“I’m not moving!”
“Then stop breathing. Since you’ve gone to all this trouble to tell the world exactly what you think of this wedding, dressed like some sacrificial virgin going off to be beheaded and deflowered, the least you can do is stand still until this ugly flower is back in place.”
Cathlin’s shoulders tightened. “It’s not a wedding. At least not a real and proper one. I just wanted to make my opinions clear on that.”
“Oh, you’ve made yourself crystal clear, O’Neill. I expect everyone will be thinking you’re a widow rather than a bride-to-be.”
Her eyes glittered. Color slashed over her high cheekbones. Oh, yes, it would be a lovely ceremony all right.
Dominic scowled, wanting to shake her, wanting to order her to be careful. Wanting to kiss her, until she gripped his shoulders and poured over him like slow, still water and he had his fill of her.
Except something told Dominic he’d never get his fill of this woman.
He bit back a curse as Marston came through the study doors, magnificent in a black coat and new orange running shoes. “It appears as if we are ready, my lord. You will be wishing for the ring, of course.”
Dominic opened the case Marston gave him. Inside lay a square-cut emerald, outlined in tiny pavé diamonds. “Thank you, Marston.”
The ring had been passed down through his family for centuries, maybe even back as far as Gabriel’s time. Family legend said the emerald had come from somewhere in the Sri Lanka hill country and that the stone changed hands a dozen times within the first two hours of its discovery.
Dominic looked down, remembering how it had flashed on his mother’s strong, capable hand. She had given it to him, smiling tenderly, only an hour before her death.
“My stubborn, serious son, take this and believe. Believe that you’ll find her, the one who is the other piece of your heart. You’ll know who she is because she’ll fit into your soul, completing something you didn’t even know was missing until that moment.” She had waved her hand, dismissing his protests. “Hush, my love. Let me finish, for my time is nearly gone.” Dominic could still remember how the ring’s sharp corners had cut into his skin. He had been repulsed at the thought that the only way the ring could be his was with his mother’s death.
“When you find her and your heart whispers that she is the one, listen, my love. And give her this. When you do, I’ll know it. Somehow you’ll feel it, too, my dearest Dominic. Somewhere you’ll know I’m smiling.”
As her fingers had closed over his, her eyes had flickered shut. An hour later she was dead.
Dominic wondered if she was watching now. If so, what would that calm, practical Frenchwoman make of this bizarre ceremony performed at the wish of a man dead for two centuries.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“Shall we begin, my lord?” The balding vicar moved from foot to foot, clearly ill at ease. Nicholas had explained the whole odd story to him, and in the end he had given way before Nicholas’s persuasion, contenting himself with a single, muttered, “most extraordinary.”
The heady scent of roses filled the air where the French doors stood open to the golden valleys.
Dominic felt a sudden pressure in his chest. He ignored it, just as he had been trained to ignore anything without relevance to his job. “Your hand, my dear.”
Only Dominic saw the swift burst of color that filled Cathlin’s cheeks. Only Dominic felt the tremor that shook her fingers, then was quickly suppressed as his hand closed over hers.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”
Dominic’s jaw hardened as the vicar began to speak. A will was a will, after all, and a million pounds was a million bloody pounds. Oh, yes, it would be a lovely ceremony, he thought grimly.
Especially if the bride and groom managed to keep from murdering each other before it was over.
“…TO BE JOINED TOGETHER…”
Cathlin’s knees felt like Seacliffe’s disintegrating roof beams.
“…in holy matrimony…”
She was really here. She was really consenting. This was really happening.
“…an honorable estate, instituted of God in paradise…”
The air was full of the scent of roses. She could feel the cool slide of her satin blouse, heavy against her sensitized skin. She caught every smell, registered every noise and movement around her, however small.
“…not to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly…”
She took a quick, steadying breath, ignoring the strong hand on hers, ignoring the urge to look sideways, toward the man whose startling eyes reminded her of a pine forest at dawn, full of secrets.
