“Me. This.” Her arms inched around his neck. “Incredible.”
“Mr. Eco-statement didn’t make you feel incredible?”
She slid her mouth against him in a slow, sensual no. His hands opened over her back, easing beneath lace and linen to find the heated skin beneath.
“I’ll take that for a negative,” he muttered.
“Right again.” She felt his short, jerky breath against her mouth. “Jared?”
“Skin,” he said hoarsely. “I need skin.” He found the ridge of her spine and worked upward, bone by bone. “You’re shaking, Maggie.”
She was doing a lot more than shake, Maggie thought. She was dissolving slowly. She clutched at the front of his sweater and tugged upward, sighing as she found his chest. At the first wary touch of her hands, he cursed.
Imagine Maggie Kincade making a man curse.
She eased onto her toes and nuzzled the ridge of his jaw, working slowly to his earlobe. She had a haunting image of shoving off those form-fitting clothes and nuzzling every inch of him.
Jared’s hands locked. He said something low and hard.
“Gaelic?”
He nodded.
“What did it mean?”
“You don’t want to know.” He tilted her head and stared into her eyes. “A moment ago I said we’d started something. I was wrong, Maggie. We’ve already gone beyond starting. Like it or not.”
“I did. Like it, I mean.” She swallowed. “I’m not used to being so—overwhelmed.”
She’d expected speed and a swift, sudden move for the bedroom. Instead he raised her hand and surprised her again, kissing her open palm with distracting thoroughness.
“You make it too easy to do the wrong thing.” A pulse beat at his temple as he traced her inner wrist. “It doesn’t take a palm reader to know this can’t work, not for long enough to matter. You’re worth more than a day or a week, Maggie.”
Her hand closed slowly. “What are you trying to say, Jared?”
“That two things could happen right now. One, you slap my face and kick me out of here.”
“Hardly polite of me.”
“Two, you walk away and pretend this never happened.”
Maggie ran her hand slowly over his forehead. “I was never good at pretending.”
“Maggie, there are reasons.” His eyes darkened. “I don’t—”
Behind them the door creaked. Marston cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “I am very sorry to intrude, but there is an overseas telephone call for you, Commander. Two faxes have also arrived from the viscount in London. I suppose the strawberries will have to wait.”
“A lot of things will have to wait, I’m afraid.”
Jared took his time letting go of Maggie’s hand. His gaze remained locked on her face.
Maggie spoke, her voice stiff. “You see it’s bad timing, Marston.”
Jared tensed. “Maggie, let me explain.”
“There’s no need. You’re right as usual, Commander. Don’t let me keep you.”
“Damn it, Maggie—”
She walked past him to the door, never looking back.
Damn the man.
Maggie sat on the sunny slope above the moat, pulling silver wire into exquisite serpentine links to complete a choker for her antique cameo. With every move, sunlight swept the metal curves, scattering light over her hands and face, but she barely noticed.
Damn me for wanting him.
Her fingers slipped, and the wire gouged a deep welt across her palm. She stared at blood welling like garnets across her skin. It wasn’t like her to be awkward or clumsy with her tools.
She closed her eyes, trying to push Jared out of her mind. Instead came a flood of memories. The first hot slide of his mouth. The first slow brush of his fingers.
Today would definitely be a bad day for soldering. The way her hands were shaking, she would probably set her clothes on fire.
He had his reasons for saying what he did.
The problem was that the reasons didn’t make her feel any better.
Calm down.
She tried hard, watching the moat bubble past weathered stones of granite that had probably been quarried ten centuries ago. Even the hedges at the abbey were three hundred years old, so Marston had told her.
Something pushed at her foot, and Maggie smiled to see Max rolling ecstatically in the grass, stubby tail twitching. “So, big guy, what do you suggest? Do you want to help me knock him down and rough him up?”
Barking, Max nudged her hand with his soft, wet nose.
“You just don’t have the killer instinct, do you?”
Neither did she, Maggie admitted. Jared had been right. They’d been on a reckless course, and it shamed Maggie to think that he had pulled away, not her. She winced at the sobering awareness of how out of control she had been.
