Bedding the Enemy (27 page)

Sitting down in an alcove, Helena broke the letter's seal.

Tears stung her eyes, but they were joyful ones. Helena read the letter twice before folding it and tucking it into her sleeve. She looked up to find Farrell's eyes on her.

“Did you find her?”

The burly Scot tilted his head while a grin split his lips. “After all the trouble ye went to in order to send me on my way? It was a point of honor to discover the lass. You were correct, my lady—those English never would have found her.”

“Careful, Farrell, my wife is English and she told me that you called her clever.” Keir sounded amused. He looked at his second in command. “Clever enough to slip out of yer grasp.”

“Och well, that simply means she's going to be a fine mistress for Red Stone.”

Keir held out a hand, palm facing up. “I couldn't agree more.”

Helena placed her hand in his, watching as his fingers closed around her own. It was so simple and yet so perfect. She raised her gaze to his, feeling that little jolt of sensation that looking into his dark eyes always sent through her.

“Are you going to take me home?”

Keir pulled her close. “Aye lass, I am.”

 

Spring spread its warmth over the land, the last of the cold winter weather melting under its power. Farmers returned to their fields and English and Scot alike emerged from their homes to bask in the warm sun.

Keir and his men were anxious to return home. Helena hid her smile as they tried not to look impatient to begin the journey. Keir checked the saddle on her mare with his own hand. The courtyard in front of their town home bustled with activity. The servants helped to tie bundles to horses that would serve as baggage carriers. Helena watched it, smiling with joy, the tension of the last month finally leaving her. She had slept deeply, groaning when her husband woke her at first light in his eagerness to be on his way out of London.

Not that she could blame him for that. She wouldn't be looking over her shoulder, either. The cook came hurrying from the kitchen with a bundle of freshly baked bread. She had tied it up in a cloth, but the scent still filled the air. It filled Helena's senses and a moment later her belly cramped with nausea. The urge to retch was overwhelming and stronger than her will to maintain her dignity.

Poise deserted her completely. She yanked her skirt up in a fist and ran toward the garderobe.

Her entire body quivered by the time her stomach stopped heaving. She only had enough strength to move a few paces out of the necessary closet before sinking to her knees.

“Helena?”

She moaned softly, humiliation flooding her. Keir reached down and plucked her off the floor. She pushed at him, gaining a grumble of annoyance from his wide chest.

“I don't want you to see me like this.” She sounded on the verge of tears and didn't know why. Everything was wonderful, every hope that she had cradled bearing fruit. But tears trickled down her cheeks in spite of all that.

“I'm taking ye back to bed. Ye're sick.”

“I am not.”

She slapped his arm. “Put me down now.” The tears evaporated as her temper flared. “Immediately.”

Keir set her down and stared at her in confusion, his dark brows lowering. “Ye're as pale as a new moon. Ye are going to bed right now.”

Helena held up a hand to keep her husband away. The weakness left her limbs as though it had never been. “I feel fine.”

The cook came into the room and walked right past Keir with only a nod of her head. “Drink this, mistress. It will ease the ache in your belly.”

“I am not ill. Why will no one listen to me?”

“Yes, ye are, Helena, and I will no' take ye out onto the road where ye cannae be cared for.”

The cook turned her head to look at Keir. She drew herself up in a manner that Helena had never seen the woman do. She normally tried to be invisible.

“Forgive me, my lord, but I believe the mistress is correct. She is not ill.”

The goblet in her hand smelled of peppermint. Helena looked at it and sniffed again. New spring herbs filled her senses and it was much more to her liking than the bread had been.

“What are ye saying, woman?”

The cook cast a look toward Helena. “Did you bleed at the Tower, mistress?”

“No…”

Helena almost dropped the goblet. She tightened her fingers around it before it fell from her surprised grip. The cook offered her a small smile of knowledge from one woman to another. She curtsied with a satisfied look.

She wasn't ill—she was with child.

“I'll bundle up some herbs from the still room for your journey. You'll be wanting those in the mornings for a few weeks.”

Helena lifted the goblet to her lips. Her belly protested but she forced a few swallows down her throat. When she lowered the goblet her husband was preening, his face a mask of arrogant male satisfaction and enjoyment.

“Oh, go and check your horse.”

He plucked the goblet from her hand instead and set it aside. A moment later he bent his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist. When he stood up her head was above his. He swung her around in a circle while nuzzling her belly.

