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Bound by Dreams
Christina Skye


American travel expert Kiera Morissey is adept at getting in and out of tight spots.But when a deathbed promise brings Kiera back to Draycott Abbey, she meets rugged Scotsman Calan MacKay, and her life is changed forever. For fifteen years, changed by turns to a swift creature of night, Calan has used his deadly strength and speed to protect. But he wakes with bruises on his body and blood on his hands. And Kiera may be the key to getting his life back.Calan stirs emotions in Kiera that she's never felt before. Getting in and out may be her skill, yet she finds it impossible to leave the abbey until she's unraveled its mysteries, and Calan's dark secret. But will the shadows from the past and an ancient vow of evil threaten the future they may have together?









Praise for works by

CHRISTINA SKYE


TO CATCH A THIEF

“Fast-paced action, vivid detail, a touch of the paranormal, and hot lovemaking will please readers of adventure romance, while fans of Skye’s Draycott Abbey and Code Name series will enjoy this clever union of the two.”

—Booklist

CODE NAME: BIKINI

“A fun, antic read.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Fast-paced action, flashes of humor, and futuristic flavor typify this romantic action-adventure. Fans of the Code Name series will enjoy this delicious addition.”

—Kristin Ramsdell, Library Journal

CODE NAME: BLONDIE

“Romantic thrills and adventure from the expert.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Skye is terrific at writing fast-paced adventure romances…a tantalizing addition to the compelling Code Name series.”

—Booklist

CODE NAME: BABY

“Thrilling…fans should eagerly await the next in the series.”

—Publishers Weekly

THE DRAYCOTT LEGACY

“Christina Skye’s delightfully haunting Draycott Abbey tales…pass the test of time, as they remain some of the better romantic fantasies available.”

—Harriet Klausner




Christina Skye

Bound By Dreams









Bound By Dreams




CONTENTS


PART ONE

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S NOTE



PART ONE




PROLOGUE


Sussex, England

Draycott Abbey

Summer

THE NIGHT IS ALIVE, restless with dreams.

Almost two decades have passed since he walked this soft grass. Touched these worn stones of Draycott Abbey.

The name flows off his tongue, rich with history. Near his hand a mound of lavender stirs, cool with dew and perfume. The scent he remembers well, along with his hours of peace in the abbey’s shadow.

Every detail of the great house is branded into his memory.

For twenty years he has not come back to these green hills. The danger is too great, carrying the threat of what he once was…and can become again.

The wind draws him to the moat’s edge. He smells the tall grass, feels the brush of young leaves on his skin. Somewhere in the darkness a hunting bird calls sharply.

The night flows around him. Then the past rushes in with a surge of bitterness. The pain slams down.

He remembers the betrayal and lost hope. From his innocence had come death.

His muscles flex. Tendons move, blood sings. Power slides down like swift moonlight spilled across endless seas. The life he’d left behind rushes in, carrying the slap of the wind, the harsh rhythm of an old Gaelic curse.

He remembers the hammer of callused hands at his neck and then the cold taste of blood.

His own blood. From wounds that had left him dead, or close enough to call dead.

He slips off his shoes.

Thyme and mint crush beneath his feet, just like the last time he was here to visit his oldest friend.

Sweat glistens on his bare skin. The night is cool, but to him it is warmth enough when the wind calls. Better to run, to hunt. It is safe here, because darkness is his home and haven.

Roses brush his arm, scenting the air with perfume. His skin burns. The time of power floods through him.

Muscles flex, changing to match a new shape and all its strength.

His hands clench. He touches the low iron fence. One hand grips the cool rail as the power snaps. He lets down the final wall, feels the explosion of dark strength that surges through him.

He remembers another night, too many years ago to count. His first taste of power—and the death it carried. He remembers a boy’s raw, bone-wrenching terror, understanding nothing. That night there had been no control, no confidence, no hope. Only death.

Old history.

Dead ashes.

He mutters an oath and snaps his bond to the past. In silent fury, his body rushes into life, driven by the energy of the hunt. Across the hill he can hear a leaf fall and feel the weight of moonlight on his bare hands.

Alive.

More than alive—with such power as no mortal man can know.

His jacket drops. His clothes fall to the soft earth.

The abbey is as much of a home as he has ever known, and Calan MacKay feels the power of its welcome as he stands in the night, face to the north. The wind from the woods brings the rich scent of prey and the taste of rain before dawn. He runs, a shadow in the trees. A shadow with keenest sight and unthinkable strength. His muscles gather and stretch. Senses burning.

Then he is gone, swallowed by the darkness.

A bird cries. Moon rising.

Strange footprints dot the mud above the abbey’s moat.



HE SMELLS HER across the hill.

A touch of softness. A hint of warmth.

Woman.

Her perfume holds soft ginger. Orange. A hint of cinnamon.

Without looking, he knows her location. Her scent marks every step. Hidden by a mound of lavender, he waits.

She thinks she is alone. Every step she makes is quick, wary. She is small. Fast. Careful. This is what he sees in the space of a breath. The other details come slowly. Yet they are mostly about what she is not.

Not beautiful.

Not frightened.

Not sure of where she is going.

And because he is an intruder here himself, Calan MacKay does not interfere. He marks her progress, sensing the force of emotion that drives her over the damp grass to a gray boulder above the great sweep of the abbey’s west meadow. From here every detail of motion along the driveway is visible.

But at three in the morning, there is no movement. The grand house is empty. He has already checked to be sure. He is alone.

The woman in the black sweater stops suddenly. One hand to the gray rock, she closes her eyes and sinks down. Tears shimmer. Her head touches her open hands.

He smells the salt of her tears then. The scent is physical, painfully intimate, as if he had shared her body in the most primal form of sex. Her tears smell like youth…and sadness.

Ginger and sunshine.

He is stunned at his sudden awareness of a stranger’s body. It has been years since he has felt such sharp curiosity about a woman.

Curiosity turns to something darker.

If things were different, he would make it his goal to taste her passion and her body. He would drive her slowly, making her burn as he suddenly burns. He would hunt and then possess her until his curiosity was slaked.

Something tells him that could take a lifetime.

But he has no lifetime to give. Because Calan MacKay cannot be gentle or trusting, he crushes his desire. She has stirred up emotions he can never afford.

He curses, summoning anger instead. It will be an easy thing to frighten her away. Slow, he moves through the arched rose bower, a shadow amid shadows, making no sound. Almost at her side.

She gives no sign, perched on the rock, eyes intent. Suddenly she sways and pushes to her feet. Her fingers dig furiously at one pocket.

He tenses, no longer a simple observer. She is an intruder on Draycott soil and he plans his direction of attack, the timing of his approach to overpower her.

But the choked sound of her pain is not what he expects. What she pulls from her pocket is not a weapon. Only a folded piece of paper.

Small and fragile, it covers her palm.

He can smell the age caught in its fibers. Salt is locked within faint layers of human sweat, as if the sheet has been carried for years in trembling hands.

Her jaw tightens. She does not have to read the words on the fragile sheet to know their secret. Sliding to her knees, she searches the dark earth. Her eyes are hard with anger as she grips a small stone and hurls it toward the distant house. “Damn you,” she rasps. “Damn all of you.”

She throws another stone, and now he sees the tears spilling down her pale cheeks. He smells the salt of her skin and his body tightens in harsh response. He wants to know her name, her breathless laugh, the heat of her thighs.

He wants to know her body and everything about her.

Reckless wishes. He will never know her.

The tall Scotsman doesn’t move, though every nerve shouts for him to cross the darkness between them. Who is this stranger to hold him, tempt him?

She stands awkwardly, her shoulders tense. No more tears now. Only anger.

She lifts one hand in a fist. “Leave us alone,” she orders hoarsely. “Let it end.”

His curiosity is caught hard now, so he follows when she climbs the hill, hidden when she kneels beneath an ancient oak. She digs with bare fingers and a simple kitchen knife, raking the earth in long lines. He can barely hold himself back when she leans down to the wet earth.

To find what?

She twists suddenly, and her pale face is caught in the moonlight, something from his deepest dreams. Dark eyes glint with tears and fury as she tosses the knife.

It spins high—and lands at his feet.

An accident, or has she sensed his presence after all?

“Gone.” Her harsh whisper drifts on the wind. “Taken like everything else…” She stands, unsteady, one hand white against the ancient tree. With a sigh, she pulls her jacket closed, staring around uncertainly.

And then she turns.

Away from the house. She crosses the dark grass, her shoulders stooped with weariness. Questions storm into his mind as she passes, close enough to touch.

He holds his distance as she crosses the meadow, climbs a small stone fence. From there she winds through the copse that borders the road.

Somewhere in the darkness a car engine coughs.

He draws back. She is still walking when two men emerge from behind a tangle of weeds. They block her scream. Her hands claw and scrape in her struggles.

Anger explodes through him. With their scent like a beacon, he opens to the hunt. But not fast enough.

She fights well, but the men are stonger and they take her just the same. The car motor whines.

Silent and deadly, the Scotsman hunts.




CHAPTER ONE


THEY CAME AT HER without warning. One minute Kiera Morissey had been cursing Draycott Abbey and its arrogant owner, determined to make her visit short so she could be gone forever.

Now she was struggling for her life against violent men in black masks. Her mother’s deathbed request had led her straight into a nightmare.

A rag blocked her mouth, making her gag. Rough hands gripped her wrists, twisting until she moaned. She was supposed to be fighting memories, not violent assailants. Who were these people? What did they want with her?

Security guards? Kiera would have expected the Draycott family to post a team of bad-tempered Neanderthals to guard their precious privacy. But would they condone this kind of violence?

The wind snapped through the trees. Birds exploded over her head as she fought harder. Plastic bonds locked her wrists sharply. She couldn’t see, striking out at her attackers by feel alone. She knew there were two of them, and so far they had said only a few words, all of them in a language that sounded Slavic.

This was a private unit of hired foreign thugs, meant to protect the aristocratic owner of the abbey and his family? Hard to believe, even for the arrogant Draycotts.

She didn’t frighten easily, though she hadn’t been prepared for an attack on a quiet country road in the English countryside.

Now she was focused, ready to fight back. Her father had taught her self-defense as soon as she was big enough to hold a Muy Thai stick and play at kickboxing moves. Yet in her emotion at her first glimpse of Draycott Abbey, she had violated the crucial rule: Always stay prepared.

