Timeless (37 page)

Her blue eyes looked dark and intent as they settled on his face. “But?”

“You’ve experienced the power they offer. Do you believe you can open yourself to them without wanting more?” he asked.

“I don’t want their power, Quinn. I want to protect Coira and Braden. I want to save Bryce.”

“And why is that, Regan? Why do you think the urge to try and save them all is so strong?”

She fell silent for a moment. “Because I’m part of her and she’s part of me. There’s something important she needs me to do.”

He studied her face. “More important then you and me?”

“No.” She shook her head. Sitting up she drew the sheet up more securely over her breasts and leaned her shoulder against the headboard.

God, she was a picture with her wild curling hair cupping her head, those exotic dark eyes and her mouth berry red from their lovemaking. He grew hard again.

“I have to do what I can to help her, Quinn.”

Hiking the sheet up over his lap, he shoved a pillow against the headboard and sat up against it. “And what if we have to save ourselves instead? Could you walk away from the monoliths? Could you walk away from her?”

“I’ve wanted to. After you were trapped in the magnetic field—I wanted to leave, to get as far away from the site as I could. I wanted us both to.”

“And then?”

“I thought of the bigger picture. What it would mean to you, to Great Britain and Scotland in particular if Nicodemus succeeds.” She drew her knees up to her chest, the sheet tenting over them. “Have you ever heard of the Trail of Tears?”

Had she asked about any part of his own country’s history he might have been able to offer her chapter and verse. Quinn shook his head.

“In 1838 the United States government decided that there was gold beneath the land held by the Cherokee people in Northern Georgia. Congress ratified a treaty between the government and the Cherokee people that gave President Andrew Jackson the power to confiscate their land. Soldiers moved in to take possession of the property. They gathered all the Native Americans together and held them prisoner in stockades until they decided what to do with them. Bad food and living conditions weakened and killed many of them. After the Indians were close to starvation, the government decided they’d move them to Oklahoma to a reservation.”

“The army force marched them across the country eight hundred and fifty miles. Four thousand Cherokee died, either imprisoned or along the way. The US government nearly decimated a people who had lived in peace with their white neighbors for nearly a hundred years, all in the name of financial gain.”

“’Twas just gold at stake. This is much more,” Quinn said as he drew her against his side. “Nicodemus is desperate for a cure. Should he discover how to use the monoliths, should anyone discover how to use them, the rest of the world will converge on Scotland like a plague.”

Quinn raked his hair back and tipped his head against the headboard. “As strong a diplomatic power as Great Britain is, we haven’t the military power to hold off the rest of the world. Your country would step in to defend us, but the real reason would be so they could get a shot at using the henge, too. The whole thing could escalate into another world war.”

His arm tightened around her. “There isn’t a country on earth powerful enough to control the henge. Man, as a species, isn’t ready for this.” He leaned back to look down at her.

Her eyes looked so dark a blue they were almost black. Her brows lay like dark wings against the paleness of her skin. He wanted to make love to her again instead of—He had no reason to say it. She knew what he was getting at.

The satisfaction he gained from just the idea of leveling the fuckers lightened his mood. Was it payback he sought for the wrongs he sensed they’d caused in times past? Or was it because with them gone, Regan would no longer be drawn to an obsession begun seven hundred years before? He didn’t know, but he wanted them gone.

*****

Regan’s gaze drifted to Quinn’s face, set in concentration as he read from a diary dated from the early 1300. Was he truly thinking of destroying the henge? Was that what he’d meant by that long level look? It would be viewed as a terrorist action. He’d spend the rest of his days in jail. She shook her head. No. Never. She wouldn’t allow it to escalate to that point. She’d find an answer.

They had two hours to get as much work done as possible before they had to catch their flight to Inverness. They’d never make it.

Regan pulled the ledger she was studying closer to her. The sound of someone clearing his throat came from just over her left shoulder. She glanced back as Geoffrey Morgan glided closer.

