by Tarah Scott
Logan turned and Margot realized he meant to get Colin. She grasped his arm and pulled him to her. She pressed close and brought his face down to hers. Their eyes locked for an instant, then he covered her lips with his. She closed her eyes and drank in the warmth of his mouth. He flicked his tongue against her lips and she opened for him. He swept inside, sparring, tasting…memorizing. She wouldn’t forget him, his taste, his scent, his body.
His arms tightened around her. He broke the kiss and buried his face in her hair. “Kylyrra, I must go.”
"What does that mean, Kylyrra?"
He smiled. "Charmed one."
Her throat tightened. How charmed could she be if she had to let this man go? And what about McNeil? How was she supposed to choose in a moment's time?
Footsteps in the hallway jerked their gazes onto the door.
“Sir, you can’t just barge in,” came Dahlia’s voice.
Cat’s assistant.
McNeil’s voice boomed in the hallway, “I’m going in there, your superior be damned.”
Margot swung her gaze onto the Blackberry lying half inside the fireplace. She’d forgotten she’d called him before—She seized Logan’s shoulders. “It’s Charlie. He’s been helping me. He…” she broke off. What could she say?
Logan shook his head. “Never mind, lass.”
They hurried to where Colin lay and Logan hauled him over his shoulder. The handle jiggled. Margot’s heart leaped into her throat. Thank God Cat had locked the door.
“Margot,” McNeil called.
She looked at Logan. “What about the witch who put you in there? She’s back there waiting for Colin and you.”
A glint lit his eyes. “She will expect the Logan she knew. I am no' that same man.”
“Margot!” McNeil shouted.
“You’re still a man,” she said.
“Lass, Colin used Castle Morrison's dungeon to feed his sexual lusts. Let him rot down there with her.”
Memory flashed of her chained to the dungeon walls, Colin fucking her. “My God, I saw him there. I—" Her stomach turned.
The door rattled.
Margot seized Logan’s hand. “He’ll break the damn door down. Fucking SAS training.”
Logan squeezed her fingers. “I will not forget you, Kylyrra.”
She forced back tears. “If you get imprisoned back in that picture, I’ll kick your ass.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Come back for me, and I’ll paddle that pretty backside of yours.”
He yanked her close, kissed her hard, then faced the picture. Margot backed toward the door. Her heart thumped. Incense still curled up in a single, thin ribbon from the brass bowl on the mantle. Something was wrong. The incense. Cat had used it to imprison her in the picture—just as she had imprisoned Logan there three hundred years ago. He started at a run for the picture. If Logan entered the picture with the incense still burning he would be trapped inside again.
“No!” Margot lunged forward.
The picture blurred as if the paint smeared outward. Logan didn't slow, but looked in her direction. His body elongated, making contact with the distorted colors. Margot dove for the mantle, expecting to make contact with his hard body. The rush of wind dragged her hair and dress toward the picture as it had earlier. Time slowed, and she felt as if she were propelling through a thick wall of molasses. Pain splintered through her. She glimpsed Logan, still looking over his shoulder at her an instant before he disappeared into the painting, and she shoved the brass incense bowl from the mantle.
Margot hit the carpet, the bowl striking the stone wall with a clatter in unison with the whoosh of wind that snapped back into the picture with an audible crack. Ash fluttered down like powder fine snowflakes. She blinked against flakes that caught on her eyelashes and wrinkled her nose at the sickening sweet scent.
She jumped at the sudden crash of the door. The wood banged against stone, and Charlie burst into the room. His gaze landed on her and he rushed forward.
“Ms. Bowers,” Dahlia cried.
Margot pushed into a sitting position as Charlie dropped onto one knee and pulled her up and into a bear hug.
He drew back. “Dammit, Margot, why didn’t you open the door?” He swiped at ash that caught on his nose. “What is this?”
“The reason I didn’t answer the door,” she said.
He dabbed at ash on the carpet beside them, sniffed it, then looked at her. “What is it?”
“I don’t know exactly, some sort of herbal drug.”