Now her attackers were going to get a little surprise.

Kiera made the move exactly as her father had taught her. She went completely limp, toppling sideways. Before her beefy captor could adjust to her sudden falling weight in his arms, she snapped forward and kicked him solidly in the groin.

His wheeze of stunned shock told her he had expected fear and blind compliance. No way, dog breath.

The second his hands loosened, she dropped to her knees, rolled and then shot toward the woods. She was in good shape. She also had a five-yard lead on the second attacker. She grabbed the top of the abbey’s stone fence, pulled herself up and threw one leg over.

But her pursuer lunged and managed to grab her ankle just before it cleared the fence. He jerked her backward, her face scraping against the stones. Blood gushed over her lip, but when he tried to shove her down beneath him, she clawed at his eyes, sending him reeling.

Unfortunately Attacker Two had sewer breath. He was also the size of a Mack truck. With a jerk of his callused hands, he drove her flat onto the ground. Then he stood over her, one heel pressed at her throat.

Bad sign, Kiera thought.

Any second she would have a crushed windpipe.

“What do you want?” She hated that her voice was high and spiky. The heel pressed to her throat started to grind down. “Okay, are you some kind of private police? Security guards from Draycott Abbey?” She spoke wildly, saying anything that came to mind.

His foot froze. A good sign.

“I mean, if you’re hired by Viscount Draycott, I can explain.”

His breath caught.

Kiera still couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but she heard his clothes rustle and then the click of a cell phone opening. He muttered something in a language that definitely sounded Slavic, then waited for an answer. Hoping for a distraction, she went perfectly still on the ground, but the pressure on her throat never loosened, nor did his gaze leave her face. Clearly this gorilla had military or professional security training, and now his focus was almost palpable.

Simple tricks weren’t going to work with this one.

In the distance she heard the low growl of a motor. Picking up speed. Coming closer.

Straight in her direction.

Attacker One grunted, slowly recovering, one hand to his eyes. Kiera’s mind raced through escape scenarios. Her father had taught her dozens. No way was she going to be a statistic on the evening news.

When the gorilla closed his cell phone, Kiera focused. He reached down, jerking her to her feet.

She twisted and dug two fingers into his neck, precisely at the vulnerable notch of his collarbone. Muscle flexed and then cartilage tore nicely. While he was still hunched over in shock, she sank her teeth into his palm, deep enough to feel skin part. Bone ground beneath her teeth.

She spit out blood but the man’s grip held firm. His growl of fury didn’t quite cover the sound of the car motor nearby.

Panic squeezed hard. Damn, damn, damn. How many more men were inside the car?

Then Kiera heard leaves rustle.

Something was moving toward her from the far side of the fence. There was no mistaking the snap of twigs, the harsh breathing, the sounds made by a very large animal.

There was something strange about that rough breathing. Or maybe it was hypoxia starting to kick in. She aimed two more satisfying collarbone jabs as her attacker’s fingers locked around her throat.

Dizziness tore at her vision.

Oxygen almost gone.

A dark shape exploded over the stone fence. Kiera heard the slap of a body and then the sound of bushes shaking. She could see almost nothing as she fought her furious captor. Then abruptly she was free, her attacker sinking to one knee.

Car lights cut across the road, closing in fast as Kiera shot across the pavement to the far slope, where the ground fell away abruptly at the edge of a creek. Diving over the bank, she tucked sharply and landed in a sprawl at the bottom.

The sounds were muffled here. Up on the bank she heard the squeal of brakes and harsh voices, followed by a scream of pure terror.

Something growled. The sound made Kiera’s hair stand on end. She had seen predators in zoos throughout Europe, but she had never heard that kind of growl, a sound that held cunning and intelligence.

Whatever the animal was, she wasn’t staying around for introductions. She stumbled along the muddy edge of the stream, keeping her body low so she would be invisible to any attacker looking down from the road. Following the stream would bring her to a second road. Her rental car was parked only a few hundred yards away from that point.

Safe.

Her hands shook. She forced herself to stay calm. She was alive, no one’s captive.

Then a bullet hit the bushes only inches away from her hand. Kiera plunged straight into the mud and stayed down, breathing hard.

Reining in her urge to flee blindly.

But that was what they’d expect. Rule Two: Never do the expected.

Behind her the wind carried a man’s guttural shout of pain and a rapid burst of gunfire from the road.

She heard another growl, this one the short, angry sound of an animal that was cornered. Wounded maybe. Something about the pain held Kiera still. Her hands opened and closed jerkily. Climbing the slope, she crept through the woods far above the point where she had been attacked. In a beam of car lights she saw motion and dim, grappling figures. Another burst of gunfire drilled the creek she had just left. Back on the road a man shouted angry orders, again in a language that sounded Slavic.

Kiera’s foot struck a boulder. When she looked down, she saw she had stumbled over a man’s body. He was alive, judging by his labored breathing, and a revolver lay on the ground inches from his twitching hand. She didn’t think twice, scooping up the weapon. Instead of turning toward her car, she crept back toward the road.

Going back? This had to be insanity, even with a weapon.

Then the animal, probably some kind of mastiff or mixed-breed husky, gave another sharp howl of pain.

Kiera’s fists clenched. They were killing the dog.

The moon broke from behind racing clouds, giving her a glimpse of the scene on the road. One man was climbing into a waiting car. A second man swayed sharply, clutching his arm. He turned and gave harsh orders, gesturing to the far side of the road, where Kiera had crossed minutes before. He was sending his men after her, she realized.

Two figures vanished down the slope of the creek, and she saw the remaining man back up, suddenly frozen by something near the stone fence. Her breath caught.

A shadow separated from the tall grass. It was the biggest dog she had ever seen, long and sleek. Every motion carried the stamp of effortless, fierce power.

The man with the gun cursed, but the animal was faster, leaping through the darkness. Kiera heard four shots in quick succession.

She flinched, certain that no animal could survive such an attack at close range. With the pistol weighing against her palm, she reacted by instinct, flicking off the safety, dropping behind the foliage of a small tree and aiming carefully.

Her first bullet drove up gravel near the car’s back tire. Her second shot hit the back windshield, cracking the glass. She didn’t stay to see more. One small diversion was all she could afford. As Kiera dodged back into the trees, bullets tore off a branch near her hand. Footsteps pounded over the road.

He was coming after her.

She ran through the woods, caught in darkness as the moon vanished behind the clouds. With the attacker bearing down, she caught the lowest branch of a tree and swung one leg up. She clawed her way up another ten feet, then curled into a ball, absolutely still.

Grass rustled, and then a man ran directly beneath her. His footsteps hammered on into the trees.

Long seconds passed. The car idling back on the road gave two sharp bursts on the horn. Leaves scratched Kiera’s face and she felt a bug fall down the back of her jacket, but she kept resolutely still.

Twigs snapped. The man with the gun returned slowly, swinging his outstretched arm directly beneath her.

Through the leaves, Kiera saw the car lights flash to high, then flicker twice.

Some kind of a message, that was clear. She prayed it would call him back. But the man didn’t move, studying the darkness intently.

Sweat trickled between her shoulders. Another bug hit her cheek. The car horn sounded sharply.

The man strode off. Seconds later the car roared away.

Silence fell. The wind brushed her face.

But Kiera didn’t move. Her legs were locked, her muscles taut with the aftereffects of fear. The temperature had fallen and she began to shiver. Running through damp fields and crossing streams hadn’t been in her game plan when she’d dressed that evening.

But she was alive. There was a sharp beauty to the night, to the chiaroscuro pattern of the leaves caught against the faint moonlight. Closing her eyes, she breathed a sigh of thanks.

Still shaking, she swung her legs over the lowest branch. With trembling hands she hung for a moment and then dropped to the ground, wincing at a sudden pain in her foot. There was no sign of pursuit. The night was silent as she crossed the road warily.

Dark tracks lined the mud. A man’s jacket lay nearby, dropped and forgotten. There was no sign of the big dog that the men had been tormenting, probably a guard dog from one of the surrounding estates. Yet there had been something strange about the animal’s size and its powerful movements. Even now the memory left her with an unsettling sense of savage strength held in precarious control.

And as she stood in the clearing at the edge of the road, looking at the distant line of the abbey’s roof, Kiera had the strangest sense that someone was watching her.

But nothing moved; nothing barked or stirred in the foliage.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

A bird cried in the distance. Goose bumps rose along her arms. Time to leave, she told herself firmly. If someone found her here, with the marks of the attack all around her, she would have no easy way to explain. And there was always a possibility that the thugs might come back.

Fortunately, she had planned for a quick escape. Her backpack was hidden in the grass near her rental car, and her keys were under a rock nearby. Yet still she didn’t move. Something called her gaze through the trees, toward the moon touching the distant hills.

In the sudden silver light she saw the sharp outline of Draycott Abbey’s parapets. Kiera fought against a strange, almost hypnotic force of calm from the sight. Despite her anger at the Draycotts there was so much beauty here. So much history.

Then she felt the weight of the gun shoved into her pocket. It would have to be disposed of safely. She remembered there was a church about a mile from her hotel. She could remove the last remaining bullets and then slip the weapon into the mail slot.

One problem solved. Kiera took a deep breath.

That left her whole future yet to tackle.



HE LAY in the high grass, shaking.

Shaken.

His speed was gone, his muscles jerky. Blood covered his ear and dripped into his eye. He remembered the metal blade and then the sudden slam of bullets. He hadn’t reacted fast enough, never suspecting an attack at Draycott’s very border.

No excuse for bad judgment. No excuse for stupidly letting down his guard. He had too much to hide to ever be stupid or careless.

He made a short, angry sound and stood slowly in the darkness, wincing at sharp pains in a dozen places.

Wind in his face. A thousand sounds from the forest around him. None of them were caused by men.

He shook off the grass and dirt and watched the moon’s fierce silver curve climb above the abbey’s roof.

Change, he thought.

His nails dug at the damp ground, muscles tensed. But his body refused. Every nerve fought the familiar command.

From the woods came the low cry of a bird. The night called him to run, to feel the moonlight on his bare skin. Change, he thought furiously. And still nothing happened.

He remembered a sharp stab at his shoulder. They had used some kind of needle during the struggle. The darkness blurred as he sank to his knees. With a fierce effort of will he clawed his way back over the stone fence, back onto abbey ground.

