Читать книгу The Devil's Eye - Dawn Brown - Страница 7

Chapter One

Brynn was no stranger to bad days, even worse than this one, but by God, today certainly ranked in the top five.

She peered up through the sleet-streaked windshield at the large Tudor building before her. Yellow light glowed from leaded windows like beacons in the late afternoon gloom. A wooden sign mounted over the door with the words Iron Kettle Pub swayed in the wind, the grinding squeal from the hinges audible even inside her rental car.

She didn’t want to go in, but she didn’t have a choice. She was lost and needed directions. She glanced at the folded instructions on the passenger seat. Accurate directions.

Or maybe she should find her way to the nearest hotel and call it a day. She could always start over again tomorrow. Just the idea of a clean hotel room, door locked against the world, while she crawled into a warm bed and pulled the covers over her head drained some of the tension gripping her neck and shoulders.

You’re only putting off the inevitable.

She let out a slow sigh and rubbed her tired eyes with her fingertips. What was she even doing here? She should turn this car around and head back to the airport.

Of course, that would mean crossing the suspension bridge back to the mainland again. Images of huge steel girders poking through the mist like pointed teeth, thick cables swaying in the wind and dark churning water flashed through her mind. Her stomach jumped.

Forget it. She’d stay and deal with her newfound family. Better to face a potentially murderous father who hadn’t bothered with her in almost twenty-five years, than face that bridge twice in one day.

She snatched up the directions, opened the car door and slid out. Sleet slapped her face, stinging her bare skin like frozen needles. The tangy smell of the sea flooded her nostrils.

She pulled her coat tighter around her middle, ducked her head against the wet wind and hurried across the gravel parking lot. As she weaved between several cars, her foot sank ankle-deep in a frigid mix of water and slush, soaking through her leather boot and coating her skin in liquid ice.

“Shit.” She yanked her foot from the puddle and looked down at the sopping mess. Even the hem of her pants was wet. Just perfect.

First, seven hours on a flight from Chicago to Manchester, eating rubbery chicken and watching some craptacular movie with singing cheerleaders—while the old lady in the seat behind her hit the back of her chair whenever she tried to recline—followed by a two-hour drive to the Isle of Anglesey and a near nervous breakdown while crossing the bridge from the mainland. And now this.

Maybe it was an omen. As if fate was warning her to get back in her car and drive as far away from here as possible.

Or maybe she’d just stepped in a puddle.

She drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders and marched to the pub with as much dignity as she could while her foot slopped in her boot. Once inside, soft light and warm air heavy with the mixed scents of wood smoke, fried food and alcohol wrapped around her. The pub looked exactly like an English—or Welsh, as was the case—pub should. Wide, plank floors, gleaming wooden tables and plush burgundy benches at the booths, even a fire crackling in a huge stone hearth.

Two elderly couples shared a table in the center of the room. A middle-aged woman and her teenaged daughter sat in one of the booths running along the far wall, and three more men were perched at the L-shaped bar.

The door swung shut behind Brynn, closing out the frigid afternoon, and all eyes turned to her.

“Come in out of the cold,” a woman called from behind the bar, her loud voice deep with a smoker’s rasp, oddly incongruent to her melodious accent. “What can I get to warm you?”

“Oh…um…nothing, thanks.” Brynn pasted on a fake smile that made her cheeks ache, and crossed to the bar. “I was hoping someone could tell me if my directions were correct.”

“Lost, are you?”

One of the men at the bar snorted, but Brynn didn’t turn to see who. The weight of the stares pressing against her back was uncomfortable enough, no need to make eye contact, too. Her smile stretched wider, tighter.

The woman put her hands on her ample hips, and shot the man a hard glare. Her orange sweater clung to her round belly, tweed pants hanging loose on thin legs. She looked a little like an orange standing on two sticks.

“Where is it you’re trying to go?”

Brynn set the printed email on the bar and smoothed out the creases. “Stonecliff House, do you know it?”

Silence, except for the crack and pop from the fireplace fell over the pub. The woman’s brown eyes rounded in her puffy face.

