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  Ian’s fingers tightened on the windowsill. A tiny silver angel with lacy white wings trembled at the movement of his hand. Ian stared at the porcelain features while the room filled with silence. “I knew this time would come, Duncan. My concern now is how long I have left.”

  Duncan sank into the worn leather chair at his desk. “What do the doctors say?”

  “The progress is unpredictable. They call it slow atrophy of the optical nerve and they can’t give any timetable, I’m afraid.” He stood motionless, staring at the lacy wings of white.

  Duncan’s hands slammed down against the desk. “I don’t see how you can be so bloody calm about this.”

  Ian smiled bitterly. “I’m not calm. I’ve just had thirty years to get used to the idea. Don’t forget, I’ve watched two relatives succumb to the Glenlyle curse already.”

  Duncan made a flat, angry sound. “I don’t believe in curses carried down over time, dammit. Neither should you.”

  Ian turned slowly. Light filtered over his strong features, pitching half his face into shadow. “Yet you believe in the story of the piper and the legends about Rose Cottage. I’d say you have superstitions enough of your own here at Dunraven, my friend.”

  Duncan sighed. “That’s different.”

  “Is it?” Ian stared out at the leaden waves of the sea. “History is all around us, Duncan. Like it or not, we walk with shadows. Those shadows touch us every day, in mind and in body. It’s not weakness to acknowledge that.”

  “But—” The phone on the desk rang shrilly, cutting off Duncan in midsentence. He swept up the phone. “Dunraven here.”

  He listened for several seconds and nodded. “I see. Yes, of course. He’s right here.” Duncan handed over the phone. “It’s Adam Night. He wants to talk with you.”

  Adam spoke first. “How is my sister, Mr. McCall?”

  “She’s safe.”

  Adam breathed in relief. “Have the men been traced yet?”

  “I’m afraid they were lost. Apparently, they were very well informed about Jamee’s itinerary. The whole operation was carefully planned. They even had alternate transport waiting to get them off the island.”

  Silence stretched out as Ian’s words sank in. “If you’re implying that someone close to Jamee is involved, you’re crazy. Only Bennett, William and I knew her itinerary.”

  “Is that so? And I suppose you also made her travel arrangements. You even purchased her tickets and arranged for her rental car. I suppose you saw that her passport was up-to-date and her immunizations in order, too,” Ian continued.

  “No, of course not. Nightingale Electronics has an in-house travel agency to handle all those arrangements.” Adam cursed softly. “And any one of them could have slipped the information to an accomplice, is that it? That means, dozens of people could be implicated.”

  “Exactly,” Ian said harshly. “I want you to make a list of everyone who had access to Jamee’s schedule. Friends, family and business associates, I want them all. I don’t care how casual or how innocent, each one is to be checked out. And you’re going to have to be discreet. Until we have more information, we have to assume that any one of them might be involved.”

  “There’s one other possibility. We’ve been checking it out from our end as soon as we heard.” There was a rustle of papers and Adam cleared his throat. “One of the men involved in Jamee’s kidnapping seven years ago had a brother. He was only a boy at the time, but the two were very close. He was recently in jail for passing forged checks, but he was released for good behavior. After that, he vanished. We only found his location because he was wanted for back alimony payments. According to his ex-wife, he was headed for Scotland.”

  “Then go get him,” Ian said curtly.

  “We tried. The people at your end haven’t exactly been helpful. Apparently two pieces of paperwork were missing, and they refused to order a trace until every document was received.”

  “I’ll put all the resources of Security International on it,” Ian said. “Our government contacts are good, but our police connections are even better,” he said with a grim smile. “We’ll have the man within three days.” He touched the knotted length of rope in his pocket. “I have a feeling we’ll find out that he or one of his compatriots has a Navy background.”

  “What makes you say that?” Adam asked.

  Ian pulled the knotted rope from his pocket, studying it silently. He tested the cut end with one finger. “Because I found a knotted length of rope in the front seat of their car and I doubt it was a coincidence. Have your people check to see if the kidnapper’s brother served in the Navy.”

