A Highlander for Christmas

by Christina Skye

  She jerked away. “I don’t need your help or your compassion, Mr. MacNeill. My father is dead, and I’m finally beginning to accept that. To me he was nothing but perfect. Nothing but wonderful and brilliant and demanding. He loved his work with a passion. A man like you wouldn’t understand that.”

  Something moved in his eyes. “Stones don’t make for comfortable friends. It sounds like a damned poor way for a lonely girl to grow up.”

  How had he known? Maggie hid her shock, struck as before by the sense that he was probing her deepest secrets. “Who said I was lonely?”

  “A lucky guess,” he murmured. “What shall I tell Nicholas?” His eyes narrowed. “Is the exhibition off?”

  The thought stabbed deep. Maggie wanted this exhibition, yearned for it with every atom of her being, but too many questions had been raised for her to charge ahead blindly. She couldn’t accept the shattering possibility that her father was alive and that he had lied to her, betraying her completely. The thought left her bleeding inside, caught by a devastating sense of loss. “Tell Lord Draycott that I need some time to think.”

  “Do your thinking here.”

  “I can’t.” Maggie frowned. “There’s something overpowering about this place.” She drew a jerky breath, studying her grimy fingers. “Even now I have wisps of dreams. Faint images that come and go. It’s not a pleasant feeling, I assure you.”

  “We’ll go out to the moat and retrace your steps. Maybe it will help you to remember.”

  For a moment Maggie was tempted to stay, to work things out as he’d suggested, step by step. But the pressure at her chest was building, bringing a sense of suffocating panic. “No. I’m leaving as soon as I dress. Don’t try to stop me.” She studied his harsh features, unable to judge whether it was anger or concern that flared in his eyes.

  “Very well. I’ll tell Nicholas what you said.”

  “And you won’t try to stop me?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I’ll arrange for a driver and car to take you back to London. I’m assuming that you won’t care to accept a ride from me,” he added grimly.

  Maggie flushed. “I would prefer it that way.”

  “That much is obvious. But you’re making a mistake.”

  “It won’t be the first time.” Maggie looked down at her wrinkled dress. Maybe this was all a dream. After a shower everything might snap back into focus and the world would begin to make sense again.

  Maybe not.

  “Good-bye Mr. MacNeill.” She was glad that her voice sounded steady, as she walked away from him. She was very careful not to look back.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jared watched her cross the room and close the door. Water hissed, drumming in the shower.

  He hadn’t needed contact to see how badly his words had upset her. Even a blind man could have sensed her turmoil over her father, and how it hurt to balance that concern against a driving desire to be part of Nicholas’s exhibition.

  But Maggie Kincade wasn’t one to accept things halfway.

  She had to reach her own decisions. Jared could admire that kind of stubborn pride.

  Meanwhile, he had promised not to try to hold her here, and he wouldn’t. But he hadn’t promised not to follow her or be concerned about her.

  And he was going to dog her every step until he had some answers of his own.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was a long, silent drive back to London.

  Maggie was relieved when Jared stayed true to his word, not trying to keep her at the abbey. As she watched the trees blur outside the car window, she told herself she needed distance and clarity. No problem in her life had ever left her so confused, battered at the very core of her identity.

  But few people had lost a father, only to find him again.

  Mile after mile, she replayed the jagged pieces of her conversation with Jared, each time drawing back from the terrible possibility that his story could be true. She was white and shaken by the time she reached London and sank down on the narrow bed in her cramped hotel room.

  If her father really was alive, she would have to face that fact squarely. She would have to rethink every word he had said and every promise he had made, then decide exactly what role he could hold in her life.

  Could he have betrayed her?

  She drew up her knees, fighting back a broken sob.

  Her body was numb and she realized she was shaking. There was no more fighting the possibility. The news could be true. Probably was true. Daniel Kincade was alive.

  Maggie locked her hands over her chest. She had loved him, trusted him.

