“I lost the connection. The static was terrible.”
“You can try again later.” Ian closed the phone and slid it beneath the seat. “We have to go. Unless maybe you’d rather spend the night here, freezing in the car.”
“I need my bag. It’s across the road.” Before he could stop her, Jamee followed the gravel edge of the road to a row of boulders.
Through the mist Ian saw her reach for a white canvas bag and pull it over her shoulder. The fabric strained, every inch crammed full. “You need to carry all of that?”
“Yes, I do.” Jamee winced, shifting the bag over her shoulder.
Ian started up the slope, the wet turf slippery beneath his feet. “This climb may turn rough. In a few minutes it’s going to be black as peat out here.” He shoved his leather knapsack over his shoulder and tugged a compass from his pocket. One misjudged step would take them both plunging off one of the small, rocky spurs that surrounded the trail. Muttering, he grasped Jamee’s arm and pulled her up the slope.
“You really are worried, aren’t you?” she said softly.
“Of course I’m worried. The weather can change in an instant. There’s a reason a dozen or so hikers are lost in these mountains every year.”
To Ian’s surprise, Jamee didn’t complain as they struggled over low rocks and wet peat. In fact, he could almost have sworn he heard her reflexive gasp turn into a chuckle as they plunged into an icy burn.
“I don’t suppose you could manage to find the dry route.”
“I’ll be lucky to find any route at all.” How could the woman be so calm? That bag had to be hurting her shoulder, and they both might as well have been blind in this weather. “Are you all right with that satchel?”
“Fine,” she said breathlessly. “It’s kind of exciting. The smell is wonderful, all saltwater and pine trees.” Abruptly, the wind changed, bringing a musky scent. Jamee laughed softly. “Even I know what that is. Your famous Scottish sheep.”
“Some would call them infamous.” Ian pulled the compass out again and squinted at the face, nearly invisible in the thick gray pall of unnatural dusk. “There should be three flat boulders somewhere to our left.”
“What about to the right?”
“A marsh that I’d greatly prefer to avoid.” A deadly cliff dropped off to the right of the marsh, but Ian didn’t tell Jamee that. Once they were safe and dry, it would make an exciting story rather than a gruesome possibility.
“Does that mean we’re close?”
“Less than twenty yards, assuming I haven’t lost all sense of direction in this bloody fog.” Abruptly, Ian pulled Jamee to a halt. “Listen.” An ominous whisper rose around them.
“What is it?”
“A waterfall. Not where it should be, either.” Ian frowned. “Where did you smell those sheep?”
“To my right. About three o’clock, I’d say.”
The sheep would know how to avoid the swollen stream, and with it the deadly crags just beyond. “We’ll go where the sheep go.”
“Why?”
“Because they have a path, and their way is the shortest way up.”
“Are you sure?” Jamee said dubiously.
“Of course I’m sure.” As sure as he could be of anything in this fog. “Let’s go.” The air was darker, gray instead of the dirty white it had been when they’d crossed the burn. Ian pulled the heavy bag from Jamee’s shoulder as she swayed under its weight, then took her arm, helping her over the wet turf.
“Wait. I felt something by my foot.” Jamee bent down, running her hands over the ground. “How many stones did you say there were supposed to be?”
“Three. Flat and about as high as your knee.”
“Here they are,” she announced.
“Follow the angle of the stones upward.” Ian cursed soundlessly. Moisture slid past his collar, chilling his neck and back. He prayed there would be dry peat and kindling in the cottage.
“Ian?”
“What?”
“I felt something else.” Jamee’s teeth were chattering. “Down by my foot. This was no rock.”
“Don’t move,” he said harshly.
A shape lumbered out of the fog, brushing against their legs. Low bleating rose in a sad protest.
Jamee burst into startled laughter. “We’ve found those mountain-climbing sheep of yours. Now, if we can only find that cottage. It’s getting cold out here.”