He touched the cheek Logan had caressed. “You've got a nasty bruise."
Margot touched the spot and winced at the sensitive flesh.
"Are you all right?” he demanded.
“I'll live."
He grasped her wounded hand and frowned. She hadn't realized the makeshift bandage had fallen off in the fight.
His mouth thinned. "That's a bad cut. Did Miss Bowers attack you?"
"Yes," Margot said. He scowled, and she added, "I guess you figured out what was going on when I called.”
“When you didn’t answer, I had the location tracked.”
“Scotland Yard again?”
He shook his head. “John. He’ll be here presently. I was closer.” He nodded toward Cat. Dahlia knelt beside her, lightly tapping her cheek. “What happened?” he asked.
“I kicked her ass.”
His brow lifted.
“It’s a long story.” And one she’d have to get straight before telling the version she would repeat for the Northern Constabulary.
“Maybe we can get her for attempted murder,” McNeil said. “That would keep her out of circulation until we find hard proof she was involved in Ms. Cullen’s death.”
Margot stilled. She slipped a hand into the pocket she'd dropped the locket into and felt the cool metal of the chain and locket. “Charlie, did Bree Cullen know a guy name Patty?”
His eyes narrowed. “You weren’t supposed to conduct your own investigation.”
She shook her head. “I only did an internet search for any articles reporting her disappearance. Was he her boyfriend?”
“Yes. Now why don’t you tell me who you’ve been talking with?”
Margot recalled Bree Cullen's rotting corpse. Her stomach clenched. “A ghost,” she murmured. The black teddy, pink slippers and…
“What?” Charlie demanded.
She met his gaze. “If you search the castle, you’ll find the locket Bree Cullen was wearing that night.”
His expression hardened. “Goddamit, Margot, John will jail you for disobeying his instructions—and I'll turn the key myself. How do you know about Patty?”
Margot looked at Cat. As if on queue, her eyes fluttered open, and their gazes met.
“Cat told me.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Margot glanced at the ferry that waited at the Stornoway dock, then looked back at McNeil.
He nodded toward the ferry. “You’re sure?”
She gave a small laugh. “No, but I’ve got to sort things out.”
Pain flickered in his eyes, but she didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about it. In the old days, she would have cast caution to the wind and dragged him into bed. She wanted like hell to do just that, but meant what she said; she had to get what happened straight, had to settle what kept the quiver in her stomach alive.
"I'll be back, Charlie."
He studied her. "If you don’t, I'll come for you. I still want to know how you knew we would find that locket in Ms. Bowers' secret room."
"I told you."
He nodded. "I know; she told you. But I find it interesting she would confess to having that locket. It makes no sense. Just as it makes no sense they found no prints on it.”
Margot shook her head. "Cat obviously wiped the locket clean."
"What really happened in that room with her, Margot?"
The impulse to confess the truth rushed to the surface, but she squashed it just as she had the other thousa
nd impulses the last three days. He would never believe the truth. She'd been inside that painting, had seen the two brothers standing in her room, and still couldn't fully accept that it had happened. But the fact she struggled with acceptance didn't change the fact that Cat was going to prison.
After McNeil broke into her room, Margot barely slipped away from him and made it to Cat's secret room before John Gordon arrived. Even now, remembering how she'd laid the locket and chain on the table where the voodoo doll and gris-gris had been didn’t elicit even a twinge of guilt. Cat hadn't been the one to drain Bree Cullen of her life, but she had fed the young blonde to the man who had. Cat might as well have pushed her off a cliff.
Margot lifted a hand and traced McNeil's strong jaw. "Do you believe in magic, Charlie?"
His eyes darkened. "When I look at you, I do."
She rose on tiptoes and brushed her lips against his warm mouth, holding the kiss for a long moment before stepping back. She met his gaze. "Be careful what you dream about."
She picked up the small backpack sitting on the dock beside them and headed for the ferry.
*****
Margot leaned across the railing at the rear of the ferry and stared past the harbor where the channel widened. Tears burned the corners of her eyes. She would never be able tell Charlie the truth. Could she return to him and live with that? Was it fair if she did? Was it fair that she couldn't forget Logan Morrison?
