Читать книгу The Presence - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9

Could anyone act so well, or even lie with such aplomb?

“What?” Her eyes were saucers, and her color was as close to pure white as he had ever seen on a human being.

“Annalise. Our famous—or infamous—Bruce MacNiall was indeed married to an Annalise.”

She shook her head. “I swear to you, I had no idea! It has to be … chance. Coincidence. Okay, the most absurd coincidence imaginable, but … I honestly have never heard this story before. Stories like it, sure—your ancestor wasn’t the only man to meet such a fate.”

He wondered if she was trying to convince him or herself.

“Aye, that’s true enough,” he said. She was an audacious interloper in his home, he reminded himself. And yet … At this particular moment, he couldn’t add to her distress. She needed some color back. Hell, she could pass out on him at any moment. She could be such a little demon, as self-righteous as Cromwell himself. But right now, she was simply far too vulnerable, and that vulnerability was calling out to whatever noble and protective virtues he might possess.

“Yes, it’s true!” she said, desperately clinging to his words. “I’ve been to Edinburgh. I’ve seen the tomb built for Montrose, who was a Cavalier and who sided with the king, finally meeting his end in such a manner. And there were others … but I had no idea there was really a MacNiall! Or,” she added, wincing, “an Annalise. Look!” She sat up straight, finding her backbone again, and stared at him with sudden hostility. “We did not come here to mock your precious history or your family. I am telling you, I did not know about your MacNiall or that he might have even existed!”

“Well, he did,” he said flatly, and stared at the flames, anger filling him again. He loved this place. Granted, he hadn’t given it much attention lately. Though he’d always intended to do so, there was always something else that needed to be done first. And now, with everything that had been going on …

“Don’t you understand?” she demanded. “There’s never been anything the least disrespectful in what we wanted to do. Every one of us came here and simply fell in love with the country. Unfortunately none of us is independently wealthy. Gina, however, is a marketing genius. She decided that she could take all of our talents and market them. That way, we could acquire a castle, work hard and give some of the magic to the public.”

“Stupid idea,” he murmured hotly, looking at the fire again.

“It’s not a stupid idea!” she protested. “You saw how the people came.”

“The locals will never enjoy such a spectacle.”

“Maybe not, but the shows aren’t intended for the locals. They will help the economy all around, don’t you see that? People who come to the castle for the history, the splendor or even the spectacle will spend money in other places. It will be good for local stores, for restaurants … for everyone around.”

“I don’t agree,” he said, fighting the rise of his temper again.

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Oh, really?”

“Indeed, a blind fool!” She turned toward him, no longer ashen, passion in her voice, fire in her eyes. “You saw those people when they left here! They were thrilled. And they loved Scotland. Don’t you want people to love your country?”

“Not a mockery of it,” he told her.

“I told you, we’re not mocking it!” She shook her head, growing aggravated. “Others give tours of the closes and graveyards in Edinburgh. People are fascinated. We like to think that we’ve come far from doing horrible things to one another, even under the pretext of law. We’re not saying that the Scots were especially brutal, we’re explaining that it was just a different time!”

“Voyeurs!” he said roughly, waving a hand in the air. “And that’s Edinburgh. A big city. We’re talking about a small village here.”

“It’s hard these days to buy a castle in the middle of town,” she said sarcastically.

“Many people don’t want to be reminded of mayhem and murder,” he said.

She let out a sigh of exasperation. “Don’t you ever do anything for fun?” she asked him. “Have you ever seen a movie? A play? Gone to the opera?”

He looked at the fire again. “The point is, this is a small, remote village. It could be a dangerous place for tourists to wander.”

“Dangerous!” she said dismissively.

He felt tension welling in him.

“There are forests, crags and bogs. Hillsides. Crannies and cairns. Places where the footing is treacherous at best,” he said. “Places that are remote, dark and, aye, believe me, dangerous.” His own argument sounded weak even to him.

Maybe he was a fool for being so suspicious, wary … when he need not be. But the lasses were gone, were they not?