Five steps more, Ian calculated, tugging Jamee beside him. As his hand brushed weathered wood, a wave of relief hit him. He didn’t like the way this scenario was developing, and he wanted Jamee inside where she would be safe.
He felt his way to the heavy metal door latch. “One fire coming up,” he announced, sweeping open the cottage door.
THE COTTAGE WASN’T sumptuous, but a quick glance told Ian it held the basic necessities. He shrugged out of his wet jacket and handed Jamee a candle on a tin holder. “Use this until I can make a fire.”
Within minutes, he found two oil lanterns and a box of homemade candles. Soon warm golden light filled the room, outlining the thick stone fireplace and rows of copper pans, which hung on the adjoining walls. Baskets were suspended from the low rafters, full of drying flowers and bunches of herbs. Hand-woven tartan blankets were piled on a long sofa that had seen better days. Two spindly chairs flanked the far door leading to a back scullery room.
Ian deftly swung two pieces of dried peat into the smoke-stained fireplace and angled them into a wedge above a mound of kindling. Flame spiraled upward, lighting his face and streaking his dark hair with lines of gold.
“Worrying?”
Jamee blinked and met his gaze. “About what?”
“If you’ll be safe here alone with me.”
She took a few seconds to answer. “Should I be worried?”
“You don’t know the slightest thing about me,” Ian said. “I could be an ax murderer, for all you know.”
“Funny, I don’t see any axes sticking out of your pocket.”
“I’m serious,” he said, angry at her for being flippant. Angrier at himself for letting them get caught in such a mess. He should have been monitoring the weather more closely. He also should have noticed her turn from the road sooner. Now the fog might strand them here for days.
“So am I. Like it or not, you have an honest face, Ian McCall.”
“Criminals don’t always look like Boris Karloff,” he said grimly, watching flames lick at the peat. A second after he said it, Ian could have kicked himself.
But Jamee hardly seemed to notice, fascinated by the dance of the fire as she shrugged out of her damp coat and began unbraiding her hair. Ian sat back on his heels, watching her work a brush through the long, thick strands. Each coil gleamed red-gold in the firelight, every wave alive with shadows and vibrant color. He wondered how her hair would feel wrapped around his fingers.
He pushed to his feet, all too aware of Jamee Night as a woman, rather than a client. Frowning, he strode to the far wall.
“Can I help?”
“I saw a kettle in that chest.” Ian’s search revealed a black iron kettle, two chipped mugs and a canister each of sugar and flour. “Not exactly Cordon Bleu, but they’ll do.” He turned and found Jamee looking up at him while she continued to brush her hair.
“I have some tea in my bag.”
Ian realized he was staring at her hair. “Good. I’ll go fetch some water,” he said abruptly.
“You’re not going all the way back to that stream, are you?”
Ian pulled open the back door. As he’d hoped, there was a rain barrel just outside. “No farther than this,” he called over his shoulder. “Rainwater makes the finest tea in the world.”
When he returned, Jamee had shrugged out of her sodden sweater and jeans and wrapped herself in a tartan blanket. She searched in her canvas bag.
“Cherry-oatmeal granola bars or—” She looked up and smiled faintly. “Cherry-oatmeal granola bars?”
Ian thought lo
ngingly of the pine-grilled salmon that was Dunraven’s specialty. He could almost taste the steaming baby potatoes and shiitake mushrooms. “Granola bars,” he repeated. “What kind of tea?”
“Chamomile. Very soothing.”
Ian had been dreaming of something, single malt with a definite kick. “The chamomile will be fine.” He examined the bags gingerly, then dropped them into the mugs. When the kettle began to hiss, Ian filled both to the brim.
Jamee eyed him curiously. “You look comfortable in a kitchen.”
“I get by,” he muttered, handing her a steaming mug.
“Tell me what you think.”
He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. The granola bars tasted like cardboard and the tea didn’t smell much better. Ian swallowed and managed a smile. “Wonderful.”
Jamee settled back, took a sip, then set her mug on the floor and watched him expectantly. “Now you can get on the telephone and check the weather.”