  “I’ll get right on it. Any fingerprints on the rope?”

  “Rope is a notoriously bad medium for oil impressions.”

  Three thousand miles away Adam Night cursed graphically. “Should I send you some backup, Glenlyle? Maybe even come myself? I’ve done some tracking in my day,” he said tightly. “The moors can’t be any rougher than the high desert.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Your presence would only add to Jamee’s anxiety.”

  Adam made a sound of disbelief. “She obviously trusts you. You must be amazingly persuasive, Glenlyle. The last man assigned to her security lasted about two hours, as I recall.”

  “Jamee’s no fool. She knows this is the real thing, not some vague possibility. Besides, we have an understanding. I do whatever is necessary to keep her safe.”

  “And what does Jamee do?” Adam asked curiously.

  “Jamee…gets irritated, acts stubborn and becomes thoroughly aggravating,” Ian said. But there was a smile in his voice he didn’t bother to hide.

  “I see,” Adam Night said slowly. There was a pause. “Keep me posted. My brothers and I are at your disposal. If you feel it’s advisable, we can leave at a moment’s notice.”

  “I appreciate that,” Ian said, “but to be blunt, right now your participation here would only complicate things.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I’m paid to be certain,” Ian said. “Besides, I have a few surprises of my own planned.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’d rather not go into detail,” Ian said calmly. “The fewer people who know, the better.”

  “Dammit, Glenlyle, you’re not suggesting that one of us is involved?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Night. I’m simply doing my job the best way I know how. And if you need to get in touch with Jamee or me, you can arrange it through Duncan.” His face was hard as he put down the phone.

  “We won’t be down for dinner,” Ian said to Duncan. “Make our apologies, will you?”

  “Of course. You both could use some rest.”

  “Jamee sleeps even more fitfully than I do,” Ian muttered. “Duncan, what can you tell me about the portrait of Maire MacKinnon in the north wing?”

  “Not much. It was commissioned by her father just before he announced her betrothal to one of the Forbes clan. But she vanished a fortnight before the wedding was to take place. She was never seen again. Her father believed…” Duncan looked uncomfortable.

  “Believed what?”

  “You know there was no love lost between MacKinnon and McCall in those days. Her father claimed her death was your clan’s doing. I’m sure it was just the ravings of a grief-stricken man. The legends about the curse laid on your family could have begun from that tragedy.”

  Ian shook his head. “Something about the portrait bothered Jamee. Hell, it did a lot more than bother her. She acted like she’d seen a ghost.”

  “The result of stress?” Duncan suggested. “This has to be bloody hard on her.”

  “Maybe.” Ian strode to the door. “I’ve left Angus outside our room. Until this is over, I want one of us with her at all times. The backup team could handle the daily protection, but I don’t want her to feel anxious around a stranger.”

  “Very thoughtful of you,” Duncan said slowly. “Does this mean, you might actually be ready to admit you
r feelings for Jamee?”

  Ian’s hand closed hard over the oak door frame. “Right now any feelings I have are a liability. They could throw off my timing and cloud my judgment. Either thing would put Jamee further at risk.” His hand fell to his side. “I can’t, Duncan.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  Ian made a bitter sound and found himself cursing that he hadn’t met Jamee Night five years earlier. “Sometimes the two are the same.”

  THE HILLS ROLLED AWAY to the north, brown merging into a deeper blue beneath gray, racing clouds. As he stood at the high-arched window in the Blue Bedroom, Ian saw the remnants of an ancient barrow built centuries ago by the first MacKinnon inhabitants of Dunraven. Somewhere beyond that, in the curve of the highest hill, lay the old stone circle where he and Jamee had hidden from their pursuers. Everywhere the hand of time lay heavy. Here, as at Glenlyle, history walked among them with all its shadows and the hint of old voices.

  For a moment, colors flashed before Ian’s eyes. He watched the clouds blur for a split second while pain raced across his forehead.

  The curse.