He had to change. All his will focused on the command, yet no muscle shifted. Weakness pulled at him. The ground swayed.

Death moved in his eyes and he smelled its bitter breath on his face.

Not yet, he swore, struggling over the grass. Instinct told him he had to keep moving, that the toxin coursing through his veins would affect a man far worse than the creature he was now.

Damn them.

With a growl of pain he leaped over the cool earth, forcing stiff muscles to full stride. His vision blurred with pain, but he kept moving.

He smelled her suddenly. Loping through the woods, he came to the boulder where she had sat in the moonlight only minutes before.

Minutes that felt like a cold eternity now.

Her tears still clung to the damp grass. The scent dug under his skin, spelling the essence of female, and his body responded with almost painful awareness. Searching the rock, he found more of her scent, captured in a fallen square of cloth. His hunger grew and he realized there was danger here, danger from the blind urge to leap the fence and stalk her faint tracks until he ran her to ground.

And then he would have her.

He turned to stare back toward the road, pulled in every nerve and muscle, drawn by unexplainable need. In that heartbeat pain became his friend, forcing his focus to the cuts and welts that throbbed fiercely.

Still groggy, he burst over the hill, driven by sudden anger.

And then the world tilted. Darkness swallowed him under its wings like the rest of its creatures of night.




CHAPTER TWO


THE SCOTSMAN OPENED his eyes slowly. His skin burned with the clarity of his dreams. He felt sated, still wearing the heat of a woman’s naked skin on his.

For long moments Calan MacKay savored the dream memories of sleek sex, of soft laughter and passion given and fiercely taken. Then pain swallowed the pleasure, spitting him out into cold reality.

Naked and bruised under a tree in the abbey’s high meadow.

He was bleeding at his shoulder and forehead, his arms streaked with mud. A harsh, metallic taste filled his mouth.

Drugged, he thought. The injection had knocked him out for the rest of the night, no simple matter given his strength and size. The attackers had been well prepared, damn them.

The sun was just clearing the treetops as he stood up, grimacing. All the night’s memories flooded back with sharp clarity.

He knew that Nicholas Draycott was expected home at eight, and Calan wanted to be ready for his old friend. First he had to recheck the grounds and study the footprints near the road. With luck he could find the used syringe, too. He was headed in search of his clothes when he saw a piece of white silk caught on a lavender plant.

Hers.

The scent was clear, even to his weakened human senses, a mix of cinnamon, sunshine and lavender. Calan wondered who she was and where she’d gone. What had left her full of such anger at the abbey?

He frowned as he closed his fist around the scrap of soft silk. The pull toward her was fierce, and for a man like him this attraction was dangerous.

But he needed answers, starting with why she had been attacked. He remembered how she’d returned from the woods, boldly firing to frighten off their attackers. Calan had been half blind, struggling against the numbing effect of the drug at the time. Without her diversion, his fight might have been far more harrowing.

What kind of woman would come back to save a wild creature?

He rubbed his burning shoulder, frowning. He did not take any gift lightly, and hers demanded a grave weight of repayment. He had no choice but to track the mystery woman down. At the very least he had to be certain she was safe.

In the distance a truck motor raced, and he drew back into the shadows of the trees, following a path to the small glade where he had left his clothes and belongings the night before. He had two hours to scan the road and the attack scene. From there he would pick up her trail, which should lead him to her car. At the least he would note the direction she had traveled. Then he’d put all the details in Nicholas’s hands.

One thing he knew without question. He would see her again. She had saved his life and he must offer her an equal service in repayment.

But Calan had a grim suspicion that he would see their attackers again, too.

This time he would be ready for them.



THE DUSTY OLD TRIUMPH ARRIVED twenty-two minutes early. The tall English driver looked distracted as he strode across the abbey’s cobblestone courtyard. Then his handsome face curved into a broad grin.

Calan was sitting on the abbey’s bottom step, waiting for Nicholas Draycott’s arrival. He had washed away all traces of mud and dried blood in the stream beyond the meadow and the long welts on his arm were now hidden beneath his jacket.

As Calan’s oldest and closest friend, Nicholas was aware of Calan’s chaotic boyhood and strange talents though Calan had never revealed all the details. Nicholas had respected that reserve, never prying further.

“Just look what the tide has washed in. Are you flotsam or jetsam?”

“According to maritime law, am I goods floating after a wreck versus goods intentionally thrown overboard? I don’t recall jumping from any nearby ships, so that must make me flotsam. Floating debris—probably from the wreckage of my life.” Calan smiled with a trace of bitterness. “As for you, rules of salvage are in effect. You must return me in the event of any official claim from contending parties.”

Nicholas shook his head. “You’re not going anywhere. It’s far too hard to track you down. You never leave contact numbers or an e-mail address. It’s as if you vanish from the face of the earth between visits.”

“Call me a throwback that way. When I’m gone, I’m gone. Since I usually end up in remote places, neither type of message would do much good anyway.” Calan stretched, eyeing the viscount. “For a bureaucrat and landowner you look remarkably fit.”

“I’ve been outside a good deal in the last month.” Something passed over Nicholas Draycott’s face, though he tried to cover it with a laugh and a handshake. “All that can wait. I’m afraid Marston is in London, but I can round up scones and some lapsang souchong tea for you.”

“You remember all my dark vices, I see.”

“Only the ones fit for mixed company.” Nicholas opened the front door and moved to punch in an alarm code. Then he turned, shooting his friend a knowing look. “There are other vices, as I recall. And given that lean, tanned look, I see that you’ve been keeping yourself extremely active in those exotic places you favor. Where was it this month? Tanzania? Kashmir?”

“Sri Lanka and Morocco, if you must know.” Calan looked at the sunny entrance and giant spiral staircase. The abbey was as beautiful as he remembered, rich with the smell of freshly cut flowers. Every inch of wood and marble gleamed with polish and care. “So Kacey isn’t with you?”

“No, the family is in London at the moment.” Once again, tension crossed Nicholas’s face. “Let’s go up to the library. I’ve got some new wiring plans I’d like you to look at, if you wouldn’t mind. While you do that, I’ll track down that food and tea.”

“Sounds like a fair trade to me. Marston’s scones were always worth a king’s ransom.” Calan kept his tone casual, but he was considering how best to bring up the attack of the prior night and the woman whose rich, seductive scent kept drifting through his thoughts.

“Something wrong?”

Calan realized that Nicholas had turned to stare at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I know you damned well by now, MacKay. Nothing troubles you or frightens you. Yet right now you’re distracted—and you don’t want me to know it.”

“I forget you were our government’s best field agent, with a reputation for missing no detail.”

“Don’t change the subject. What’s wrong? Not your…health, I hope?”

“I’m in excellent shape. As shapes come and go,” the Scotsman said drily. “As for the rest, I think I’ll have that tea first.”



“SO ARE YOU EVER going to stop?” Nicholas frowned at his friend over the silver tea set.

Even with Nicholas, Calan’s habitual distance was firmly in place. That reserve never left him, even around his few friends.

Calan sank into a thick leather chair beside the open French doors. “By that, you mean I should stop dropping in on you with no notice? I apologize for the inconvenience,” he said stiffly.

“Rubbish. I’m delighted to see you, notice or not.” Nicholas turned to fill their teacups. “I’m talking about this damnable travel obsession you have. I’ve barely seen you in the last four years.” Nicholas Draycott put down his scone, untouched. His eyes narrowed. “You never stay here in England. You’re constantly on the move.”

Exactly. And he would stay that way, Calan thought. Right up to the day he died. Ancient clan prophecies could not be changed, though Nicholas knew nothing of that.

Calan gave a casual shrug. “I enjoy new languages and new people. I wasn’t aware that travel was a crime.” He inhaled the smoky scent of the dark tea and smiled. “I’d forgotten how much I miss England. I’d also forgotten how beautiful this old abbey of yours can be.”

Especially by moonlight, with the clouds drifting like silver froth and rose petals carried on the wind. Such a night could make a man forget every promise, every duty.

But Nicholas didn’t know about his earlier visit or the attack that followed, and Calan wasn’t giving him the details yet. First he wanted to know why someone would be staking out the road at the abbey’s edge.

And who the woman was.

“Don’t change the subject, Calan. It’s time you turned in your frequent flyer cards. Settle down. Open another six software design studios, or whatever it is you do to make such obscene amounts of money.”

“Satellite mapping technology,” Calan said. “And I would hardly call my fees obscene.”

“More than anyone needs. I know you give away a large part of it to charities. I also know about your dangerous sideline.”

“Windsurfing?” Calan tried to keep his tone cool and just a little flippant. He hadn’t expected his old friend to turn their first conversation in months into an interrogation of this sort.

“Hardly. I am referring to your land mine and ordnance disposal work.” Nicholas drummed his fingers on a gleaming Georgian side table. “I found out last week from a Red Cross colleague in Switzerland. He filled me in about your work in developing countries without the equipment or expertise to clear their old fields. In all these years you never mentioned it to me.”

He sounded especially irritated, Calan thought, as if this secrecy had betrayed their friendship. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

“You nearly get yourself killed every six months and it’s not relevant? I saw the file about your last job in Azerbaijan. The government had several small remote detection vehicles, but they couldn’t get across the rocky terrain, so you went instead. You managed to save four children who had wandered into the minefield, I heard.”

Calan tensed. He kept this part of life as quiet as possible, and secrecy was always a stipulation of his help. The last thing he needed was a horde of journalists badgering him for human-interest stories or inquiries about his unusual skill at detection. “Who told you, Nicholas? My ordnance work is meant to be private.”

“The man who told me is high enough for access to all personnel records. And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m your friend. I know that you need your privacy. I accept your choice to have no contact or involvement with your family. But I’m hardy a stranger raking up details for a tabloid story.”

Calan didn’t answer.

“Fine, I’ll go back further. I’m the friend who dug you out of the mud when you were eight after the upper-form boys buried you up to your waist at summer camp in Scotland. I’m the one who bandaged you up afterward. I recall giving you your first cigarette as a consolation.”

“It was a Gauloise. The thing tasted like straw and old pavement, absolutely awful. So was that whole summer in the Hebrides.” Calan stared at his teacup. “I haven’t forgotten a single detail, you see? You made certain that my scrawny Scottish backside was not further harassed that summer.”