“Ms. Stanhope, there is another party who has reserved some materials that could correlate to the information you have been looking for. I thought once they have returned them to the racks you might want to reserve them. One is a personal diary of a clergyman. It is dated between 1316 and 1318. The other is a group of letters received by the same priest during that time.”

Regan’s brows rose as excitement leapt through her jumpstarting her heart to a faster rhythm. “This priest’s name wouldn’t happen to be Nathrach?”

Morgan’s brows rose. “Yes, it is.”

Regan glanced at Quinn to find him listening to their conversation. “For how long are they reserved?” she asked.

“Until tomorrow noon. The person who reserved them hasn’t come in yet to look through them.”

Disappointment dropped like a heavy weight into her stomach. “We’ve only two more hours before we have to fly back to Inverness, Mr. Morgan.”

His features settled into sympathetic lines. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you can return soon and view the book and letters.”

“Is there any way that we could look at them now, since the person who has reserved them hasn’t arrived yet?”

“Once materials are pulled specifically for someone they are not allowed to be shared unless said person does so on their own.”

Regan drew a deep breath. Her responsibilities at the dig ensured it might be weeks before she could make another trip to Edinburgh, if she were even able to before she left Scotland. They needed the materials now.

“I’ll be leaving Scotland the first week in August, Mr. Morgan. I have just over a month. And I probably won’t have another opportunity to come back.”

His features settled into solemn lines of regret. “I’m really sorry, Miss Stanhope.”

She nodded. “I understand.” She thrust her hair back from her face with both hands, frustration creating pressure inside her head and chest. It would have been better had he never mentioned the materials. Then she wouldn’t know she’d missed anything. An idea occurred to her. Why had Dr. Fraser called them back almost before they had arrived? Neither of them was indispensable. Was she just being paranoid?

“Mr. Morgan,” she said as he shifted to leave her.

Morgan looked back over his shoulder at her. “Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you can tell me the name of the person who reserved the materials?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“What day were the materials reserved?”

“Wednesday.”

The day they had left the dig to catch their flight and they had come directly to the National Archives the next morning. Would he react if she should guess correctly whom the person was who called and reserved the materials? “There were people at the dig who knew I was coming here.”

His brows rose.

“Sebastian Nicodemus, Andrew Argus, and Dr. Fergus Fraser all knew.”

Morgan gaze dropped to the floor and his lean frame grew completely still as though in thought. “Dr. Fraser is well known here. He often reserves materials.”

So it was Fraser. Was there something in the book and letters he didn’t want them to see? Or was it just a coincidence he’d reserved the materials?

What kind of repercussions would they experience if they postponed leaving Edinburgh?

She was already on rocky footing with the head of the dig. A nudge one way or the other, and she could find herself on a plane bound for home. Regan bit her bottom lip. To be so close—She blinked rapidly to assuage the tears that blurred her vision.

“I appreciate your telling me about the resources, Mr. Morgan.”

Quinn leaned across the table. “There’s a small airfield a couple of hours drive or so from Loch Maree, Regan. We could rent a small plane and fly in for just a few hours so we could see the books another time.”

She shook her head. “This will be the only time I have away from the dig.” If Fraser had deliberately blocked them from seeing the books, the chances he’d allow her enough time away from her responsibilities to return and see them were slim to none.

“I’m sorry, Miss Stanhope,” Morgan said, regret in his expression.

She nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

Her gaze shifted to Quinn. “We’ll never know what he said about them. He may have survived the earthquake and recorded what happened afterward, and we’ll never know.”

“Once the dig is finished, I’ll come back and copy the whole damn book,” Quinn said.

Were all these suspicions she experienced part of her own paranoia? And what had set off those feelings to begin with? The call for their return? Or the screw that had been tampered with on the RV recovery frame? Who had been responsible for that?

“Did you ever get in touch with Dr. Fraser?” she asked.

“No.” I’ve tried several times and his cell goes to voice mail.”

“What if he wasn’t the one who left us the message, Quinn?”

“Who else would call and leave a message in his name? Nicodemus wouldn’t have to, nor would Andrew Argus.”

“Someone who had access to his phone. What did Rob or Logan say?”