But Cathlin discovered that she didn’t have to look to see Dominic.
Every detail of his face was already burned into her memory.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER IT was done. The vows were said, the oaths exchanged. Dominic’s elegant emerald ring now sat gleaming upon Cathlin’s slender finger.
The whole ceremony had gone smoothly, in fact, if one discounted the tension between the bridal pair so thick it could be cut with a knife.
Nicholas and his wife looked on in high good humor, delighted by Cathlin’s unusual style of dress. The vicar, downright uncomfortable, limited himself to a few uncertain smiles.
As soon as the service was done, Dominic had given her a firm but very swift kiss. Almost immediately she turned away and moved to greet Serita.
After a hug, Serita studied her friend intently. “I hope you’ll be happy, Cathlin. I know this wedding is just a formality, part of that crazy will, but your eyes are sparkling and your cheeks are flushed. And don’t tell me it’s just from anger, because I won’t believe it.” Her voice fell. “You’re entitled to be happy, you know. Both of you are.” She squeezed Cathlin’s hand, then offered her a glass of Dom Ruinart champagne.
Cathlin emptied her glass, determined not to think about vintage or acidity or carbonation levels, only to enjoy how the champagne tickled all the way down the back of her throat.
When Nicholas and his wife walked up two glasses later, Cathlin gave the viscount a blinding smile. “A lovely ceremony, wasn’t it, Lord Draycott?”
“Call me Nicholas, please,” the viscount said with a smile. “And yes, so it was, Lady Ashton.”
Lady Ashton. Cathlin met Dominic’s eyes and felt color flare through her cheeks.
Nicholas’s wife smiled. “Just yesterday I had it from the head of Harrods Wine Department that you are the best source of information on old Sauternes in England.”
Cathlin caught up another glass of champagne from Marston’s tray and drained it rather wildly. “I’m afraid Mr. Grandville-Jones is in my debt because I saved him from wasting a great deal of money on a consignment of what was supposedly fifty-year-old Sauternes.” A smile played around her lips. “I tracked him down mere seconds before the auctioneer’s hammer fell.”
“And in the end who purchased this overrated and overpriced grape juice?” Dominic asked.
“It was a corporate purchase by a rather dour group of financiers from Osaka. But I doubt they will have noticed the problem with the wine. They were buying strictly for investment purposes.” Cathlin’s tone conveyed exactly how little she thought of such transactions.
“You don’t like the idea?” Dominic found he enjoyed watching Cathlin leap in to defend the things she believed in.
“With wine, really good wine, becoming more expensive by the day, I can see the necessity of investment acquisitions, but I don’t have to like it.”
Serita laughed. “Oh, Lord, now you’ve got her talking about wine. No one will be able to get a word in the rest of the night. Never mind, I’ll rescue you all. Here’s a toast.” She held up a beautiful goblet of handspun glass whose stem was worked in gold. Marston had told Cathlin the set had been in Dominic’s family for generations, and he’d sent for it specially for the ceremony. “I offer a toast to two friends.” Her eyes gle
amed with mischief. “May their wine be sweet and their nights be long.”
A storm of color swirled through Cathlin’s cheeks. She refused to meet Dominic’s eyes as she raised her glass. Crystal tinkled amid a murmur of salutes.
Then another voice cut through the pleasurable stillness. “Dominic Montserrat? My dear boy, it has been far too long since I’ve seen you.”
Dominic turned, his eyes hard. The new arrival sported a perfectly cut tweed jacket and a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. It had been three years since Dominic had last seen him, but James Harcliffe looked exactly the same. “What are you doing here, Harcliffe?”
“Oh my, things really haven’t changed, have they?” James Harcliffe, thin and balding, clicked his tongue. “As you guessed, I’m here for business, not pleasure.” He gestured toward the man beside him. “Have you met Jeffrey Hayes? He’s a particularly good chap in our department.”