“They called you an orphan and you didn’t deny it. Why didn’t you tell them the truth?”

“Because I prefer to keep my family private.” Calan smiled grimly. “And for the record, I do appreciate all the help you have given me over the years. My…adjustments haven’t always come easily, so I’m grateful for a place of safety and your sound advice.”

“I don’t want your gratitude. I want you to come home and stay home, damn it. Be normal. Be happy.” Nicholas cut off a sound of irritation. “Why can’t you just settle down and find a smart woman who loves you? Start a family before you forget what the concept means.”

“I think not.” Calan’s eyes hardened. “Wife, children and holidays in St. Tropez are not in my future.”

“You want to die in a wretched little shack at the mouth of the Amazon or crossing a minefield in Africa? What kind of end is that?”

Last night’s rain had washed the air clean. Calan watched a bird circle slowly above the moat. Looking for food, no doubt. Nicholas made it a point to keep the abbey’s waters well stocked with trout.

Predators and prey, always circling. This was the natural order of life. One day you were a predator, and the next you were the prey. “Since I won’t be around to notice if I’m dead, how it happens hardly matters.”

“I’m serious, Calan.”

“So am I.” Calan stood up, carrying his teacup to the window. In the clear sunlight the abbey’s slopes were startlingly green. Roses framed the path with a riot of color. In the distance the moat gleamed like a freshly polished mirror, three swans caught on the bright surface. “It’s…an old kind of restlessness. You could call it a curse of my blood. I can never manage to stay anywhere for more than a few weeks.”

He had no real home. Definitely no family.

Restlessness was a friend when you trusted no one—not even yourself.

In every sense his family was dead to him, their memory no more than ashes tossed on barren soil. His past was closed, his future bound by ancient laws that Nicholas Draycott would neither understand nor condone.

Some things were best kept secret.

“You make it sound like a medieval legend, Calan, but I don’t believe in fate or curses. You have a beautiful house in Norfolk. You have work that can be done wherever you like and enough money so that you need never work again. Yet you keep pushing, always restless. What are you running away from?”

Calan didn’t turn around, but his back stiffened.

“It’s none of my business, of course. But I count you as my friend, so I refuse to let you throw your life away, forever rootless among strangers. So come home. Stay home this time.”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“I don’t think I care to discuss that.” Calan’s voice was polite, but there was an edge of warning in his words.

“And that means back off and keep my mouth shut?”

“I’d have put it more graciously. But…yes.” Calan put his teacup down on the table, wishing for something stronger.

Don’t look back.

Don’t think about how the sea feels, clawing at your feet in a northwest gale. Don’t think about the voices in the night, come to administer clan law to a boy too young to understand.

“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Calan laughed shortly. “Simply the aftereffects of some tainted water in Azerbaijan.”

“You don’t look sick to me.” Nicholas leaned back and crossed his arms. “But since you’re determined to change the subject, so be it. You’ve come at an excellent time, as a matter of fact. It’s Kacey’s birthday in two weeks and I’ve just bought her a painting that may turn out to be a missing Whistler Nocturne.”

“You hardly need my help deciphering art, Nicholas. And why did you ask for my advice on your new wiring? Have you had any problems here?”

It was Nicholas’s turn to look uncomfortable. “The possibility always exists. Crime is everywhere. Civilization is going to hell all around us, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed.” Calan looked down at the scars on his hands, reminders of one grisly ordnance job in Serbia. It was hard to ignore the world’s problems when you walked through minefields on a regular basis. It was also hard to forget man’s capacity for villainy when you saw it up close, written in the faces of the victims.

“My wife believes that people are innately good. I wish I could feel the same. But the things I’ve seen make it hard to believe in goodness and innate human kindness.” Nicholas lifted a small photo in a silver frame. A grave woman with intense eyes and streaks of paint on her hands, Kacey Draycott was a recognized expert in nineteenth-century painting. Nicholas’s photo had caught her at her easel, holding a jeweler’s loupe to examine brush stroke and pigment layers of a suspect Whistler portrait. In a nearby photo, she stood holding a gardening spade, laughing with Prince Charles.

“She moves in good circles,” Calan murmured.

“I could barely tear her away that morning. The two of them were deep in a discussion about rose grafting and compost.”

“Your wife has an extraordinary ability to put anyone at ease.”

Nicholas carefully straightened the row of photos of his wife and their laughing daughter. His next words were spoken softly, almost to himself. “You try your best. You plan and you pray and you maneuver. But you never can keep them separate, can you?” He took a harsh breath. “On one side you have your work—your duty to your country. On the other you’ve got your family, and both of them deserve the very best you can give.” He traced his wife’s photograph, his eyes restless and worried. “But one will always affect the other. Whatever ties you to your family weakens you and makes you vulnerable to attack or influence. I, of all people, should know that.” His hand closed to a fist. “Now I’ve let myself be caught, trapped between duty and family. But I won’t have my family put at risk. I’ll walk away first.”

“Walk away from what?”

“A promise I made to someone in the government.”

“And this problem involves danger?”

“Yes. I’m already regretting my promise. No good deed remains unpunished,” he said coldly. “Then last week I thought someone was following me. When I ran the plates with a friend, he said the car had been reported stolen.”

“I’d call that a bad sign. Anything else?”

“A few weeks ago a man was in town asking questions about the abbey and my family. He claimed to be an old friend trying to locate me. At first I put him down as a tabloid journalist cruising for a story. Now I’m thinking he was about a darker game. So I’m going to beef up all our security. I’ve already hired protection for my family. As of tonight, I’ll be traveling with a bodyguard.”

“You’re doing the right thing to be careful. So you’re talking about a complete overhaul, gatehouse to rose garden?”

“Exactly. I haven’t told Kacey any details yet, just that she needs to be especially careful now. She’s been in London every weekend due to this new Whistler painting that has surfaced. Then it’s our daughter’s birthday at the end of the month. They’re staying at a friend’s town house in London now, and I’ll see they remain there until I’m certain of their safety.”

Calan didn’t like anything about this news. Kidnapping was an ugly business. The attack last night appeared to be planned by men who hoped to snare a member of Nicholas’s family. “You’re right to take any suspicion of a threat seriously. Of course I’ll do whatever I can to help. I’ve been toying with a new program that automatically monitors circuit stability. It will provide alerts when your response is impeded anywhere in your system.”

“English would be good.” Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “Not all of us are electronics geniuses, I’m afraid.”

Calan shrugged. “It’s still in the beta stage, but it would signal you if anyone tampers with your system. When do you want me to start?”

“What about right now? If you’re free for a few days.”

Free as the wind. Free as an ocean swell headed for a rocky beach.

“I’m at your disposal, Nicky. I’ll need a day to find a few things in my workroom in Norfolk—”

“Give me a list. I’ll fetch them myself.” The viscount frowned. “There’s something else you should know about that promise I regret making.” Vibrations shook the old mullioned windows. Nicholas turned, gesturing as a powerful motor thundered up the abbey’s long driveway. “Good Lord, not now. Does the man never rest?”

Calan glanced over the viscount’s shoulder at the black SUV pulling toward them. “Do you know the driver, Nicky? Because I need to tell you about last night—”

The SUV fishtailed abruptly to a halt and a tall man jumped down. Ramrod straight, he studied the front grounds of the abbey and then set a small metal box on the gravel. He pulled out a cell phone and began to talk loudly.

“A friend of yours?”

“Brigadier Martingale, head of the Prime Minister’s security detail. Believe me, the man is no friend. He promised me another week, blast it.” The viscount ran a hand across his forehead. “Look, Calan, I’ve got to talk to him. If you don’t mind, I’d rather keep your involvement here our secret. The man trusts no one and will want to know every detail about you. I prefer that he remain entirely out of the loop on what we’re doing.”

“What exactly are we doing? I’m simply here visiting you as a friend, catching up on business trends and family gossip. No harm in that.” Calan’s face was guileless.

“I’ll stick to that story, too. But better to avoid the discussion entirely. I’ve only three weeks left anyway.”

“Now you’ve lost me, Nicky. Three weeks for what?”

Nicolas watched the big man in the dark uniform circle the front of the house, take a small camera from his pocket and photograph the ground-level doors and windows.

“To set up enhanced security here at the abbey. In three weeks a meeting will take place here and everything around it may become a war zone,” the viscount said grimly. “I can’t say more now, but I can use all your help, Calan. Look around. Dig in all the abbey’s dark corners. See that nothing has been left here without my knowledge and no one has put any surveillance devices in place. You might want to start at our main power source, down at the stables. While you do that, I’ll go deal with the pain-in-the-ass brigadier.”




CHAPTER THREE


HE DIDN’T LIKE any part of it. There had been no time to discuss the night’s attack. His friend could be in much deeper trouble than he realized.

Calan stood in the shadows near the kitchen while the brigadier’s cool, clipped voice rapped out curt questions. Officious and manipulative came to mind, along with arrogant and intrusive. Calan wished he knew more about the meeting that required the security deadline of three weeks. It had to be important if the Prime Minister’s security team was involved, something that pitted duty against family in a very unpleasant way. How did you stand seeing the people you loved put at risk, even for the goal of a higher good?

He shook his head, glad that he would never feel that particular pain. He was never going to have a family to worry about.

Standing near the open window, he let the morning scents of roses and cool earth play through his senses. His muscles tightened with an urge to step through the window and drop into the green shadows.

To leave human tears and regrets behind.

To hunt.

The hunger to change made his blood surge. He felt the hair stir, prickling along his neck and shoulders.

The wild thing inside him called, open to the thousand smells that a human nose could never perceive and subtle movements far beyond the range of human sight. But Calan fought the dark call. He could not risk being seen, especially with the brigadier nearby. For the Other, the wild creature he became, daylight was no friend. Exposure was a constant risk in a world where he would always be an outsider.

Suddenly a new sensation nudged his awareness. Calan felt a faint pressure at his back, as if he was being touched. But gently. So gently.

Yet the corridor was empty. Nicholas and his unwelcome visitor had moved to the far side of the front steps, caught in an argument that seemed as if it would go on for quite a while.

Slowly he relaxed his control, slipping to the very edge of the Change. With fierce force of will, he drew both parts of his mind into balance. Each part fought the other, each one claiming the right to emerge, and the struggle made Calan’s muscles strain with effort.

As the itchy sensation moved up to his shoulder blades, he was certain that another presence was very close.

