Читать книгу Bound by Dreams - Christina Skye - Страница 12

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.”