Ian took another bite of dried oatmeal and forced himself to swallow. “Sorry, but there’s no phone up here. You already know what the weather has done to reception on the car phone—even if we could get back there.”
She tapped restlessly on the floor. “Then try the radio.”
“No radio, either, I’m afraid.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Ian wondered if he could stash the rest of the granola bar, but decided she was too sharp. Unable to swallow, he merely nodded in reply.
“I don’t believe it.” Jamee twisted, searching the room.
Ian took the opportunity to toss the thick wad neatly into the fire.
“There’s really nothing here?” she demanded. “No radio? No telephone?”
“No electricity, either.”
Jamee’s blanket slipped forgotten from her shoulders. “Then how are you going to tell anyone we’re here? How are we going to get help?”
Ian set his mug down by the hearth. “We’re not.”
He didn’t like the situation any more than she did, but at least he hadn’t detected any sign that she was being followed—by anyone other than himself.
Jamee stumbled to her feet and clutched the blanket tighter over her damp camisole. The movement made her hair spill wildly about her shoulders. “I only agreed to come up here because I assumed there would be some contact with the outside world—if not a phone, then at least some way of tracking this blasted fog and knowing when we’ll get out of here. I—I can’t stay,” she said unsteadily. “Not here. People are expecting me at Dunraven.”
She was fighting her fear with anger, Ian realized. He wondered yet again why she had been out on the cliffs above the sea. “We’ll get out when we get out, Ms. Night,” he said coolly, refusing to lie to her. She had been told enough lies.
“And just when will that be?”
“When the fog lifts and not a second before.”
Jamee kicked the blanket out of her way and struggled into her wet jeans, presenting Ian with a view of smooth, slender thighs. “That’s it, I’m out of here. You probably are an ax murderer after all.” She shoved her canvas bag over her shoulder, then yanked open the door.
Mist blanketed the hillside, swirling like steam as it coiled over the floor. Beyond the doorway nothing was visible but a wall of gray.
“I’m still going.” Damp white strands feathered over Jamee’s neck and made her shiver. “Right now.” She glared at the ground and cursed softly.
Ian slanted one broad shoulder against the smoke-stained fireplace and waited. She was impetuous, but he knew she wasn’t stupid.
Her hands moved restlessly. “I have to go,” she whispered.
Without a word Ian crossed the room, reached for her bag and turned her around. “Sit down and relax. No one could go anywhere in that fog. I promise I’ll tell you as soon as there’s a break in the weather.”
Jamee paced stiffly before the fire, her eyes dark with worry.
“What’s wrong? Is there a boyfriend somewhere who’ll be impatient when you don’t phone?”
“No.”
“No boyfriend, or no, he won’t be impatient?”
“No boyfriend.” Shivering, she picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders as she sank to the floor. “That fog will have to lift sometime. What’s another hour or two?”
Ian didn’t have the heart to tell her it was going to be a lot longer than a few hours before the weather changed. Instinct told him they were in for a long stay.
Outside the window, the fog frothed. Clinging to the old hills, it blotted out sky and earth, thicker than night.
Colder than memories.
“HE’S WHAT?” Darkness wrapped the weathered walls of Draycott Abbey as Nicholas Draycott gripped the phone tensely, staring at the moat.
“Disappeared. He called me earlier today from the ferry on the way to Dunraven. Then nothing.” Duncan MacKinnon’s voice boomed over the line. “He should have been here hours ago, Nicholas. Of course we didn’t count on the bloody fog.”
Nicholas remembered the vagaries of the Highland climate all too well. “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough for me to consider taking a nice investment property in the Caymans,” Duncan said irritably.
“Ian’s no fool. He probably pulled over to wait things out.”
“There aren’t many places to pull over on the cliff road,” the Scotsman said. “He also mentioned that he wouldn’t be coming alone.”
“Damn.” Nicholas sank into the worn leather chair behind his desk. “I just hope he found her in time.”
“Found who?”