Offering a silent warning.

At the very edge of the Change, he opened his animal senses, yet he could see nothing more.

“Where are you?” he whispered.

A faint noise touched his ears, like the distant chime of very small bells shaken in a rough wind. The sound made his muscles tighten. The sense of a presence grew.

Low, even dreamlike, the bells seemed part of the abbey’s mysterious past, which Nicholas spoke of only rarely. Calan had heard stories about an arrogant eighteenth-century ancestor with a tragic history. He recalled a legend about thirteen bells that tolled by moonlight and a great gray cat who walked the abbey’s roof.

Nicholas always clammed up when the subject was raised, but the Draycott butler had savored the details, only too happy to fuel a young boy’s imagination.

But Calan was no longer a boy. Ghostly legends had no value for the man he’d become. Yet the sense of a presence persisted. Grew dense and strongly physical.

What do you want? Calan thought angrily. Make yourself clear.

The curtains stirred.

A bee landed on the windowsill, turning in a slow circle. Something glimmered, moving against the warm sunlight.

Calan looked up sharply, unsure of what he expected to see. A ghostly figure? Hideous, half-formed heads?

The shadows drew together, then faded. The corridor was empty.

Calan’s blood hammered. The wild places called to him, very close now.

Mark your choices well, Scotsman. Beware your Changes.

The words seemed to float on the sunlight.

Darkness waits at both hands, waits with hungry breath to claim its own. Do you go or do you stay?

Do you hope or do you die?

Calan felt the fur move, felt the Other stretch, trying to claw free and leap into the vast wildness that called to him.

Who are you? He shuddered, fighting to hold his human form when the Other summoned so deeply.

There was no answer.

Wind brushed his face, bringing a sudden memory of summer and sunlight in the days before his mother and father had died. Before his innocence had been lost.

The memories slowly gathered form and force. Despite the sunlight warm across his shoulders, the past returned in an icy storm.



THEY HAD COME FOR HIM AT DAWN.

He had expected it, feared it, but never thought it would happen so soon. All through the summer he had hidden the growing changes and the restless sleep. For weeks he had awakened at dawn to find himself muddy and bare, shivering on sand or rugged cliffs, his hands and feet bruised and bleeding. At first he had no memories of what had brought him there.

He had denied the new things he could do, hidden them even from himself. He was only nine years old, so he’d had no reference for the strangeness and strength.

Especially not the…hunger.

As a boy he had seen odd things on his rugged, isolated island in the Hebrides. At night he heard the cry of animals, saw icy footprints caught in winter mud near the beach. He sensed their meaning, yet he did not allow himself to truly know. A child was permitted his innocence, after all.

But not this child of Clan MacKay.

Then one moonless night Calan woke in the throes of Change, his muscles screaming, his skin on fire, and denial was no longer possible. He saw exactly what he was becoming. That night his innocence was lost forever.

He could still remember that first race of energy, the snap of tendons, the inexplicable feel of fur against his shoulders. And over that, a seduction of scents beyond the skill of any human to know.

He had made a crossing that night, bound by a dark world with new rules and new enemies.

Now they were coming for him.

Boots hammered on cold rock. Sharp voices cut through the silence. Though the boy in him wanted to flee, the braver heart bade him stay and face what lay before him. So he stood tall and proud when the door opened and a light fell on his bruised body.

His uncle first, always scowling, missing nothing as he raised his light higher. The others muttered as the beam touched Calan’s shoulders, gashed and bloody.

“I’ve come for you, Calan Duthac MacKay of Na h-Eileanan Flannach, son of the Grey Isle. Get yourself dressed and be fast about it. You sail with us tonight.”

Calan dug in his heels and did not move. “Sail where, Uncle?”

Mutters raced through the men behind Calan’s uncle. The boy dared to speak? What ill-born creature stood before them?

His uncle glowered at him. “You question me, when all on this island are sworn to my bidding?”

As if in response, the wind howled outside Calan’s window and the boy heard the snarl of the sea below the hill. He wanted to protest, but the locked faces of those who should have been friend and family cut off all words. He took his sweater, looked at the spartan little room where he had spent nine years, and followed his uncle outside.

Down to the beach, the wind in his face, the spray of salt mingling with the tears he fought to contain. The water was gunmetal, all light swallowed in the hours before dawn.

They pushed him into a boat, and his uncle tossed sand over the bow, murmuring words in the oldest tongue. Only one man protested when his uncle dropped fresh sand on Calan’s shoulders, in a meaning the boy did not understand.

“This is wrong.” It was Kinnon, the older brother of Calan’s best friend. “He’s just a boy. The ordeal was never meant for one his age, Magnus. He’ll ne’er swim so far. We must wait—”

“We?” Calan’s uncle cursed the man, slapping him hard. “There is no we. The choice is made, and he will go.”

There was nothing more to say. All was the True Book and the old laws. Silently the dozen men rowed straight out into the worst of the storm. After that, all Calan remembered was the sea. Almost alive now, rocking and sucking and snarling, pulling at anything on the surface to drag it down beneath its swells. They had taken him out into the worst of it, and all the while his iron-faced uncle told him why, grimly explaining the secrets of the clan and how those secrets were kept hidden at the pain of death.

Closed against all insiders, closed against all change or questioning, the True Book of the clan was clear: since Calan had begun the process of transformation every clan male experienced, he must now be tested as an adult.

They threw him overboard into the biggest swell, and the blast of icy water stole his breath. As the cold seeped in, his vision blurred. Saltwater scoured away his tears.

“You’ll survive,” his uncle had growled from the prow. “If you have the true skill, you’ll survive. Now by all the laws of Clan MacKay, the Old Way of Testing is begun.” Then his uncle turned, washing his hands of the boy who had Turned too young, an anomaly who had to be destroyed before he brought discord to the isolated island.

Calan had lashed out wildly, fighting the waves, but the big boat dipped and turned, vanishing into the storm the way it had come.

Leaving him absolutely alone, fighting to survive.

Somehow he had forced his mind to alertness, and with a brutal logic he realized that only his other, wilder form could save him. He forced the Change, felt the flood of raw strength and the snap of muscles. Driven by a blind urge for survival, he fought on toward the thread of light to the east where the sun had begun to rise.

His strength had given out just before sunset. The rest Calan knew only from those who had found his body. Exhausted and unconscious, he must have changed back on the brink of death.

By a miracle, his pale and frozen form had been discovered by a Swedish supply ship headed south for a delivery.

He had buried his family and his dark past that day. All that remained was the rough urge to survive. No longer a MacKay of the Grey Isle, he had made a new life, never returning to those who had betrayed him so bitterly.

He cursed them all.



CALAN’S HANDS LOCKED at his sides. He remembered the suck of icy water. The weight of his shoes pulling him down, down to the hungry death that was already closing in. With the memories came the old fury.

Only the most wretched of species tossed out their young to die in a rite of passage. Most animals had far too much sense and decency.

But the past was done.

Standing in the sunlight of an English morning, the tall Scotsman forced his body to relax, forced the knot of pain at his shoulders to recede. He was angry that the past could still hurt him, despite all these years.

But he willed the past away as he had done so often since he was a boy of nine. His anger, too, was pushed deep, buried so it could not impede him. He was no longer bound by the rules of the Grey Isle.

He was free, and his power would always be used in the service of those too weak or too young to protect themselves. This promise he had made to himself.

And now his oldest friend needed him.

If the abbey did become a war zone, as Nicholas feared, they would face that danger together and defeat it.

At the door, Calan turned back, glancing down the hall.

The curtains moved gently, casting restless shadows. Time seemed to freeze.

Beware your Changes, Scotsman.



“MY TERMS WERE MADE quite clear, Brigadier. Your team was to start work here in a week, not before,” Nicholas Draycott snapped. “Why this change of schedule?”

Brigadier Allan Martingale shrugged muscular shoulders. “The timetable has been pushed up, Lord Draycott. We’ve had some pings on the radar from half a dozen Baltic extremist groups active in our neck of the woods. The Prime Minister wants everything here at the abbey swept clear before the summit, and my people need security images ASAP.”

“I’ll provide whatever documents you require. But my wife and daughter will be arriving soon.” A lie, Nicholas thought. But with luck it would spur the man’s departure. “I cannot permit any security teams in residence until next week. As we planned,” Draycott added with clipped emphasis.

Irritation flared in the security officer’s eyes. “I need access before that. When my attaché was here last, there were all kinds of security questions. Your backup generator looked out-of-date, too. We’ve got to drag this place into the twenty-first century, even if I have to take down some walls to do it.”

Nicholas had a curt suggestion about where the brigadier could drag himself and what he could do to himself there. But he kept his face expressionless. Diplomacy was supposed to be his strong suit, after all. “Draycott Abbey has withstood civil war, plague and bombardment. I am certain it will be ready for the Balkan economic summit here next month.”

“Your confidence is remarkable, Lord Draycott. But then your type always is confident.” The officer made the word sound dirty. “And then it falls to me and my people to see that nothing goes awry. Rest assured, I will do exactly that, even if it becomes invasive. Wires will go everywhere they need to go.” A warning.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Brigadier. Your efforts should stand us all in good stead when the Croatian, Serbian and Albanian delegates arrive here. But procedure is still procedure. I’m sure you understand that.”

The security officer made a flat sound, then swung around, studying the abbey’s manicured lawns and lush heirloom roses. “I’m surprised you consented to host this summit, Lord Draycott. Your home is a rare piece of English history. William the Conqueror passed over that hill. Some of the greatest artists of our country have worked here under your family’s patronage.”

“That history is always with me, Brigadier. But so is my family’s sense of duty. The delegate from Serbia went to Oxford and we became friends there. Using the abbey was the only way to secure his participation in this summit. He seems to feel this is safe ground.”

“Anyone would enjoy the abbey’s luxuries.” The brigadier turned, watching a small bird soar over the distant moat. “Do you know as a boy, I came here for picnics and hikes up to Lyon’s Leap. After forty years, I still remember those walks. And the legends.” He glanced narrowly at Nicholas. “Your family has had a singular history and not all of it pleasant. Is the house still haunted?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, Brigadier. Only in things that I can pinpoint in my government assessments or track in a range finder.”

“My old nanny told me the abbey ghost is said to walk the parapets on moonless nights. And there was a story about thirteen bells, but the details elude me.”