Tears returned to her eyes. He held her there, placing a kiss against her flat body. Her hands tangled in his hair, playing with the dark strands. He let her slide down to her feet but kept her in his embrace.

“I love ye, Helena. I promise to love ye my entire life.”

They were the gallant words she had always believed were only spoken in sonnets and tales of long ago. But the arms holding her were real. They were warm and strong and she loved being held by them.

“Take me home, Keir.” She stroked the side of his face. “Take
us
home. A McQuade should be born on McQuade land.”

“That's a fact, lass. It is indeed.”

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U.S. Arctic Research Commission
Above the Arctic Circle

D
r. Walt Arnold took slow breaths to keep from freezing his lungs. At thirty below, he was accustomed to the staggering temperatures, but it was hard to regulate his breathing when he was lifting sixty pounds of pipe and ice. He wrapped the core sample in plastic, then, with his assistant, levered it onto the transport, its metal shell intact. The temperatures were in their favor to keep the core sample from relaxing, as well as maintaining the chemical isotopes in prime condition.

His team took care of transporting the sample to storage as he returned to the drilling. He adjusted the next length of pipe, clamped the coupling, then glanced at the generator chugging to drive the pipe farther into the ice. The half dozen random samples would help correlate the data from the deeper drills. He watched the meter feed change in slow increments. Nearly three hundred meters. It was the deepest he'd attempted on this patch, and he was eager for data. His report wasn't due for a year, but making the funding stretch took hunks of time he needed for the study.

When the core met the next mark, he twisted, the wind pushing the fur of his parka as he waved a wide arc. His assistants jogged across the ice and he warned them again about exerting themselves unnecessarily. They brought it up, the sample laid out in sections. Overstuffed with down and thermal protection, his colleagues rushed to contain it in the storage trenches dug into the ice to keep the sample from relaxing or their measurements for chemical isotopes would be screwed to hell.

The drill continued and out of the corner of his eye, Walt watched the computer screen's progress. The nonfreezing drill fluid flowed smoothly and he could kiss the scientist who'd perfected it. Pipes locked in the ice meant abandoning valuable equipment. The crew transported the next length into storage below one degree to maintain the specimen. The rest gathered around the equipment housed over the site with a windscreen that would protect them, yet not change the temperature of the core samples. Walt ached for hot coffee.

Suddenly the core shot another twenty-eight feet and he rushed to shut it down.
Shit shit shit.
Not good, he thought, his gaze jumping between monitors. A pipe had come loose, he thought, yet the readings were fine. There wasn't a damn thing wrong with the equipment. That meant there was a gap. An air pocket in the glacier. His brows knit, his heartbeat jumping a little. The core depths so far were a sample of the climate eight hundred years earlier, give or take a hundred.

“All stop, pull up the last sample.”

It was useless anyway. The inconsistent drill would change the atmospheric readings of gas bubbles if the core relaxed and lost its deep ice compression. Holes under pressure were usually deformed. The technician went back to securing the steel pipes. Walt switched on the geothermal radar, lowering the amplifier, then waited for the recalibration. The picture of the ice throbbed back to the screen, loading slowly. He didn't see anything in the first half that shouldn't be there. The feed showed an eerie green of solid glacier ice. Then it darkened, a definite shape molding from the radar pulse. Bedrock already? Or perhaps a climate buoy. Thousands of those were getting trapped, yet never this far below the ice flow.

A graduate student moved alongside him, peering in. “There's something in there.”

Walt didn't respond, waiting the last few seconds for the pixels to clarify. “Yes, Mister Ticcone. There definitely is.”

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S
he needed to clear her head. Nothing in life mattered when she was out running. This was her time. She didn't have to worry that people thought she was a little mentally off-balance. She didn't have to…

A hawk swooped down, landing on the trail in front of her.

She came to a grinding halt, feet still running in place, and then stopping altogether.

What the hell? Hawks didn't just land in front of people. And it should have taken off as soon as it spotted her.

Ria stared at the bird as she tried to catch her breath, bending over and resting her sweaty palms on her knees.

The hawk was magnificent, with a creamy white breast and speckled, dark-brown wings that blended into black tips. The bird was so close she could see its sharp talons. Talons that were made for catching and holding prey. Something about this wasn't good. Probably because the hawk still hadn't moved. It stared at her as though it were silently trying to communicate. This was weird. No, it was more than weird.

Almost as weird as the thick fog rolling in. She straightened, her gaze flitting from tree to tree until she could no longer make them out. An icy chill raced down her back as if someone had run an ice cube over her spine.