Point taken. Next time she’d be a mature, reasoning adult and keep her emotions firmly under control.
Max barked, then suddenly stiffened, his eyes fixed on the stone bridge over the moat. A low growl spilled from his throat.
“What is it, Max?”
The dog stood frozen, his teeth bared. A bird soared over the roof. Somewhere in the distance a train whistled sadly over the wealden hills.
And then as swiftly as he had tensed, Max was once more himself, racing in circles over the lawn to chase his tail through a bar of sunlight.
“Crazy dog. Must be something about this old house.” Maggie shivered as something stirred at the back of her mind. On her first night here she had felt an overpowering attraction to this very spot, where the moat whispered beneath the old bridge. Her fingers clenched on the grass as a blind, unreasoning fear settled over her. “Stop it,” she said sharply.
Max stopped running and eyed her warily.
“Not you. Go on and play.”
Maggie stared blindly at her unfinished choker, forgotten on the ground, and wondered if the Draycotts listened for ghostly steps in the moonlight or laughter from shadowed hallways.
Her shoulders ached and her neck throbbed. She reached up to massage the knotted muscles, but it only made her remember the heat in Jared’s thorough, patient hands.
His slow inventive kiss.
“Enough.” Angrily, she tossed down her tools and strode to the edge of the moat, where a pair of swans cut a silver path across the water. It was a place out of dreams, a house whose beauty was so sharp that it became almost painful. Age and history had left their mark on every weathered stone, but the love and pride of generations of Draycotts lay equally clear.
She turned to find Marston crossing the lawn, his running shoes glowing in the sunlight.
“I hope I am not disturbing your work, Ms. Kincade.”
“No problem. I wasn’t getting much done. Watching Max is more fun than working.” She stared up at the gray walls and the yards of gleaming glass. “Don’t you feel strange here, Marston? Last night I had the definite feeling one of those old suits of armor was about to climb down off the walls and follow me upstairs.”
“A not unusual sensation.” He studied the high parapets, stark in the sunlight. “It is a house of power and secrets, to be sure. I recall that my father swore he saw someone step down from a portrait in the Long Gallery on Boxing Day.” His mouth curved slightly. “My mother swears it was merely the result of his overindulgence in Scottish whisky.”
A ghost in the portrait. The hairs on Maggie’s neck rose at the image. “I suppose you’ve heard a lot of legends like that about the abbey.”
“More than I can count.”
“And what about you, Marston? Have you seen a gray, ephemeral shape drifting down from the paintings?”
“Draycott Abbey holds many secrets, Ms. Kincade. They are part of the house’s great allure.”
“Then you have?”
He looked out over the moat and down to the wooded hills. “When the sky is black and the wind is high off the weald, I have heard sounds. Twelve bells and one more. I have
even sensed that I was not entirely alone.” He shrugged. “Probably no more than my overactive imagination fueled by my great love for this place. But I digress most disgracefully. Your cousin from Sussex just phoned.”
“Faith?”
The butler nodded. “She requested that you return her call at your leisure.”
“I’ll go right now. Come on, Max.” With a high bark, the dog raced toward her, his long ears flopping. Maggie cast a look back at her silver and pliers. “Is it safe to leave these things out here?”
“I believe so,” Marston said dryly. “There has not been a simple burglary at the abbey for three hundred years.”
Only much later did his odd choice of words strike Maggie.
Simple burglary.
What other kind was there?
“Maggie, where the heck are you? Why didn’t you tell me you’d gone to the abbey? I tried your hotel and got no answer, and I was going out of my mind dreaming up disaster scenarios.”
Leave it to her cousin to track her down, Maggie thought with wry affection. “I’m fine, Faith. I meant to call, but things have been a little rushed.”
“Is something going on, Maggie? You sound funny. Distant, I guess. Or tired.” Maggie’s cousin spoke in a husky rush, allowing no time for a response. Faith Kincade approached a conversation like everything else in her life: with careful planning and a breakneck pace of execution that permitted no deviations and no delays.
“Maggie, there is something wrong. Why don’t you answer?’ ‘
“Because I can’t fit a word in, as usual. And I’m fine, Faith.”
