Bound by Dreams
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Kiera stalked to the phone. Picking up the receiver, she dialed the operator.
And then she’d say what?
She happened to be driving by and was attacked?
Too many questions.
Frowning, she held the phone. Maybe she could make an anonymous call. But those were traced, too.
With a sigh, she put down the phone. She would make a call from a pay phone in the next county, choosing a crowded spot where no one was likely to remember her face. At least the crime would be reported. But not until after she was finished and ready to leave.
One decision made.
That left the question of her return visit—and how she would get back out undiscovered.
She spun around at the chime of the cell phone resting on her bed. A quick look at the number had her smiling. “Maddy? I just e-mailed you.”
“I’m not at my computer, and I wanted to be sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine. I should be packing up and heading out tomorrow.”
Kiera’s sister took a quick breath. “You found the things?”
“Not yet. But I’ve been on the grounds, and I know my way now.”
“No problems?”
Trust Maddy to keep probing. “No,” Kiera lied. “Just—”
“Just what? Kee, are you okay? You sound upset.”
“I’m a little restless, that’s all. It’s complicated.” Kiera wouldn’t say more. Her sister would worry too much.
“What’s complicated?”
“Visiting here. The abbey is like every postcard of a perfect English estate. And the roses.” Kiera paced the room. “Everything’s so beautiful that you forget what lies beneath the surface. The secrets and the pain.”
“Then finish and get out of there. That’s an order,” Maddy said sharply. “If you aren’t done by tomorrow, I’m coming to your hotel.”
“Stop worrying. I’m the practical one, remember? You can count on me to get this done without a hitch. But I’d better go, Maddy.”
“Just keep me updated.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Kiera was smiling when she hung up.
Outside her window, the moon was huge, and cool light covered the garden that bordered this side of the hotel. Kiera opened the door to her patio and was instantly engulfed in the lavender fragrance that would always spell England to her. The rich, sweet scent made her a little dizzy.
Though she would have given a fortune to be on her way home to her family in the rugged stone house in the Pyrenees, something about the moonlight tugged on her senses. As if there were hopes and dreams that waited this night, if only she dared to accept them.
But Kiera had never had time for dreams. Life was too full of adventure to sit still and let empty images slip through your head. She was always on the move, always exploring the next village and valley, putting together adventure tours for one of Europe’s best known travel companies.
She was determined to have her own company by the time she was thirty. If she kept building her client list, she might succeed sooner. And building a company didn’t come through idle imagination.
As she stood at the window, she saw a movement in the trees beyond the garden. Something blended into the restless shadows beneath the oaks at the far end of the village. Kiera’s breath checked as she saw the movement come again.
And then the shape—whatever it was—folded back into the shadows.
Probably just a fox. She’d seen two since her arrival. Or maybe it was no more than her imagination. She’d been jumpy from the first moment she’d set foot on English soil, jumpier still when she’d walked along the road and climbed the fence onto Draycott land.
Odd, she’d half imagined there had been a man in the woods. The sense of being watched had grown as she’d crossed the meadow above the moat.
She glared out at the darkness. There was no one in the trees beyond the garden now. No reason for the little hairs to stand up along her arms.
Yet the feeling that she was not alone grew stronger. The darkness seemed to reach out to her.
Kiera reined in her errant thoughts. She had escaped. She was safe now. No one in this hotel or in this country knew her connection to the Draycotts and she meant to keep it that way. She would make her plans well. There would be no mistakes the following night.
And after that she would be done with the Draycott family forever.
IT HAD TAKEN Calan less than an hour to find her.
Her prints had led him straight to a small dirt road and the tire tracks of a parked car. It had been easy enough to follow the car’s unique scent, crossing two small hamlets until the car stopped in a village with an isolated hotel at the far end.
Her room was on the north side, facing a garden full of lavender.
He saw her light and the blurred movements inside. Then her patio door opened, and he caught her scent. Cinnamon and pine trees. Mountain hills after rain. There was strength to her body as she leaned against the door, staring up at the moon.
Lost in thought.
Stubborn. Angry. Confused.