“Why on Earth would you want to go there? You’ve not taken a job there, have you?”

Oh, this is promising.

“I’m visiting my father.”

The woman’s gaze narrowed on Brynn’s face as if searching for something, then popped wide. “You’re the other one. Meris’s daughter. What can you be thinking, coming back here?”

Her horrified awe fed Brynn’s swelling anxiety. “You knew Meris?”

“I did. She was a friend of mine.” Tough, her deadpan expression belied her words. “I’m Dylis Paskin.”

If she thought offering her name would make her recognizable to Brynn, she was mistaken. Brynn hadn’t had contact with her mother since she was three, and her parents had supposedly died in a car accident. Of course, now she knew there’d been no accident. That her father had been alive all these years, and while her mother might be dead now, the woman had been very much alive when she’d turned Brynn over to her grandparents.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Brynn said, keeping her smile fixed in place, then tapped the directions with her fingertip. “So, can you tell me how to get there?”

A loud bang cut through the quiet. Brynn jumped and jerked her head up as a huge man hauling a large wooden crate emerged from a door behind the bar. His hair, a tangled mass of light gray curls, stood out at odd angles.

“Why’s it so bloody quiet in here?” he boomed, bending to set the crate down. When he straightened, his warm hazel eyes locked with hers and he flashed a wide smile. His weathered face was ruddy, as though he’d spent a lifetime in the sun and wind.

“This is my husband, Stephen,” Dylis said, flatly. “This is Meris’s girl.”

“Brynn James,” she offered, pushing her directions toward the couple. Maybe they’d take the hint.

“Back after all these years?” He and his wife exchanged a glance. “I should have realized. You have her look.”

Brynn managed not to snort. The man was obviously being polite. While Brynn had no real memory of Meris, she’d seen enough photos to know she didn’t look at all like her, except maybe her hair color. But even then, Meris’s hair had been a vivid flame-red while Brynn’s looked more like watered-down copper.

“I’m actually looking for directions—”

“She’s on her way to Stonecliff,” Dylis cut in.

Stephen’s wiry brows drew together. “Why in the world would you want to go there? You’d be better off staying at the inn here in the village. Hell, we’ve a room you can rent.”

What was so wrong at Stonecliff that virtual strangers were offering to let her stay with them? Had she not been exhausted and standing there with one frozen foot, she might have given in to the apprehension tickling the base of her skull and taken them up on their offer. But right then, even if the house was filled with psychotic circus clowns, she didn’t care. So long as there was a hot shower and warm bed. “That’s very kind of you, but if you could just look at these directions and tell me if they’re right, I’d appreciate it.”

“Oh, I can do better than that.” A wide smile lit Dylis’s round face. “I can give you your own guide. Isn’t that right, Reece? I’m sure he’d appreciate a lift.”

Dylis turned to one of the men at the bar, and Brynn did the same.

An older man, white hair curling out of his ears, sat next to her watching the entire scene unfold unabashedly. He flashed a crooked grin. “Not me, love.”

He leaned back, giving her a full view of a younger man hunched over the bar. His shaggy black hair fell into his face, hiding his expression while he focused on turning his nearly empty beer glass and leaving crescent-moon marks on the cardboard mat.

Yeah, right. As if she’d let some scruffy stranger into her car. Maybe people did that all the time around here, but not her. “I don’t want to cut his evening short.”

“Nonsense.” Dylis waved her hand as though swatting away Brynn’s words. “Reece is nearly finished here, and you’d be saving him a long walk home in bad weather.”

The man in question had yet to speak a word. Slowly, he lifted his head and glared at Brynn, greenish-blue eyes as cold as an arctic sea. His features were broad straight lines and sharp angles. Black stubble framed his scowling mouth and covered his chin. He looked edgy and dangerous and pissed off.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry.

He slid off his seat, snatching a jacket from the stool next to his, and tossed a few pounds on the bar before closing the short distance between them.

Oh, no. This couldn’t be happening. She did not want him in her car. She didn’t even know him.

“Really, I don’t want to impose.” She grabbed her printed email from the bar and held it out to him. “Maybe you could just tell me if these are right.”