Nicholas hesitated, but Duncan would have to know sooner or later. “Jamee Night.”
“Jamee Night, the textile designer? She was coming up here to discuss the hangings we’ve commissioned for Dunraven. I didn’t realize she and Ian were friends.”
“They weren’t.” Nicholas’s voice was hard. “This is business.”
Silence stretched out.
“The bloody monsters,” Duncan said savagely. “Wasn’t once enough?”
Nicholas glared out at the night sky, cold and chill with only a sprinkling of stars. “Kidnappers don’t stop trying. If they do, there are always more to take their place. Especially with the kind of money that Nightingale Electronics stock commands. Jamee’s family believes another attempt will be made. They’ve hired Ian to protect her.”
“And now they’ve both disappeared. I don’t like it, Nicholas, but it could be simple enough. You know how this fog can be.” Duncan made a flat, angry sound. “I’d take the coast road down and look for them, but it would be suicidal until visibility improves.”
“Unfortunately, I have to agree, which leaves us right where we started. Meanwhile, Jamee’s brothers have been ringing me every ten minutes, demanding news. They’re threatening to send in the cavalry.”
“They won’t find any cavalry up here,” Duncan said. “Ian is the closest thing they’ll find. If anyone can get her to safety, it will be him.”
Nicholas didn’t answer.
“What are you telling me?” Duncan demanded.
“You always did have a habit of reading people’s minds. Damned uncanny of you, MacKinnon. Must be too much time with Kara.”
“You’re begging the question, my friend. If there’s trouble, I want to know.”
“It seems Jamee’s old kidnapper has been bragging to his cellmate that he’s about to come into a great deal of money. The prison psychiatrist mentioned that the man also went into a rage during a recent session and made threats against Jamee. He swore, she would have the punishment she deserved for escaping before. Apparently he was convincing enough that the psychiatrist felt he had to violate confidentiality and report the threats.”
Duncan muttered a long string of Gaelic curses. “What can I do to help at this end?”
“Adam Night is wild with worry, but until this weather clears, there is very little any of us can do.”
“I’ll check the area via phone and s
ee if any strangers were seen on the coast road. Maybe we can pinpoint their location.”
“Just be discreet,” Nicholas said tightly. “We can’t be sure who else might be listening in.”
“You think that—”
Nicholas picked up a Murano glass paperweight. The cold crystal rolled back and forth in his hands. “I don’t know what to think, Duncan. Only that we’d better not make any mistakes. If we do, Jamee Night will be the one who pays.” His voice hardened. “Again.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE COULDN’T STAY.
Jamee shivered and snuggled closer into the blanket. She hadn’t slept well in years, not since she was kidnapped. All too often, she fell asleep, only to awake naked on the floor, cold and shaking, tangled in a mound of covers. The experts she had seen after the kidnapping had called it the residual effect of her trauma. In her sleep, she relived the hours of captivity, stripping off her clothes and fighting memories that wouldn’t fade.
The last thing she wanted was to wake up stark-naked next to a total stranger. Even in her most far-flung travels, Jamee had always managed to find a room for herself and bolt the door to ward off any humiliating late-night encounters.
But not tonight.
Fine, Jamee decided. She simply wouldn’t go to sleep. She would watch the fire and work on her new designs for Lord Dunraven and his wife. Heaven knew, she had enough yet to do. She sighed, thinking how wonderful a double mocha latte would taste.
Ian was bent over the fire, nursing more heat out of the glowing peat, his face unreadable. As Jamee watched, his features began to waver and blur. He had very nice eyes, the fresh green of summer moss. Though his hands were big, they were strangely graceful as he nudged the embers with a poker.
Jamee blinked and straightened. She didn’t dare go to sleep.
When he had finished with the fire, Ian braced one arm on the mantel and murmured something in soft, rolling Gaelic.
“What did you just say?”
“An old Gaelic phrase.”
Jamee sat up straighter as her eyelids began to grow heavy.
“Why don’t you get some rest?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “Was that some kind of prayer?”
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