All those emotions clung, carried in her scent, clear for him to read. She was alone in the room, too.
The thought pleased him.
He stepped closer, silent in the shadows, his head raised. Every time she took a step her fragrance drifted toward him like a gentle touch. She was restless. He could almost feel the nervous energy slide from her as he stood, silent and watchful behind a row of topiary plants.
She turned slowly in the moonlight. Her arms crossed over her chest. “Is…someone out there?”
He didn’t move. Wind stirred his fur. Her eyes were trained on the spot where he waited, motionless.
“Hello?”
She blew out a breath and leaned her forehead against the door frame. Exhaustion seemed to grip her. He saw her shoulders slump.
What weight did she carry? he wondered. What fueled this kind of anger and regret?
He wanted to turn away. He needed to make one more effort to trace the attackers’ car, which he’d lost near a major highway exchange on the far side of the valley.
He had to put her out of his mind before this strange attraction pulled him any closer.
Yet he didn’t move.
Moonlight brushed the patio outside room fifteen. He felt the sharp twist of muscles, tensed to hunt. One leap would bring him closer.
One more leap and she would be sprawled on the floor beneath him.
Dazed. Submissive.
Open to whatever he chose.
A low growl began at the bottom of his chest as hunger drove sharp nails through every nerve end. He wanted in a way he had never wanted before.
But submissive was not how he pictured her or needed her.
He looked up at the sound of a latch closing. The glass door was shut now, the curtains drawn. Her smell remained, drifting out in a subtle torment to his senses.
And then he saw her silhouette as she tugged off her robe. Slowly her body was revealed in shadows that burned into his memory…
Hunger blocked all logic, all control.
He fought the urge to hunt and possess. Muscles twisted, claws dragging through the soft earth.
Slowly control returned. Hunger was shoved deep. Loyalty to a friend made him turn, slip through the lavender. Then he vanished into the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
IN THE MIDDLE of the quiet hotel patio, Kiera leaned forward and tried vainly to read the paper. No luck. Her eyes kept blurring.
Too much coffee the day before.
Too little sleep on top of the excess coffee.
She smiled absently as a housekeeper passed, bringing her copies of the London and Paris papers. But her smile immediately faded afterward. Memories of her attackers had kept her tossing until dawn; worries about the gun she needed to dispose of made her glance nervously over her shoulder now. Except no one else knew about the gun. Her secret was safe.
Just as the secret of her identity and her purpose for coming to England were safe, no matter how jumpy she was. It was time to stop worrying.
The little restaurant in the hotel’s courtyard was deserted at this early hour. Kiera finished her scone with clotted cream, stretched and reached for the big wool bag that held her knitting. When she was restless, knitting was her drug of choice. Right now her fingers itched for wool slipping in soft rows and smooth loops settling into place.
But even with patterned cables racing off her needles, she still couldn’t relax. Something told her it would take more than fine threads to put the attack out of her mind. Maybe she needed to concentrate harder…
A shadow fell over her table.
“That’s lovely tweed yarn you have there.”
A living, breathing man who knew quality yarn? Be still my beating heart.
Kiera craned her head back, looking up. And her heart dove straight down to her unmanicured toes.
The man was at least six foot four. He wore his rough Harris tweed jacket as if it had been hand cut to fit his lean body. Which it probably had been.
Who had the money for that in these trying times?
He was handsome as sin, to boot. Rich azure eyes blazed from a tanned face that made her think of priests, poets and ancient highland warriors. So did his rough voice with its gentle lilt of Scotland.
“Sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t help noticing your yarn.”
“Excuse me?”
“Knitting’s something of a tradition in my neck of the woods. My aunts used to win prizes for their sweaters every year.”
His voice was deep, smoky like good, aged whiskey. It settled onto Kiera’s senses with the same volatile kick. Smoke and heat. Depth and complexity. For some reason the man made her think of all those things.
Not that it mattered.
She cleared her throat. “You’re from Scotland, I take it?”
“That’s right. From a little slip of land on a quiet ocean inlet that time forgot. A lovely place, as long as you want to leave the modern world behind.”
