Читать книгу The Presence - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 8

Gina caught up with Toni at the bottom of the stairs.

“What are you doing?” she asked in dismay.

“What am I doing?” Toni echoed. Now that she was away from him, from the way that he looked at her, the trembling had stopped. The strange moment was gone. He was just a man. Tall, wired, muscled, imposing—and irate that they were in what he claimed to be his property.

“Gina!” she said, determined that they would not be groveling idiots, no matter what the situation turned out to be. “Do you hear yourself? You’re thanking him for throwing us out on Monday, after all this!”

“Shh!”

Gina pulled her along, anxious that Laird MacNiall not hear any more of her comments. They moved from the great hall, through a vast dining area and then through another door to the kitchen, a large area where a huge hearth with antique accoutrements still occupied most of the north wall.

There were concessions to the present, however, including the modern stove, freezer, refrigerator and microwave. The huge island counter in the center of the room, set beneath hanging pots and pans, was surely original, and at one time had certainly hosted huge sides of venison, boar and beef. Now cleaned and scrubbed, it was a dining table with a multitude of chairs around it.

The fact that MacNiall hadn’t joined them had opened the floodgates of emotion. Thayer, Gina and Kevin all accosted Toni immediately.

“How the hell did this happen?” Kevin demanded.

“We all saw the agreements! And signed them,” Toni reminded them. She looked around. These were her friends, her very best friends. Gina and Ryan, whom she’d met three years ago while working at a Florida tourist attraction. And David Fulton! Tall, dark and handsome, with the deepest dimples and warmest smile in both hemispheres, David had been Toni’s friend in college. Brokenhearted by the loss of a lover, he’d quickly rallied when he and Toni had gone to a concert with Gina and Ryan, and he had met Kevin—who had immediately fit in.

Toni had been the loner in their group, but in a strange way that had changed when they had come to Scotland together six months ago. They had visited a castle bought by some of its clan members, who had then opened the house to visitors for whatever money they could bring in, thus affording to restore the place. And their wild scheme had hatched. If others had done it, why couldn’t they? It was possible if they pooled their resources.

And that was where Thayer had come into the picture to complete their group of six. Thayer was her cousin, a Fraser. A distant cousin, Toni assumed, since their respective grandfathers had been cousins, which made Thayer … exactly what, she wasn’t sure. He was certainly intelligent and attractive, but he was something even more important to their enterprise—an authentic Scot. Not only was he fluent in Gaelic, he understood the customs and the nuances of doing business in the small community. He acted as their interpreter—in more ways than one.

Her friends and her kin stared at her, almost accusingly. She stared straight back.

“Think about it! Maybe he doesn’t have a right to be here. We just don’t really know, do we?”

“Well, not positively,” David murmured, but he spoke without conviction.

That MacNiall might be in the wrong, and they were the ones with the right to the place, was a nice hope. Unfortunately, none of them really seemed to believe it. Toni didn’t even believe it herself.

“The constable said that MacNiall owned the place,” Thayer reminded her wearily.

“So? Constable Tavish is a local. He has loyalties to an old family name. We really don’t know the truth. Our lawyer may be American, but he still knows the law. We need to get more serious legal advice, and get it fast.”

“Legal advice from the States may not help us now,” Kevin reminded her. “Thayer?” Toni said.

He shrugged, shaking his head. “I saw the ads for the place in Glasgow, and I saw the same thing on the Internet that you did. And yes, I read the rental agreements, just as we all did. Gina, can I see the papers?” he asked.

Gina set them down before him.

“Even Laird MacNiall said that they look real or proper or … whatever!” Toni murmured.

“Yeah, they look legal,” Ryan said bitterly. “Tons of small print.”

“We actually rented from Uxbridge Corporation,” Thayer murmured. “We’re going to have to trace it down. When you sent the euro-check, Toni, was there an exact address?”

She groaned, sinking into one of the chairs.

“What? What is that groan for?” Ryan demanded.

“The address was a post office box in Edinburgh,” she admitted.

“Okay!” Kevin said, reaching over to squeeze her hand and give her some support. “That will give the police a trail to follow, at least.”

“It will help the police,” David said softly, offering Toni a half smile despite his words. “But I’m not real sure what it will do for us.”

“Toni, why didn’t you want the constable to take the papers tonight?” Gina asked, frowning. “Wouldn’t it have been better for him to have gotten started on this as quickly as possible?”

