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  “I know it’s not allowed. She doesn’t believe in ghosts or angels anyway. And yes, your help would be most appreciated. I am grateful to Lord Draycott for letting you come along to help me.” His form shimmered, picking up a silver glow as his spirits rose. “When do we get started?”

  The cat pranced forward, his head proudly erect.

  “You’re certain the portrait is still there?”

  Gideon’s gray tail flicked back and forth.

  “Maybe that will make them remember.” Terence smiled and whistled the first off-key notes of his favorite Neil Diamond song. It was an odd choice for an angel, but Gideon didn’t seem to mind.

  Then both figures vanished into the thick stone walls of the castle.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “A CHRISTMAS TABLEAU?”

  Ian scowled at his reflection in the bathroom’s full-length gilt mirror two hours later. Next door he heard the hiss of Jamee’s loom, just as he had for the last fifteen minutes.

  He couldn’t think of a more difficult time for Kara’s dinner to take place. He needed to focus on the threat to Jamee, not prance about in a Victorian costume.

  He bit off an oath as he fumbled with the ornate silk closing at the front of his smoking jacket, assigned to him personally by Kara. Ian only wished he’d had the heart to turn her down.

  The loom went still.

  When the door opened, Ian swung around, scowling. “Jamee, I don’t suppose you could help me with—”

  “Ian, I can’t get this blasted thing closed.”

  Jamee spoke at the same moment, a similar irritation on her face as she tugged at a row of tiny satin buttons that ran down the back of her lavender Victorian tea gown of lace and satin, also courtesy of Kara.

  The dress might have been made solely for her, Ian thought. The lace spilled over her shoulders and hugged her slender wrists. She would be a natural for the photo.

  And at least Jamee’s frown reassured him that he wasn’t alone in his frustration.

  “I don’t know how people wore these clothes,” she muttered, plucking vainly at her back.

  “Turn around,” Ian ordered. “They managed only because they had an army of servants who did nothing but get them in and out of the bloody things.”

  Jamee stood rigidly while he worked the tiny buttons into their closings. Ian didn’t tell her that he had seen his mother wear elaborate lace gowns similar to this one, her hair caught high and not a single strand out of place, even on a sweltering July afternoon. She had loved dressing up for ornate tea parties in Glenlyle’s gardens.

  He had also seen his fragile mother turn pale and hopeless as she waited for the Glenlyle curse to take its toll.

  “You’re sure that people actually wore these things? I thought maybe it was a huge hoax, something to put fear into little tomboys in torn pants.” Jamee lifted one arm, waving a voluminous leg-of-mutton chop sleeve of silk and lace. “Ridiculous.”

  Ian swatted her hand. “Cooperate here.”

  She shot him an irritated look over her shoulder. “I’m not very good at that, either.”

  Ian heard her mutter, but she made no more protests as he worked at forcing two dozen exasperating silken buttons through a row of minuscule holes. All the while, he tried to ignore how her hair fell warm and thick over his wrists. Her perfume, a spicy blend of citrus and roses, intrigued him.

  He cleared his throat. “Another perfume that you blend yourself?”

  “Adam came up with this one. I helped him a little, but it was mostly his creation.” Jamee gave a low chuckle. “I was all of eight and he was barely fifteen. We were going to run away from home and start our own cosmetics company.”

  Ian felt a smile tug at his lips. “What was the great injustice?”

  “I wanted a set of rockets that I could launch from the backyard with a remote detonator.”

  “May God preserve us,” Ian said faintly.

  “Nonsense. I was superb at calculating trajectories. Of course, there was that minor accident with our neighbor’s clothesline, but the lawsuit never came to anything.”

  Ian felt his smile growing larger. “What was your brother’s complaint?”

  “Oh, Adam wanted a red motorcycle. Something grand and expensive with chrome and real leather. My father absolutely forbade it in spite of weeks of arguing. So we packed ham sandwiches and a change of clothing in a hobo bag and ran away from home.”

  “How far did you get?”