Kiera wondered vaguely if you could fall in love with a voice. If so, this man had the perfect requirements.
She frowned.
Love?
Not on her flight plan. Not for another five years at least. She had treks to plan and valleys to cross, assessing cost and safety for her tour groups. Men, with their theatrics and emotional demands, took far too much time away from everything that mattered. The idea comforted her, reassured her that her calm, orderly world was exactly as it should be.
So this heat she felt was the simple nudge of hormones, which she had managed to ignore nicely for months.
But something told Kiera the hormone-free zone had just been left behind in a blaze of glory. All because of blue eyes and a smoky voice.
She realized he was waiting for a reply. She’d been too distracted by her tangled thoughts to notice the question. But there was something remarkably distracting about the man, and not just his voice or his damnable good looks. Not even the calm power of his presence. Suddenly it became very important to understand why this man was different from the others who had slid past, never catching her attention.
His eyes were the oddest shade. Almost gray one minute, they shifted to azure and icy aqua. Probably a trick of the light, caused by clouds racing overhead. And right now his eyes were focused completely on her. As if she…mattered. When was the last time a man had looked at her that way?
Never.
And this utter focus was why he seemed different.
“What?”
“I asked if I could sit down. Is that a problem?”
“Sit here with me, you mean?” Kiera took a short, irritated breath. What was wrong with her? “It’s just—clearly every other table is available. So why sit here? I don’t even know you.”
He leaned over and refilled her teacup calmly. “I’ll take a chance if you will.”
Way too smooth, Kiera thought. She should wave him off and be done with it.
But she didn’t. Couldn’t.
“You may have noticed that this place is empty.”
He just kept waiting, polite but firm.
She still didn’t ask him to sit down. Kiera was pretty sure that if he sat down, it would be dangerous to her peace of mind.
“All I seem to notice is you. And for the record, that isn’t a line. I’ve been watching you from the doorway ever since you took out your wool and needles. I like how you work. You’re slow and thoughtful, but there’s sensuality in your hands.”
Boom. This went way off the pickup-meter. He had watched her knit and called it sensual?
“Nice try.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Something tells me you’ve scored with lines like that before. Some women might even be fascinated. Not me.”
“I simply told you what I saw.”
She’d give him points for delivery, Kiera decided. But that didn’t mean he was going to sit down. A man like this could turn a woman inside out if she let him.
“I’m sorry, but I’m waiting for someone.”
“Then I’ll keep you company until he comes.”
He.
Kiera didn’t bother to correct him. “You don’t seem to take no for an answer, do you, Mr.—?”
“MacKay.” His brow rose. “You’re right. I don’t like wasting time. If I want something, which isn’t very often, I go after it.”
Heat swirled through her, working slowly up her chest. “Is that a warning?”
“Not at all. I’m just explaining what could appear to be rudeness. But it’s the practical thing to do. You’re alone. I’m alone. Why not share this beautiful morning, even if we both just read the paper? The waiter will have less work, and we’ll have companionable silence.”
Kiera shook her head. “I know one thing. This is way too good to be true. All of it.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Sure you don’t.” Frowning, Kiera stood up and began to gather her notebook and papers. “I’m not in the market for conversation or companionable silence or anything else. Goodbye, Mr. MacKay.”
When she turned toward the lobby, Kiera was surprised to see him move in front of her. A crease ran down his forehead. “Don’t go.” His hand rose, then fell back.
Almost as if he was afraid to touch her. As if he was searching for a way to put something difficult into simple words.
“Give me one good reason to stay.”
“I can’t explain it but it feels important that we get to know each other.”
“And talking with a stranger over breakfast is important? Why should you possibly care about sitting here with me, someone you’ve never met?”
Something swirled through his eyes. “I’m still trying to figure that out myself. I’m hoping by the time breakfast is over I’ll have an answer. Maybe both of us will.”
More of that smoky Scottish accent. Each sound teased at Kiera’s prickly defenses. She didn’t have to believe him. She didn’t have to pay attention at all. She could simply listen to him talk.