“Then why did you leave London? When I couldn’t track you down, I called Chessa in New York. She told me to try Lord Draycott.”
Maggie pushed back a damask curtain at the window of the sunny first-floor study. Max was curled on the floor beside her, half asleep. “I’m here working. At least I’m trying to. This house is rather…overwhelming.”
“Forget overwhelming. I’d give my firstborn for a private tour of those phenomenal gardens,” Faith wailed. “Pure medieval. No clumsy Victorian renovations there.”
“You don’t have a firstborn, Faith. Or have you been holding out on us?”
Faith’s dry sniff was very loud. “As if I have time for a meaningful relationship, with six topiary centerpieces to finish by next week. I don’t even have time for an un-meaningful relationship. When I was in school they never told me that perennials and herb gardens could be hell on a person’s love life.”
“And you’re enjoying every second of it,” Maggie said astutely.
“You bet I am. I’ve got topsoil up to my elbows and hazel twigs in my hair and I’ve never been happier. Why just yesterday—” She stopped. “This call isn’t about me,” she said sternly. “What’s going on? You wouldn’t have left London earlier than planned without an ironclad reason, not with the Etruscan jewelry show opening this week. What gives?”
Maggie tried to avoid an out-and-out lie. “I wanted to try out some new ideas before the exhibition.” The exhibition I probably won’t be in, she thought darkly. “When Lord Draycott asked if I’d like to stay here for the week, I jumped at the chance.”
“And miss the Etruscan exhibit?”
“We’re not exactly on Mars here, you know. I’ll get back to London before the month is out.”
Maggie heard the rhythmic tap of her cousin’s slender fingers on the phone. “You’re lying. It’s a man, isn’t it? After all these years you’ve gone and fallen in love. Oh, this is perfect! Is he English, American? How did you meet him?”
“There’s no man, Faith.”
“You don’t have to hide anything from me, Maggie.”
“I’m not hiding anything. There is no affair—meaningful or any other sort. I’m here to work and that’s it.”
“He’s married, is that it? Something complicated and terribly tragic—a sick wife that he can’t bear to leave.” Faith gave a noisy sigh. “Don’t worry, I won’t say a word to Chessa.”
“Faith, I am not having an affair with a married man.”
Movement across the room made her turn. Jared braced one shoulder on the door frame, studying her. Maggie wondered just how long he had been listening. “Hold on, Faith,” she said, covering the phone. “Did you want to speak to me about something?”
“Actually, I came to give you the official tour, but there’s no hurry. Go ahead and finish your call.”
With you listening? Not a chance. She uncovered the phone. “I’d better go, Faith. I’ll speak to you tomorrow after things are more settled.”
“That was him, wasn’t it?” Faith crowed with triumph. “Tell him the secret’s safe with me. If he needs a good lawyer, I have the name of someone very reliable in Tun-bridge.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. Once her cousin had an idea in her mind, there was no shaking it free without major surgery. “Faith—dear, sweet Faith—you are completely off target this time.”
Jared suddenly stiffened. He pushed away from the threshold, then strode past Maggie toward the window.
“Look, Faith, I have to go.”
“But—”
“Talk to you tomorrow.” Maggie put down the phone. “What’s wrong”
He shook his head, rubbing his neck as if it hurt. “Something…someone. Odd, I can’t feel it now.” He made an angry sound and closed his eyes, his fingers opening slowly on the window, almost as if he was trying to feel something written there.
Which made almost as much sense as a ghost stepping out of a portrait, Maggie thought irritably.
Suddenly his shoulders tensed. “Got you. Out past the moat.” He raced for the door, his hand already digging beneath his jacket. Maggie could have sworn she saw the dull outline of a gun as he pounded down the hall. She was about to go out after him when Marston panted up the rear hall, a large box in his hands.
“The strangest morning in a decade,” he muttered. “First my line rings every two minutes. Then this package arrives. Ah, Ms. Kincade, I have something for you. But why was Commander MacNeill racing toward the moat?”
“He said something was wrong.” Maggie glanced at the bulky package. “That’s not mine. I’m not expecting any deliveries.”