The viscount’s brow rose. “Right now I’m only interested in recent history,” Nicholas said flatly. “Things that might affect our preparations for the summit.”

The brigadier didn’t turn. “But your family history may become very relevant, Lord Draycott. You may have forgotten enemies from your work and arrest in Asia. I believe you were held captive in a place called Bhan Lai for several years.”

Nicholas nodded coldly. This was not a subject he would discuss casually with the brigadier or any other person. And Nicholas didn’t believe his long-finished work in Asia would affect the summit in any way.

“I believe that your younger sister, Elena, died in the Philippines during your captivity. She was a lovely woman. I met her once at a ball held at Chatsworth. Her death was a terrible loss,” the brigadier said slowly.

Nicholas fought back shock and fury. Who was this man to dredge up Elena’s death? His sister was in no way relevant to the security of the upcoming Balkan event. “Your point, Brigadier?”

“That the past has a way of coming back to haunt us, usually at the most inconvenient times, Lord Draycott. From people you least suspect.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. If we’re done here, I have a good deal of work to finish.”

“I am finished for now.” The brigadier flashed a last glance across the grass, where sunlight touched the dense forest. “A beautiful estate, to be sure. I only hope that none of us has reason to regret the summit being held here at the abbey. Good day, Viscount Draycott.”



NICHOLAS BREATHED a sigh of relief as the brigadier’s big SUV thundered off. “Drag the abbey into the twenty-first century indeed,” he muttered. There would be no drilled walls. No ghastly Day-Glo modern alarm fixtures or camera kiosks installed during his lifetime. Everything could be updated while preserving the historical appearance of the house and grounds, and Nicholas was counting on his old friend for guidance in that task.

But there was no sign of Calan. He wasn’t at the stables or near the power equipment.

The viscount turned, circling past the beautiful roses and green lawns he loved so well. There was still no sign of his friend as he climbed past the moat to the edge of the high woods. Calan had been about to tell him something when the brigadier arrived.

Now Calan was gone, off stalking the grounds for information. The viscount wondered what form he was in at the moment. He didn’t relish the idea of facing down a snarling beast with wintry blue eyes.

Even now Nicholas knew only part of Calan’s real story. His Changes, as he called them, were linked to his bloodline by an ancient curse that came into play when a boy reached manhood. The whole idea seemed borderline—until you stared into the creature’s keen eyes and realized the intelligence that blazed there.

No animal could focus with such clear intensity. Yet Nicolas had seen the beast twice, and he still had goose bumps at the memory. He gathered that something about the usual pattern had gone wrong in Calan’s case. The Change had begun too early and too hard, and the boy had nearly died in the process.

Calan would tell him nothing more. Now, as an adult, he had settled into a rootlessness that saddened Nicholas.

So where are you now?

At the top of the hill the forest began, dense with oaks that dated back generations. From here the grounds fell away, offering views of two counties and the glimmer of the English Channel to the south.

As Nicholas stood beneath a great oak, he was struck with the odd feeling that he was no longer alone.

Then he saw the outline of a leather shoe, half-hidden beneath a giant rhododendron bush. A second shoe was pushed into the foliage nearby. Human footprints dotted the damp earth beyond.

And then vanished abruptly.

Marking the very moment of change, foot to paw, body caught midleap.

Nicholas stood motionless. He felt the hand of nature brush him along with the call of something dark and unexplainable. The woods around him fell silent, as if in hushed awareness of a predator stalking nearby.

Nicholas knew exactly who—and what—that predator was. He didn’t like the idea of a savage creature prowling the abbey grounds, but for now his home would be safer for its presence.

So he hoped.




CHAPTER FOUR


WET FERNS COVERED the ground. Broken stems from hard rain left a green smell that marked the passage of a man only hours before.

He followed the track, every sense fully alive. The prints held gravel bits from the coast, car oil, the rancid hint of grease.

More prints dotted the ground beneath the abbey’s stone fence. Here he stopped, gathering the smells like small stones, holding each until its meaning was locked into his mind.

The sun brushed his shoulders and the stirring from the woods called to him, but he waited, gaining a clear impression of the men who had crossed the fence in the night.

Their footprints had the stink of beer about them even now. Spices clung to their shoes. Chemicals. Harsh cigarettes and the smell of seawater.

The mix burned through his blood. All of this he would remember.

Then he caught the softer trace of her—the woman who had come back to save him. His skin tightened in sharp response to the memory. He moved closer, testing the smells. Her footprints carried the clays of high mountains and the pine forests of France. Nothing of the sea marked her smell.

She had no scent connection with the men from the car.

Was there relief in the knowledge?

Either way, his search here was done. The sun had already passed to the far side of the valley.

He turned in a tight circle, hungry to know who the woman was, and what had formed her scent of regret and bitterness, mixed with her tears. She called to him and he had to know why.

There was only one way to find out.

Twilight was gathering as something jumped the stone fence near the road, following the woman’s trail down into the streambed.



KIERA WINCED as she closed her laptop.

Her last e-mail to her sister was done. If Kiera didn’t keep in frequent contact, her sister had vowed to come after her, for backup and moral support. Standing up, she stretched carefully. There were cuts on her arms and legs and her face was scraped in three places. She knew she had come close to serious harm at the hands of her attackers. The responsible thing to do?

Simple.

Call the local police and report everything, including the fact that she had been trespassing at the time.

Right. And how she would explain that? Next would come the questions about her own background and what had drawn her onto Draycott grounds at night.

She shoved a hand through her short, curly hair. The color of a good crème-brûlée topping, her mother always said. Kiera was the only child with hair that wasn’t jet-black, and her father had teased her once with the possibility that she was a changeling.

Hard to believe that she had cried for a week, even after all of her family tried desperately to explain it had been a joke.

But now her mother was gone. Her father, always so hale, had lost his spirit after her mother’s death. Now he lived with full-time care, and a short walk left him at the edge of exhaustion. After two heart attacks, his doctors had warned the children to prepare for the worst.

Kiera couldn’t imagine losing him, not so close on the heels of her mother. But life had taught her that change came whether you liked it or not. She had begun to prepare, hoarding her years of rich memories like a shield.

When she saw that her e-mail had been sent, Kiera shut down her laptop. Maddy was probably curled up by the nearest window, reading some scholarly research text on the properties of sound. The subject put Kiera to sleep, but her sister was an expert on acoustics. The two had always been very close and, despite her mother’s request, Maddy had not wanted Kiera to come on this errand.

But a deathbed promise could not be ignored.

Kiera was to collect an old letter and a box from the abbey’s conservatory. Both had been precious to her mother, left behind during her midnight flight from her home. Her mother had desperately wanted to be assured that they would be restored to her family at her death, and Kiera was determined to honor that wish.

Restless at memories of home, Kiera paced the room, then pulled back the bright chintz curtains. Her hotel was small, only fifteen rooms, but it was the closest place she could find to the abbey. She had already spent three days walking the local streets and driving the quiet lanes while she planned her best point to climb the abbey fence.

For all the good her plans had done.

And now a return trip to Draycott Abbey was the last thing Kiera wanted to do. She hated the memories and emotions being stirred up. On top of that, three men were walking free tonight, though they should have been behind bars for assault and attempted kidnapping. One call would send the police out after them. It was the responsible thing to do.

Kiera stalked to the phone. Picking up the receiver, she dialed the operator.

And then she’d say what?

She happened to be driving by and was attacked?

Too many questions.

Frowning, she held the phone. Maybe she could make an anonymous call. But those were traced, too.

With a sigh, she put down the phone. She would make a call from a pay phone in the next county, choosing a crowded spot where no one was likely to remember her face. At least the crime would be reported. But not until after she was finished and ready to leave.

One decision made.

That left the question of her return visit—and how she would get back out undiscovered.

She spun around at the chime of the cell phone resting on her bed. A quick look at the number had her smiling. “Maddy? I just e-mailed you.”

“I’m not at my computer, and I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine. I should be packing up and heading out tomorrow.”

Kiera’s sister took a quick breath. “You found the things?”

“Not yet. But I’ve been on the grounds, and I know my way now.”

“No problems?”

Trust Maddy to keep probing. “No,” Kiera lied. “Just—”

“Just what? Kee, are you okay? You sound upset.”

“I’m a little restless, that’s all. It’s complicated.” Kiera wouldn’t say more. Her sister would worry too much.

“What’s complicated?”

“Visiting here. The abbey is like every postcard of a perfect English estate. And the roses.” Kiera paced the room. “Everything’s so beautiful that you forget what lies beneath the surface. The secrets and the pain.”

“Then finish and get out of there. That’s an order,” Maddy said sharply. “If you aren’t done by tomorrow, I’m coming to your hotel.”

“Stop worrying. I’m the practical one, remember? You can count on me to get this done without a hitch. But I’d better go, Maddy.”

“Just keep me updated.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Kiera was smiling when she hung up.

Outside her window, the moon was huge, and cool light covered the garden that bordered this side of the hotel. Kiera opened the door to her patio and was instantly engulfed in the lavender fragrance that would always spell England to her. The rich, sweet scent made her a little dizzy.

Though she would have given a fortune to be on her way home to her family in the rugged stone house in the Pyrenees, something about the moonlight tugged on her senses. As if there were hopes and dreams that waited this night, if only she dared to accept them.

But Kiera had never had time for dreams. Life was too full of adventure to sit still and let empty images slip through your head. She was always on the move, always exploring the next village and valley, putting together adventure tours for one of Europe’s best known travel companies.

She was determined to have her own company by the time she was thirty. If she kept building her client list, she might succeed sooner. And building a company didn’t come through idle imagination.

As she stood at the window, she saw a movement in the trees beyond the garden. Something blended into the restless shadows beneath the oaks at the far end of the village. Kiera’s breath checked as she saw the movement come again.

And then the shape—whatever it was—folded back into the shadows.

Probably just a fox. She’d seen two since her arrival. Or maybe it was no more than her imagination. She’d been jumpy from the first moment she’d set foot on English soil, jumpier still when she’d walked along the road and climbed the fence onto Draycott land.

Odd, she’d half imagined there had been a man in the woods. The sense of being watched had grown as she’d crossed the meadow above the moat.

She glared out at the darkness. There was no one in the trees beyond the garden now. No reason for the little hairs to stand up along her arms.