“You’re a frightening man, Mr. MacKay.”
“Calan.” He didn’t move. His air of controlled concentration seemed to deepen. “And why would you think that?”
“Because you make everything you say sound sincere. You make a woman believe…” She ran a hand through her hair, shoving the short curls back off her face. “Never mind.”
“No, go on. Believe what?”
His low question seemed to play over every inch of her skin.
“It doesn’t matter.” Kiera lifted her bag, her decision made. “Enjoy your breakfast. I’m leaving now.” As she turned, two balls of her favorite red tweed yarn spilled free, rolling over the table.
He twisted and caught them both, long, powerful fingers curved around the wool. Gentle but expert.
Just a way a lover would touch. Madness, Kiera told herself.
“Nice ply. Not Scottish, though. I’d say this wool was made somewhere else.”
She closed her eyes, feeling her cool decision fade fast. “Don’t start talking yarn ply to me. That’s really hitting beneath the belt.”
After a moment he laughed. The sound started low, almost a rumble, then grew, spilling free from his chest and filling the whole patio. The sound made him seem younger, less controlled. “So I have a secret weapon now.”
“I mean it. That is truly low. Men don’t discuss yarn. It’s a sacred law. It makes the world a safer place.”
“I think you’d have liked my aunts.” He looked up, watching a bird soar along the horizon. Emotion threaded his voice. “Many a winter night I spent before the fire, helping them wind their handspun wool. Each knitted cable and rib had a meaning. I used to think that the whole world lived within the space of those waves and cables.”
Something dark crossed his eyes. Then his smile faded. Kiera was stunned at how fast the transformation came.
“You miss them.”
“Every minute of every day. And looking at that yarn of yours…” He seemed to shrug off bad memories.
Kiera felt her last bit of resolution fade. You couldn’t turn away a man who knew yarn.
She dropped her bag back on the table. “I give up. Have a seat.”
He moved behind her with the casual grace of a man who used his strength and reflexes for a living. Tennis star? Golf pro?
No, she guessed it was something more exotic.
He refilled her teacup. “The keemum smells excellent. I’ll track down more hot water.”
He turned the silver pot, using that same spare grace that made every movement fascinating. She couldn’t help watching him cross the patio and then vanish inside. When he returned he had a new pot and steam played around the spout.
Fast, she decided. Competent at whatever he did. But there was more at work here than politeness or competence. She just couldn’t figure out what.
“So what do you do? Butler? Purveyor of hand knits?”
He smiled a little and shook his head. “Afraid not.” Kiera could have sworn his eyes changed color again, azure flashing into rich gray.
Curious, she slid into her favorite game, studying the strong, broad hands and the small scars on his fingers. No rings. No jewelry. Not even a watch. “How do you know what time it is?”
He followed the angle of her eyes and pointed east. “Right over there.”
“The sun?” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Are you an anthropologist? Wildlife photographer?”
He shook his head.
“You’re not a mountain climber because you don’t have the right build.” Kiera pursed her lips. “They’re smaller as a rule. Broad shoulders, with all their weight focused in their arms and chest. You’re too tall. Your legs are probably even stronger than your arms.” She cleared her throat. “Just a theory, of course.” Suddenly self-conscious, she pushed the plate of scones toward him. “Feel free. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“The tea will be enough for me.”
“You don’t wear a watch. You don’t eat. Now I’m really curious.”
“Don’t bother. You’d find me very boring. But I see that you’re interested in Draycott Abbey.”
She tensed. “Why would you think that?”
Gently, he moved a paper out from beneath her knitting project. Kiera realized he had found her map of the surrounding county, part of a color handout from the local bookstore.
Unfortunately, she had folded the page so that the abbey lay right in the center. She might as well have burned her intentions on her forehead.
“Oh. You mean, this? The gardens looked somewhat interesting,” she said casually. “And I’ve always been a sucker for a good ghost story.”
“Ah, yes.” He studied the sheet filled with tourist information. “Did they mention the thirteen bells? And the eighth viscount, who is said to walk the abbey parapet on moonless nights?”
