Bound by Dreams Page 8

  That if I let you walk away without tasting more, I’ll regret it always. But she didn’t say that. Bed hopping wasn’t her thing; nor was a night of sweaty sex with a near stranger.

  But her thoughts wouldn’t stop twisting into knots. Suddenly her old life seemed painfully incomplete.

  “I’m not very good at instincts.” Her voice was breathless. “Not when it comes to men—or sex.”

  His hand slid gently along her cheek and he pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “There must have been others, Kiera. Other lovers have made your breath tremble and your heart sing. Did you plan those times or did you simply let them happen?”

  Heat swirled into her face. She didn’t know how to have a calm discussion like this. Sex wasn’t a game for her. There had only been two other times, in fact. Neither one had made her as giddy as she was now, fully clothed and not even kissed. That fact alone was enough to set off alarm bells. “Does that matter?”

  “Strangely, I can think of little else. You keep surprising me, when I thought life held no more surprises. Maybe that’s why I need to know everything about you.”

  She took her heart in her hands and stared right into his eyes. “Are you asking me to have sex with you?”

  His brow creased. “I’m looking for more than an hour in your bed. There’s magic in trusting yourself—and trusting someone else just as much. I can prove that to you, but not in an hour.”

  She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, trembling. She didn’t like being uncertain. “I’m not looking for magic, Calan. I’m not sure it even exists. I have my work and my family. That’s always been enough. I don’t make decisions by raw instinct. I’m the calm and practical one.”

  “Then change. Surprise yourself.” Plants rustled. He was right beside her now, his shoulder at her back.

  He even smells good, Kiera thought, a mix of leather and cinnamon and outdoors that left her wanting to move in much closer.

  Every thought led straight back to his naked body. Every thought led straight back here, to the thought of hot, reckless sex.

  But Kiera closed him away.

  Probing deep, she found her resolve. She had come here for one reason only, to satisfy the request of a dying mother who had suffered in silence for too many years. Kiera had taken on the responsibility to close the gap and bring home the things her mother had left behind before her flight years before.

  Her mother had hoped to go home to Draycott Abbey one day. But her letters had not been answered, her phone calls ignored. She had never returned.

  And that haunting sadness was the thing that had brought Kiera to this room, to the old tiled floor under her feet. She looked down at the broad, misshapen square her mother had described so carefully between final, racking breaths.

  Third tile from the left.

  A small red flower set into the center. This was what she had come to find.

  But it was impossible to concentrate with Calan’s hand sliding into her hair so perfectly. He traced the curve of her ear slowly as if they had been lovers for years and he knew every inch of her body.

  As if she could trust him.

  Stupid.

  Because he was part of Draycott Abbey, and that world held only bitterness and broken promises.

  She bent slightly, touched the heavy crimson leaves of a double-stemmed orchid near the glass wall. Leaning lower as if to sniff the leaves, she reached below the table and traced the big water pipe. One quick tug was all she needed.

  But she hesitated, aware of Calan’s hand at her back, his thigh just behind her hip.

  Pointless to wish things were different.

  Almost desperately, she tipped a heavy pot onto the floor. At the same time she twisted the small handle beneath the table, silently opening the pipe. Water hissed, then burst out of the open line, raining over everything within five feet. Kiera shivered as she was drenched.

  Calan muttered an oath and pulled her out of the spraying water. Then he tossed his sodden coat on the fountain. Able to see again, he leaned down, following the angle of the water until he found the source.

  He twisted the handle, ending the flood. “The pot must have hit it,” he muttered. “I’ll have to go find a wrench to check this pipe for damage, because some of these plants are priceless. Meanwhile, you’re soaked. You’re going to need something dry to put on.”

  When Kiera shivered, it wasn’t an act. Even in the heated conservatory she felt chilled.

  “Stay here. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  He walked away without a second glance.

  She shivered, pulling her soaked sweater tighter, rubbing her arms. As soon as Calan was out of sight, she knelt on the wet floor and ran her fingers over the misshapen tile until she found the small nail near the upper corner.

  She should have been jubilant. Her plan was a success. All she had to do was free the tile before Calan came back. In a few minutes, her promise to her mother would be complete.

  A box. A letter. The past closed forever.

  Strangely, all Kiera could think about was what they had both lost.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  COLD BEGAN to seep in.

  Ignoring her wet clothes, Kiera listened for the sound of the big door opening and the soft scrape of footsteps over gravel. She remembered how quietly Calan moved and knew she might not have much warning.

  Taking a small craft knife from her bag, she probed the edges of the tile until it was free.

  She worked with silent haste, lifting out the heavy glazed square and brushing at the damp earth below. Her fingers touched leather. She bent closer. As Kiera took a small red box from the damp ground, she thought of an angry, frightened girl of seventeen kneeling in this same corner, preparing a midnight escape from the only home and family she had known. A world that was no longer safe.

  Her mother had not revealed all the bitter details, only the terse description of a respected family advisor, entrusted with estate affairs in the absence of her elder brother. But the advisor had tried to coerce Kiera’s mother into sexual intimacy and Elena Draycott had nearly succumbed to the man’s pressure. Since he controlled her accounts and all her legal affairs, he made her life hell after her refusals. So she had run away.