He took the paper and scanned the text, his mouth curling into a smirk.

“They’re perfect.” He handed the paper back to her. “Imposition it is.”

The man looked like he should be mugging tourists in a back alley somewhere, not sitting next to her pointing the way to her destination. “I don’t even know who you are.”

He blew out an impatient breath. “Reece Conway, groundskeeper at Stonecliff. Shall we go, or would you like to conduct a complete interview first?”

What she’d like to do was tell him to forget it. Unfortunately, he worked for her newfound family, and apparently lived on the estate as well. Perfect. There was no way to turn him down without appearing rude. Though, why that would bother her when he was hardly making an effort at friendliness she didn’t know. Besides, the directions were correct and she still couldn’t find her way. She needed his help.

And if he turned out to be a psychotic killer, and she wound up dead in a ditch, at least she wouldn’t be traveling anymore.

“That won’t be necessary.”

She turned and walked to the exit. As she pulled the door wide, Reece caught the edge above her head to hold the heavy oak open for her. Now, he was chivalrous?

She glanced over her shoulder. “Thanks.”

He nodded and dropped his gaze to her wet boot before meeting her eyes once more.

“I stepped in a puddle,” she replied to his unspoken question, heat creeping into her cheeks.

“As lost on foot as you are behind the wheel. Not terribly reassuring.”

“You could always walk, and I could follow behind you in the car.”

His mouth twitched. “Tempting.”

Shaking her head, she walked outside. The sky had darkened from gray to blue twilight. Frigid air, thick with the tang of sea brine, struck her face like a slap and a shudder raced along her spine.

She hit the remote locks, tugged the door open and rolled her eyes. Passenger side. That was the second time she’d done that.

“Did you want me to drive, then?” The low rumble of Reece’s voice next to her made her jump. A faint tingle crept over her skin at having him so near.

“Of course not. I was just…getting the door for you.”

“Right.”

She hurried to the other side of the car, face hot, while he sat in the passenger seat. Without so much as a glance at her traveling companion, she slid behind the wheel and slammed the door closed.

Giving the gearshift a wiggle to make sure it was in neutral, she pushed in the clutch and turned the key. The car hummed to life. She eased her foot off the clutch, shifted into first. The car shuddered and stalled.

Shit. Reece snorted beside her and a fresh wave of heat prickled her face. She’d blushed so many times in the past fifteen minutes he probably thought her natural skin tone was blotchy-red. “It’s been a while since I last drove a stick shift.”

Actually, the last time she’d driven a manual transmission she’d been seventeen and her boyfriend, Jamie Carver, had offered to teach her on his mother’s Ford Escort. After twenty minutes of grinding gears and the acrid stink of burning clutch, Jamie had ended the lesson.

She tried again and stalled shifting into first. Reece sighed loudly, tilted his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose.

When she’d been making arrangements for her trip to Wales, it hadn’t occurred to her to specify automatic transmission when she reserved her rental, and naturally only standards were available when she arrived. One more detail she’d missed on an ever-growing list. Once she got the car moving, she was fine, but getting it going took her a couple of tries. And the sneering man next to her wasn’t helping.

“Look,” she ground out. “This car is completely backward to me. So if you could cut me a break, and keep your mouth shut, I’d really appreciate it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” she muttered, and turned the key.

She gripped the gearshift, eased up on the clutch.

“Wait.” Reece covered her hand with his, sandwiching her palm between the gearshift and his warm, callused skin. A small charge shot up her arm, and she struggled not to yank her hand back.

“Shift first.” He pushed her hand into gear. “Give it some gas, then let off the clutch slowly, and when you feel the catch…There, feel it? Let out the clutch.”

Nodding, she did as instructed. The car rolled forward, and she turned out of the parking lot onto the road.

“Thanks.” The word stuck on her tongue.

He shrugged, attention fixed on the passing scenery through the glass. “I hoped to make it back to the house before morning.”

Zinged again. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and focused on the road, determined to ignore him.