Yet the feeling that she was not alone grew stronger. The darkness seemed to reach out to her.

Kiera reined in her errant thoughts. She had escaped. She was safe now. No one in this hotel or in this country knew her connection to the Draycotts and she meant to keep it that way. She would make her plans well. There would be no mistakes the following night.

And after that she would be done with the Draycott family forever.



IT HAD TAKEN Calan less than an hour to find her.

Her prints had led him straight to a small dirt road and the tire tracks of a parked car. It had been easy enough to follow the car’s unique scent, crossing two small hamlets until the car stopped in a village with an isolated hotel at the far end.

Her room was on the north side, facing a garden full of lavender.

He saw her light and the blurred movements inside. Then her patio door opened, and he caught her scent. Cinnamon and pine trees. Mountain hills after rain. There was strength to her body as she leaned against the door, staring up at the moon.

Lost in thought.

Stubborn. Angry. Confused.

All those emotions clung, carried in her scent, clear for him to read. She was alone in the room, too.

The thought pleased him.

He stepped closer, silent in the shadows, his head raised. Every time she took a step her fragrance drifted toward him like a gentle touch. She was restless. He could almost feel the nervous energy slide from her as he stood, silent and watchful behind a row of topiary plants.

She turned slowly in the moonlight. Her arms crossed over her chest. “Is…someone out there?”

He didn’t move. Wind stirred his fur. Her eyes were trained on the spot where he waited, motionless.

“Hello?”

She blew out a breath and leaned her forehead against the door frame. Exhaustion seemed to grip her. He saw her shoulders slump.

What weight did she carry? he wondered. What fueled this kind of anger and regret?

He wanted to turn away. He needed to make one more effort to trace the attackers’ car, which he’d lost near a major highway exchange on the far side of the valley.

He had to put her out of his mind before this strange attraction pulled him any closer.

Yet he didn’t move.

Moonlight brushed the patio outside room fifteen. He felt the sharp twist of muscles, tensed to hunt. One leap would bring him closer.

One more leap and she would be sprawled on the floor beneath him.

Dazed. Submissive.

Open to whatever he chose.

A low growl began at the bottom of his chest as hunger drove sharp nails through every nerve end. He wanted in a way he had never wanted before.

But submissive was not how he pictured her or needed her.

He looked up at the sound of a latch closing. The glass door was shut now, the curtains drawn. Her smell remained, drifting out in a subtle torment to his senses.

And then he saw her silhouette as she tugged off her robe. Slowly her body was revealed in shadows that burned into his memory…

Hunger blocked all logic, all control.

He fought the urge to hunt and possess. Muscles twisted, claws dragging through the soft earth.

Slowly control returned. Hunger was shoved deep. Loyalty to a friend made him turn, slip through the lavender. Then he vanished into the night.




CHAPTER FIVE


IN THE MIDDLE of the quiet hotel patio, Kiera leaned forward and tried vainly to read the paper. No luck. Her eyes kept blurring.

Too much coffee the day before.

Too little sleep on top of the excess coffee.

She smiled absently as a housekeeper passed, bringing her copies of the London and Paris papers. But her smile immediately faded afterward. Memories of her attackers had kept her tossing until dawn; worries about the gun she needed to dispose of made her glance nervously over her shoulder now. Except no one else knew about the gun. Her secret was safe.

Just as the secret of her identity and her purpose for coming to England were safe, no matter how jumpy she was. It was time to stop worrying.

The little restaurant in the hotel’s courtyard was deserted at this early hour. Kiera finished her scone with clotted cream, stretched and reached for the big wool bag that held her knitting. When she was restless, knitting was her drug of choice. Right now her fingers itched for wool slipping in soft rows and smooth loops settling into place.

But even with patterned cables racing off her needles, she still couldn’t relax. Something told her it would take more than fine threads to put the attack out of her mind. Maybe she needed to concentrate harder…

A shadow fell over her table.

“That’s lovely tweed yarn you have there.”

A living, breathing man who knew quality yarn? Be still my beating heart.

Kiera craned her head back, looking up. And her heart dove straight down to her unmanicured toes.

The man was at least six foot four. He wore his rough Harris tweed jacket as if it had been hand cut to fit his lean body. Which it probably had been.

Who had the money for that in these trying times?

He was handsome as sin, to boot. Rich azure eyes blazed from a tanned face that made her think of priests, poets and ancient highland warriors. So did his rough voice with its gentle lilt of Scotland.

“Sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t help noticing your yarn.”

“Excuse me?”

“Knitting’s something of a tradition in my neck of the woods. My aunts used to win prizes for their sweaters every year.”

His voice was deep, smoky like good, aged whiskey. It settled onto Kiera’s senses with the same volatile kick. Smoke and heat. Depth and complexity. For some reason the man made her think of all those things.

Not that it mattered.

She cleared her throat. “You’re from Scotland, I take it?”

“That’s right. From a little slip of land on a quiet ocean inlet that time forgot. A lovely place, as long as you want to leave the modern world behind.”

Kiera wondered vaguely if you could fall in love with a voice. If so, this man had the perfect requirements.

She frowned.

Love?

Not on her flight plan. Not for another five years at least. She had treks to plan and valleys to cross, assessing cost and safety for her tour groups. Men, with their theatrics and emotional demands, took far too much time away from everything that mattered. The idea comforted her, reassured her that her calm, orderly world was exactly as it should be.

So this heat she felt was the simple nudge of hormones, which she had managed to ignore nicely for months.

But something told Kiera the hormone-free zone had just been left behind in a blaze of glory. All because of blue eyes and a smoky voice.

She realized he was waiting for a reply. She’d been too distracted by her tangled thoughts to notice the question. But there was something remarkably distracting about the man, and not just his voice or his damnable good looks. Not even the calm power of his presence. Suddenly it became very important to understand why this man was different from the others who had slid past, never catching her attention.

His eyes were the oddest shade. Almost gray one minute, they shifted to azure and icy aqua. Probably a trick of the light, caused by clouds racing overhead. And right now his eyes were focused completely on her. As if she…mattered. When was the last time a man had looked at her that way?

Never.

And this utter focus was why he seemed different.

“What?”

“I asked if I could sit down. Is that a problem?”

“Sit here with me, you mean?” Kiera took a short, irritated breath. What was wrong with her? “It’s just—clearly every other table is available. So why sit here? I don’t even know you.”

He leaned over and refilled her teacup calmly. “I’ll take a chance if you will.”

Way too smooth, Kiera thought. She should wave him off and be done with it.

But she didn’t. Couldn’t.

“You may have noticed that this place is empty.”

He just kept waiting, polite but firm.

She still didn’t ask him to sit down. Kiera was pretty sure that if he sat down, it would be dangerous to her peace of mind.

“All I seem to notice is you. And for the record, that isn’t a line. I’ve been watching you from the doorway ever since you took out your wool and needles. I like how you work. You’re slow and thoughtful, but there’s sensuality in your hands.”

Boom. This went way off the pickup-meter. He had watched her knit and called it sensual?

“Nice try.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Something tells me you’ve scored with lines like that before. Some women might even be fascinated. Not me.”

“I simply told you what I saw.”

She’d give him points for delivery, Kiera decided. But that didn’t mean he was going to sit down. A man like this could turn a woman inside out if she let him.

“I’m sorry, but I’m waiting for someone.”

“Then I’ll keep you company until he comes.”

He.

Kiera didn’t bother to correct him. “You don’t seem to take no for an answer, do you, Mr.—?”

“MacKay.” His brow rose. “You’re right. I don’t like wasting time. If I want something, which isn’t very often, I go after it.”

Heat swirled through her, working slowly up her chest. “Is that a warning?”

“Not at all. I’m just explaining what could appear to be rudeness. But it’s the practical thing to do. You’re alone. I’m alone. Why not share this beautiful morning, even if we both just read the paper? The waiter will have less work, and we’ll have companionable silence.”

Kiera shook her head. “I know one thing. This is way too good to be true. All of it.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Sure you don’t.” Frowning, Kiera stood up and began to gather her notebook and papers. “I’m not in the market for conversation or companionable silence or anything else. Goodbye, Mr. MacKay.”

When she turned toward the lobby, Kiera was surprised to see him move in front of her. A crease ran down his forehead. “Don’t go.” His hand rose, then fell back.

Almost as if he was afraid to touch her. As if he was searching for a way to put something difficult into simple words.

“Give me one good reason to stay.”

“I can’t explain it but it feels important that we get to know each other.”

“And talking with a stranger over breakfast is important? Why should you possibly care about sitting here with me, someone you’ve never met?”

Something swirled through his eyes. “I’m still trying to figure that out myself. I’m hoping by the time breakfast is over I’ll have an answer. Maybe both of us will.”

More of that smoky Scottish accent. Each sound teased at Kiera’s prickly defenses. She didn’t have to believe him. She didn’t have to pay attention at all. She could simply listen to him talk.

“You’re a frightening man, Mr. MacKay.”

“Calan.” He didn’t move. His air of controlled concentration seemed to deepen. “And why would you think that?”

“Because you make everything you say sound sincere. You make a woman believe…” She ran a hand through her hair, shoving the short curls back off her face. “Never mind.”

“No, go on. Believe what?”

His low question seemed to play over every inch of her skin.

“It doesn’t matter.” Kiera lifted her bag, her decision made. “Enjoy your breakfast. I’m leaving now.” As she turned, two balls of her favorite red tweed yarn spilled free, rolling over the table.

He twisted and caught them both, long, powerful fingers curved around the wool. Gentle but expert.

Just a way a lover would touch. Madness, Kiera told herself.

“Nice ply. Not Scottish, though. I’d say this wool was made somewhere else.”

She closed her eyes, feeling her cool decision fade fast. “Don’t start talking yarn ply to me. That’s really hitting beneath the belt.”

After a moment he laughed. The sound started low, almost a rumble, then grew, spilling free from his chest and filling the whole patio. The sound made him seem younger, less controlled. “So I have a secret weapon now.”

“I mean it. That is truly low. Men don’t discuss yarn. It’s a sacred law. It makes the world a safer place.”

“I think you’d have liked my aunts.” He looked up, watching a bird soar along the horizon. Emotion threaded his voice. “Many a winter night I spent before the fire, helping them wind their handspun wool. Each knitted cable and rib had a meaning. I used to think that the whole world lived within the space of those waves and cables.”

