Duncan's Rose

by Safi, Suzannah

  Miranda accepted the partially opened flower and held it in front of her. “How did you know it was my favorite?” she croaked, her gaze locked on the bud.

  “You smell like one.”

  No, I don’t. She had stopped using that fragrance ever since she smelled it on Rose in one of her visions. She narrowed her eyes into slits, not liking his answer.

  He brushed his mask with his hand. “You look beautiful, Miranda, shining under the sun, as fresh and innocent as a lilac.”

  What is he trying to do to me? She hoped he wouldn’t hear her pounding heart. She had to change the subject. “Why did you want me here in your castle?” she asked, allowing a sharp tone to creep into her voice. She prayed he didn’t notice the tremble in her voice.

  He regarded her with a dark, dangerous glint in his eyes and said, “To stop you from publishing your book.”

  There was no way she would let him or any soul control what she wrote. Who does he thinks he is? Maybe he was the dominant on this island, but she’d be damned if she’d let him control, scare, or manipulate her. So far, she’d been a well-behaved guest, but now he was pushing the wrong buttons. She would not tolerate his request, or any threat, for that matter. She maintained her nerves and anger in a steely grip.

  “And why is that, Mr. Wardlaw?” she asked. She rose to stand in front of him, her hands crossed over her chest, challenging his staring eyes. They were like blue diamonds, pale and infinitely faceted. She didn’t care that she’d used his family name. A bit of distance and propriety between them would be welcome.

  “I will pay ye triple whatever yer publisher is payin’,” he drawled in a Scottish accent thickened by anger.

  She knew he wasn’t going to tell her the truth yet. But he didn’t know she was one tough cookie. After all the years she lived alone, digging through the obstacles so that her books could accomplish what they had, he wouldn’t be able to make her sell her soul. Others had tried and failed. So would he.

  “Well, in that case, Mr. Wardlaw, I will have to excuse myself and get to the bed and breakfast at once.”

  His eyes flickered with anger and his brows drew together into a frown. He sat and shifted in his seat. “I wouldn’t be so hasty to brush aside my offer, Miss.”

  She turned to leave and he whistled. The sound of trotting paws, scratching across the pathway stones, reached her ears. Two black Doberman pinschers appeared in front of her, their ears erect and alert. They immediately spotted her, the stranger, then curled their lips back, exposing sharp, shiny teeth. She was pinned in her spot, swallowing the hard lump in her dry throat.

  Miranda barely turned her head to look over her shoulder at Mac; he was not alarmed, but walked confidently to the dogs. “Heel. Down.” He knelt beside the dogs and patted their heads. “Look at her.” Their vicious gazes followed his pointed finger toward Miranda. He turned to her, as well. “That beautiful face.” He looked at them again, then again pointed at her. The dogs’ eyes followed his finger. “Protect,” he ordered. They whined and sat on the ground, their heads bowed between their long forearms.

  Mac repeated his command in a calm voice and pulled something from his pocket, then gave it to them. The dogs seemed to enjoy grinding and swallowing the treat in a flash. Mac stood and walked to Miranda and stood with his legs parted and his hands in his black trouser pockets. “I apologize for the fright I caused you,” he said with no trace of any accent. “I promise you they will never hurt you. I had to let them become familiar with your scent.”

  She wrapped her hands around her waist and wished she had daggers in her eyes to shoot at him. “Oh, are they now kittens, too, as you described your guards?”

  “You might say that,” he mocked with a half-smile curling his lips.

  “I find it hard to believe you, Mr. Wardlaw.”

  “Push me with both hands, then,” he encouraged her.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do it.” He signaled for her with his hand to advance on him.

  She stood there, not believing what he was asking her, looking at the dogs then at him. She shook her head in refusal. He then advanced on her, intruding into her personal space, and she stretched out her hands and pushed him on the chest, her palms open, fearing she would weaken and pull him even closer. She looked at the dogs; they stood alert, ready to attack, but remained where they were. Then they whimpered and took a step backward. “See? They will not harm you,” he assured her, although her eyebrows arched in disbelief.

