A Highlander for Christmas (18 page)

Maggie frowned down at a grainy photograph of a crowded room with palm trees just outside. A man sat on a bench, one hand shading his face. The features were blurred and his cheeks were gaunt, but there was something familiar about his eyes.

Her gaze flashed to Jared’s face. “Where did you get this?”

“A source in British intelligence forwarded it to Nicholas. They want to be certain he understands what kind of ride he’s in for,” Jared added grimly.

It could be her father, Maggie admitted. The eyes were right. So was the proud tilt to the man’s jaw. But she was not going to reveal that possibility to Jared, not without firm evidence.

“It will take more than one out-of-focus photo to convince me of your wild story.” She shoved the glossy paper back into his hand, wanting to be rid of it. “And now if you will excuse me, I have a research appointment upstairs in European metalwork. After that, I have plans for dinner.”

~ ~ ~

Jared scowled as he stalked down the granite steps. He was furious inside—furious at his lapse of control and the silent awareness that was growing far too intense.

Maggie Kincade was stubborn, but he’d dealt with stubborn subjects before. She was angry, but she had every reason to be, given the photograph he’d handed her.

Neither of those things explained why Jared had behaved like a rank amateur, allowing his control to fall away before personal attachment.

He remembered how she’d looked sketching in the corner. Her focus had been absolute. An explosion wouldn’t have shaken her from those drawings. Her sure confidence and unconscious grace had intrigued him.

Then she’d looked up.

Pale cheeks. Smoky blue eyes. A long cool mouth the color of ripe raspberries. A mouth that a man would dream about with the kind of dreams that left his sheets tangled and the blankets stripped free.

The desire had come then, fierce and sudden. He hadn’t felt that kind of hunger for months, yet each time he looked at her, the intensity of his feelings grew.

There had been other women, of course. Some had even lasted through his traveling and long absences. But none had ever shaken him so quickly or so completely as Maggie Kincade.

And then she’d made that bloody crack about him not understanding emotion or passion.

He swore softly as he watched traffic snarl toward Great Russell Street. Perhaps she was right. Emotion had never been his strong suit. Nor had trust.

He halted beneath the front portico, where a side corridor gave him a clear view of the museum offices. Maggie would have to use that corridor to leave.

Jared glanced at his watch. The museum closed in an hour. That would give him just enough time to check any new information.

When Maggie came out, he would be waiting.

~ ~ ~

She felt him even before she saw him. He was standing just beyond the museum’s front steps, a line of shadow against the gathering twilight.

She didn’t slow her steps or turn her head as she passed. “Go away.”

He moved out of the gloom, slipping into pace beside her. “You aren’t going to ask me about the photograph?”

“Obviously, a fake. It’s easy enough to manage in this day and age with digital equipment.”

“You’re very certain about things, aren’t you?”

“Listen, Mr.—”

“Jared.”

“MacNeill,” she finished coldly. “Let’s get one thing clear. You know nothing about me, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

“Why does talking about your father frighten you?”

Maggie managed to keep her voice steady. “Forget the cheap psychology. It’s not going to work any more than your questions will work. If Nicholas Draycott wants to talk to me about the exhibition, fine. All he has to do is call. But pressure won’t make me arrive at a decision any faster, I assure you. Meanwhile, this conversation is closed.”

“He says you’re good, Maggie. He doesn’t want you to lose this chance.” Jared gave her a thoughtful look. “But maybe you’re afraid of succeeding. Maybe you’re looking for an excuse to bow out before things get rough.”

“Things have been rough before. It took years of gashed fingers and burned skin to learn what I do. Now I worry about real things that I can taste and touch, not about fantasies in an old house with too many shadows. Not about grainy photographs which are probably fakes.”

“If that man is your father, why didn’t he appear before now?”

“My father is dead.”

“Ask yourself this, Maggie. Was he afraid of something? If so, you might be in a great deal of danger yourself.” His hand closed over her shoulder as she tried to push past him. “There are a dozen more photos where that one came from. Are you afraid of seeing them, too?”

“I’m not afraid of solid evidence. You have yet to show me anything close. Now unless you move out of my way, I’m going to wave to that nice policeman who’s sauntering toward us and tell him you’re harassing me.”

“There’s no law against talking to a beautiful woman on a lovely night.”

“Accosting. Stalking. That won’t sound good in court.” Maggie turned as the policeman drew within earshot. “Excuse me, officer, but I’m looking for Piccadilly Circus. Can you give me directions?”

“Certainly, miss. But you’re headed dead wrong. What you want to do is head north, then make a sharp right just beyond the park. Watch for the Santa and reindeer. They’re plenty hard to miss.”

As Maggie listened, she covertly checked the spot where Jared MacNeill had stood.

Empty. Apparently, the threat had worked.

And what if the things he had told her were true? What if her father was in some kind of danger?

Christmas tree lights flashed in the distance, and the smoke of roasting chestnuts drifted through the air. Maggie pulled up her collar against the wind and took a deep breath. If her father was alive, he would contact her. She refused to believe that anything could sever the blood ties and affection of a lifetime.

But as she crossed Jermyn Street and headed north, Maggie couldn’t shake a sense of uneasiness.

Nor could she shake the lingering impression that someone was watching her.