Something dark crossed his eyes. Then his smile faded. Kiera was stunned at how fast the transformation came.

“You miss them.”

“Every minute of every day. And looking at that yarn of yours…” He seemed to shrug off bad memories.

Kiera felt her last bit of resolution fade. You couldn’t turn away a man who knew yarn.

She dropped her bag back on the table. “I give up. Have a seat.”

He moved behind her with the casual grace of a man who used his strength and reflexes for a living. Tennis star? Golf pro?

No, she guessed it was something more exotic.

He refilled her teacup. “The keemum smells excellent. I’ll track down more hot water.”

He turned the silver pot, using that same spare grace that made every movement fascinating. She couldn’t help watching him cross the patio and then vanish inside. When he returned he had a new pot and steam played around the spout.

Fast, she decided. Competent at whatever he did. But there was more at work here than politeness or competence. She just couldn’t figure out what.

“So what do you do? Butler? Purveyor of hand knits?”

He smiled a little and shook his head. “Afraid not.” Kiera could have sworn his eyes changed color again, azure flashing into rich gray.

Curious, she slid into her favorite game, studying the strong, broad hands and the small scars on his fingers. No rings. No jewelry. Not even a watch. “How do you know what time it is?”

He followed the angle of her eyes and pointed east. “Right over there.”

“The sun?” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Are you an anthropologist? Wildlife photographer?”

He shook his head.

“You’re not a mountain climber because you don’t have the right build.” Kiera pursed her lips. “They’re smaller as a rule. Broad shoulders, with all their weight focused in their arms and chest. You’re too tall. Your legs are probably even stronger than your arms.” She cleared her throat. “Just a theory, of course.” Suddenly self-conscious, she pushed the plate of scones toward him. “Feel free. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“The tea will be enough for me.”

“You don’t wear a watch. You don’t eat. Now I’m really curious.”

“Don’t bother. You’d find me very boring. But I see that you’re interested in Draycott Abbey.”

She tensed. “Why would you think that?”

Gently, he moved a paper out from beneath her knitting project. Kiera realized he had found her map of the surrounding county, part of a color handout from the local bookstore.

Unfortunately, she had folded the page so that the abbey lay right in the center. She might as well have burned her intentions on her forehead.

“Oh. You mean, this? The gardens looked somewhat interesting,” she said casually. “And I’ve always been a sucker for a good ghost story.”

“Ah, yes.” He studied the sheet filled with tourist information. “Did they mention the thirteen bells? And the eighth viscount, who is said to walk the abbey parapet on moonless nights?”

“Not that I remember.” Kiera pushed the folded paper away. “After a while all these grand houses begin to sound alike. Ghosts and traitors and spies.” She began to knit, determined to avoid the force of those gray eyes. “Do you know the place?”

“I more than know it,” he said quietly. Now Kiera was certain he was watching for her reaction.

Her heart missed a beat. “Don’t tell me that you…own it?”

“Me? No. I’m only working there.”

“What kind of work?”

“Outdoor work. Checking lines. Straightening out problems.”

“You’re no landscaper.”

“No, I’m not.” He leaned back, half of his face shadowed by a towering oak. “Would you like to see the grounds?” he asked abruptly.

She almost dropped her knitting needles. “No thanks. I’ve been on enough house tours.” She wanted to stand up, to run away. How had she been so careless as to leave that folded tour guide out on the table?

Because she’d only slept two hours the night before. Because she hadn’t expected to share her table for breakfast, Kiera thought crossly. She forced herself to stay right where she was and smile back at him. “No, I’m in the mood for bright lights. I’m headed for London tomorrow. Clubbing,” she lied.

Something told her he wasn’t the clubbing type.

When his lips tightened, Kiera saw that she had guessed right.

“Tomorrow? Then you have today. I’ll be an excellent guide. I’ll show you all the secret places, even where the treasure is hidden.”

“I’m not interested in treasure—or in secrets,” she said sharply.

But a voice whispered that this would be the answer to her prayers. One chance for a covert assessment, a check for major security obstacles to avoid later that night. She’d be a fool to refuse him.

“No,” she said huskily. “Thank you, but it’s really not on my list.”

“You would be making a mistake, Ms….” He paused, his eyes unreadable.

“Morissey. Kiera. And why would it be a mistake?”

“Because the abbey is glorious this time of year. The centifolia roses are just coming into bloom, and the air is full of their perfume. It’s impossible to describe. You need to experience it directly. Besides, aren’t you even a little curious?”

Kiera had the sharp sense that they were playing cat and mouse now. That he had picked up the details of her secret plan.

And that was completely impossible. “The roses sound lovely, but I’m going to take it easy today. I’ll sit here in the sun and knit.”

“Oh, my aunts definitely would have liked you,” he murmured.

“Calan?”

Kiera turned at the sound of footsteps. Silk rustled and ruthlessly high heels tapped across the tiled courtyard. A striking woman in a skintight suit that screamed Versace lasered toward the table.

“Calan, darling! What amazing luck to find you here.”




CHAPTER SIX


“WHENEVER DID YOU GET BACK?” The woman raced on breathlessly, not waiting for an answer. “And you didn’t even call me, you great vile creature.” With every word she pouted more, making her full scarlet lips look even bigger.

Silicone. The thought made Kiera a little smug. Also a little jealous. The feeling grew when the Scotsman stood in that way of graceful power and hugged the new arrival, who seemed to vibrate with pure animal satisfaction at their contact.

“Bad boy. You’ve lost weight. Lovely muscles, from what I can feel, however.” She ran long red nails along his tweed lapels. “How long has it been since Paris? Or was it Portofino?”

Kiera shifted restlessly, feeling far out of her element.

“Three years, Magritte. And it was Venice. You wore gold. I wore black.” His lips curved slightly. “It rained for a solid week.”

“I didn’t mind a second, darling. We had far too much to do inside to be bored.” Her voice fell, a husky caress. “You should have called me, you know.”

“Sorry. Work has kept me on the move.”

A little frown worked down the woman’s perfectly Botox-smoothed forehead when Calan stepped back, polite but resolute as he moved out of reach. She turned slowly and studied Kiera. “But you haven’t introduced me to your friend, Calan.”

He didn’t answer. Kiera sat up straighter.

She put down her knitting and held out a hand. “Kiera Morissey. How nice to meet you. Magritte, wasn’t it?”

“Magritte Campbell. But you are American.” She sounded surprised, slanting a look at Calan. “You hate Americans. You told me so yourself, during the dinner when that basketball team from Dallas got drunk and—”

Calan cut her off. “Don’t remind me of my rudeness, Magritte. Are you staying here at the hotel?”

“Here, in this threadbare outpost? Hardly. I was on my way to Norfolk when we had a puncture. Henry’s having it looked at now.”

Was Henry the husband, the lover or the chauffeur? Kiera wondered. Something brushed her leg and she looked down at a white Maltese dragging a rhinestone-encrusted gold leash. He sniffed at Kiera’s feet, then trotted to his owner, who scooped him up against her amply enhanced chest. “Rupert, there you are. You mustn’t go away like that, darling. I’ve told you a thousand times.”

But the dog didn’t seem to hear. He was staring alertly at Calan. The dog sniffed the air and its fuzzy white ears went back. It growled, low and anxiously, small teeth bared.

“Rupert, do stop that. It’s just Calan, you silly sod. He’s not going to hurt you.”

But the dog seemed to flatten, shivering in Magritte Campbell’s arms.

As if it saw something that left it very frightened. Kiera found the thought unsettling.

“Ms. Campbell, would you like some tea and a scone while you wait? I have plenty here, all of it delicious.”

“What a divine offer. I can see why you like her, Calan. But no, I’m sure that Henry will be by shortly. I don’t mean to interrupt your knitting…” Her eyes slanted measuringly at Calan. “Or to interrupt anything else you two were planning.”

“Put your antennae down, Magritte.” Calan smiled coolly. “Ms. Morissey and I had just met. We were discussing a visit to see Draycott Abbey.”

“Good heavens, it’s been years since I’ve visited the abbey. How are Nicholas and Kacey these days?”

“Very well. I’ll give him your regards when I see him tomorrow.”

Kiera felt her heart pound. A buzzing filled her ears and she curled her fingers over the table’s edge. Suddenly Draycott Abbey felt too close, weighing ominously over her like a chill shadow. It was one thing to slip over the fence at night—and another to find herself face-to-face with the hated Draycotts.

“My dear, is something wrong? You’re very pale all of a sudden.”

Kiera leaned down quickly, glad to hide her face as she searched for her fallen needle. The table seemed to spin in a rush of dizziness. Dimly she heard the woman’s surprised voice, followed by Calan’s deeper pitch. His hand touched her wrist, skin to skin, and the whole patio seemed to lurch.

“Kiera—what’s wrong?”

She didn’t have a clue, but it was getting worse. “Sorry—don’t feel well all of a sudden.”

“Too many late nights, perhaps. Calan, let’s go outside for a walk and let her rest. We have so much catching up to do, after all.”

Kiera heard the breathy, seductive voice as if from a great distance. She gripped her yarn and needles, keeping her eyes on her hands to fight the sense of vicious spinning.

“…all right here?” The rough Scottish voice came and went. “…back before long.”

“F-fine. Go. Don’t need to stay,” she rasped.

She felt his hand touch her shoulder and then the two moved away, Magritte’s brittle inquiries filling the air as soon as they left the patio. She was inviting Calan to join her in Norfolk. Some kind of weekend theatrical party at her estate.

Kiera closed her eyes, taking deep breaths. Slowly the spinning began to fade. With the sun warming her face, she forced her hands to relax.

When she looked up, Calan was standing in the doorway watching her.

Just watching her. There was an intensity to him that should have made her uncomfortable.

For some reason it didn’t. It left her…awed.

Kiera saved that little anomaly to ponder later.

“Magritte?”

“Gone. She said to give you her regards. But let’s forget about Magritte, shall we?”

“She wouldn’t like being forgotten, I think.”

“Three minutes and you know her perfectly. Smart of you.” He leaned down, frowning. “How do you feel?”

“Better. I think.”

“You’re still too pale. What happened?”

“I don’t have a clue. Something in the food, maybe.” She took a slow breath, rubbing her neck. “Dogs don’t seem to like you very much. But I suppose Magritte made up for it with her enthusiasm.”




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