  But there was no time for the past. Kiera had one more task to finish before Calan came back. The leather box held an old letter written by Kiera’s grandmother to Elena, personal and precious. With the leather box hidden inside her shoulder bag, she stood up and paced eight careful steps toward the door. From that spot she turned left. Facing the wall of misted glass, she ran one hand over the wooden sill beneath the main window.

  Nothing.

  Gravel hissed outside.

  He was coming back already. She had fooled him once, but Kiera doubted she would have a second chance. Gritting her teeth, she drove her palm along the rough beam, ignoring the stab of splinters as she searched for the recess her mother had described in fine detail.

  Nothing.

  Despite the cold, sweat dotted her brow. Calan was in sight now, a bag in his hands as he rounded the gravel path from the garden.

  Kiera focused on the wood, pushing at every corner in search of the small metal latch. Splinters dug at her fingers, making her curse. Then she heard a tiny metal click.

  Something moved inside the wood. Her fingers dropped as a small wooden door slid away underneath the sill.

  It was there, just as her mother had promised, a box of camphorwood almost five hundred years old. Inside was an intricate lace glove, a gift of Elizabeth I, given to her most favored lady-in-waiting.

  Kiera’s Draycott ancestor had been very close to the queen and a powerful woman in her own right. The glove was a priceless memory of her legacy and a heritage that could not be forgotten. Now the promise to her mother was complete.

  It was time to go.

  CALAN GRIPPED the paper bag that held two towels and a wool coat. His normal restlessness was slipping into anger. Did she think that she had foole
d him with her sudden interest in the abbey flowers?

  Then she’d reached down and the water had gushed out. She must have opened one of the water lines. But Calan had decided to let her play out her performance. The conservatory, like the rest of the house, now had fully functioning video surveillance and he could review the tapes at leisure to see every move she was making while he was gone.

  He frowned at the figure in the conservatory.

  He felt no guilt about the surveillance. He needed to determine whether she was involved with the men from the attack. If so, Calan would take her into custody until he could summon Nicholas Draycott.

  But first he needed to know the truth—and how much more she was capable of.

  The problem was that his curiosity had already changed to fascination. He sensed that Kiera was fighting a lonely battle, and her struggles set off chords of memory from his own past. Staying detached was becoming more and more difficult. Calan had spent most of his life avoiding emotional attachments, but something about Kiera called to the dark places inside him, and he refused to let her go until that calling made sense.

  When he opened the conservatory door, she was at the far wall, looking outside.

  “Here’s a coat. Towels, too.”

  She didn’t answer. He noticed dirt and bits of wood shavings on her hands. She had been searching for something here.

  Something turned cold inside Calan as one of his questions was answered. She was a thief. She had come here for a reason. As he’d suspected, her ruse with the water pipe had been designed to send him away during her search.

  He glanced at the tables and the floor nearby. One of the tiles was askew. A line of fine dirt feathered out around her feet. After noting the tile’s location, Calan pulled out the wool coat and draped it around her rigid shoulders. “How’s that?”

  “Better. Thank you.” She didn’t turn, staring through the window.

  “Kiera, what’s wrong?”

  Her finger traced a line in the condensation. “Are you ever afraid? Really afraid?”

  Calan felt the force of her emotion. “Not often. But I’ve had some bad moments now and then.”

  “Bad moments.” As she shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat, Calan saw that they were trembling. One of her fingers was cut.

  She was still turned away, her back stiff under the wool coat. “Forget I asked.”

  “I don’t want to forget it.”

  She shrugged, then drew another line down the window. “What good are questions or promises or explanations anyway? People always lie. That never changes.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “Besides, it’s not your problem.”

  “Make it my problem. I’m listening.”

  Her breath caught in a soft sound. Calan gripped her shoulders, turning her to see her face.

  If she had found something so quickly, she had to know where to look. That meant someone was giving her private information about the abbey, and that was a crucial security leak.

  He should look at her as a criminal, but for some reason he couldn’t.

  She was pale and determined, glaring at the sharp outline of the abbey down the hill. “I can handle my own problems,” she said fiercely. “Also, I don’t trust you. I’m sure that you don’t trust me, either, despite that smooth act.”

  Calan saw her frown at the floor, then shoot a glance at her shoulder bag beneath a white orchid.

  Whatever she had found was there, safely out of sight in her bag, but she couldn’t hide an occasional anxious glance.

  Calan prowled the room, feeling her tension. He could confront her now, with no more delays, and pressure her into revealing the names of her colleagues.

  But it still didn’t feel right to him. He had the sense that she was here for her own reasons, and they had nothing to do with politics or terrorism. Maybe she’d been pulled in by a lover, persuaded that she was working for a noble cause.

  Or maybe it was simply greed at work. Either way, she was trouble. Calan couldn’t take risks with the safety of his friend’s house or family.

  So he would play out the rope and let her incriminate herself. With unguarded statements caught on surveillance video, it would be a sewn up case.

