A Highlander for Christmas

by Christina Skye

Neither could hide the stench of sweat and fear.

  When his hands had clenched on the rusty bars, he’d felt the trickle of blood. Then he’d heard the sharp stamp of feet. They’d come ahead of schedule. Hands on the bars, key in the lock. Taunts in a foreign tongue.

  Then the bamboo. Pain that did not end.

  That night he had been almost too tired to fight. He’d almost forgotten what he was fighting for, but he had not turned away. There had been no mercy in the face before him. No weakness in the hands that gripped the length of bamboo with its point of rough metal When the questions came in an angry staccato of Thai, Chinese, and perfect English, he had given them the silence they hated.

  So the bamboo fell. And fell. And fell.

  He had made no sound. The act had cost Jared him dearly, but irritating his attackers was his only pleasure. After an hour, he had prayed for death, but they wouldn’t even give him that.

  Fighting the pain, he’d thought of stars: Vega. Sirius. Altair. As the torment broke over him, he had tried to remember the stars shimmering in the loch where he had grown up. The memories were all that had kept him from screaming, until the darkness finally enfolded his tortured body.

  Until the next beating.

  The man in box number 225 had known what it was like to give up hope, but Jared wasn’t going to let Maggie Kincade know that kind of despair

  “Wise guy, are ya? Let’s see how you like this, pal.”

  Jared moved first. He put his whole weight into the punch and enjoyed the feeling of his fist as it struck the cursing, ruddy face below a pair of furtive eyes that had a nasty mind.

  Some favors were definitely more pleasant than others, he decided.

  ~ ~ ~

  Maggie’s heart was still pounding as she pushed open the door to her apartment, the vellum envelope with the gold coronet clutched in her hands. “Did you see that, Chessa? He broke both their cameras.”

  “That’s not all he broke, and he didn’t even raise a sweat. Incredible physique.” Chessa tossed down her coat, smiling at the memory. “I think I could almost love that guy.” Abruptly she rounded on Maggie. “Now open the bloody thing. And don’t tell me you need more time.”

  Maggie stared at the heavy envelope. She had submitted two samples of her work months ago as part of her application for an international jewelry exhibition sponsored by the twelfth Lord Draycott and his American wife. After weeks of waiting and worrying, she had forgotten all about the submission.

  Now she regretted the impulse to submit her designs. She’d had too much failure lately, and she didn’t need any more. “Don’t get excited. They’re probably telling me not to give up my day job. Politely worded, of course. The English are good at that.”

  “Why would they send a messenger to tell you that?” Chessa countered.

  Light played over the Christmas tree in the corner as Maggie tore open the envelope and tried to pull out the single heavy sheet, but failed. Get a grip, she told herself, remembering the hard mouth and the dark hair that had brushed against broad shoulders.

  He’d had gentle hands. Old eyes.

  Maggie didn’t want to remember. She didn’t want to feel this coiling heat or gnawing curiosity. She definitely didn’t want to owe a stranger for any favors, no matter how much she had needed his help.

  Lamplight struck the golden coronet. And what if she had won? How would she feel to see her designs in platinum and gold resting among heirloom hallmarked silver and historic gems in cases that bore the dignified Draycott crest?

  Only heaven. Only a chance at dizzying professional success and recognition by the finest craftsmen and goldsmiths in all of Europe, along with the support of one of the oldest collecting families in England.

  From what Maggie had read of the viscount’s plans, this could become one of Europe’s most publicized exhibitions, including a year’s endowed residence and financial backing. She would revel in the teaching and education projects that the viscount had outlined, along with some restoration work.

  Chessa’s arm wrapped around her. “Well, what does it say?”

  ‘‘They can’t possibly want me.” Maggie touched the paper. “No one else sees the things I see, Chessa. How old and new can be matched. How metal can flow and bend.”

  Chessa shoved her down into the chair. “Just open the wretched thing.”

  Maggie touched the tiny gold letters. She tried not to care, tried not to hope, but her throat tightened. I won’t lose this chance, she thought fiercely. Something slammed down hard into her chest. I can’t.

  She tore open the sheet. The mouse peeked out at her from its hole, squeaking softly.