“Fraser has been out of pocket for the last few days, and they haven’t been able to run him down.”

Regan frowned. “Then why would he want us back?”

“Stop vacillating, lass. You know what you want to do.”

Yes she did. “I’m not going until I get to see that diary.”

Quinn grinned and shoved back his chair. “I’ll go inform Morgan.”

Regan stared down at the ledger she held. She may have just ruined her career before it had even begun. Screw it.

“Regan Stanhope?”

A voice came from beside her and she looked up. A man about forty-five with dark intense eyes and a deep cleft in his chin loomed beside her. Another man slightly younger stood behind his shoulder. The military bearing of the two, the seriousness of their expression, kicked her heart into a panicked rhythm.

“Yes.”

The man flipped open a small leather folder a little larger than a playing card. “I’m DCI Ian Gordon and this is DS Keith.” He tossed his head back toward the younger man.

Should she know what that meant? Regan reached for the folder and holding it, she studied it. “Oh, you’re police.”

Her parents, something had happened to her parents. All the strength seemed to drain from her limbs, and her face grew numb. She half rose from her chair, but her legs didn’t want to work. She braced herself against the table. “Oh my God. What’s happened? Are my parents all right?”

“What’s wrong, Regan? What’s happened?” Quinn asked, his tone sharp, a frown creasing his brow.

Gordon laid a wide hand on her shoulder for a brief moment, his expression easing into a less serious mode. “Easy, Miss Stanhope. As far as we know, your parents are fine.”

Thank God. Regan brushed a shaky hand over her forehead and remembered the gloves she wore. She drew several steadying breaths to fight back the instant sting of tears. “I just thought-they send police to notify you of accidents here, too, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do. But Detective Sergeant Keith and I are with the Criminal division of the Edinburgh Police Department. We’re working in conjunction with the Rosewell Constabulary.”

“Yes.” Her mind moved slowly as she tried to take in what he was explaining.

Gordon looked around the room. “Why don’t we all sit down,” he suggested.

Regan’s gaze slashed to Quinn as he took a seat next to hers. What was going on? Her legs gave out as she sat down. Her right knee bobbed with nerves.

“You had an appointment with a Dr. Joyce Reinhart yesterday?”

Had she called the police on them? “Yes, I did.”

“What time was that appointment?”

“Four-thirty.” Regan fought the urge to look at Quinn.

Gordon turned his attention to Quinn. “And you sir, who are you?”

“Quinn Douglas.”

“Did you accompany Miss Stanhope to her appointment?”

“Yes, I did. What’s this about?”

“Had you met Dr. Reinhart before your appointment yesterday, Miss Stanhope?”

“No,” Regan said.

Gordon looked to Quinn and he shook his head. “No.”

Gordon glanced at his partner and something passed between them.

“Mr. Douglas. Would you mind coming with me for a moment while my partner speaks with Miss Stanhope?” DS Keith asked.

Quinn’s gaze moved to Regan and, though his expression looked grave, he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. He rose to accompany the detective out of the room.

Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Regan searched Gordon’s features, trying to read what was going on behind the mask. His level gaze sent a spike of anxiety racing through her. The aftereffects of the adrenaline rush she’d experienced moments before made her gloved hands tremble. She folded them before her.

Gordon’s expression settled into reassuring lines. “If it’s not too personal, Miss Stanhope, why did you contact Dr. Reinhart?”

Regan hesitated. What was she to say? She couldn’t lie. “I’ve been having dreams, nightmares. I thought she might be able to help me with them.”

He nodded. “What time was it you left her house?”

“I’m not sure. I was very tired after the session.” Regan studied the gloves she still wore and pulled them free a finger at a time and set them aside. How long were they there? “Close to six. Maybe five forty-five.”

“This is very important, Miss Stanhope. When you left, did you see anyone hanging about?”

Something horrible had happened to the doctor, more horrible than witnessing one of her fugue states. Her head had been pounding and the exhaustion had been dragging at her limbs. The yard had stretched out before them, and the late afternoon sun had shone on the sidewalk making her eyes hurt. “No, I didn’t see anyone.”