Two Chinese stone lions guarded the small town house attached to the shop of Anders van Leiden. Maggie paused at the foot of the steep steps. Had it actually been ten years since she had last stood here?

She should have come to visit sooner, but there had been too many easy excuses to avoid seeing a man who could evoke so many bittersweet memories of her father. He had been her father’s best friend, one of the few professionals who had Daniel Kincade’s unqualified respect. When Maggie had finally written, there had been no answer.

If what Jared had told her was true, Anders would have some clue. There was no one her father would have contacted sooner.

She rang the front buzzer framed by a pair of coiling brass serpents. The sound echoed hollowly, but there were no footsteps.

Maybe her father’s friend had moved. Or maybe he was gone, too. Ten years might have taken their toll on the craggy-faced Dutchman. Maggie rang again, and once more heard no answer.

She turned, her eyes bleak as she made her way back to the street.

Then the small barred window was thrown open. “We are closed for the night. We will open tomorrow at ten. You will please to come back at that hour.”

Maggie recognized the gruff voice. She spun around, smiling at the man in the worn satin smoking jacket. “You would turn away the daughter of an old friend, Anders?”

The old man went very still behind the ornate metal bars. “What friend is this?”

“The man who forged the brass lantern by your door. The man who taught you to facet your first ruby.
”

His voice caught audibly. “Margaret?”

Time seemed to freeze, heavy with tension and memories. She heard the sound of locks being thrown. “Maggie, is that you?”

He descended awkwardly, arms outstretched. He seemed very pale and far older than she had remembered, but that might have been the effect of the full beard he now sported. “Is this possible? Little Maggie Kincade is all grown up?”

His arms engulfed her. He locked her tight, rich with the smell of pipe smoke and oranges. His quilted silk jacket was smooth and cool beneath her cheek, just as her father’s had once been.

Maggie blinked back tears, caught in waves of bittersweet memories.

“In the flesh.” She pulled away to study his face. “Mostly grown up. Depending on who you ask.”

Shadows veiled his hollow cheeks, and he seemed to have trouble speaking. “Very grown up. Taller than I am now. But there is regret in those lovely eyes. Pain, too, I think.” He cleared his throat brusquely. “Too much emotion for an old man. So now you turn up on my doorstep without a single word. I must wonder why.”

“I meant to phone. Somehow the calls never got made.”

“As stubborn as your father, I see this. Kincade to the toes, you are.”

She gave a crooked smile. “I can leave if you want me to.”

“And let you out of my clutches? Unthinkable. You must come in at once.” Cane in hand, he guided her awkwardly up the enclosed staircase and through a door to his private flat. “My Annie would love to see how you have grown. She always said you would stand fine and tall.”

“Is she here?”

“Alas, no. Annie is gone from me these six years.”

“I’m so sorry, Anders. I didn’t know.”

“It was better, no? Her heart gave up before my Annie did, but she was tired.” He flipped on a light, and an amber glow lit walls filled with books and keepsakes.

He straightened his shoulders. “Enough of this gloomy talk. Tonight we celebrate, no? You will take some very fine sherry.” The warmth seemed to surround her, infectious as his mood. For a moment it almost seemed to Maggie that she had come home after months of wandering. “And now you will tell me everything.” His eyes narrowed suddenly. “You do not come with a man? If so, I will certainly toss him from the roof of St. Paul’s.”

Maggie laughed tightly. “There are no men in my life.”

“It is good. You must save your fire for work, Maggie. You have the hands of an angel, you know. Just like your father. Maybe you are even better than the Daniel I knew,” he said gravely. “Now you will drink my sherry and we will talk.”

Maggie looked back as he closed the door behind her.

Outside rain drummed at the pavement. It might only have been her imagination that something moved in the shadows across the street.

~ ~ ~

The Dutchman’s house hadn’t changed a bit since Maggie’s last visit. Bookcases still lined the walls, and fine medieval tapestries still glowed above the stone fireplace. There was a cozy, lived-in feeling to the small room. Tiny lights strung along the stone mantel gave a hint of cheer to a tree made of sculpted malachite.

“So, you come to London for the exhibition at Draycott Abbey.”

“How did you know that?”

The old man slapped his big hands together. “Me? I know any news about jewels and about you, Ms. Margaret Kincade. I make it my business, no? Lord Draycott is a man well respected.” He nodded briskly. “Very proud you make me.”

Maggie frowned at her sherry. “I might have to bow out.”

“Why is this?” He paced anxiously. “You are chosen, yet you can tell him no?”

“I have my reasons.”

“None that have sense, I think.”

“I need time to think things through, Uncle Anders.” He was no blood relation but the words came out naturally.

He sank slowly into the faded chair before the fire. “Is good to hear that old name. I remember the last time you come here, all knees and pigtails. You loved my Celtic silver, remember?”

Maggie thought of that magic month she had spent with her father in London, poking through hoards of uncut gem stones. The two men had argued endlessly about proper faceting styles and new polishing materials. The visit had sealed her fate, for she could think of no other life but jewelry design after that.
“
I remember. I still like Celtic silver, though I’m doing my own designs now.”

“Show me,” the old man commanded.

“They’re … more modern, Uncle Anders. My own style. You probably won’t care for them.”