Her room had been declared a crime scene. She had been allowed back inside to collect her things only after forensics had fingerprinted and photographed the room. She had wanted to spend the night there, at least attempt a nap but, of course, that had been impossible. She had no idea if Logan made it back to 1658. If he did, had he chained Colin in the dungeon of Castle Morrison as he said he would? What kind of life had Logan lived? Had he found a woman, married her, loved her…touched her as he had Margot?
She closed her eyes, inhaled, then exhaled. Did she begrudge him this life? He had realized there was something between her and Charlie, and had understood. They didn't belong in the same world. Did she and Charlie belong to the same world?
Butterflies tickled the inside of her stomach and recollection of Charles McNeil washed over her. Her skin tingled just as it had when his warm hands skimmed her flesh. She could smell his musky male scent, feel his heart race when he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed tight.
Raw hunger rose to the surface. She dragged in a harsh breath. How could she love Logan and Charlie at the same time? Margot snapped open her eyes. Sweet Christ. It had taken thirty-two years, and she'd fallen in love with not one man, but two. She barely knew either of them—and one of them wasn’t real—almost.
She straightened. And both of them were on the Isle of Lewis. The boat rumbled beneath her feet. Margot grabbed her backpack and whirled. She hurried along the side of the boat. Four stragglers reached the exit before she did and she stepped aside as they boarded, then brushed past them and hurried down the plank. At the end of the dock, she halted. Where was she going?
The hum in her stomach amped up. She had to find out what happened to Logan. Had Catraoine been waiting for him as Cat had been waiting for her? Margot had planned on finding internet access once she reached the mainland to search for information on Logan.
The Blackberry. That morning before she and Charlie left the hotel for the dock, he'd given her a new phone, charged and ready to go. She had looked for a store to get hers repaired or buy a new one, but one didn’t exist on the island. "It's who you know," Charlie had said, and gave her the phone with a kiss. She only had to insert her chip into the phone and she would have internet.
Margot swung the backpack off her back and fished the Blackberry and chip out of the compartment where she'd stored them. She slid the back off the phone, fitted the chip into its slot, replaced the back, then held down the on button. The screen lit up blue. Affection washed over her and she thought she would cry. Charlie knew how to keep a woman happy. She scanned the dock, searching for a place to sit, then remembered the bench at the end of the street.
Five minutes later, Margot sat down on the bench and opened Internet Explorer on the Blackberry. Her hand shook. She took a deep breath. It didn't matter how it had turned out. There wasn't a thing she could do to change anything at this point. But she had to know, had to accept that she'd done all she could, and know that Logan knew that too. She first typed in Lord Colin Morrison Isle of Lewis. Several links loaded.
"No Ghosthunters Inc.," she whispered, and sent up a prayer of thanks.
She hit the first link by Wikipedia. The index loaded at the top of the page and she scrolled down to find the same picture of Colin that Ghosthunter's inc. had used on their website. A corner of his mouth hinted at the twist of a cruel smile just as she remembered. A chill crawled across her shoulders. His eyes seemed to look directly at her.
Margot grunted. "Not anymore, Colin."
She startled when it seemed his gaze sharpened. A tremor radiated through her. How far did Cat's magic reach? How far did Catraoine's magic reach?
Margot scrolled down to the picture of Castle Morrison. The same sense of déjà vu she had experienced upon first arriving at the castle surfaced. She scrolled down to the scant information on Colin’s life. Born 1623. Death; 1679. Her heart sped up. Colin lived to be sixty-six years old. Before, he had disappeared at thirty-five years of age. No wife listed.
Lord Colin Morrison was the eldest of twins, the younger, Logan Morrison. Margot stared at Logan's name written in blue to indicate a link. With shaky fingers, she tapped the screen over his name.
Born 1623. Died unknown.