Dominic looked over the powerfully built man whose eyes were the color of muddy ice. “I’ve heard the name,” he said coldly.
“Jeffrey, do be helpful and fetch me a glass of champagne, won’t you?” Harcliffe’s cool voice held the edge of command that had allowed him to rise high in the government security apparatus. Hayes nodded and disappeared.
“You haven’t changed a bit have you?”
“I expect not.” Harcliffe smoothed his lapel. “Nor have you, my dear old friend.”
“Friend? We were never friends,” Dominic snapped. “Now tell me what you’re doing here.”
“I have some papers for you. I think you’ll find they make enjoyable reading.” Harcliffe’s eyes were full of malice. “I left them in the viscount’s study.”
The others had moved away.
“I don’t want files, I want answers,” Dominic growled. “That’s why I called you last night. Who was in that car? I gave you a license number and now I want a name.”
“We’re working on it.”
“Working’s not good enough, Harcliffe. Someone was after Cathlin, someone clever. I want to know who.”
“What makes you assume that the attackers were after Cathlin? Perhaps, my dear Dominic, they were after you.” Harcliffe’s eyes narrowed. “After all, you’ve left a great many enemies in your wake.”
“Why would they come all this way when they could track me down in France? No, there’s a knot in my gut that tells me this has to do with the wine.”
“Ah, yes, that much vaunted instinct of yours. It has proved extremely valuable on occasion, I admit. It has also given you some very influential admirers, people in very high places who are interested in acquiring that priceless wine in Draycott’s cellars. So listen to me and listen well,” Harcliffe commanded. “This is out of your hands. The palace wants that wine, and that makes this a government operation. Are you following me?”
Dominic bit back a curse. Was there anything that James Harcliffe didn’t know? “I’m following.”
“Then I expect you to go by the book. Keep that wine safe and see that Cathlin completes the authentication that the palace wants.” Harcliffe smiled thinly. “Otherwise, I’ll see that Hayes replaces you in charge of security here at the abbey.”
“Hayes? The man is totally unreliable and you know it. He bungled that last case in Manchester and nearly got a whole airport blown up in the process.”
“Too bloody bad. Mr. Hayes is all we have available right now.” There was smug triumph in Harcliffe’s voice.
“What about those three harassment suits lodged against Hayes by women he was protecting? You and I both know they had total validity. Pulling the full force of the branch was the only way you got them dropped.”
Harcliffe clicked his tongue. “Pure hearsay. Like any other man involved in a dangerous job, our Mr. Hayes feels the need for an occasional release of stress.”
“You call it a release of stress when he forced that nurse from Brighton into his car and kept her bound and gagged for six hours?” Dominic growled a curse. “By God, there was hospital testimony to support physical evidence of assault.”
“Nonsense, Dominic. It was all amicably resolved out of court. Now I really must insist that you stop dredging up unpleasant aspects of Mr. Hayes’s past. It’s either him or you.”
“Then it’s me and only me. Meanwhile, I need backup here. Men, equipment and anything else I happen to think of.”
“It can be arranged.”
“Tonight, Harcliffe. Not in two weeks.”
“I suppose you’re right. The press will soon have all the details of that wine. By the way, how is your wife holding up?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“What’s the problem? All our records say that Cathlin O’Neill has permanently repressed those memories of her mother’s death.”
“And just what else do those records say? Do they tell you how it felt to be ten years old and see your mother lying dead in front of you? Maybe you even got a sample of the woman’s blood for the files.”
“Don’t let it get personal.” It was a cold, flat order. “You know the rules as well as I do, Dominic.”
“It is personal. I’m the one who brought her back here. How would you like to take responsibility for her sanity, Harcliffe?”
“I wouldn’t. But then I don’t have to. You have always been the favorite with the Royals. You racked up highest scores in every class. Firearms, threat analysis, close escort and evasive driving—you were always the best and they took you in as one of their own, didn’t they?” For a moment there was hatred in Harcliffe’s voice, hatred born of jealousy that he himself had never been able to break into that royal and rarefied world. “But it won’t help you one damned bit now. You’re back and you’re going to stay back, Montserrat. And while you’re here, you’re mine to control.”