  Idolized him beyond words. And he had betrayed her in the worst way possible.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nicholas was pacing the morning room when Jared arrived in London. He looked every bit as haggard as Jared felt.

  “I don’t like it. She shouldn’t be out of your sight, Jared. Not after what happened.”

  “I’ve got a friend watching her for the moment. I arranged for him to drive her back to London. She’ll be safe.”

  “Tell me again what happened.”

  Jared crossed his arms tensely. “Hell if I know. One minute she was asleep, and the next I saw her walking beside the moat.”

  “But why?”

  Jared shrugged. “She didn’t even know her real name. She might have been sleepwalking, but that doesn’t explain the other differences. Her voice, her gestures were wrong. She was like a different person.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t either.” Jared strode to the window, watching sunlight brush the courtyard. “There was something odd about her demeanor, Nicholas. Almost childlike. I’m not sure I can explain it, since everything happened so fast. I also know that someone was out there watching us.”

  Nicholas frowned. “You felt it?”

  “Without a hint of doubt.”

  “I’d like to call it a coincidence, but I can’t. Did you pick up anything else?”

  Jared shrugged. “Rage. Not much beyond that.”

  “I won’t go back on this invitation, Jared. No matter what her father was accused of.” Nicholas rubbed his neck. “I mean for everything to go ahead on schedule. But to do that I’m going to need your help.”

  “Are you certain this is what you want?” Jared felt an odd sense of inevitability as he stood by the window, staring across the flagstones.

  Almost as if he’d stood here exactly like this before.

  As if he’d waited and worried while sunlight touched the neighboring roofs.

  “I’m certain.”

  “In that case, there’s one more thing you should know. Late last night Maggie walked down to the wine cellar. Sleepwalking, I’d call it. She crouched by the bottom step and dug at the stones, dug again and again until there was blood on her hands. I noticed a fresh patch of mortar there, but you didn’t tell me why.”

  Nicholas’s face paled visibly. “The bottom step? Good heavens, that’s where we found the necklace when we were drilling holes for more electric lines.”

  “Maybe you mentioned it to her.”

  “Absolutely not. No one but Kacey, the workman, and myself knew where that necklace was found.” Nicholas sank into a chair and rubbed his forehead. “I’m beginning to feel like Alice in Wonderland.”

  “She mentioned a name, too. Glenda—or maybe it was Glenna.”

  Nicholas turned slowly. “Could it have been Gwynna?”

  “I suppose so. There was something odd about her voice, and I didn’t understand everything she said. Why? Does that name mean something?”

  Nicholas’s face was shuttered. “I’ll have to check some records.”

  “For what?”

  “For a list of births and deaths at the abbey. Gwynna happens to be a very old Draycott family name, and I’m getting a bad feeling about all this.” Nicholas drew a hard breath. “Stay close to her, Jared. Stay very, very close.”

  ~ ~ ~

  On a Thursday afternoon at four o’clock t
he British Museum’s jewelry exhibit was never crowded. A few Japanese tourists wandered past a set of early Celtic torques, but otherwise the gallery was quiet.

  Maggie was hunched over a sketch pad, her thoughts afire. Her pencil raced, capturing delicate spirals of wire decorated with turquoise and pearls. Gold leaves rose against a cutwork sun, and a new moon hung below, shimmering in hammered silver over platinum.

  The pages hissed past.

  When Maggie finally sat back, her fingers were numb, but she had a notebook full of fresh ideas. Only then did she permit herself to wonder when she would use them.

  A long and sleepless night had convinced her there were serious reasons to reconsider Nicholas Draycott’s offer. In everything but her creative vision, Maggie had forced herself to become a creature of firm practicality. She allowed herself no self-indulgent fantasies of overnight successes. But Draycott Abbey had changed that practicality . The haunting house had touched her deeply, disturbed her, drawn her in with an almost seductive sense of—

  Familiarity.