He shifted in his seat and dug an orange plastic pill vial from his pocket. After popping the lid, he shook two capsules into his hand and tossed them back, dry swallowing them.

“What were those?” The way her day was going, he was probably some pill-popping drug addict.

“Migraine,” he muttered, without looking at her as he slipped the bottle back into his pocket. The prescription label had been peeled off the vial, so what he’d taken was anyone’s guess.

How had she let herself get talked into this? She released a slow breath and focused on the road before her.

Fat snowflakes mingled with sleet pellets swept through the beams of her headlights like a moving wall. The clunk and swoosh of the windshield wipers the only noise in the otherwise silent car.

“Is the house far from here?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

Her stomach knotted. Fifteen minutes and she’d be meeting a family she hadn’t even known existed a week ago. She nipped at her bottom lip. A thousand questions churned inside her head. Why had her sister and father waited so long to contact her? Why had her grandparents lied to her all her life? And what had her mother been so afraid of in her letters?

She glanced at Reece again. His attention remained focused on the fields and trees through the window—little more than dark silhouettes against the rapidly darkening sky. Absently, he pushed his shaggy hair away from his face, exposing his profile. Despite the dangerous edge to his appearance, his features were interesting, attractive. High, broad forehead, straight nose, sharp ridge of cheekbone beneath chilly sea-blue eyes. Though right then his gaze didn’t look nearly as cold as it did in the pub. Instead, he appeared far away, lost in thought.

He didn’t look like any groundskeeper she knew—though, to be fair, she didn’t know any besides him. Still, weren’t groundskeepers old with wild hair, gnarled hands and weather-wrinkled skin?

As if sensing her stare, Reece sighed. “What?”

She turned back to the road. “How old are you?”

He frowned and finally glanced her way. “Why?”

“You don’t look like a groundskeeper.”

“I don’t?” He smirked.

“No. What did you do before you worked here?”

“Lots of things.” He tilted his head to one side and jutted out his chin. “What do you do?”

Evasion, surprise, surprise. “I’m an accountant at a holdings company.”

He snorted. “Figures.”

She probably didn’t want him to explain what he meant by that. “You never answered my questions.”

He pressed his lips together, but the corners of his mouth lifted as though he was struggling not to smile. “Maybe because you ask so bloody many.”

“I asked you two.”

He sighed loudly. “Fine. I’m thirty-one.”

“And what did you do before becoming a groundskeeper?”

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Brynn glanced away from the road to look at him. All traces of humor gone, his expression had turned dark. “You don’t want to know.”

“Oookay.” She turned her attention back to the rain-smeared windshield, silence settling between them once more. As the turn drew near, she let up off the gas and flipped the signal.

“That’s the wrong road.” The low tenor of Reece’s voice cut through the quiet. “You want the next one.”

“But the directions say…” She didn’t bother even attempting to pronounce the name. With twelve letters, six of them vowels, she’d butcher it for sure.

“The directions say Choedwig Basio, that’s Choedwig Ochra.” The Welsh words sounded lyrical and pleasant despite his harsh tone. “Had you taken the time to read the words, you might have found your way on your own.”

And not wound up trapped in a car with him. The man had a point.

“Tell me something,” she said. “Is it me specifically, or are you this pleasant with everyone?”

Ignoring her question, he nodded at the stone wall running alongside the road. “The gate posts are just ahead.”

She slowed the car and steered between two stone pillars on either side of a narrow dirt driveway. A tangle of leafless trees closed in around the car, skeletal branches scraping the sides and roof like bony fingers. The dull screech set her teeth on edge.

The trees to her right fell away abruptly and the ground dropped to a steep slope. Ocean, the same twilight blue as the sky, stretched out deep and infinite.

Her stomach fell like a stone off a cliff. Icy sweat sprang to her skin. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. Her gaze stayed fixed on the terrifying expanse of water, and every muscle in her body seized. She couldn’t breathe.

For an instant, she could feel icy water stinging her skin. Taste the gritty, metallic flavor in her mouth. Her nose burned with the rush of frigid water into her sinuses and down her throat.

For an instant, she was drowning all over again.