A Highlander for Christmas (31 page)

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“Is there a specific problem? I’m sure Dr. McNamara—”

“No problem. I’ll try Dr. Freed next week.”

He hung up before there were any more questions. Every instinct warned against further contact with this woman, although she was one of the team of three medical experts assigned to oversee his case after his return from Asia. Next week he would try the others, and until then he would navigate this particular storm on his own. His sensitivity was growing, enhanced by every moment of contact with Maggie, but he could deal with that. What he couldn’t accept was the possibility of failing her.

He’d failed himself in Thailand and he’d failed his partner, but Jared would remove himself from the game before he failed Maggie. And it was a game, he sensed. A very deadly game with a madman. If Maggie or her father had something he wanted, there were easier, more direct ways to claim it than this.

But their unknown enemy wasn’t taking the direct approach. He was taking his bloody time, goading. Waiting.

Jared forced his hands to stillness. He did the same to his turbulent thoughts.

Maggie Kincade didn’t need a confidante or an inventive lover. What she needed was a guardian. A hero.

For now, he was the only one available.

~ ~ ~

A half-eaten grapefruit lay next to an untouched scone on Maggie’s plate. She stared at both, not really seeing either.

She had no appetite, and she probably looked like the walking dead. Hardly surprising, given her restless sleep and upsetting encounter with Jared. She had woken twice, startled by the creaking of wood and the cry of the wind while her heart pounded wildly.

Dreams
, she told herself. Images caused by high stress and an artist’s overactive imagination. Staring out at the moat, blanketed with sunlight, Maggie almost believed it. When she finished her tea, she rose briskly, determined not to wait for Jared. He had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in her help with whatever problem was bothering him, and his refusal hurt her.

Forget it,
she thought.
He probably already has.

Sunlight played over the leaded window panes. Rainbows cascaded from the acres of crystal displayed along the great hunt table. The sight reminded Maggie that she was inside one of the most famous houses in England. Chessa or Faith would be unflappable, absolutely at ease
and confident. So why couldn’t she do the same?

Footsteps echoed behind her. She spun around, one hand to her chest. “Marston, you frightened me.”

The abbey butler was immaculate in a black worsted waistcoat and jacket. Only the electric blue running shoes left Maggie blinking.

“I am sorry if I disturbed you. I did knock, but you seemed rather … absorbed.”

“I was thinking about this amazing house. It must take a whole battalion of people to wash the crystal after a party, and I don’t even want to think about the windows.”

The butler smiled faintly. “Entertaining does pose certain challenges, but nothing that has proved insurmountable. Of course, the days of weekend shooting parties for two hundred are over. Some would say just as well.”

“Two hundred?” Maggie shook her head. “Unfair odds against the poor pheasants, if you ask me.”

Marston refilled her teacup, his expression unreadable. “I suppose the world was a different place then. In my grandfather’s time it was nothing to bag a hundred deer and half as many pheasants. I believe that two of your presidents enjoyed doing just that.”

“Touché.”

“No offense was meant,” Marston said calmly.

“And none was taken. It’s just that … this house is so overwhelming. Every corner hides an Old Master painting or what I’m certain are priceless Chinese porcelains. I keep expecting to pass a Van Gogh or two.”

“That would be the small canvas in the Long Gallery,” Marston murmured.

“A real, honest-to-goodness Van Gogh?” Maggie gave a shaky laugh. “This isn’t the kind of place where I feel comfortable.”

Marston frowned. “I would expect that you fit in superbly in any company or any environment. I would venture to say that it is one of your many skills. If you will forgive the familiarity.”

Maggie saw the faint smile he wasn’t trying to hide. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Marston. And if this is your way of being familiar, the thought of your formal treatment terrifies me.”

“Absolutely killing,” he agreed. “Or so I’m told.”

“You probably tyrannize the viscount and his wife shamelessly.”

“I?” The butler’s brow rose. “That would be most improper. I hope I am never improper in any of my duties, although an occasional bit of guidance is in order.”

Maggie chuckled. “So you don’t deny it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Deftly, Marston arranged a handful of freshly cut roses in a silver vase. “Will Commander MacNeill be taking you to tour the abbey today?”

Maggie’s smile faded. “I have no idea. Why did you call him
commander
?”

“Once a Royal Marine, always a Royal Marine. He was one of the most decorated in his company, I believe.”

Maggie digested this bit of information, frowning. “Why did he leave active duty?”

The butler paid intense attention to the placement of his last rose. “I do not believe I have an answer to that, miss.”

“Something happened, I know it. Sometimes when he looks at me, I get the strangest sense that he can—”

“In that case, you’d better ask me that question.” Jared stood on the threshold, clad in well-worn flannels and a perfectly cut charcoal turtleneck. On him, they looked elegant, informal, beautifully tailored in their simplicity.

Heat jackknifed all the way to Maggie’s toes. He didn’t look like a soldier. In fact, he could have been in movies. He had the unflinching calm that pumped-up male stars strained to achieve and generally failed at.

Maggie decided to tell him that one day. She was certain it would annoy him. But first she wanted answers. “You were in the Royal Marines?”

“I was.”

“And you left?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“For several reasons.”

She tried to read his eyes and failed. “Don’t overwhelm me with answers here, Commander. Just try one or two for starters.”

“I needed to spend more time at home.”

“Where’s home?” Maggie zeroed in on the opening.

“To the north.”

“That’s a huge help. North of London? North of Manchester? North of—”

“Edinburgh. Near Skye.” He said the words slowly, and Maggie realized how little he was in the habit of talking about personal things.

