Part 32 (1/2)

He shook his head.

”No?” she said.

”Not tonight.”

”Then why were you staring at me?”

He caught the innocent confusion in her eyes.

”I hate to admit to having feelings of a rather base inclination at the moment, but frankly, Miss Fraser, I was watching your hips, the machinations of the way you moved, and thinking I wanted nothing more to do with the dead, the old, the past. I find that my concern right now is extremely focused and has everything to do with the present. The immediate present. Dare I be cra.s.s? Madam, I was watching your a.s.s.”

The confusion left her eyes. She laughed softly, a breath of antic.i.p.ation, of excitement in the sound that stimulated every sensual essence in his being.

He drew her against him then, allowing his fingers to ripple down her back and form around her b.u.t.tocks as he drew her close. ”This is my castle, and as laird here, I do have the right to every s.e.xual fantasy known to man, as far as mind and place are concerned. Before the great hearth, in the kitchen, on the stair... But the place is filled with your a.s.sociates, and G.o.d knows, they may well wander at night. And, truthfully, stone is quite hard on the back and the bones, so...”

”You do have a great bed,” she mused.

”And you have a great--great a.s.sets,” he a.s.sured her teasingly.

She escaped his hold, scampering ahead of him up the main stairway. In the hallway of the upper landing, she waited, looking back. Her smile was still in place, her eyes bright, her hair like a halo in the dim light. He was rather certain that she had chosen the cotton gown with the full intention of getting him to show her the crypts that night, that she had worn it in case they had, indeed, run into any of her friends.

She couldn't know how the soft fabric molded to her with sheer seduction, or that he would find her as appealing in burlap. Or that, even standing in the hallway so, she could arouse him to a staggering heat and hunger.

She turned, heading for the room, and he caught up with her just as she plunged into it, drawing a little cry of surprise from her. With her in his arms, held against him, he kicked the door closed, turned and found his way to the bed. They fell heavily upon it, and in moments, were tangled together.

That night he loved everything about her. It wasn't just that she was made beautifully, with the right a.s.sets, curves, flesh, b.r.e.a.s.t.s, skin, face, lips, or her innate ability to use all to the most erotic levels. No. Her seduction was in her laughter, the husky, silver whisper of it, and her eyes, conveying an excitement, a thrill, that elicited a masculine response of ego, that sheer, pulsing, hard, desperate, devil-may-care arousal.

Neither her gown nor his clothing actually left their bodies as they came together in a wild clash of fabric and flesh that needed no play, for that had come before, in the simple act of getting up the stairs and closing the door. In a smile, in a whisper, in the sapphire pools of her eyes. That time.

Then there was laughter as they untangled themselves from wool and cotton, kicked away sheets so that they could be drawn back up. There were the jokes about kilts, more words whispered, the sweetness of being close in the aftermath, eyes touching again, hands against one another, naked flesh against naked flesh.

It occurred to him then, almost in a corner of his mind, that he never wanted her to leave. s.e.x was easy to come by. She was not. Only once before had he felt...

Not at all ready for them, he pushed such thoughts aside. And when he made love to her again, it was slow, painstakingly slow, for himself, and yet...his fingers idled over her flesh, teasing long before she turned back to him, snaked herself against his body, moved down against him, caused him to erupt to fire again.

He thought that it was late, very late when they lay together and started to drift to sleep. But just when the darkness was about to overtake him, he opened his eyes. He didn't know what he had heard, but he had been attuned for years to listening. And he had heard... something.

He rose carefully, silently, taking up his swatch of tartan and quickly wrapping it about himself. Bare chested, he silently opened the door and started along the hallway. His feet made no sound against the stone.

He came to the top of the stairs and looked down to the hall.

Nothing.

He shrugged. One of his guests must have arisen and then gone back to bed. Until he'd had his ”guests” here, he'd never even bothered to lock the great main doors, Ullingham had never really had such a thing as a crime ratio. None of the local teens would break in. If they were of that bent, they'd want to hit a store with a cash register. It was true, as well, that there were those who swore the place was haunted. Who wanted to chance the anger or vengeance of such a b.l.o.o.d.y legend as Bruce MacNiall?

He hesitated, then walked down the stairs. The doors were locked, as they had been when he and Ryan had come in after seeing to the stabling of the horses. So he walked back upstairs and slipped silently into the room, and next to Toni.

He pulled her against him. She sighed softly in her sleep. He let the silk and fragrance of her hair tease his nose, and he closed his eyes.

Toni didn't know why she awoke. She had been sound asleep, but suddenly she was wide-awake, staring. A chill gripped her. She wondered why, when she was in Bruce's arms, held tight against him.

She winced and stared toward the foot of the bed.

He was there.

That other Bruce. Come back, from a long ago time. He stood staring at her, his features hard and tense with what looked like sorrow.. .or concern. Fear. For her?

She exhaled. ”Not tonight!” she whispered out loud. ”Please, please, not tonight!”

She closed her eyes tightly, praying that the vision would go away. And when she opened her eyes, to her amazement, the vision was gone.

”Toni?”

The living Bruce, vital flesh and blood at her side, touched her, whispered her name. She snuggled more deeply against his chest. He absently stroked her hair.

They both slept.

*15*

Bruce's phone rang first thing in the morning. He reached over from the bed to find it, thinking it was in the pocket of his jeans. But he'd come in with the swatch of wool around him he'd used for the tour, and his jeans were around somewhere. Not wanting the sound to wake Toni, he stumbled up quickly, and went searching around to find them. He fell upon them, and after some swearing and mishap, found the phone and answered it.

”Bruce.” It was Jonathan.

”Aye, Jon, how are you?”

”Good, good. I've some information for you.”

”Oh?”

”Can you come to the office?”

”Sure.” Somewhat bleary-eyed, he tried to read his watch. It wasn't quite eight. ”There's nothing you just want to say over the phone, eh?”

Jonathan sighed. ”I'd rather you come in. What I've to say...well, I don't want to be coming there, and I think y'should come in.”

”All right. I'm just out of bed. Give me time to shower.” He rubbed his jaw. ”And shave.”

”I'll have coffee ready here,” Jonathan said.

He hung up and glanced over to the bed. Toni seemed to be sleeping deeply, and he was glad. He frowned slightly, worried about her.

Strange that she had known the outlay of the crypts. He kept the door locked--and always had. It was one thing for locals and tourists to wander into the castle area, but another entirely for someone to come in, trip down the spiral stairway and lie injured in the cold, damp corridor of the ancient and the dead. But there were certainly plenty of people who knew what the crypts looked like. And every man jack from the village to the surrounding miles knew that the ”great” Laird MacNiall lay at the end of a corridor, immortalized in marble by decree of the good old restored Stuart king, Charles II.

He showered, shaved and dressed quickly, quietly leaving Toni sleeping. As he closed the door behind him and hurried down the stairs, he could hear activity in the kitchen, but no one was in the great hall so he hurried on out and headed for his car. As he drove down the hill, he noticed the forest to his right, and felt again an anger and a conviction that they would eventually find the remains of Annie O'Hara there. And if they did not, she was there anyway, somewhere.

The remains of Annalise had gone undiscovered for centuries.

Parking, he looked up at the statue of his famous ancestor and shook his head. ”You know, old fellow, if you are somehow haunting my American la.s.s, I wish to b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l you'd stop!” he said, then became irritated with his own whimsy.

He strode on over to Jonathan's office. The constable was in his office, waiting for him.