  Jamee’s brow wrinkled. “I believe we got as far as the public library. The librarian happened to be an old friend of my mother’s. She was a very clever woman. As I recall, she never once commented on our being absent from school at eleven o’clock in the morning. She didn’t even ask about the bags we were carrying over our shoulders. She just ushered us into her private office as if it were the most normal thing in the world and gave us milk and cookies, then entertained us with the new editions of Boys’ Life which had come in.”

  “Sounds like heaven,” Ian said.

  “When my father came to get us, he managed to seem surprised to find us there.” Jamee chuckled. “What a pair of idiots we were.”

  As the last button closed, Ian caught her shoulders and turned her slowly. “On the contrary, you both sound perfectly wonderful. I think you must have been almost as enchanting as you are today.” He couldn’t keep his hands from running slowly down her arms, savoring the fragile lace beneath his fingers.

  “Is that so? And what were you doing up at that drafty castle when you were eight years old?”

  “Boring things.” His voice hardened. “Lonely things.”

  “Like what?”

  Like worrying about his bitter father and his silent mother, Ian thought. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me,” Jamee said.

  “Why?” Ian didn’t want to ask but he couldn’t help himself.

  She stood very still, her eyes huge and luminous. “I suppose the fact that you have a beautiful mouth wouldn’t be reason enough?”

  Ian smiled crookedly. “I don’t have a beautiful mouth. Lairds of Glenlyle—”

  Jamee rose onto her toes and kissed him before he could say more. Her hands circled his neck and she made a small, lost sound as their lips met hungrily. Her tongue eased against his, heat to heat, until Ian’s heart felt in serious danger of slamming out of his chest. When he pulled away, he was glad to see that Jamee was almost as breathless as he was.

  “Don’t expect me to apologize,” Jamee said defiantly. “I liked that and so did you.”

  Ian didn’t try to deny it. The woman never did what he expected. “Now what?”

  “We go down for this dinner Hidoshi is going to shoot.”

  Just like that, Ian thought. Over and done with. If only his unruly body could agree.

  Turning away, Jamee shoved at the door, frowning. “It’s locked.”

  “What do you mean it’s locked?”

  “Just what I said. The blasted door is locked.”

  “That’s not possible. The lock is on this side.” Ian gripped the doorknob and twisted hard.

  Nothing moved. He put his shoulder to the door frame and heaved again, without the slightest effect.

  Ian crouched on the floor in front of the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to see if the key dropped on the other side.” He pressed his face to the floor and peered under the narrow crack at the bottom of the door.

  “Well?”

  “I can’t see a damn thing.”

  “Then why don’t you yell?”

  Ian’s brow rose. “Why don’t you yell?”

  Jamee smiled sweetly at him. “Because delicate ladies in enchanting Victorian gowns don’t bellow for help.”

  “And Victorian gentlemen in expensive smoking jackets do?”

  “I expect they did a great deal of bellowing,” Jamee said. “Most of the time they were convinced that the servants were cheating them. The rest of the time
they were probably afraid that their wives were cheating on them. Yes, I guarantee that Victorian gentlemen had a great deal of practice at bellowing.”

  Ian stood up and glared at the door.

  “Your jacket is all dusty,” Jamee said helpfully. “And two of your frogs have come undone.”

  “I don’t give a damn about my frogs,” he snapped.

  Jamee clicked her tongue and reached up to straighten the thick braided silk at his chest. There was a wicked gleam in her eyes as Ian looked down at her. A moment later, he realized she was not closing, but opening.

  “Blast it, Jamee, what are you doing?” He felt her fingers slide under the thick velvet and open over his chest.

  “So Victorian gentlemen wore nothing beneath their jackets, did they? It makes the velvet sinfully warm from your body.” Her fingers parted the heavy velvet and she planted kisses down his chest. “I can feel every muscle.”

  “Is this retaliation for this afternoon?” Ian said hoarsely. “Because I gave you orders?”

  “I think it might be.”