  “Tell me this instant, Margaret Elizabeth Kincade,” Chessa hissed.

  Maggie swallowed hard. “I’m in,” she whispered. “I’m in. I’m going to England, Chessa. I’m invited to have my designs shown exclusively at Draycott Abbey and selected venues throughout Europe. After that comes a year in residence as a teacher at the craft museum Lord Draycott has just endowed in Sussex.”

  Her cousin’s crow of delight was almost drowned out by the blare of horns from the street below, followed by the scream of the buzzer. More reporters?

  “You’re getting out of this hole tonight,” Chessa said flatly. “We have work to do.”

  Maggie barely heard. She was in. She was going to England. She still couldn’t grasp the reality of the news.

  “How long before you leave?”

  “Leave?”

  “For England,” Chessa said impatiently.

  Maggie squinted down at the invitation “Three weeks, I think.”

  “Three weeks!” Chessa swirled, a mad blur of silk and fine tapestry. “You’ll need shoes, dresses, gloves—”

  “I already have gloves.”

  Chessa sniffed. “Leather and heavy duty canvas aren’t what I had in mind. After all, there will be parties. Openings. Formal evenings in those big, stuffy English conservatories.” She tapped her cheek, “Lingerie, too. I bet you don’t even own a pair of panty hose,” she muttered in disgust.

  “I wear pants,” Maggie said defensively. “And I like my style just fine.”

  “What style? You’re a sixties throwback, pure and simple. I bet you don’t even know what a foundation garment looks like.”

  “Does a soldering vest count?”

  Chessa rolled her eyes skyward. “Bless her father, for she knows not how she has sinned.” She caught Maggie’s arm and tugged her toward the single cramped bedroom, her face militant. “Go pack because you’re coming home with me tonight. First, we’re going to celebrate your acceptance letter with Veuve Cliquot at Henri’s and then a long, leisurely dinner at Le Cirque The best table, of course.”

  “But we don’t have reservations…”

  Her cousin gave a smug smile. “As if Vincenzo would dream of seating me anywhere but the best spot.”

  “What if there are reporters?”

  “Vincenzo hires men to take care of things like that. Big, nasty men in specially cut Armani jackets.” She looked assessingly at Maggie. “Tomorrow we do clothes. I have a wonderful ensemble of hand-rolled French silk that will be perfect on you.”

  “But I—”

  Chessa raced into full gear, ticking off items on an imaginary list. “Half-slip, garters, and camisole. Then we add real silk stockings—the only kind to have, believe me. Men just adore it when you roll them off slowly. I’ll bet that man in the restaurant knows everything there is to know about silk stockings.” Her eyes darkened. “And the perfect way to take them off. Did you see how he looked at you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Chessa snorted in disgust. “Of course you didn’t see. You never do.” She tapped her jaw. “Well, it wouldn’t bother me to find out more about him.” Her eyes gleamed for a moment, then refocused. “But back to business. “I’ll take care of the clothes. I suppose we can leave the jewelry to you.” She dodged the pillow Maggie flung through the air. “Just a joke, idiot. I wouldn’t dream
of cramping your style when it comes to jewelry. There you’re an undisputed genius.” She frowned at her cousin’s tangled cinnamon curls. “But we have some serious work ahead of us with your hair.”

  Maggie crossed her arms militantly. “Forget it, Chessa, I’m not cutting my hair. No way.”

  Chessa didn’t even hear. “How long did you say we have?”

  “Three weeks.”

  “Miracles have happened in less, I suppose. I’ll say a few prayers.” She took Maggie’s arm in a firm grip. “On the way, we’ll stop at a little place I know on First Avenue. They have the most incredible handmade Italian shoes…”

  Maggie gathered her most valuable gems and metals in a special aluminum carrying case, along with pliers and shears, in case inspiration struck in the night. Then she turned and surveyed the shadows. The room was dingy, no doubt about it. There were no bookcases. No flowers or comfortable chairs.

  It was a place to work and nothing more. A place where she passed time twisting silver and spinning dreams, until she had a real workshop of her own full of glinting spirals and stars slanting across fine chains of hand twisted gold.