  For ten generations the legend had dogged the McCalls. There was always the awareness in the eyes of the villagers at Glenlyle, although they worked hard to hide it whenever Ian was present. Every man and woman knew the story and the curse laid down so long ago.

  Again the pain tore at his eyes, setting off streaks of color while the words of the curse echoed in his mind.

  On the first night of the first moon of the new year, the laird of Glenlyle shall see no more. The pain he has dealt shall return full force until his eyes are hollows of darkness.

  There was no shaking or evading the old curse. Ian had seen too many of his ancestors stricken in their prime by the illness that had no cure.

  His turn would come soon.

  Clouds billowed over the northern hills, and Ian felt a wisp of cold that always struck when he thought of the ancient curse. For generations, the blindness had come to every eldest son, penance for some ancient betrayal of a local woman.

  Ian ran a hand over his eyes, wondering when the next wave of pain would strike. Twice in the last week his vision had blurred, and each episode was more severe than the last.

  The reason was lost in the mists that veiled the glen. Some said that generations before, a laird of Glenlyle had lain with his lover inside a circle of stones, pledging his faith to her for eternity. But the world had intruded and the laird had cast his eyes higher in marriage. The lover was betrayed. One moonlit midnight, she had climbed to the cliffs above the sea where the water churned against the rocky beach. There, within sight of Glenlyle’s dark walls, she had thrown herself from the highest ridge, laying her curse on the eldest Glenlyle son for eternity.

  There were many such stories in the Highlands, where every tor and broch seemed to hold a tragic past. But the facts could not be denied. Three specialists had examined Ian’s eyes in London and each had confirmed the diagnosis: idiopathic degeneration of the optic nerve. In layman’s terms, a disease of unexplained origin and unknown cure, leading irrevocably to blindness.

  In other words, the Glenlyle curse had claimed its next son.

  Ian had nothing solid to give to Jamee, no future or stability. He had planned for the day his vision failed, refusing to dwindle into a useless relic. If he could not be a positive asset to the castle, contributing to its upkeep, then he meant to sell Glenlyle.

  Lightning crackled far out over the sea, stabbing the heavy gray sky. Ian made his only Christmas wish then, praying that he would not lose his sight until Jamee’s pursuers were behind bars.

  Across the room Jamee moved restlessly. Ian watched her tuck one hand beneath her pillow and sigh. For now, her dreams were calm, without pain or dark memories. Tonight, she would not walk, for he would stay close to protect her. Vibrant, unpredictable, she would set a man on his ear and shake up every second of his life. Was Ian brave enough to ask her to consider sharing his future and the uncertainties it would bring?

  He ran his fingers over his eyes and frowned. There would be time enough to worry about the future once he had made certain Jamee was safe.

  After checking the door and nodding to the backup-protection officer on duty in the corridor, Ian went back to the window. Rain struck the pane as he wondered what Jamee had seen in the portrait that had left her so frightened. Was it the regret in Maire MacKinnon’s eyes?

  FROST CLUNG to the hard soil. A pair of crows screamed as they darted over the dark hills. Smoke rose in puffs from the roof of the cottage at the top of the glen, where light shone golden from two windows.

  Inside Maire MacKinnon sang beneath her breath, her hands plunged deep into a cauldron of pungent dye. The rich brown skin of walnuts and the dry husks of onions topped her long oak table, piled next to elderberries and madder. The red yarns were finished, bright as roses where they hung to dry before the fire. Nearby lay skeins of tan and gold that shimmered like a dawn in mist.

  Only the green tasked her, and the green would be the most important in the cloth she was soon to weave. Green required indigo, rare and precious, the dye of kings. Maire had tried every other source, plant and berry, but none carried the deep tones of indigo. The rare blue powder came from far to the east, in lands of heat and jungle, and after months of searching, Maire had finally found a merchant returned from the Crusades who could sell her one precious handful of the rare ingredient.

  It had cost her dearly, she thought, studying the dark dye held in a tiny box of ivory. But indigo would stain her wool as nothing else could, and when mixed with ochre would provide the perfect green for her plaid.