  “They know I’m with you, so they won’t attack,” she said. “That still doesn’t prove anything.” She adjusted herself into a straight position and backed up an inch, still fearful of the dogs.

  “Fine.”

  He called out for one of his guards and the bald man appeared in seconds. “Ah, Jack. It seems we have a doubter in our midst. We need a bit of a demonstration. If you will assume a threatening stance,” Mac said to the man.

  The man cast a wary glance at the two dogs. “But, Sir…”

  “Do it,” Mac ordered harshly.

  The bald man balled his fists and assumed an attack stance. He took a step forward and raised a fist to hit Mac.

  Instantly, the dogs leapt to their feet, ears flattened back and teeth bared. They growled as they prepared to jump on the man. Mac stopped them with a whistle.

  “Thank you, Jack, you can go now.”

  The two dogs continued growling and followed the guard with their gaze.

  “Are you certain now?” He smiled at her, turned, and ambled toward the exit of the garden. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Feel free to explore the island. There are a number of scenic places you’ll enjoy, I’m sure. Just remember, all transport off the island goes through me first.”

  Miranda’s blood boiled. She’d never faced a more arrogant, more hardheaded man in her life. But she would become his nightmare. He’ll regret messing with me and my book. Her skin was damp under her dress. Was it her furious state or had the weather gotten hotter?

  She could leave to the village and continue her research from the bed and breakfast, but Mac had a lot to offer in uncovering the secrets of the case. She was sure of that.

  She had to find a way to crack his layered armor. Miranda was determined to use all her skills to unmask every secret he knew.

  Chapter Five

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Mac’s uncle said. He was lying in his bed, helpless. Day after day, the old man’s health slipped away from him like desert sand slipping through open fingers.

  Mac stood by the window and gazed out at Miranda and his dogs. He snorted as they sat obediently watching her as she sipped her tea. Her back hardly touched the chair; she was as rigid as a stick.

  “Sorry, Uncle…what did you say?” A smile curled Mac’s lips as he gazed outside.

  “I said, I hope you haven’t fallen for her,” the old man replied. “She is not Rose.” He coughed, then inhaled with such difficulty the sound made Mac turn his head and study his uncle’s pale face. His uncle Ken knew Mac very well; he knew how much he was haunted by his visions of Rose and how the memories affected his soul.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.” Mac shifted his gaze back out the window to watch Miranda as she left the garden, the dogs trailing after her.

  He frowned. There was no doubt Miranda had experienced visions of their past life together. But she didn’t seem the type who would believe those visions were the secret of her past life, or that they held the key to many of her questions. During one of her interviews on TV, he’d seen the necklace that had triggered his investigation into every inch of her life. He’d given her that one-of-a-kind necklace more than two hundred years ago. The memories made it feel like yesterday…

  He’d come to Rose at their usual meeting place, a deserted barn beside a lake. He had purchased the golden chain and had their first initials, R.D., engraved on a heart-shaped locket. Inside, he had inscribed: “Some are haunted by their first lost love; the lucky ones get to find i
t again.”

  She promised him she would be his, and his only, forever. He understood now the inscription’s true meaning: he was haunted by his first love. He hadn’t forgotten her or the yearning for her touch. Nor had he let go of his hatred for her.

  Deceiver.

  When she first arrived, Miranda had called him Duncan, his name in his previous life. His features hadn’t changed much; they were similar to Duncan’s. She must have many questions in that pretty head of hers. The recognition in her eyes just before she fainted confirmed his suspicions. She had experienced the visions, just as he had. What he didn’t know yet was whether Miranda realized that she—or rather Rose—had betrayed him. Her actions had been the cause of his death. Burned alive, more than two hundred years ago. It affected both of their lives so strongly that they had to reincarnate and end their unfinished business. He knew why he came back; but he would bet his life she didn’t yet know.