“Those papers are all we have,” Toni said. “What if I’m right and this man has lost his family castle yet still has illusions of grandeur in his head? If the constable is his loyal subject, our papers could disappear.”

“She has a point,” David said.

“She has a point, but this fellow isn’t broke. You can’t be broke and own a horse like that,” Ryan told them.

“Sorry, but it looks like we’ll have to suck up to this guy if we want to make it through the weekend,” Thayer said.

“Maybe he borrowed the horse,” Toni said.

“Oh, honey, come on. You’re just getting desperate here,” David said softly.

“Well, hell, it is desperate!” Toni said.

“Everything we’ve saved has gone into this!” Gina breathed, sinking into a chair, as well.

“Maybe we can arrange a new rental agreement,” Toni said.

“With what?” Thayer asked. “We put a fortune into this. Unless one of you won a lottery before you left the States …?”

“No. But I still say we have to have some rights!” Toni insisted.

“The sad thing is,” Kevin told her, “unfortunately, people who have been screwed don’t generally have a right to anything. They’re just …”

“Screwed,” David said.

Toni shook her head, rising. She felt a pounding headache coming on. “I’m going to go to bed. Tomorrow afternoon, I’m calling the lawyer in the States. He can give us some advice, at the very least.” She started toward the door, then turned back. “I am sorry, so very sorry. At best, this is really a mess.”

“Amazing,” Gina said suddenly.

“What?” Toni demanded.

“That he looks just like your MacNiall—the one in your phony family history. I mean … it’s incredible that you could invent a man who existed down to the last de tail.”

“No, not to the last detail. The MacNiall I invented died centuries ago,” Toni said bitterly.

“Yeah, but apparently, there was one of those, too,” Gina said.

“Look, I don’t believe it, either!” Toni said.

“Toni,” Kevin said softly.

“Yes?”

“We don’t blame you just because you were the one who found it on the Internet and got us all going. We all—every one of us—read the agreements.”

She hesitated. They were staring at her sorrowfully. And despite the denial, she felt a certain amount of blame. Sure, they’d all wanted to do this, all been excited. But she’d pushed it. She’d been the one to do the actual work. But what had there been to question?

She bit her lip, feeling a little resentful and a lot guilty. If this really was totally messed up, to herself, at least, she would be the fall guy.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Get some rest. We’ll all get some rest. When we’re not so tired and surprised, we’ll be much better at sucking up!” Kevin said cheerfully.

Toni nodded, gave him a weak smile and departed.

In the great hall, she paused. They had been so happy here. This place had truly been a dream. And they had been like kids, so excited.

She hurried up the stairs to the upper landing. There were rooms on the third floor, as well, but the main chambers were here. Servants had once slept above. Her group had chosen rooms in the huge U that braced around the front entry to the main keep of the castle. Hers was to the far right and she had assumed that it had once been the master’s chamber. It was large, with both arrow slits and a turret with a balcony that looked out over the countryside. After claiming the room she had discovered that it also had the most modern bath, and that the rug and draperies were the cleanest in the castle. Still, she remembered uneasily that her room also contained the huge wardrobe that had been locked tight—something to explore at a later time.

As she walked to the room, she felt a growing wariness. She hesitated, her hand on the antique knob, then pushed the door open.

There was a naked man in her bedroom. Nearly naked, at any rate.

A fire was beginning to burn nicely in the hearth. The dampness was already receding. A reading light blazed softly near the huge wing-backed chair before the fire.

The chair was occupied. Bruce MacNiall was seated, already showered, his hair wet, smooth and inky-black, his form covered in nothing but a terry towel wrapped around his waist. He was reading, of all things, the New York Times.

“Yes?” he said, looking up but not setting the paper aside. “Don’t you knock in the States?” “Not when I’m entering my own room.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been living in here,” she informed him. “But it’s not your own room, is it?” he queried. “So … this was your room,” she murmured. “Is mine.”

Suck up! They had all warned her. But she was tired—and aggravated.

“If you’re the one in the right,” she reminded him, regretting her words at once.

“I do assure you that I am,” he said solemnly.

“At this particular moment, I don’t really have any legal proof that you’re telling the truth, so I’m not entirely convinced that it is your room, that you have the right to claim it from me,” she said. “You’ll note my things at the dressing table. They do look like mine, unless you customarily wear women’s perfume, mascara and lipstick.”

