The Presence

“What?” Her eyes were saucers, and her color was as close to pure white as he had ever seen on a human being.

“Annalise. Our famous—or infamous—Bruce MacNiall was indeed married to an Annalise.”

She shook her head. “I swear to you, I had no idea! It has to be … chance. Coincidence. Okay, the most absurd coincidence imaginable, but … I honestly have never heard this story before. Stories like it, sure—your ancestor wasn’t the only man to meet such a fate.”

He wondered if she was trying to convince him or herself.

“Aye, that’s true enough,” he said. She was an audacious interloper in his home, he reminded himself. And yet … At this particular moment, he couldn’t add to her distress. She needed some color back. Hell, she could pass out on him at any moment. She could be such a little demon, as self-righteous as Cromwell himself. But right now, she was simply far too vulnerable, and that vulnerability was calling out to whatever noble and protective virtues he might possess.

“Yes, it’s true!” she said, desperately clinging to his words. “I’ve been to Edinburgh. I’ve seen the tomb built for Montrose, who was a Cavalier and who sided with the king, finally meeting his end in such a manner. And there were others … but I had no idea there was really a MacNiall! Or,” she added, wincing, “an Annalise. Look!” She sat up straight, finding her backbone again, and stared at him with sudden hostility. “We did not come here to mock your precious history or your family. I am telling you, I did not know about your MacNiall or that he might have even existed!”

“Well, he did,” he said flatly, and stared at the flames, anger filling him again. He loved this place. Granted, he hadn’t given it much attention lately. Though he’d always intended to do so, there was always something else that needed to be done first. And now, with everything that had been going on …

“Don’t you understand?” she demanded. “There’s never been anything the least disrespectful in what we wanted to do. Every one of us came here and simply fell in love with the country. Unfortunately none of us is independently wealthy. Gina, however, is a marketing genius. She decided that she could take all of our talents and market them. That way, we could acquire a castle, work hard and give some of the magic to the public.”

“Stupid idea,” he murmured hotly, looking at the fire again.

“It’s not a stupid idea!” she protested. “You saw how the people came.”

“The locals will never enjoy such a spectacle.”

“Maybe not, but the shows aren’t intended for the locals. They will help the economy all around, don’t you see that? People who come to the castle for the history, the splendor or even the spectacle will spend money in other places. It will be good for local stores, for restaurants … for everyone around.”

“I don’t agree,” he said, fighting the rise of his temper again.

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Oh, really?”

“Indeed, a blind fool!” She turned toward him, no longer ashen, passion in her voice, fire in her eyes. “You saw those people when they left here! They were thrilled. And they loved Scotland. Don’t you want people to love your country?”

“Not a mockery of it,” he told her.

“I told you, we’re not mocking it!” She shook her head, growing aggravated. “Others give tours of the closes and graveyards in Edinburgh. People are fascinated. We like to think that we’ve come far from doing horrible things to one another, even under the pretext of law. We’re not saying that the Scots were especially brutal, we’re explaining that it was just a different time!”

“Voyeurs!” he said roughly, waving a hand in the air. “And that’s Edinburgh. A big city. We’re talking about a small village here.”

“It’s hard these days to buy a castle in the middle of town,” she said sarcastically.

“Many people don’t want to be reminded of mayhem and murder,” he said.

She let out a sigh of exasperation. “Don’t you ever do anything for fun?” she asked him. “Have you ever seen a movie? A play? Gone to the opera?”

He looked at the fire again. “The point is, this is a small, remote village. It could be a dangerous place for tourists to wander.”

“Dangerous!” she said dismissively.

He felt tension welling in him.

“There are forests, crags and bogs. Hillsides. Crannies and cairns. Places where the footing is treacherous at best,” he said. “Places that are remote, dark and, aye, believe me, dangerous.” His own argument sounded weak even to him.

Maybe he was a fool for being so suspicious, wary … when he need not be. But the lasses were gone, were they not?

Gone. Two of them. Found dead. Here.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

He had no intention of trying to explain what had happened, or why he was so concerned. Even Jonathan Tavish thought it was a problem for others, for big-city authorities. After all, the women had not disappeared from here. They had just been found here.

“Antoinette Fraser,” he said suddenly, determined to change the subject. “So … your father was Scottish, or Scottish-American?”

“He was half, but born here. His dad married during the war. On his side, my grandmother was French. My mother was Irish.”

“Was?”

“I lost her my first year of college.” “I’m sorry.” “Thanks.” “And your father?”

“I lost him, too,” she said softly. “A few years ago. His heart gave out. I think that he missed my mother, actually.”

“I’m sorry again.”

“Thanks.” She hesitated, then asked, “If you are the laird, then …?”

“Indeed, my parents went together. An automobile accident in London.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Thank you,” he acknowledged. “It was over a decade ago, now.”

“You still miss people,” she said.

“Indeed, you do.” He didn’t want the two of them growing morose together, so he brought a small smile to his lips. “Still …” he murmured.

“What?”

“You couldn’t have bought a castle in Ireland, eh?”

She halfway smiled, but her eyes flashed. He realized that he had been breathing in her scent. She really was a stunning woman. Brilliant as an angel one second, claws extended, blue fire in her eyes the next.

She shouldn’t be here.

He looked at his brandy glass again and swirled the liquid. “The truth of the matter is, I didn’t rent this castle to anyone. I do own it, and you are trespassing.” He added the last very quietly, and swallowed more of his brandy. The warmth was delicious.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, “I’ll admit to having the sinking feeling that we were taken by a British scam artist.”

“Might have been an American. They are here, you know, in vast numbers.”

Ah, yes, that goaded her temper again. Was he doing it on purpose? Enjoying the rise of her breasts, the flash in her eyes? Wondering what it would be like to suddenly strike a bargain for total peace, draw her in front of the fire and find some real truth in those generous, sensual lips?