“That’s an island off the coast of Scotland, isn’t it?”

“It was the last time I checked.”

Behind them Marston swept up the last cut stems and cleared his throat. “Would you care for breakfast now, Commander?”

“None for me. Ms. Kincade has eaten?”

“Rather too lightly, in my opinion.”

“I’ll see what I can do about it if you’ll part with some of those strawberries you grow out in the conservatory.”

Marston tapped his jaw. “Along with clotted cream and perhaps some chocolate shavings?”

Jared grinned. “Be still my beating heart.”

Marston murmured something that sounded like
scoundrel
and disappeared.

“I think I can speak for myself,” Maggie said stiffly. “And I’m completely full.”

He studied her face for long seconds and yet again Maggie had the uncomfortable feeling that he was sifting through her secrets. “Bad night?” he said softly.

Maggie wasn’t going to discuss her disturbing dreams. “You still owe me answers, remember?”

Jared filled a fragile cup with Darjeeling tea and studied her over the rim. The lines at his mouth gave Maggie the idea that his night had been
almost
as bad as hers.

“What kind of answers?”

“If your home is near Skye, why don’t you have one of those incomprehensible accents? You know, like Mel Gibson in
Braveheart.”

“Ach,
the puir lad had na half the sound of the Isles in his voice. Na fine coaching will bring the Gaelic where it is na born to blood and bone.” The words rolled rich and smooth off Jared’s tongue. “’
Tis
this sound ye were wishing for, lass?”

Maggie couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Round one to you. How can you make it come and go like that?”

Jared frowned down at his teacup. “We moved often when I was young. My father was in the Royal Navy and his postings took us one year to the south of France, one year to New Guinea and Australia. I suppose I learned how to blend in as self-preservation.”

Maggie gnawed at her lip, considering her next question.

“Don’t,” Jared said softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Do that.” His eyes locked on her mouth.

“You mean this?” Maggie rolled her lip against her teeth.

“Hell.” The word was both curse and plea. “Stop,” Jared said roughly.

Maggie felt a slow, hot wave of color sweep her face. “You mean…” Her eyes flickered along his chest and grazed his thighs. “It makes you—”

“Precisely.” His voice was very dry.

“But I’m not trying to—you know.” She broke off with an embarrassed cough.

“No, I can see that.”

Maggie shrugged. “I have a mirror, and I have a perfectly good memory. If I were the kind of leggy blond that men follow with their eyes, then I might believe you. But no. I’m far too old for fairy tales.”

He stared at her, cup in hand, then muttered a soft curse. “Who’s been at you, Maggie Kincade? Give me the bastard’s name.”

“No one,” she snapped. “Or maybe everyone. And this. conversation is over, since you keep lobbing all the questions back to me.” She stood up and tossed down her napkin, wondering why it was suddenly so hard to breathe. Maybe it was his face, half in sun and half in shadows. Or maybe it was the way his eyes tracked her slightest movement. “Stop staring at me. And while you’re at it, stop doing that
other
sneaky thing you do.”

“Enjoy the sight of your smile? Savor the way sunlight touches your hair
?”

Her flush deepened. “You know exactly what I mean. I’m talking about how you watch me. How you slip down into my head and—well, see things.” Her hands tightened to fists. “Go ahead and deny it.”

“Do you want me to deny it?”

“All I want is the truth.”

Jared pushed slowly to his feet. “The truth could be more complicated than you or I like, Maggie. It might even carry a certain amount of danger. Are you prepared for that?”

He was deadly serious, she realized. “Why?” she said, from suddenly dry lips.

“Because answers always cost. Haven’t you learned that by now? You shape beauty in silver and platinum. You ask questions until the outlines come, and then you chase the dreams and pay the price afterward when your shoulders ache and your fingers are cut until they bleed.”

How could he know these things? How could he see what she had always hidden so well? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” His hand opened on her cheek. She felt the slow brush of his skin. She closed her eyes as longing rose in her, keen and sweet.

There had been other men. There had been other moments of wanting.

But none like this.

Never with all her nerves coming alive in a rush and her hands shaking. “You didn’t answer my question,” she rasped.

“You didn’t answer mine.”

Maggie managed a shrug. “Sometimes I pay. Sometimes my fingers hurt. It’s no more than I expect.”

His hand opened, tracing her cheek. “If I looked, I could find the scars. One from a soldering iron. One from a wire cutter that snapped.” His eyes narrowed. “And right now your neck hurts.” His palm slid beneath her hair, massaging knots of tension that Maggie hadn’t even been aware of until that moment.

A sigh escaped her lips
.
“There ought to be a law against you, MacNeill
.”
His hands moved in silence, and Maggie felt each movement pull her deeper. With a great effort, she managed to hold her body stiff. “Not that a law would change anything. The women of the world would simply look at you and ignore it.”

“I’m not interested in the women of the world.”

One eye cracked open. “You’re not?”

“Only in one of them. She argues as easily as she breathes. Someone with hair the color of warm honey.”

Maggie swallowed hard and fought for levity. “L-lucky girl.”

“I don’t think
she
sees it that way.”

“She probably has her reasons.” Maggie gave up the fight, leaning into his body and sighing with pleasure as he massaged her stiff shoulder. Without knowing how, she found her head settled on his shoulder and her hands at his waist while her body swayed closer. “This woman—this hypothetical woman,” she corrected quickly, “maybe she feels out of her league.”