  She hesitated a moment. The wind changed and smoke filtered back down the chimney. A storm was coming, she sensed. The wind had gusted all morning and now the air held the smell of snow.

  She wondered if Coll would find his way free and gallop across the glen to her tonight. She hid a smile as she returned to her work. She must be done well before he came, for her weaving was a surprise not to be revealed until the dawn of Christmas day.

  The dried strands of wool slid through her fingers. She savored each texture, knowing the thick, oiled wool would keep Coll warm in his wandering. He would be the finest figure of all his clan when he rode out from the gates of Glenlyle Castle, his great sword in hand.

  Maire shivered, feeling a sudden premonition of dread. The MacKinnons and the MacColls had been at war for years. Should Coll’s father learn where his son found haven on cold winter nights, he would take steps to end the affair by any means.

  Maire frowned, watching sparks shoot from a wedge of burning peat. Her own father would feel the same fury, she knew. But her heart had driven her out of Dunraven’s walls, away to this cottage where she could ply her shuttle in solitude. Or so she told her kin.

  It was also because the deserted hills would bear no tales of the man who pulled her laughing into his arms.

  Smoke gusted down the chimney. The door rattled, as if ghostly fingers sought their way inside. Maire murmured a prayer of protection and crossed herself quickly as the door was flung open and broad shoulders filled the frame.

  “So shocked to see me, are you?” Coll’s voice boomed out as he caught her up in his arms. “Expecting another braw warrior, were you?”

  “’Tis only one man I wait for, and well you know it, Coll of Glenlyle.”

  “So I do, my sweet Maire.” He buried his hands in her hair, his lips to her white brow. “Thoughts of nothing else have tormented me every second since I left you. You are a MacKinnon, daughter of my clan foe, and we are forever forbidden to touch. But my blood burns for you, fierce beyond denying. What shame could there be in a pleasure so fine as this?”

  His hands tightened. Already he was working the bright sash from her waist.

  “Coll, stop,” she rasped. “You must be hungry, and we have yet to talk—”

  “’Tis hungry I am, but only for your sweetness, Maire.” He released the cords from her mantle o
f patterned wool and freed her brooch of beaten silver.

  Her eyes darkened. “How is it I can never say you nay?”

  “Because we are meant for this joining, fated to be bound in our two souls,” Coll said fiercely. He caught her in his arms, and there before the peat fire, he laid her down on a bed of bright wool and dried heather. As he flung aside his own long mantle, he heard the clatter of a pan on the table. “What business is this?” he muttered. “You’ve found indigo?”

  “’Tis a surprise, Coll. Close your eyes, for I’ll not have it spoiled before Christmas.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Secrets, is it? The lairds of Glenlyle have ways to work answers from their enemies, woman.” His hands were warm and unerring as they found her lush sweetness. “I’ll have your secrets and your moans while your body shudders beneath me. I care not for clan superstition and the gossip of old women. You are my heart, Maire. All the best of my life comes in the minutes I spend here with you.” His eyes were hot and sharp as he studied her, white curves gilded by the firelight. He thought of the pulse that throbbed at her throat, the desire that hazed her eyes.

  His joy, she was. His most precious gift.

  His mortal life.

  Madness filled him. He knew her body intimately now, secure in all its secrets. He teased her to ragged moans with lip and tongue until she arched beneath him.

  But even then, regret lay bitter upon the eldest son of the laird of Glenlyle. “I would give you my name, Maire of Dunraven. I would pledge my heart to you before our clans, assembled to witness our marriage.”

  “It matters not,” she whispered, her fingers stroking his jaw. “Our love is pledged now, here before the firelight and God who watches all.”

  Coll wished he could believe it. He wished he could shake the dark fears that woke him blind and sweating in the night, shuddering from a sense of loss so keen that darkness blocked his eyes.

  “It matters,” he said harshly. “I will turn my father to share my view, I swear it. All I need is time.”

  Something whispered to him that time was one thing they did not have.