He stared at her politely, and maybe a bit amazed.

“My wardrobe, you’ll notice,” he pointed out. “Since you’re ever so observant, I’m sure you noted that when you came in and made yourself so thoroughly at home, you had no place to actually hang clothing since the wardrobe was locked.”

He had won from the beginning and she knew it. She didn’t know why she was still arguing. She loved this room, though, and she was settled into it.

Maybe she was just incapable of giving up a fight, or accepting the fact that they could have been taken, that their dreams had been dashed.

“My suitcases,” she said, pointing to the side of the bed.

He set the paper aside and rose suddenly. She prayed the towel wouldn’t slip.

“Would you like me to help you gather your things?” he asked politely.

There was something about the man that irritated her to such an extent that she couldn’t keep her mouth closed—or prevent herself from behaving with sheer stupidity.

“No. I’d be happy to help you relocate, though.” “You really do have … what it is the Americans say? Balls,” he told her. She flushed.

“I’m not relocating,” he said flatly. “Unless you have the deed to this place right here and now,” she said sweetly, “neither am I.”

He stared at her a long moment, and she found herself flushing.

“Do you think I keep my important papers under a mattress or something?” he queried. “My documents are in a bank vault.” He shrugged, then took his seat before the fire once again, retrieving his paper. “If you’re staying in here, do your best to keep quiet, will you? I have a hell of a headache coming on.”

“You are the headache!” she murmured beneath her breath.

He had heard her. Once again, his eyes met hers. “I believe that you’re supposed to be sucking up to me, Miss Fraser. I am trying to be patient and understanding. I’ve even offered a helping hand.”

“Sorry,” she said swiftly, though she couldn’t help adding a soft, “I think!”

But she had lost and she knew it. Now she just had to accept it. She entered the room, slamming the door behind her. After gathering up what she could hold of her toiletries, she headed back to the hall.

“Next door down is the bride’s chamber for this room. It’s very nice,” he told her absently, studying his paper again.

“I’ve seen it. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed in there—just as I did in here.”

“Yes, very nice, actually,” he told her. “Good job. As I said before, I can help you move your things.”

“Wouldn’t want you to have to get dressed,” she said.

“I don’t have to get dressed, actually. Just go through the bathroom.”

“These two rooms share that bath?” she murmured.

She felt like an idiot. She knew that. She’d also cleaned the bathroom!

“This is a castle, with some modernization—not the Hilton,” he said. “Most of the rooms share a bath. Since you’ve been living here, surely you know that.”

She only knew at that moment that she wished she had chosen a room on the other side of the U.

He rose and grabbed one of her suitcases. “Through here,” he said, walking down the little hallway to the bath, and through it.

The next room was one of the nicer ones, not as large as the one she had vacated, but there was a fireplace, naturally—it was a castle, not the Hilton—and a wonderful curving draped window. “Widow’s walk out there,” he pointed out. “You’ll love it, I’m sure.”

“Naturally, I’ve seen it,” she snapped.

“Right. You cleaned that, too.”

“Yes, we did.”

“Lovely.”

He deposited her suitcase on the floor.

It was fine, it was lovely. But … it attached to his room. How did she know that the man wasn’t … weird? What if, in the middle of the night, he came through the connecting doorway? No, there were other vacant rooms. She should choose one of them.

He must have read her mind, for a small smile of grim amusement—and a touch of disdain—suddenly played upon his features. “Rest assured, you can lock your side of the bathroom door.”

“I should hope so,” she murmured.

“Really? Seems I’m the one who should be concerned about locking doors. Have no fear, Miss Fraser. There’s really not a great deal for you to worry about. From me, at any rate.”

His look assured her that he found her less appealing than a cobra. For some reason, that was disconcerting.

Because the bastard looked good in a towel? she mocked herself. More than that, he had assurance and self-confidence. Sharp, intelligent eyes, well-sculpted, masculine, handsome features. And his other assets were well sculpted, too.

“I’ll keep my door locked, too,” he assured her.

“You do that,” she said sweetly.

He turned and walked back through the connecting bath. The towel, amazingly, remained just as it had been tied.

Toni shut the door in his wake. She leaned against it, wondering how such a brilliant night could have possibly ended in such disaster. And how she had not only invented a historical figure who had actually existed, but one with a seriously formidable, modern-day descendant who was here, in the living—near naked—flesh?