Marston’s hands tightened imperceptibly on the box. “In that case, I believe we will hold this for the commander.”
“Is there a return address?”
Marston smoothed the wrinkled paper. “Middle Earth Designs. Does that mean anything to you?”
Faith. Dear, sweet Faith.
“It’s my cousin’s landscape design company in Sussex. She must have meant it as a surprise.”
The butler continued to stare down at the box. “I believe we should wait.”
“Why?”
“Because I told him that all packages had to be cleared through me.” Jared’s hair was windblown, and his eyes glinted with menace.
Maggie blocked his way as he reached for the box. “No. Not until you tell me why you charged outside just now.”
“I thought I saw someone by the bridge. I was mistaken.” His words were clipped. “It was just that great gray cat chasing butterflies in the sunlight.” Jared took the box in a careful grip. “When did it arrive?”
“Just a few moments ago. Commander.” Marston’s forehead creased with concern. “I would have brought it sooner but there were a dozen calls on my personal line.”
“What sort of calls?” Jared asked softly.
“Misdials. When I picked up, the line was dead.”
“How many times?”
“Ten. Maybe twelve.” Marston’s brow rose. “You don’t think—”
Jared cut him off, lifting the box to a polished oak side table. “Middle Earth Designs?”
“That’s my cousin’s company in Sussex. There’s nothing to get upset about,” Maggie said sharply. “Faith loves surprises. She’s always sending unexpected gifts to her friends.”
“Call her back,” Jared said flatly.
It too
k a heartbeat for his quiet order to sink in. “You think it’s some sort of…trick?”
Jared bent to examine the paper. He traced each edge carefully, then sniffed the bottom.
“Look, Jared, you’re taking this all out of proportion.”
“Call her.” This time there was no ignoring the snap of a command in his voice. “Ask her if she sent you anything for delivery today.”
“Oh, all right. Then she’ll be positive I’ve gone off the deep end,” Maggie grumbled, lifting the phone on a nearby pedestal table and dialing her cousin’s number.
“Middle Earth Designs. How can I—”
“Faith?” Maggie spoke quickly, so her cousin wouldn’t hear the worry in her voice. “Sorry to bother you, but did you send me a package? A large box, about 10 by 20.”
“I was going to send you some roses tomorrow. In fact, I just cut them a minute ago. But today—no.”
Something heavy settled in Maggie’s chest. She stared at the anonymous, impersonal box. “It’s from him,” she whispered. “He knows I’m here. He knows Faith and Chessa, too. Oh, God, he knows everything about me.”
“Maggie, what in heaven’s name is going on? Maggie, talk to me.” Maggie’s hands shook as Jared took the receiver.
“Your cousin will call you back in a little while.”
“Who is this? I want to talk to Maggie.”
“Shortly. I’m sorry, but I have to ring off now.” Cool. Implacable.
Professional, Maggie thought.
Because now it was his world and his business. He was assessing a threat, estimating a counteroffensive. Dear sweet God, what had she gotten herself into?
“Sit down.” Jared pushed her gently into a chair.
She smelled the sharp tang of whisky as he pressed a tumbler into her hands. “He knows, Jared. He was out there by the moat, wasn’t he?”
“We don’t know that,” he said flatly. “Drink this.”
With utter detachment Maggie raised the heavy crystal tumbler. Jared opened his fingers over hers and guided the glass to her mouth. “All of it.”
She coughed at the hot bite of the spirits, then finished the inch left in the glass, determined not to fall apart. “What happens now, Jared? He’s gotten in—but why?”
“As a test. Or maybe as a demonstration of his power.” Frowning, he pulled out a cellular phone and spoke softly. “Izzy? I want backup on every phone here. That’s right, all three numbers. And I want a printout on all incoming calls, with name and location. I know that’s illegal, but you know a dozen ways around that. I saw what you did with that switch last month in Paris, remember?” He paced tensely, the phone close to his mouth. “Fine, do it that way. Just make it quick.” He studied the box on the table. “And check on a courier company called Lion Express. That’s right, like the animal. Send everything to my computer. Nothing more via phone, understood?”
The Perfect Gift Page 23