Gone. Two of them. Found dead. Here.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

He had no intention of trying to explain what had happened, or why he was so concerned. Even Jonathan Tavish thought it was a problem for others, for big-city authorities. After all, the women had not disappeared from here. They had just been found here.

“Antoinette Fraser,” he said suddenly, determined to change the subject. “So … your father was Scottish, or Scottish-American?”

“He was half, but born here. His dad married during the war. On his side, my grandmother was French. My mother was Irish.”

“Was?”

“I lost her my first year of college.” “I’m sorry.” “Thanks.” “And your father?”

“I lost him, too,” she said softly. “A few years ago. His heart gave out. I think that he missed my mother, actually.”

“I’m sorry again.”

“Thanks.” She hesitated, then asked, “If you are the laird, then …?”

“Indeed, my parents went together. An automobile accident in London.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Thank you,” he acknowledged. “It was over a decade ago, now.”

“You still miss people,” she said.

“Indeed, you do.” He didn’t want the two of them growing morose together, so he brought a small smile to his lips. “Still …” he murmured.

“What?”

“You couldn’t have bought a castle in Ireland, eh?”

She halfway smiled, but her eyes flashed. He realized that he had been breathing in her scent. She really was a stunning woman. Brilliant as an angel one second, claws extended, blue fire in her eyes the next.

She shouldn’t be here.

He looked at his brandy glass again and swirled the liquid. “The truth of the matter is, I didn’t rent this castle to anyone. I do own it, and you are trespassing.” He added the last very quietly, and swallowed more of his brandy. The warmth was delicious.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I’ll admit to having the sinking feeling that we were taken by a British scam artist.”

“Might have been an American. They are here, you know, in vast numbers.”

Ah, yes, that goaded her temper again. Was he doing it on purpose? Enjoying the rise of her breasts, the flash in her eyes? Wondering what it would be like to suddenly strike a bargain for total peace, draw her in front of the fire and find some real truth in those generous, sensual lips?

“If something was pulled off, it was done by someone over here,” she said vehemently.

He realized that he was actually enjoying watching her trying to control her temper.

“You’ve got to understand! We’ve sunk a fortune into this!” she told him.

“Aye, that I do believe. I’ve seen the work.”

She frowned, staring at him. “How do you know exactly what I made up?” she demanded. “You didn’t ride in until … well, it was almost as if you’d ridden in on cue!”

“I’d meant to stop it before it started,” he told her. “Eban had heard you rehearsing, and though he was pleased with all the work being done, he wasn’t pleased to hear the family slandered.”

“But you said the story I made up was true!”

“I never said that Bruce MacNiall strangled his wife.”

“She did disappear.”

“She disappeared from the pages of history.”

Lightning suddenly filled the sky again, followed with rocketing speed by thunder that caused the castle to shake. Startled, Toni let out a little scream, jumping to her feet. Seeing him, she flushed, lost her balance in her attempt to regain her seat quickly and toppled over—directly into his lap.

Long elegant fingers fell against his bare chest. The silky soft sweep of her hair caressed him. Warm and very solid, her scent, that of lavender soap and femininity, caused an instant physical reaction in him that he prayed wasn’t evident through the sheer fabric of his pajama pants.

“Oh, God! I am so sorry!” she swore, struggling to get up. Trying to brace against his knee, she missed. Her flush deepened to something of a painful crimson, and her apologies came out in a garbled stream.

“It’s all right!” he expelled, plucking her up, setting her on her feet and remaining vertical himself. “It’s very late. If you’re sure that you’re fine …”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said, looking toward the window. He had the strange feeling that she was expecting to see someone there. Or that she was afraid that she would.

“You know, I’m not exactly tired, but I can see that you are. Go to sleep. I’ll get the newspaper and study the pages here, in this chair. That way, if you have a nightmare about me being in your room, you won’t panic, because you’ll know that I’m here,” he said.

“I’m a big girl. Really,” she told him.

“I’d rather read the paper than fall asleep to another scream,” he told her.

“It’s all right,” she said, tossing back a length of hair. “I don’t want you to feel that we’re any more of a burden than you already do.”

“So go to sleep,” he said.

“I won’t scream again, really.”

“I’m going for the paper,” he told her.