Fear trickled down her spine, but she ignored it. It was very late now, and she was determined to get organized and get some sleep. And that was that.

She looked around, trying to forget the man on the other side of the door and keep herself from being cowed by him in any way. Surveying her surroundings, she decided it was more than just a fine room. Really. It was a better room.

She moved away from the door, telling herself that she liked it just fine, that she was going to move right in—even if it did prove to be just for the next few nights.

So determined, she went about arranging her toiletries

and unpacking some of her belongings. But despite her resolve to settle in and get some sleep, she was restless and disturbed. First, this really was one total mess. She couldn’t believe that they had been taken by some kind of a shyster. But worse, it bothered her that his family history, which she thought she’d made up, had turned out to be true.

Finished with hanging a number of her garments, she gathered up her toothbrush, toothpaste and flannel nightgown and headed for the bathroom. She hesitated at the door, then decided that for whatever length of time she’d still be in the castle, she had to take showers. She gritted her teeth, knocked tentatively and heard nothing. She went in. The shower-tub combination was to her left, and a large vanity with double sinks to her right. The last time anyone had redone the bathroom had been many years ago, but it was still decent with artistic little bird faucets and a commode and bath and shower wall that had surely been state-of-the-art at the time.

The doors to the master’s chamber and the bride’s room were directly opposite one another. She stared at the door to the other room for several seconds, then walked over to it and tapped on it.

“Yes?”

She opened the door and peeked in. He was still in his towel, deeply engrossed in the paper, and he had a fire going. The entire room seemed much warmer than hers.

A little resentment filled her until she remembered that there was a fireplace in her new room. She could build her own fire.

“I was going to use the shower. I just wanted to make

sure that you didn’t need it.” And that you don’t intend to barge into the bathroom.

She had a sudden, absurd image of him riding the great black stallion into the tiny bathroom.

He arched an ebony brow. “My apparel would seem to show that I’ve already bathed,” he said.

“Right. Well, I’ll unlock the door from this side when I’m done.”

“Yes, please do,” he said, and looked back at the newspaper.

She couldn’t resist. “The Times, huh? You apparently like American newspapers better than American people.”

“I usually like Americans very much,” he said. There was the slightest accent on the second word he spoke.

She closed the connecting door and locked it, swearing beneath her breath. The situation was bad enough. If there had to be a living MacNiall, why couldn’t he have been eighty, white haired and kind!

Fighting her irritation, she stripped and stepped into the shower. The hot water didn’t last very long; she was probably the last one getting to it that night.

Still swearing beneath her breath, she stepped out, towel-dried quickly and slipped into a flannel gown. In her room, she debated the idea of attempting a fire. She’d had one herself in the other room, but David and Kevin had built it for her. Despite her Chicago homeland, she’d never built a fire.

Using the long matches from the mantel, she tried lighting the logs in the hearth. But nothing happened. Some kind of kindling was needed. Perhaps a piece of newspaper or something. Looking around the room, she saw nothing to use.

Lightning suddenly flared beyond the gauzy drapes that covered the door to the widow’s walk. It was an actual balcony, she thought, not a little turret area, as was found in the master’s chambers.

Immediately after, thunder cracked. The wooden door that led outward to the old stone area swung in with a loud bang as the wind blew it open with a vengeance. She hopped up and hurried over to the door. It was a nasty night, not the kind she had imagined here!

She closed the door with an effort and bolted it. Staring through the slender openings of the arrow slits, she saw another flash of lightning. She should count her blessings that they hadn’t been thrown out that night.

She gave up on the fire and curled into the canopied bed, then hopped up again. The only light switch for the room was apparently right next to the bathroom.

With it out, she was plunged into a darkness so deep it was unnerving. Shaking her head, she opened the bathroom door, turned the light on, hesitated, then left the door on her side of the room ajar—she would have killed herself trying to get into bed in the pure ink that had filled the room.

Was she being an idiot? No, this fellow truly had no interest in her. Maybe she should be insulted, she thought wryly. At five-nine, with deep blue eyes and light hair that had deepened over the years to a dark blond, she was usually considered to be attractive. But apparently not to the ogre in the next room.

Bruce MacNiall. She must have heard the name somewhere.

Lying in the great bed, she shivered as she hadn’t shivered in years.

No! It was not some kind of precognition coming

back to her. She had stopped all that years ago, closed her mind, because she had willed that it would be so! Still …

She tossed and turned, wishing that there was a television in the room. Or a fire. Watching the flames would have been nice.