  It was effective retaliation. Ian was certain he was going to explode at any second. Then he decided his own retaliation was in order.

  He caught Jamee’s wrists and kissed the pulse that hammered beneath her delicate skin. His mouth found hers hungrily. “You taste like cinnamon,” he muttered.

  “You taste like tea and apples. I could get to like the taste.” Her tongue teased the sensitive corner of his mouth.

  Damn Kara’s dinner party, Ian thought blindly. He wanted Jamee now while desire hazed her eyes. He wanted her laughing, pliant and happy, beneath his fingers.

  When Ian looked down, Jamee was staring at him, a smile on her lips. “We’ll be late for the dinner photos,” she said raggedly. “Not that I didn’t like every second.”

  Ian’s fingers tightened. He wanted to nip her bottom lip, to plunge his hands into her hair and bury himself in her sweetness. A part of him long closed away sprang growling to life. Looking at Jamee, he wanted things he couldn’t need, things she couldn’t give. But logic meant nothing to the hungry creature staring out of Ian’s eyes now. “You look like an angel in that dress.”

  “I’m not an angel. I’m a woman, Ian. I won’t shatter or run away.” She took a slow, uncertain breath. “And I won’t quit.”

  “You won’t quit what?”

  Her smile was crooked. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  God give him strength, Ian thought.

  “I didn’t want to want you,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to look at you and need you until I hurt with it. You tell me the rules, Ian. Right now my body just doesn’t seem to listen.”

  Pain came in many different forms, Ian discovered at that moment, and his own body wasn’t exactly answering to any rules. He took a long breath and wished she wasn’t so vibrant, so honest.

  So beautiful.

  “The first rule is, we open that door,” he said.

  The door rattled once. Abruptly the bolt turned and the lock slid free.

  “Did you see that?” Jamee asked breathlessly.

  Ian wished he hadn’t, because it made no sense. He shoved open the door, his face hard. If this was one of the models’ idea of a joke…

  But there was no one in the corridor.

  “Maybe it was the wind?” Jamee whispered. “After all, in a castle this size there must be gaps in the stone. Holes for a draft…” Her voice trailed away.

  “No holes could let in a wind strong enough to throw an iron bolt,” Ian said grimly. He pointed to the solid piece of lead pulled back from the lock.

  “Then what do you think it was?”

  Ian hadn’t the slightest idea. Scowling, he fumbled with the silk closings on his jacket, then took Jamee’s arm. Until he did know, he was going to assign one of the backup team to the corridor outside their bedroom.

  Just in case.

  But first, they had a Victorian dinner to attend.

  AS JAMEE AND IAN walked down to dinner, lights gleamed from the walls, outlining rows of portraits and old tapestries. The tapestries were in good shape, considering that they were over three hundred years old. In fact, everything about Dunraven Castle was in excellent condition, Jamee decided.

  She was careful not to look at Ian, who was walking beside her, though she wanted to do nothing else. Instead she focused on Dunraven Castle, where every room was filled with memories and Highland history. The great house was bright with the love of generations of men and women who had made the castle their home.

  Jamee tried to ignore a heaviness in her chest. She wanted that same kind of love, a bright net of joy that would fill the four walls of her home, whether that home was a boat moored by an obscure Pacific island or a shack in the hill country of Thailand. All that mattered was being with the man she loved.

  Jamee wanted the intensity of sharing that came body to body in the night with a man who wanted the same from her. She wanted fingers twined and hearts slamming while desire became a storm in the blood. And after that, she wanted dogs and cats and the laughter of noisy children, along with the quiet pleasure of seeing family traditions passed down to another generation.

  What she wanted, Jamee decided, was Ian.

  But Ian was a stranger now, a man with a mission, all humor submerged as he focused ruthlessly on his job.

  And she was the job. A job that might at any moment cost him his life.

  Maybe Adam was right. Maybe she should go back to the States. At least that would put Ian out of danger.

  She looked up and realized they were on the far side of the castle. Deep oak beams were sunk into walls of four-foot stone. “Where are we going?”