When he returned, she was still standing there uncertainly. There was a conflict of emotions in the deep blue of her eyes. She obviously wanted to tell him to jump in a lake, but she was doubting her own rights. For her own sake, and that of her friends, she didn’t want him as angry again as he had been when he had first arrived.

Yet … he sensed a strange touch of fear in her, as though she really didn’t want to dream again. That she would prefer a living, flesh-and-blood stranger in her room to being alone in it with her dreams.

“Look, I’m serious!” he said. “Go to bed, get some sleep. I’ll be here.”

“You’re going to sleep in the chair all night?”

“Frankly, there’s not a lot of night left. When the dawn breaks, I’ll head over to my own bed. If you wake up then, it will be light so you won’t panic. It always works that way.”

“How do you know?” she demanded suspiciously.

“Because people never panic in the daylight. You know, the light of day. Reason and sanity. They go together.”

She stared at him uncertainly, then headed for the canopied bed.

“This isn’t fair to you,” she said, turning her back to him.

“Go to sleep.”

She crawled on top of the bed and pulled the covers around her.

He shook out the paper and took a seat before the fire. But though he tried to read, he couldn’t pay attention.

He glanced over to the bed. So much for her having difficulties sleeping. Her eyes were closed. She was on her side, facing his way. An angel at rest. Ivory features so artistically sculpted. Full, dark lips, parted just slightly. Arms embracing a pillow.

Oh, to be that pillow!

She had to be a shyster, he told himself angrily. No

matter how innocent or vulnerable she appeared, she couldn’t have just made up his history, not down to the name Annalise. He had to take care around her, despite the fact that she could twist something deep inside of him. Or maybe because of that. Annalise.

Impatiently he tried to read again, but then he gave up, folded the paper and simply watched her sleep, doing his best to stretch his length out comfortably in the chair.

After a while, he dozed.

Then … he awakened with a violent start.

He didn’t scream; he made no noise. But his dream had been no less the terrible.

He had seen her … facedown, hair flowing in the bubbling water of the little brook in the forest. Facedown … as he had found the murdered girl.

He reached for his brandy glass and swallowed the pinch of deep amber remaining within it. He gave himself a fierce shake. Looking to the window, he saw that the dawn was breaking at last. Silently he rose. One more brandy and maybe he could get a few hours of sleep. One more brandy … and he might quell the tension that was ripping up his insides.

He walked to the door of the dividing bath and then paused. He returned to the bedside.

She slept, an angel still. That spill of hair …

It might have been any hair.

He hardened his jaw and swore softly, decrying his own nonsense. It was fucking dawn. He needed to get some sleep.

Thayer Fraser shivered as he walked along the path, heading down toward the stream, valley and forest. “A

nice brisk walk in the lovely morning air!” he said, speaking aloud. “Actually, that would be fucking cold morning air! “ he added. His voice sounded strange in the silence of the very early morning as it echoed off the stone walls of the run-down castle. Eerie, even.

At the base of the hill, he turned back. Most folks outside the country didn’t know that there were still many such places as this castle—smaller castles, family homesteads, not the great walled almost-cities-within-cities such as the fortified castles at Edinburgh and Stirling. They could be found, and some of them poor, indeed, much smaller than many a manor house. And naturally, in a far sadder state of being.

He stared up at the stone bastion, beautiful against the sky this morning. There was not a drop of rain in sight, not a single cloud. Ah, yes! This was the stuff of postcards, coffee-table books and calendars, the kind of thing American tourists just had to capture in a million and five digital pictures!

So far—though they all claimed to be in the bad times together, just as they were in the good—they were all secretly blaming Toni. For she had been the one to find the property on the Internet. She had been the one to write to the post box. And she had been the one to receive the agreement, bring it to her lawyer and then pass it on to all of them.

So, yes … they were blaming Toni. But pretty soon they’d be looking at him.

After all, he was Scottish, born and bred. He’d seen the advertisements in Glasgow, and had told Toni that it looked fitting for their purpose.

“Shite!” he muttered aloud.

He looked to the forest. Hell, he’d actually never known what they called the damned place. They should understand that. Most Americans had never seen their own Grand Canyon. Why should he be supposed to know about every nook and cranny of Scotland?