Her mind kept racing, denying that this could be happening when they had tried so hard to do things right. There had to be a mistake. There had to be something to do!

How had she come up with the name Bruce MacNiall?

At last, she drifted to sleep.

Bruce had just lain down when he heard the ear-piercing scream. Instinct brought him bolt-awake, leaping from the bed. A second’s disorientation was quickly gone as he heard a second cry of terror.

It was coming from the next room.

He raced through the connecting bathroom to see his uninvited guest sitting up in the bed, pointing in front of her, a look of terror on her face.

“Miss Fraser … Toni! What is it?”

He realized only then that she wasn’t really awake. Racing to her, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. Her reaction stunned him. She jerked from his hold and leaped with an incredibly lithe and agile motion to her feet and stared down at him.

She was a rather amazing sight, mane of gold hair caught in the pale light, shimmering like a halo around her delicate, refined features. Her eyes were the size of saucers, and in the soft-colored flannel gown, she might have been a misplaced Ophelia.

Something hard inside him wondered just what new act she was up to now. Something else felt a moment’s softness. The terror in her eyes seemed real. For the first time she seemed vulnerable.

“Toni,” he said firmly, stretching out his arms to catch her around the middle and lift her down. “Toni!

Wake up!”

She stared at him blankly. “Toni!”

With a jolt, she blinked and stared straight at him.

He thought she was going to scream again. Instead, she blinked once more and quickly stepped back, eyeing him up and down. Luckily he had donned a long pair of men’s cotton pajama pants.

“I think you were dreaming,” he said.

She frowned, flushed and bit her lower lip. “I screamed?”

“Like an alley cat,” he informed her. He stepped back himself. In this pale light, in this strange moment, he suddenly realized just how arresting a woman she was. Not just beautiful, but fascinating. Eyes so intensely blue, bone structure so perfect and refined, her mouth so generous. Her features seemed carefully drawn, as if they had been defined by an artist. And despite the vivid color of her hair and her eyes, there was a darkness about them, as well.

“I woke you,” she murmured. “My deepest apologies.”

“I wasn’t actually sleeping, but I am surprised you didn’t wake the entire castle. Or maybe you did,” he added. He couldn’t refrain from a dry smile. “Maybe they’re creeping down the hall now, afraid to come in and find out what’s happening.” He left her and walked to the door, opened it and looked out. Then he shrugged. “Well, castle walls have been known to keep the sounds of the tortured from traveling too far.”

She still stood there, tall, elegant, strangely aloof. He found that he was annoyed to be so concerned. She seemed to be the head of this wretched gang that had the gall to “invent” history and entertain others with their perception of the past. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

“I just … I’m fine. And I’m truly sorry.” Her words were sincere. Her eyes were still too wide. And she seemed to be afraid of something.

Him? No. Something in her nightmare?

Bruce hesitated. Leave! he told himself. He didn’t want them here. Lord, with everything else going on …

She shivered as she stood there. That was his undoing.

“The wretched room is freezing. Why didn’t you build yourself a fire?” he demanded.

“I …”

The uncertainty seemed so unlike her. She’d been a tigress, arguing with him before. Impatiently he strode to the fireplace, dug behind the poker stand for kindling, laid it over the logs and struck a match. Hunkered down, he took hold of the poker to press it deeper into the pile of wood. He wondered if that had been a mistake, if she was going to think that he’d turn and take the poker to her.

But she was still standing, just as he had left her. To his sincere dismay, he felt a swift stir of arousal. The flannel should have hung around her like a tent, but it was sheer enough for the light to play with form and shadow. And there was that hair … long, lustrous, blond, curling around her shoulders and breasts.

“A drink. You need a drink,” he told her. Hell, he needed one.

She lifted a hand suddenly, obviously regaining some of her composure. “Sorry, I don’t have any.”

“Thankfully you didn’t jimmy the wardrobe,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”

He went back through the bathroom and opened the wardrobe, found the brandy and poured two glasses from the left-hand shelf. Returning to the bride’s room, he found that she had taken a seat in one of the old upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace.

He handed her a glass. She accepted it, her blue eyes speculatively on him. “Thanks,” she told him.

“They say it will cure what ails you,” he told her, lifting his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” she returned. A little shiver snaked through her as she took a long swallow. “Thanks,” she said again.