  Unsettling as that was, she also had to consider that her father might still be alive. The possibility had torn through all her defenses. Maggie wasn’t sure she could face the knowledge of her father’s betrayal. No child could. If he was alive, why hadn’t he contacted her?

  She closed her notebook with a snap. Daylight was fading. She ought to leave for her final appointment, then grab something to eat on the way back to her grimy hotel room.

  But she made no move to leave. Around her sunlight glinted on glass cases, reflecting a thousand years of magic created by nameless artisans who had left behind only their silent genius. One day, perhaps in some far century, her own work might glitter on a translucent, high-tech museum case. Or maybe not.

  A shadow fell across her sketchbook.

  “Nice use of line.”

  Maggie blinked, looking up into the light. Her fingers tightened when she saw Jared leaning against a marble column. He looked more formal today, clad in a tweed jacket in muted colors of the North Sea. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and his eyes looked too sharp, as if he hadn’t slept well.

  Only fair, she thought bitterly. He had seen that her own sleep was fitful and short. But she wasn’t interested in anything about Jared MacNeill. She couldn’t afford that kind of distraction. She gathered her pencils with cool precision and rose to her feet.

  “No need to leave on my account.”

  “I was finished here anyway.”

  He moved to block her way. “We need to talk, Maggie.”

  “Do we? I think talking is the last thing we need to do.” Frowning, she tried to push past, but he caught her arm and held her still.

  His fingers were callused, almost as hard as his eyes. It struck Maggie that he moved with a controlled intensity that hadn’t been evident at the abbey. He also seemed restless, as if something held him on the very edge of control.

  She glared down at his hand. “Let me go,” she said in a flat voice, angry at the heat of his fingers and the flare of sensual awareness his touch provoked.

  “Nicholas Draycott says you’ve created a whole new life for a dying form of early European metal inlay.”

  “So?”

  “If you’re that good, you should stay. You owe it to him—and to yourself.”

  Her fingers clenched on her notebook. “I haven’t decided what to do.”

  “You don’t look like someone who gives in to fear and runs away.”

  “What would you know about fear or running away?”

  “More than you might imagine. Why don’t you talk instead of running?”

  She strained impatiently at his hand. “I don’t need to talk, I need to think. Alone,” she added flatly.

  “Something happened to you at the abbey. Something made you walk down to the moat in the darkness. You can’t ignore that.”

  “I don’t remember going outside.” But Maggie did remember the sight of him stretched out on the couch in his jeans. The image made her whole body tighten. “Now I’d like to leave.”

  “Come back with me,” he said gently. “Today. Right now. Whatever is wrong, we’ll find it and we’ll fix it.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. MacNeill.”

  A muscle moved at his jaw, and he pulled out a cell phone. “Call Nicholas,” he ordered softly. “If you won’t talk to me, talk to him.”

  Maggie frowned, watching him stab in a series of numbers.

  He listened for a moment, his hand tight around the phone. “Kacey? Oh, he’s not there? Then perhaps you’d speak with Ms. Kincade. Assure her that I’m neither trying to browbeat her nor talk her into my bed. I’m simply trying to act in her best interests.” He held out the phone to Maggie, who took it reluctantly.

  “Ms. Kincade?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I’m afraid Nicholas had to go out a few minutes ago, but I’ll have him phone you tonight. Meanwhile, I hope you’ll listen to what Jared has to say.”

  Maggie drew a deep breath. “This exhibition meant everything to me. It would be heaven to take part, especially since you and Nicholas have been so generous. But something terribly odd happened yesterday at the abbey, and even now I can’t remember clearly.”

  “I’m sure that there’s an explanation. We can help you find it.”

  Maggie gripped the phone. Why did they have to be so nice? It only made her decision harder. “I need some time to think. I can’t do that at the abbey. I’m sorry, but that’s how it has to be.”

  Frowning, Jared took the phone. “Thanks, Kacey. I’ll ring Nicholas back later.” He turned, studying the quiet room. “I’d rather go someplace private to talk.”