  She put her last wedge of cheese down for the mouse.

  “We’ll call Faith from my apartment and bring her up to speed. Then I want you to try on my new shantung sheath. It will fit you like a second skin. I think my gold sandals might work with it.”

  Caught between smiles and exasperation, Maggie started to protest.

  But suddenly there was magic in the air. Light played over the tiny Christmas tree and set the needles dancing. A lace angel dangled from its string beside a cat with a bright red Santa hat.

  And this was her gift, Maggie thought, cradling her vellum envelope. Suddenly giddy, she felt the grains of one life sliding away while another life began. She had a jolt of pleasure, a kick of excitement. Where would it all end?

  As she followed Chessa to the door, neither one saw the shadow slipping along her back fire escape.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  London

  Three weeks later

  Car horns screamed along Bond Street. Angels spread fluffy wings above cases bright with Christmas treasures. Men in wool hats sold roasted chestnuts from smoking metal stalls, and ornamented trees flashed in bright shop windows.

  Maggie barely noticed.

  The man was watching her again. Oh, he was careful about it. Discreet in that amazing way the English had. A flicker here, a short glance there.

  She crossed the street, moving briskly, then stopped at a shop window. He was twenty feet behind her, speaking on a cell phone. And he was definitely watching her

  Maggie surveyed the street. Two cafes. A bookstore and a jewelry shop. Her body was tense as she pushed open the door to the jewelers. She almost forgot her pursuer in the glitter of diamonds and pink pearls and star sapphires. The cameos arranged on an elegant cushion of black velvet immediately caught her eye. Several were rose, and some were blue. All were sculpted with the fine hand of a master.

  Maggie heard the door to the shop open and the bell tinkle behind her. She managed not to turn, despite the burning sense that she was once more under scrutiny.

  “Something is wrong with the cameo, madam?” The graying jeweler crossed behind the counter and looked at her anxiously.

  “No, it’s beautiful, but I prefer that pale cream intaglio. The woman and child are exquisite and the cutter’s flair shows best with no distracting color. It’s brilliant work.”

  The jeweler nodded, approving her choice. “My thoughts exactly. So many want new colors, new styles. The classical is soon forgotten.” He shook his head in resignation. “Where money goes, the artists must follow.”

  “Not all artists,” Maggie said firmly. “And no one could possibly improve on this. The look on the mother’s face is pure emotion.” She cupped the beautiful oval of a woman holding a young child. It was nineteenth-century Italian, very beautiful and very expensive. “Is it by one of the Saulinis?” This pair of sculptors, father and son, had excelled at meticulous detail. Maggie had seen examples of their work, but had never touched one.

  “So it is. I was fortunate to acquire it in Florence last year. You would like the piece perhaps?”

  In the excitement of her discovery, Maggie forgot about the man who had been watching her. Her mind raced through a dozen design ideas: a platinum choker or gold braid. Perhaps a simple knotted satin cord.

  She took another glance at the discreet price tag. Steep, but worth every pence. Especially for a real Saulini cameo. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

  “My compliments. You have excellent taste.” The stranger she’d forgotten in her excitement spoke from behind her.

  Maggie stiffened as he crossed the room and admired her cameo.

  “I couldn’t help but notice. It’s a lovely piece.”

  His eyes were harder up close, and she noticed there were little streaks of gray at his temples. “Yes, it is,” she said stiffly.

  He smiled, slightly uncertain. “Forgive my question, but I believe that I recognize you.”

  Maggie shook her head, looking away. She refused to believe that he could be a reporter, although she’d heard gambits like this before. Why did she never seem to have Chessa’s ready quip or Faith’s brash bravado, the throwaway line that turned intrusive questions into good-tempered camaraderie? “You’re wrong. We haven’t met.”

  She turned her back as the jeweler returned with her receipt. Then the old man smiled broadly at the stranger. “So nice to see you again, my lord. Give my regards to your wife if you will.”

  Lord?

  The man beside her thrust out his hand, smiling apologetically. “I should have introduced myself immediately. I’m Nicholas Draycott, and I’m quite certain that you’re Margaret Elizabeth Kincade, though the photo you sent with your jewelry designs doesn’t do you justice.”