He set his glass on the mantel, hunkered down and adjusted the logs again. A nice warmth was emanating from the blaze now.

He stood, collected his glass again and took the chair by her side.

“So … do you want to talk about it?”

A twisted smile curled her lips. She looked at him. “Sure. It was you.”

“Me! I swear, I never left that room,” he protested.

“I know. It was very strange. It was as if I had wakened and … there you were. Only, it wasn’t really you. It was you—as you might have been—in historical costume. It was very, very real. Absolutely vivid.”

“So I was just standing there, in historical costume? Well, I can see where that might be a bit unsettling, but those screams … It sounded as if the devil himself had arrived.”

She flushed slightly.

“You were in more than costume.”

“Oh?”

“Were it a picture, the caption might have read, ‘Speak softly and carry a very big and bloody sword,'” she said.

“Ah. So I was about to lop off your head. Sorry, I may be irritated and rude, but I do stop short at head-lopping,” he told her, then turned, getting comfortable in the chair. “Don’t you think you might have gotten a bit carried away with your historical fiction?”

“I have to admit, I’ve scared myself a bit,” she murmured. “I made up a Bruce MacNiall, only to find out that he exists. Well, in the here and now, that is.”

Bruce shook his head, wary now. “You must have known some of the local history.”

“No, not really. We hadn’t ever been to this area when we decided to attempt this venture,” she assured him.

It sounded as if she was telling the truth. And yet …

He swirled the brandy in his glass, studying the color. Then he looked at her again. She couldn’t be telling the truth.

“There was a Bruce MacNiall who fought with the Cavaliers. He opposed the armies Cromwell led and beat them mercilessly many times. At first, he even survived Cromwell’s reign. But he and some other Scottish lairds kept at it, wanting to bring Charles II back from

Europe and see him crowned king. He was eventually caught when one of the lairds supposedly on his side turned coat. That man was killed by MacNiall’s comrades, but unfortunately MacNiall rode into a trap and was caught himself. He had defied the reigning power, which was Cromwell. You know the penalty for that. He received every barbarity of the day that was reserved for traitors.”

She turned to him, blue eyes enormous. Then she closed them and leaned back, looking ashen.

“Hey, sorry. It’s history. I didn’t get the sense that you had a weak stomach.”

She shook her head. “I don’t,” she said flatly, and he realized that the particular history he was giving her was more disturbing to her than it was to him.

She looked at him. “He didn’t murder his wife in a fit of jealousy, did he?”

Bruce shrugged, watching her closely. “No one knows. There was some rumor that she kept company with a certain Cromwellian soldier—whether true or a pure invention, I don’t know—and that she disappeared from the castle. It’s historical fact that MacNiall was castrated, disemboweled, hanged, beheaded and generally chopped to pieces. But as to his wife, no one knows for certain. She disappeared from history, right when he was caught. He was trapped in the forest. And executed there, after a mock trial. At the time he died, he had a teenage son running with Charles II in France. Very soon after MacNiall’s execution, Cromwell died, and the people, very weary of being good, were anxious to ask him back to take the throne. Charles proved to be a very entertaining king, and a truly interesting man. He might have dallied with dozens of mistresses, but he steadfastly refused to consider a divorce from his wife. So after him, his brother became king, and that was another disaster for history to record.”

It’s … horrible!” Toni said.

He smiled grimly. “From what I hear, you didn’t mind fleecing the public with such a horrible story.”

“But it wasn’t true when I told it!” she protested.

He waved a hand in the air impatiently. “Say you’re telling me the truth—”

“Are you accusing me of lying?” she demanded indignantly. The anger was back in her eyes.

“I don’t know you, do I?” he asked politely. “But even if you think you’re telling the truth, it’s quite possible that you heard the story somewhere else. Because you made it up to a tee.”

She waved a hand in the air. “The land belonged to the MacNialls. And if there is anyone famous in Scottish history, it’s Robert the Bruce. Bruce. A very common name here!”

“Aye, that’s true. But you went a step further.”

“How?”

He stared at her. She was either the finest actress in the world, or she really didn’t know.

“MacNiall’s wife,” he said slowly, watching her every reaction.

“You just said that history didn’t know about her!”

“Aye, that’s true enough.”

“Then …?”

“Her name,” Bruce said softly. “Lady MacNiall. That would be fairly obvious!” she said disdainfully.

“No, Toni. Her first name. Her given name. Annalise.”