“You’ve waited a long time for this, haven’t you, Harcliffe?”
“Longer than you know,” came the flat answer. “So shut your mouth and get back to your duties, Officer Montserrat. Unless you want to see Hayes replace you.”
“What if Cathlin blows from stress? Then you’ve got no bequest and no one to carry out the verification work for the palace.”
“She won’t. We’ve got her complete psychological profile, and I’ve already gone through the debriefing notes made after the death of her mother. At the time there was some suspicion it might have been a political killing in retaliation against her father’s government activities. Donnell O’Neill was very useful to us, you see. But that idea was scrapped. In the end, the conclusion of a panel of experts was that Ms. O’Neill knew nothing of importance—and anything she might have observed at the abbey was permanently blocked in her subconscious as a result of the trauma. Don’t you think we looked into every possibility? As a matter of fact, my wife was the expert of record in the case and she did nothing else for weeks. If there was a chance, even the slightest chance, that Cathlin O’Neill could remember something of use, you can be bloody certain that we would have pursued the possibility.”
“And then what would you have done, Harcliffe? Pumped her full of hallucinogens? Given her pentathol? Sweet God, to a ten-year-old child?”
“If it would have resulted in useful ends, that’s exactly what we would have done.” Harcliffe’s eyes were utterly cold.
“By God, sometimes I think you’re mad. Sometimes I think all of us are.”
CATHLIN WATCHED DOMINIC stride away from the balding man who’d just arrived from London. Was it something about the wine? She was going after Dominic when she felt a hand on her arm.
“Don’t go yet.”
Cathlin looked up into soft brown eyes. There was something sad about the woman’s faint stoop and the strand of gray hair trying to escape from her prim chignon.
“You do remember me, don’t you?” The woman frowned. “I see you don’t remember at all. I am Joanna Harcliffe. Dr. Joanna Harcliffe.” She looked at Cathlin, her head cocked, as her husband moved off in search of more champagne and new prey. “I’m
afraid my husband has managed to irritate Dominic Montserrat yet again.”
“Again? I don’t understand.”
“You didn’t know? My dear, they worked together for years.”
Cathlin stiffened at the reference to a world she continued to hate. “I see.”
“Good heavens, you do have the look of your mother, especially when you’re angry. I would have thought it was impossible.”
“You knew her?”
“Oh, yes, I knew Elizabeth O’Neill.” Joanna Harcliffe said the words slowly, as if they held a host of memories.
Cathlin’s face paled. “You knew her well?”
“Oh goodness, yes. We were up at St. Hilda’s together—Oxford, you know. We read English before she developed an interest in art. Then she leaped right ahead of me. She was quite brilliant, your mother.” The older woman’s voice tightened. “Don’t let anyone tell you anything different.”
“But I don’t—”
“No, of course you don’t. How could you?” Joanna Harcliffe’s eyes softened. “It’s been fifteen years, after all. And perhaps it’s far better this way, with your having no memory.”
Cathlin felt a heaviness in her chest. “You know about that? About how she—she died?”
“I’m afraid I do, my dear.” The woman hesitated.
“No, don’t stop.”
“You see, I’m a doctor. A psychiatrist. The—police called me in afterward.”
“And you were called in for me.” This time, it was a statement, not a question. “My God, I talked to you about it.” Cathlin’s eyes darkened, locked on the elegant Baume et Mercier silver-link watch on Joanna Harcliffe’s wrist. As if in a dream, she watched the second hand sweep toward the top of the silver face.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Cathlin swallowed. “For a moment it was all there, so close. Oh, God, I almost had it.”
Eleven.
Twelve.
Cathlin felt darkness settle over her with light, scraping fingers. Memories drifted, then faded. “How can I make it come back? How can I remember?”
Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams Page 34