  Maggie swallowed. He was the twelfth Viscount Draycott? At least that explained why he had been following her. But she’d pictured someone balding and overweight, with red cheeks and faded tweeds covered with dog hairs.

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry if I’m not what you expected.”

  “My mistake. But call me Maggie. All my friends do.”

  “Maggie, it is. When did you arrive? Our meeting isn’t until Thursday.”

  “I had some things to do before we met, and I didn’t want to miss the Etruscan exhibit at the British Museum. Then when I saw the cameos, I couldn’t resist coming in for a look.” She decided not to mention that she had put him down as a Lothario on the prowl.

  “Perfectly understandable. My wife and I succumb to temptation here far too often.” He chuckled softly. “Samuels makes it impossible to say no to his private treasures.”

  “One tries for quality, my lord.” The jeweler turned away to aid a matron agonizing over a choker of matched pink pearls that was worth a small fortune.

  “My wife will be delighted to meet you. We both loved your design of the abalone swans set in etched silver. As a matter of fact, she should be home now, if you can spare an hour. And since you’re here I think we should talk about ideas for the display cases. After that we can make arrangements to get you down to the abbey and see the layouts first hand.”

  Maggie swallowed, feeling overwhelmed. She was intensely conscious of her well-worn blue jeans and plain white shirt. His wife would be exquisite in vintage Chanel, no doubt. Someone beautiful and exceedingly aloof.

  The old, painful shyness hit Maggie in a rush. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly visit today. I’m not dressed, and I’m sure your wife won’t want to—”

  “I insist,” Nicholas said firmly, taking both her package and her arm. Somehow Maggie was out on Regent Street before she knew it. “Kacey will never forgive me if I let you get away. Besides, we’re just around the corner.”

  Maggie followed, awkward and self-conscious. There was no polite way to escape him now. All Chessa’s fine dresses were packed in her single bag, along with the clever high
-heeled sandals and elegant pumps. Today Maggie had dressed solely for herself in worn jeans, plain white T-shirt, and a simple white shirt. Her sole adornment was a beaten silver necklace inset with a single chip diamond.

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  Nicholas smiled broadly as they rounded the corner to a street of quiet town houses. “You’re probably right. I warn you, my wife will covet that necklace you’re wearing.”

  He was just being polite, Maggie thought. Hammered silver didn’t exactly go with vintage Chanel.

  “Here we are.” Maggie caught a breath as Nicholas pushed open the door. Blue shutters covered the tall windows. The tiny courtyard was explosively green, bright with climbing roses.

  Inside, the house held a delicate scent of lavender and pine needles. A set of white doves decorated the long marble mantel, nesting above sprays of holly and tartan ribbons. Even the shadows seemed warm and full of peace.

  “Kacey, I’m back. I’ve brought someone to see you,” the viscount called. “Ms. Kincade has arrived early, it seems.”

  Maggie’s heart sank. A door opened up the stairs. No doubt Lady Draycott would be tiny and exquisite. Probably color coordinated in perfect heirloom pearls and a cashmere sweater set. Or maybe a museum-quality designer suit.

  A door slammed.

  Maggie gawked at the figure flying down the steps. There was nothing stiff or formal about her. Her hands were streaked with oil paint, and her blond hair spilled about her shoulders, shoulders covered by a simple white T-shirt over a pair of worn blue jeans.

  “You’re here already?” Kacey Draycott’s green eyes glinted with good humor as she studied her visitor. “I must say, I appreciate your taste in high couture, Ms. Kincade. But I won’t shake your hand because I’m up to my elbows in oil paint.”

  “My wife is restoring a Whistler Nocturne from the Tate Gallery. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been in town today.” Nicholas’s voice was warm with pride, almost as warm as the heat that filled his eyes when he looked at his wife. He held open the door to a sitting room where sunlight spilled over bright chintz armchairs. A pair of fine rosewood end tables was covered by a dozen stuffed bears in bright tartan jackets. Children’s books were piled beneath a fig tree decorated with tiny white lights. There was beauty but no formality to the room, and Maggie felt her awkwardness begin to fade.