“Not that I remember.” Kiera pushed the folded paper away. “After a while all these grand houses begin to sound alike. Ghosts and traitors and spies.” She began to knit, determined to avoid the force of those gray eyes. “Do you know the place?”
“I more than know it,” he said quietly. Now Kiera was certain he was watching for her reaction.
Her heart missed a beat. “Don’t tell me that you…own it?”
“Me? No. I’m only working there.”
“What kind of work?”
“Outdoor work. Checking lines. Straightening out problems.”
“You’re no landscaper.”
“No, I’m not.” He leaned back, half of his face shadowed by a towering oak. “Would you like to see the grounds?” he asked abruptly.
She almost dropped her knitting needles. “No thanks. I’ve been on enough house tours.” She wanted to stand up, to run away. How had she been so careless as to leave that folded tour guide out on the table?
Because she’d only slept two hours the night before. Because she hadn’t expected to share her table for breakfast, Kiera thought crossly. She forced herself to stay right where she was and smile back at him. “No, I’m in the mood for bright lights. I’m headed for London tomorrow. Clubbing,” she lied.
Something told her he wasn’t the clubbing type.
When his lips tightened, Kiera saw that she had guessed right.
“Tomorrow? Then you have today. I’ll be an excellent guide. I’ll show you all the secret places, even where the treasure is hidden.”
“I’m not interested in treasure—or in secrets,” she said sharply.
But a voice whispered that this would be the answer to her prayers. One chance for a covert assessment, a check for major security obstacles to avoid later that night. She’d be a fool to refuse him.
“No,” she said huskily. “Thank you, but it’s really not on my list.”
“You would be making a mistake, Ms….” He paused, his eyes unreadable.
“Morissey. Kiera. And why would it be a mistake?”
“Because the abbey is glorious this time of year. The centifolia roses are just coming into bloom, and the air is full of their perfume. It’s impossible to describe. You need to experience it directly. Besides, aren’t you even a little curious?”
Kiera had the sharp sense that they were playing cat and mouse now. That he had picked up the details of her secret plan.
And that was completely impossible. “The roses sound lovely, but I’m going to take it easy today. I’ll sit here in the sun and knit.”
“Oh, my aunts definitely would have liked you,” he murmured.
“Calan?”
Kiera turned at the sound of footsteps. Silk rustled and ruthlessly high heels tapped across the tiled courtyard. A striking woman in a skintight suit that screamed Versace lasered toward the table.
“Calan, darling! What amazing luck to find you here.”
CHAPTER SIX
“WHENEVER DID YOU GET BACK?” The woman raced on breathlessly, not waiting for an answer. “And you didn’t even call me, you great vile creature.” With every word she pouted more, making her full scarlet lips look even bigger.
Silicone. The thought made Kiera a little smug. Also a little jealous. The feeling grew when the Scotsman stood in that way of graceful power and hugged the new arrival, who seemed to vibrate with pure animal satisfaction at their contact.
“Bad boy. You’ve lost weight. Lovely muscles, from what I can feel, however.” She ran long red nails along his tweed lapels. “How long has it been since Paris? Or was it Portofino?”
Kiera shifted restlessly, feeling far out of her element.
“Three years, Magritte. And it was Venice. You wore gold. I wore black.” His lips curved slightly. “It rained for a solid week.”
“I didn’t mind a second, darling. We had far too much to do inside to be bored.” Her voice fell, a husky caress. “You should have called me, you know.”
“Sorry. Work has kept me on the move.”
A little frown worked down the woman’s perfectly Botox-smoothed forehead when Calan stepped back, polite but resolute as he moved out of reach. She turned slowly and studied Kiera. “But you haven’t introduced me to your friend, Calan.”
He didn’t answer. Kiera sat up straighter.
She put down her knitting and held out a hand. “Kiera Morissey. How nice to meet you. Magritte, wasn’t it?”
“Magritte Campbell. But you are American.” She sounded surprised, slanting a look at Calan. “You hate Americans. You told me so yourself, during the dinner when that basketball team from Dallas got drunk and—”