  She was still staring out the window, looking pale and edgy in Kacey Draycott’s tailored gray coat. Even with no hint of makeup or glamorous clothes, Kiera Morissey had a way of catching attention.

  Not beautiful, he thought. But her strength and calm intelligence were arresting. Right now he couldn’t pull his eyes away from her face.

  Her face.

  Something about her wide eyes and full mouth kept nagging at his memory.

  Then it hit him.

  For long seconds he didn’t move, struggling to take in the realization. If it was true…

  He swept up her bag and pulled her toward the door. “Come on.”

  “Why? What’s—”

  “There’s something you need to see, Kiera.”

  “I told you, the gardens are all I’m interested in.”

  He felt her resistance as he opened the door. “Not in the garden. This is inside the house, and it’s important that you see it. Now,” he added harshly.

  “I—There’s not enough time. I really need to get back to my hotel. Tomorrow I have to—”

  Tomorrow you’ll be in jail, Calan thought. Either that or you’ll be in a serious interrogation.

  Nicholas…

  Calan took a sharp breath. His friend had to be told immediately. “It will take only a minute or two,” he said calmly. “After that I’ll drive you back to your hotel. You’ll have all afternoon to finish whatever you’re working on.”

  She frowned but stopped fighting him. Though she was clearly reluctant, she let him guide her along the path that led down toward the moat.

  He could feel her pulse slam at her wrist. He could see the sheen of sweat on her skin, fueled by nerves.

  She took a jerky breath, quickening her pace to match his long strides. “Is the owner home?” she said breathlessly.

  He heard the raw edge of emotion in her voice as he unlocked the front door of the abbey and stood back. Her eyes darkened as she stared up the broad staircase. “I wouldn’t want to…intrude.”

  “The Draycotts are away on vacation so we won’t be disturbed. Even the family butler has the day off.”

  “That’s…good. But where—”

  Calan pulled her behind him up the broad staircase. “Just down at the end of this hall.” He pushed open the door to the library. Four centuries of priceless books filled floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  And on the back wall, just above the fireplace, a woman with clear gray eyes and a wide, generous smile kept vigil over the abbey’s priceless treasures.

  Once Calan had made the connection, the resemblance between Kiera and the woman in the portrait was impossible to ignore. Her name was Elena Draycott.

  Nicholas’s dead sister.

  “DO YOU WANT to explain?”

  She didn’t answer, her gaze locked on the painting.

  “In that case, why don’t I toss out my theory?” Calan circled the room, his voice hardening. “What do you say, Ms. Morissey? Or maybe I should say Ms. Draycott?”

  She hadn’t spoken since he’d stopped by the fire, releasing her hand and pointing up over the mantel.

  Her lips mouthed a silent word. Then her face closed down, all emotion shoved deep. “I—don’t know her. Who is she?”

  “Elena Draycott, of course. She’s the viscount’s younger sister. A remarkable likeness, wouldn’t you say?”

  “A little, perhaps.” She shrugged and tried to turn away, but Calan gripped her shoulders, holding her where she was.

  “Mother or aunt? Which is she?”

  Kiera shoved at his chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Where is she now? She broke Nicholas’s heart when she left. But I guess that doesn’t bother her—or you,” Calan said savagely.

  She shouldered h
im aside and turned toward the door. “I am no relation to that woman or anyone in this family. Now that you’ve shared this charming hallucination, I’d like to go back to my hotel.”

  “Why don’t we ask the police what they know about Elena’s disappearance? Better yet, why don’t we ask Nicholas what he remembers?” Blocking the doorway, Calan pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed quickly. “Hello, Nicholas? Yes, it’s Calan. No, everything is quiet. But I’ve got something you should know about. How soon can you be here? Twenty minutes? Excellent.”

  Calan heard her little gasp of shock and pain. She was staring at the painting with her hands locked. Then she spun around, hammering wildly at his neck and chest. “I won’t see him. I won’t see any of them. They can rot in hell for all I care. Damn them and damn this house, too,” she said, fighting back a sob.

  “Hold on, Nicholas. Let me call you back.” Calan cut off the imaginary call and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Rot in hell? What did they do to make you hate them so much? Your mother would have inherited millions, but she threw it away.”

  Kiera’s fingers froze, fisted against his chest. Spots of angry color flared in her cheeks. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it was rape that sent her away. Coldhearted, calculated rape. Now get out of my way and let me go home or I’ll knock you out of my way!”

  IT TOOK CALAN several seconds to process the words.

  Several seconds more to hear the terrible pain hidden behind the fury in Kiera’s voice. None of it made sense. “Explain it.”

  “Explain what? The late-night visits and the groping in dark corridors? Or maybe you want to know the threats about what would happen if she didn’t meet him in the little caretaker’s cottage near Lyon’s Leap.”

  “She told you this? Your mother, Elena?” he said quietly.

  “My mother. But she was not Elena. She never used that name again. This house—this family—all of that world was closed forever and locked away. It was the only way she could survive after Nicholas returned her letters unopened and told her not to bother him with further contact.”