  “I told you that you shouldn’t have made me invite her,” his uncle said, coughing again. “She’s trouble, and I don’t want that damn book to expose our family secrets.”

  Mac sighed. The book, yes. He was not about to let history repeat itself. The book would reveal his true identity: Marcas Wardlaw, son of the crazy man who had brought shame to the islanders. That book of hers would ruin his plan.

  “I had to see her, to make sure I could stop her from publishing it.”

  “You…” His uncle paused and drew a deep breath. “You didn’t have to bring her here.”

  Mac walked closer to his uncle’s bed. “Just take care of your health, Uncle, and I’ll take care of her.”

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Mac looked over his shoulder. The nurse slipped into the room holding a tray in her beefy hands. “Nurse Mary, how are you?” Mac greeted warmly and stepped back from the bed.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” She placed the tray containing his uncle’s shot on the nightstand and checked the old man’s pulse with her hand. “How are you this morning, Sir?”

  “Fine,” he muttered.

  “I’ll leave you now.” Mac walked to the door. As he turned the doorknob, his uncle said, “Wait. I didn’t finish what I was saying.”

  “Yes, you did.” Mac’s eyebrows arched.

  He looked at Nurse Mary. “Take care of him. His cough has worsened.” He closed the door behind him.

  Mac strolled along the east wing of his castle. His gaze skimmed the windows on his left as he admired the warm sun that filtered through the louvered glass. He missed seeing his beloved Rose. He missed his love—yet, he was grateful his visions had stopped. Theirs was an infected love.

  He hadn’t understood the visions or their origin until the day he was trapped with his parents in the burning house. There was a reason he had to live through that horrific experience at the tender age of ten. The same reason was behind his returning as Marcas and finding Rose. She had to pay for what she’d done to him.

  That necklace was the starting point for his revenge. He had gathered details about her from the interview, then utilized his resources, money, and even private investigators to bring him everything there was to know about her. It was just a matter of time until they stumbled across her therapy sessions. Everything had a price, and he obtained her full psychiatric history since she started seeing her doctor, ten years ago. He continued receiving updates up until the past few months. Miranda was the type who required justification for everything. Rose had been the opposite. Still, both women had a strong connection to Mac. What happened to Duncan was Rose’s doing—and what Miranda was about to do would destroy Mac.

  He reached his office and closed the door behind him. He strolled to his desk, sat on his black leather chair, and dove into the pile of papers. There were proposals and complaints from the villagers about their local issues, as well as financial statements from the accountants, visitors’ requests for bird-watching—specifically, the Scottish Crossbill bird--and the blueprints for the resort he planned to build on the island.

  Even so, his mind kept drifting back to Miranda and his vengeful scheme. He dropped the pen, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. Miranda’s face flitted through his thoughts. With her vivid green eyes and strawberry-blond hair, she was a beautiful, petite, fey creature.

  Miranda Blair attracted him too much for comfort, and he started to regret what he was about to do to her. If she knew what she’d done to him in her past life, she would have stayed away. She wouldn’t have flown overseas to enter his trap. But no, he was not sorry for planning his revenge. If his heart should weaken, he would step on it and move on. His soul had been licking its wounds for two hundred years and would continue to do so for another two hundred.

  It didn’t matter anymore; the meaning of love had been lost a long time ago. He didn’t know how it felt to be in love; once, he had, but not any longer.

  The phone rang and he looked at it, debating whether he should pick it up. His irritation at the nonstop buzzing finally won; he picked up on the fifth ring.

  “Yes?” he answered without any effort to hide the annoyance in his voice. He wasn’t expecting any business-related calls.

  “Oh, what’s the matter? You sound tense and in need of relaxation. What’s the cause of that tension?” Madam Gabriela’s giggles over the phone reminded him of the twitter of their island’s Scottish Crossbill.

  “Hey, Gaby, ah didn’t expect ye ta call.” His Scottish accent grew thick as he spoke to the woman.

