faerie. “What brings you here, Mr. Ramsey?”

  “Lucas. The document, of course.” He nodded to Mr. Smith’s desk.

  At least, he didn’t try to cover that up. “You were on the plane yesterday.”

  He nodded again. “I wasn’t able to afford the bid, so I did the next best thing. I followed its new owner home.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Just like a puppy.”

  That smile was disarming, as he probably meant it to be, but she refused this time to be distracted. He followed me? Damn. So much for my knack of situational awareness.

  “I don’t believe I saw you at the auction.” I couldn’t have missed him with all that testosterone flowing!

  He shrugged benignly. “I spoke to the accounts clerk afterwards.”

  “And he gave you the information?”

  “Well, not exactly. But his ledger was open and I…have the ability to read upside down. It comes in useful sometimes.”

  Sara wondered what other little skills he had that might come in useful sometime. Like addling her brain with those exotic eyes. Or what those strong fingers would feel like stroking her bare skin… Stop this! Concentrate on the topic! With her not-so-great record with Bad Boys of America, she didn’t need to go falling all over a perfect stranger. Especially a devastatingly handsome one. She should know what good-looking men could do. Breaking hearts is what they did best.

  “How did you get by security, by the way?” Sara asked. Her boss may be an eccentric, but he was a lucid one, well aware of the high risk of burglary. He had surveillance cameras posted around his estate and every gardener, handyman and servant had also been trained as security guards. In addition to the uniformed ones and the off-duty officers who had been waiting for her at the airport.

  Lucas looked a bit sheepish, making him seem like a small boy caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. Sara began to wonder if he had, indeed, done professional acting. He reached inside the attaché again and produced a badge.

  “Scotland Yard?” Sara said as she examined it.

  “It’s the real thing,” he answered and she blushed somewhat guiltily and handed it back. “I do a little…investigative…work for them occasionally. Usually when they need to authenticate medieval artifacts that have been reported stolen and pop up somewhere.”

  That explained his little skill of being able to read upside down. Detective training, no doubt. Fleetingly, she wondered if the Yard trained its men in the art of seduction too. Lucas Ramsey could make James Bond look like a geek. Goddess, she needed to get a grip. Sara leaned back against the settee.

  “So, then. Why are you here?”

  His eyes held hers a moment longer and then he turned to Mr. Smith. “As I said, I was on the dig, but I never got to look at the manuscript. It was sealed in a metal container when we brought it out. I’d very much like to read it. That’s all.” He opened an attaché case and pulled out papers that he laid on the desk. “Letters of reference. I think you’ll find that I am who I say I am.”

  “The manuscript is in Gaelic,” Sara said dryly.

  “And I’m a Gael,” Lucas replied with a grin.

  “You could read this?” Mr. Smith interrupted.

  “If you’ll permit me?” Lucas held out his hand.

  Mr. Smith considered for a moment and then reluctantly turned over one piece.

  Lucas accepted it carefully, holding it by its edges. His eyebrows rose as he scanned the paper and when he looked up, his gaze was sharp and alert, almost like an animal sensing danger.

  “This document needs to be locked away someplace where it can’t be stolen.”

  “Why?” Sara asked as she felt soft hair on her arms begin to rise.

  “Because if this falls into the wrong hands, it could mean the destruction of civilization as we know it.”

  * * * *

  “So the document is in Dallas.” Baylor leaned back in his desk chair and stared at Alan Caldwell, the con man who had yet to fail him.

  “One of the suburbs,” he answered with a shrug. “A pity I couldn’t just nab her at the airport, but there were two policemen waiting for her.”

  “I expected as much,” Baylor replied. “She probably called her boss after the incident at Sotheby’s.” His face hardened as he thought of that idiot, Toby. This could all have been avoided if that fool had done his job. The kid was still in his private infirmary healing. He was tempted to make him soak in very salty water and let those wounds burn awhile. “She didn’t spot you?”

  Alan looked slightly affronted. “I’m a pro. Has any mark ever made me?”

  “Don’t get cocky. You do your job.” Baylor smiled slightly. “You’re the only one who’s escaped the whip.”

  “I prefer pleasure, not pain,” Caldwell answered.

  Baylor nodded. “Did you case the place?”

  “Security’s tight,” he answered. “I got as close as I could without having my picture taken. There’s a gatehouse, electric fences, and, if I’m not mistaken, a whole lot more guards than just the uniformed.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Every hired hand looked like a bouncer from a bar in a shady neighborhood.”

  “Why so many? Is the guy guarding Ft. Knox?”

  “Seems like the guy collects medieval weapons and other expensive stuff. The place is supposed to be a friggin’ museum.”

  Baylor raised the eyebrow over his uncovered eye. “Do I want to know how you found that out?”

  Caldwell grinned. “There was a nice looking piece of ass in the next driveway, polishing her Mercedes. I struck up a conversation.”

  “Ah.” Baylor said. Alan worked out several hours a day and had one of those chiseled, square-jawed faces that women seemed to like, which was an asset he used. He had no trouble getting women between the sheets. As he mentioned to Baylor, it was amazing what a woman would tell him when he said he wanted to “cuddle and talk” after sex.

  “Do you want me to seduce the mark? I wouldn’t mind,” Caldwell said. “She has nice tits.”

  Baylor considered it. He liked biting women’s nipples. Hard enough to put real fear into them. If they screamed, so much the better. And he would bet that this bitch would be a real fighter. He liked those. But better to leave this one alone. At least for now.

  Baylor steepled his fingers and thought. Breaking and entering was not a viable solution. Accosting the bitch would do no good. She’d no longer have the document. No doubt it was under lock and key in some vault. He sighed.

  “You’re going to have to go in.”

  “What’s my cover?”

  “Free-lancer. You’re doing a magazine article for Guns and Swords. A period piece of ancient weapons.”

  “Um. Guns I know. Swords I’ll have to study up on.”

  “Use the Internet,” Baylor said and opened a drawer. He removed a small box and slid it toward Caldwell. “GPS tracking device inside. No bigger than a dime. Slip it into the woman’s purse. It won’t hurt to keep posted on her whereabouts. She might come in useful later.”

  Caldwell nodded and stood up to leave, slipping the box inside his jacket. At the door he turned. “Just one more thing.” />
  Baylor looked up from the cigar he was lighting. “What?”

  “The guy that you saw at the auction—the one you called the Templar—he was there too.”

  Baylor forced his hand to keep hold of the cigar. “He was with her?”

  Caldwell shook his head. “Nah. He came later, while I was talking to the broad. Just thought you might want to know.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Baylor listened to the door click shut and then blew a smoke ring. He had thought the Immortal was only at the auction to get de Molay’s shield—Ramsey had a sentimental streak which was something Baylor couldn’t understand in a man. But now…if the Templar had followed the bitch to Dallas, then he must know about the Hallows too. And if he got to them first, he’d put them to use for some altruistic good for the universe. The power of the Hallows was neutral, but the one who owned them directed that power.

  Baylor thought of all the years he had spent carefully cultivating the seeds of hate in the Middle East: Jordan, Syria, the Gaza strip, Iraq—damn the Americans for meddling there, Baghdad was to have been his base of power—but Iran was coming along nicely and he was working on Nigeria. But with the Hallows, he could destroy the earth and return to the Isle for the final battle…

  Time was suddenly of the essence. Baylor reached for the telephone. He was going to Dallas.

  * * * *