Hopefully they would continue blaming Toni, his American cousin. His kin. With her wonder and exuberance, she had convinced them that they could do it. He could remember first meeting her, how pleased she had been to meet a Fraser, an actual—if slightly distant—member of her father’s family. He’d been bowled over by her. Indeed, he’d found her gorgeous, stimulating, though she’d rather quickly squelched any thoughts of more than a brother-sister relationship between them.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough blokes for friends in Glasgow, but she and her American group had been a breath of fresh air. In Glasgow, it was too easy to get into the old work by day, live for the pub at night mentality. The Americans had nothing on the Scots when it came to alcoholism and drug addiction. The working class was the working class, and therein lay the pub, the delights of escape, drugs—wine, women and song.

And though Toni might not want a hot roll in the old hay with him, she trusted him. Liked him. Relied on him.

He smiled grimly. Oh, aye! Americans, God bless them, just loved to look back to the old homeland. Give them an accent and they were putty.

He stared at the forest again, a sense of deep unease stirring in him. He never had known the damned name of the place, and that was a fact.

The forest was still as dark as a witch’s teat in the glory of dawn. Dense, deep, remote. And he realized that he was just standing there, staring into it. Time had passed, and he hadn’t moved. He’d been mesmerized.

It was an effort to draw himself away, to shake the sudden fear that seized him. It was almost as if he had to physically tear himself away from the darkness, as if the trees had reached out, gripped him … and held him tight.

“Fooking ass!” he railed against himself as he turned and hurried back to the castle.

Jonathan Tavish sat at his breakfast table, morosely stirring the sugar in his tea.

His home might be old by some standards—built around 1910—and it might have a certain thatched-roof, quaint charm. But it sure as hell wasn’t any castle.

Through the window, he could see the MacNiall holding, just as he had seen it all of his life. A dilapidated pile of stone, he told himself.

But it wasn’t. It was the castle, no matter what else. It was Bruce MacNiall’s holding, because he was the MacNiall, and in this little neck of the world, that would always mean something, no matter how far the world moved along.

Bruce had been his friend for years.

“Wonder if he knows what I’ve felt all these years?” Jonathan asked out loud. “You’re a decent chap, Laird MacNiall, that y’are! Slainte, my friend. To your health. Always.”

He smiled slightly. Aye, he could have told the Americans easily enough that there was a Bruce MacNiall. Then again, why the hell should he have done so? Bruce had never seen it necessary to explain his absences from the village, or suggest that Jonathan keep an eye on things or, heaven forbid, ask his old chum to keep him informed when he was away. And that was often. Bruce spent time in Edinburgh, confiding often enough with Robert, his old friend from the service, delving into matters though he’d been out of it all long enough himself. Of course, with the events of the last year or so …

Then there were his “interests” in the States. Kept an apartment there, he did. Well, money made money, and that was a fact.

Hell, who had known when he would return this time. It was all legitimate that he hadn’t said a word to the new folk about there being a real Bruce. And those folk had, amusingly enough, done real work at the place. Bruce sure hadn’t kept up the place. In fact, there were times when it seemed that he hated the castle and the great forest surrounding it, even the village itself.

That, of course, had to do with Maggie….

“Well, old boy,” he said aloud softly, “at least you had her once. She loved you, she did. She was my friend, but she loved you.”

Maggie had been gone a very long time. There was no sense thinking about those days anymore.

Impatiently Jonathan stood, bringing along his tea as he walked to the window. There it was, the castle on the hill. Bruce’s castle. Bruce was the MacNiall. The bloody MacNiall. Laird MacNiall.

“To you, you bloody bastard! These are not the old days, my friend. I am not a subject, a serf, a servant. I’m the law here, the bloody law.”

He stared at the castle and the forest, the sun shining on the former, a shadow of green darkness enveloping the latter.

“The bloody law!”

A crooked grin split his lips.

“Y’may be the MacNiall, the bloody great MacNiall, but I am the law. I have that power. And when it’s necessary for the law to come down, well … friend or nae, I will be that power!”