  “But it’s Thursday! You love to see my girls on this day, and you haven’t sent the ride yet, so I got worried. You know you are one of my most valued clients.”

  He’d forgotten about his regular Thursday appointment because of the tension of Miranda’s arrival. Though it would not be proper for her to see a working girl come to him, he did feel the need to relax, as Madam Gabriela suggested. He needed something to release his frustration. One of Madam Gabriela’s girls would be the answer: no emotions, only a release of internal pressure.

  All women cringed when they saw his mask. It wasn’t the mask they hated, but the thought of what was underneath it that scared them. None had ever dared to discover his ugly scars, and he never challenged them to do so. Madam Gabriela’s girls never cared to look beyond his wallet. That arrangement suited him.

  “Send one, whomever.”

  “She’ll be on her way. I knew you needed one.”

  After they hung up, he sighed. What he really needed was a whole ocean to cool his rage at Miranda.

  According to her therapist’s notes in the file in front of him, visiting the place of her previous life’s trauma might help her uncover the secret of the visions and give her total understanding of them. Her visions had increased after she started her research into Marcas’ case. Now, all he had to do was count on his island to show her the truth about who she was. Only then, with her full awareness of their history, would he strike back at her through her passion: her work.

  Her work was an obsession and the key to her destruction. He would give her all the information she sought—then he would destroy the book, casting her research to the ground and ruining it. She would watch all her efforts collapse around her.

  Mac snapped out of his dark thoughts and looked at his desk. He had more than enough on his hands, too much to waste time thinking about the one he should have forsaken. He had to concentrate on his business. He shook his head and again buried himself in his contracts and proposals, so deeply that he was unaware of the passage of time. The night slipped its darkness over the island and shadows stretched in the corners of his dimly lit office.

  He hadn’t seen Miranda all day, and he meant for it to stay that way. Thoughts of her sent the blood pounding in his veins with such strength that he struggled to control it.

  A soft clearing of the throat brought his attention to William, the butler, who stepped into the office through the door Mac had left open.

  “Sir, we have a visitor,” William said,
his bushy gray eyebrows arching into a frown. “The Thursday-appointment female.”

  William always managed to convey his disapproval of Mac’s association with such ladies.

  “Please bring her in, and get us vodka on the rocks after that.”

  To set the mood, Mac walked to his cabinet and turned on the stereo system, choosing a delicate and poignant ballad with fiddle and whistle.

  Only a certain type of woman could combine sexuality with professionalism without degrading herself into sleaziness. Their species was very rare, but Madam Gabriele managed to draw those types of girls to her business.

  Out of habit, Mac walked to the window and reached to close the drapes, to shroud his office in the comforting, dim light of the small lamp on his desk. But he stopped himself and turned his gaze at the nauseatingly cheerful sight outside his office window.

  I hate days like this.

  Flowers bloomed under the shining, silver light of the moon, the chirping insects filled the night celebrating something, and trees danced with the cool breeze.

  Why does the world look bloody happy?

  Mac twisted his lips into a ghost of a smile and touched the mask covering the left side of his face. Since the fire, he had rarely seen what lay beneath the mask. His family, his face, his life, died that night. If not for Miranda and the curiosity to see her and know her, he would be waiting for his heart to stop beating.

  The woman who walked through the door was refined and classy, if there was such a thing as sexual posh. He had this one before and knew she worked hard and played hard. Mac had always been in awe of this type of woman: sexy, but not slutty. Aggressive for his desires, but not skanky.

  She stood at the threshold, one arm resting on the door hinge and the other on the door handle. He invited her in with a nod of his head. She swayed her curved hips into the room and waited for him. She was clad in a classy brown Roberto Cavalli dress, the material flattering her luscious figure, her hair gathered in a tight bun atop her head. A bracelet complemented the fake diamond detailing on the dress, which exposed an ivory shoulder that glistened in the faint light. A cashmere shawl casually covered the other shoulder.