  “Here or nothing.” Maggie crossed her arms. “You have exactly three minutes.”

  “In that case, I think you should see this.” He drew a sheet of paper from the pocket of his jacket.

  Maggie frowned down at a grainy photograph of a crowded room with palm trees just outside. A man sat on a bench, one hand shading his face. The features were blurred and his cheeks were gaunt, but there was something familiar about his eyes.

  Her gaze flashed to Jared’s face. “Where did you get this?”

  “A source in British intelligence forwarded it to Nicholas. They want to be certain he understands what kind of ride he’s in for,” Jared added grimly.

  It could be her father, Maggie admitted. The eyes were right. So was the proud tilt to the man’s jaw. But she was not going to reveal that possibility to Jared, not without firm evidence.

  “It will take more than one out-of-focus photo to convince me of your wild story.” She shoved the glossy paper back into his hand, wanting to be rid of it. “And now if you will excuse me, I have a research appointment upstairs in European metalwork. After that, I have plans for dinner.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Jared scowled as he stalked down the granite steps. He was furious inside—furious at his lapse of control and the silent awareness that was growing far too intense.

  Maggie Kincade was stubborn, but he’d dealt with stubborn subjects before. She was angry, but she had every reason to be, given the photograph he’d handed her.

  Neither of those things explained why Jared had behaved like a rank amateur, allowing his control to fall away before personal attachment.

  He remembered how she’d looked sketching in the corner. Her focus had been absolute. An explosion wouldn’t have shaken her from those drawings. Her sure confidence and unconscious grace had intrigued him.

  Then she’d looked up.

  Pale cheeks. Smoky blue eyes. A long cool mouth the color of ripe raspberries. A mouth that a man would dream about with the kind of dreams that left his sheets tangled and the blankets stripped free.

  The desire had come then, fierce and sudden. He hadn’t felt that kind of hunger for months, yet each time he looked at her, the intensity of his feelings grew.

  There had been other women, of course. Some had even lasted through his traveling and lo
ng absences. But none had ever shaken him so quickly or so completely as Maggie Kincade.

  And then she’d made that bloody crack about him not understanding emotion or passion.

  He swore softly as he watched traffic snarl toward Great Russell Street. Perhaps she was right. Emotion had never been his strong suit. Nor had trust.

  He halted beneath the front portico, where a side corridor gave him a clear view of the museum offices. Maggie would have to use that corridor to leave.

  Jared glanced at his watch. The museum closed in an hour. That would give him just enough time to check any new information.

  When Maggie came out, he would be waiting.

  ~ ~ ~

  She felt him even before she saw him. He was standing just beyond the museum’s front steps, a line of shadow against the gathering twilight.

  She didn’t slow her steps or turn her head as she passed. “Go away.”

  He moved out of the gloom, slipping into pace beside her. “You aren’t going to ask me about the photograph?”

  “Obviously, a fake. It’s easy enough to manage in this day and age with digital equipment.”

  “You’re very certain about things, aren’t you?”

  “Listen, Mr.—”

  “Jared.”

  “MacNeill,” she finished coldly. “Let’s get one thing clear. You know nothing about me, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

  “Why does talking about your father frighten you?”

  Maggie managed to keep her voice steady. “Forget the cheap psychology. It’s not going to work any more than your questions will work. If Nicholas Draycott wants to talk to me about the exhibition, fine. All he has to do is call. But pressure won’t make me arrive at a decision any faster, I assure you. Meanwhile, this conversation is closed.”

  “He says you’re good, Maggie. He doesn’t want you to lose this chance.” Jared gave her a thoughtful look. “But maybe you’re afraid of succeeding. Maybe you’re looking for an excuse to bow out before things get rough.”

  “Things have been rough before. It took years of gashed fingers and burned skin to learn what I do. Now I worry about real things that I can taste and touch, not about fantasies in an old house with too many shadows. Not about grainy photographs which are probably fakes.”