  “To find a portrait Duncan mentioned. Since you’re a weaver, I thought you might like to see Maire MacKinnon.”

  A gust of cold air feathered over Jamee’s cheek. The name seemed to echo in her head. “Who is she?”

  “One of Duncan’s ancestors. She had a rare skill with the loom, it’s said. She designed the original MacKinnon hunting plaid, according to family legend.”

  Jamee should have looked forward to seeing the face of such a woman. She should have been eager to make her way through the shadows cast by sconces high on the thick walls.

  But something held her back, making her breath come fast.

  Ian took a sharp curve and pushed open a door nearly hidden against a wall of wooden paneling. “I think it’s in here.”

  Jamee didn’t move, her hand on the cold wood.

  “What is it?”

  Jamee tried to shake her sense of dread. “I must be tired. Maybe we’d better go back.”

  Ian frowned and switched on a switch, bathing the narrow alcove beyond the door in golden light. “The portrait is right here. I’d forgotten all about it until Duncan mentioned it.”

  As if in a dream, Jamee moved in front of the tall painting. She saw a mane of red-gold hair and eyes of smoky green. She saw a woman of pride and grace smiling gravely while one hand rested on a length of brightly patterned wool.

  The image blurred before Jamee’s eyes and then seemed to move. In the portrait one slender hand rose, outstretched as if in a plea.

  Or a warning.

  Suddenly Jamee couldn’t breathe. The stone walls closed in on her, dark and threatening. She heard the stamp of horses’ hooves and felt the bite of windblown snow as a line of angry men set off to war.

  She closed her eyes, gripped by a blinding sense of loss. In her head the portrait seemed to gleam, haunting in its beauty, a puzzle she should have been able to solve, but couldn’t.

  She panted, fighting the heavy shadows of the past that clung to this deserted corner of the castle.

  Then Ian’s hands were in her hair and she was caught against his chest. The words he said were low and almost familiar though Jamee realized they had to be Gaelic.

  She made a soft, broken sound as she felt the heat of his hands, the hard, reassuring outline of his shoulders.

  �
��Don’t go,” she whispered wildly. “You won’t come back this time. I’ll wait, but you won’t return. I can hear it in the wind.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Jamee. I’m sorry I brought you to see that bloody portrait.”

  Jamee turned her face against his chest, unable to forget the sight of Maire MacKinnon’s haunted eyes. When Ian lifted her into his arms, Jamee made no protest. The shadows were too close, too painful. She couldn’t understand their power.

  Or she didn’t want to understand.

  Ian carried her back to their bedroom. “You’re staying here and resting. I’ll bring your dinner up on a tray,” Ian said in a tone that allowed no argument as he laid her on the big bed.

  Jamee felt the lace gown ease from her shoulders. A damask coverlet slid over her. “Don’t go,” she whispered, suddenly feeling unwelcome, an intruder within Dunraven’s cold, beautiful halls.

  “I’ll be here,” Ian said, his head bent close. “Don’t worry. And I’ll have Angus come up to watch outside our door.”

  But when darkness pooled round Jamee, fear pounded in her veins like the beat of angry drums and horses on a lonely winter hillside. As her head sank back, Jamee gripped Ian’s hands and felt the sad eyes of Maire MacKinnon follow her down into restless dreams.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN they got away again?” Ian glared at Duncan over the cluttered desk of solid marble. “You told me the constable had traced the motorcycles to a cottage up the coast.”

  Duncan sighed and rubbed his neck. “He tried. Fergus Montgomerie knows these hills as well as any man.”

  “Then what went wrong?” Ian demanded.

  “The tracks simply vanished. They stopped at a cove not six kilometers from here.”

  “So they had a boat moored.” Ian muttered a curse. “They could be anywhere by now.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Ian looked across the glen toward the stone circle. “Bad. Very bad.”

  “You’re safe here,” Duncan said firmly. “No strangers will get in or out.”

  “There are other concerns,” Ian said after a moment.

  “Your vision?”