*****
Margot thanked the rental car agent and headed out the door with the keys to a Nissan Quasquai. Forty minutes later, she turned into the circular drive at Castle Morrison. She reached the entrance, turned off the engine, and stared at the castle through the windshield. All guests had been evacuated the day Cat tried to kill her. The major part of the police investigation was finished, so the castle should be deserted.
She left the car, climbed the three steps to the door, and tried the latch. Locked. She almost laughed. How many locked doors had she stood in front of at Castle Morrison? She retrieved the lock pick from her backpack in the car and had the lock open in seconds.
She pushed open the door. "Hello?"
No answer.
Margot strode through the foyer, up the narrow staircase, and down the hall to her room. Yellow police tape crisscrossed the closed door. She opened the door and ducked beneath the tape. Aside from her belongings, the room looked as it had when they'd left it: blankets askew, ash scattered across the carpet, and pieces of the broken chair where they had fallen. She glanced out the balcony door and recalled wondering if the artist had painted the ocean in the background of Castle Morrison from the balcony.
She crossed the carpet to the picture and stopped. If Logan had arrived safely back home, wouldn't his death have been recorded? And Colin, if Logan had chained him in the dungeon of Castle Morrison, his death might be the one that was unknown. Something had gone wrong. Margot scrutinized the painting. Everything looked the same, the road leading to the castle, the velvety grass, the ivy that climbed the gray stone.
Despite the fact Cat wasn't here to cast spells that would enslave Margot in the picture, cold dread seeped into her stomach. Somewhere on the other side of the picture, Cat waited as Catraoine, the witch who had enchanted Logan inside this picture. Margot extended a hand and touched the front door. Swirls of dried paint met her fingertips, then gave in as if she pushed against thick foam. Heart pounding, she pressed harder. With effort, her finger sank knuckle deep.
She withdrew the finger. Before, she'd pushed her finger in without effort. Logan had reentered the picture by running into it. Could she do the same? Margot glanced at the spot where the brass bowl had struck the carpet. Forensics had collected the bowl as evidence, but she knew the exact spot where it had landed after she shoved it
from the mantle when Logan entered the picture. Had she not been quick enough to get the incense out of the way, or had Cat's magic trapped him there—again?
Margot looked back at the picture. Should she reenter the painting or go to 1658, when Logan had disappeared the first time? How would she know which would happen if she tried to enter the picture? Was it even possible for her to go to 1658? Colin had returned, but he was from that time. What if she became trapped inside the painting with Logan—or worse, alone?
Margot backed up nearly to the opposite wall. She centered her gaze on the painting, then hesitated. Charlie. If something went wrong, she would never see him again. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t have both men. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She knew which one she had to leave behind…which one she had to hurt.
Charlie hadn't said it, but she knew he was falling in love with her just as she was with him. He would grieve over her disappearance, probably even blame himself, but he would go on, find someone else, love, live a full life. Logan couldn't. She couldn't abandon him in that hell any more than she could Charlie if he were the one trapped.
Forgive me, Charlie.
She sprinted forward. Her heart leaped into a gallop. One second, two seconds, she neared the painting and tensed for impact with the brick fireplace.
Margot catapulted forward through darkness, flailing. Pain ripped through her as if she was being torn apart from the inside out. She gasped for air that wasn't there, clawed at nothingness. Her head felt as if it was being stretched away from her body, then her chest, stomach, and legs elongated, and suddenly snapped together like a too-tight rubber band snapping back on itself. Light flashed in her vision.
She jammed shut her eyes against the intrusion and hit solid ground, sliding across a smooth surface. Margot snapped opened her eyes, recognized the dilapidated balcony railing toward which she hurtled, and grabbed for the iron as she was flung off her balcony with the momentum of her slide.
Her fingers closed around the cold iron. Pain wrenched her arm, but she held tight to the railing and slammed back into the balcony’s stone edge. A knife-sharp stab sliced through her ribs. She gasped for air. Through tears, she caught sight of blood on the stone. A loud metal creak sounded and she screamed when she dropped several inches, than jarred to a halt. She clawed at the stone balcony, but her fingers slid off the slick granite.