Fog wasn't that unusual. Right? It was early morning, and the trail behind her house was in a low spot. Except this fog wasn't like any fog she'd ever seen. Kind of
Friday the 13th
creepy.

Alrighty, maybe this was her cue to leave.

Someone groaned, but the fog was so thick now she couldn't see a thing. Ria hesitated. What if the hawk had been trying to tell her that his owner was hurt? That…that…

It had finally happened. She had completely lost her freakin' mind.

But the fog began to dissipate enough that she could make out a man's face. A very tall man. At least six-two. With short dark hair. Strong chin. Green eyes that studied her. Tanned skin. Muscular chest…

Her assessment came to a screeching halt.

Muscular
bare
chest.

The man stepped forward. “I'm Prince Kristor, from New Symtaria. I'm here to take you back to my planet,” he said in a deep, commanding voice.

The fog vanished.

The man was totally naked.

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“All I Want for Christmas.”

T
he strains of Elvis's “Blue Christmas” drifted in the air as Christie Tate tried really,
really
hard to disappear inside the women's restroom.

“Did you hear?” The more-than-slightly-catty female voice asked from a few feet away.

Christie hunched her shoulders and stared at her heels.

“Charles Donnelley is already seeing Vicki from accounting. I mean…what's it been? A week? Two? He and Christie were—”

“I think he was seeing Vicki on the side,” another female voice chimed in, oozing sympathy.

Fake sympathy.

Christie stared at the gleaming black door, aware of the heat building in her cheeks. Was this what she'd become? A thirty-year-old woman hiding in a bathroom stall?

She knew those voices. Marsha Chad, a marketing assistant, was the one with the fake sympathy. And the other one—

“I heard Charles thought Christie was just…boring,” said Lydia Clyde. “I mean the woman's a genius, but when it comes to men and sex, she's…”

Enough.
Christie's spine shot up at the same instant her hand slammed into the bathroom door. The door flew forward and she caught the sound of two feminine gasps.

Her eyes narrowed as she took in the two women. “Lydia. Marsha.” So what if her cheeks were flaming? She wasn't going to hide in the bathroom another second.

Not thirteen anymore. Not the nerdy girl.

“Christie.” Lydia's blue eyes bulged. “I didn't realize you were—”

Christie jerked the faucet on and washed her hands. “For the record…” she lifted her head and met her own gaze in the mirror.
Backbone, girl, backbone.
How many times had she heard her mother say that over the years?
Don't ever let them see you break.
“Sex with me is never boring.”

She saw their jaws drop. Good. Great. She kept her chin up, kept her back straight, and with really fast steps, she was able to escape that hell-hole.

And to trade it for another one.

Christie burst from the women's restroom and walked straight into the full-on madness that was the Tate Toy Company's annual Christmas party. Bright lights. Elaborate bows. Mechanical toys—trains and soldiers—that marched across the floor. And Christmas trees. So many giant, colorful Christmas trees. Normally, she would have loved this site but right then—
just want to escape.

She sucked in a sharp breath and tasted pine. Christie glanced to her left and found her ex, Charles, arguing with Vicki under a giant piece of mistletoe. The pretty redhead's hair tumbled down her back as she shook her head at Charles, then she jabbed a finger into his chest. Trouble in paradise?

I think he was seeing Vicki on the side.

Jerk.

A waiter sidled by her. She grabbed a glass of champagne and drained it in one gulp. Elvis kept singing.

Can't get much bluer than this, buddy.

She marched forward, putting more needed distance between her and Charles.
Can't attack.
Because, no, that wouldn't be classy. A lady couldn't go up and jump on her ex's back as she started to pound the crap out of him. A good girl wouldn't do that. She'd been raised to be a
good girl.
Good girls became ladies, right?

But she was damn tired of being good. Damn tired of being gossiped about. Damn tired of it all right then.

Even tired of Elvis. And she loved the king.

Christie marched through the crowd, only stopping to pick up a few more glasses of champagne. Oh, but that bubbly went down nice and fast. Some folks tried to talk to her, but if they didn't have a tray of champagne flutes near them, she kept going.

Kept going until…

Until she reached the giant black chair that waited in the middle of the room. Santa's chair.

Presents wrapped in red and green paper surrounded the massive chair. Small surprise gifts for all the staff at Tate Toys. Santa would be coming soon. He'd be there to hear all their Christmas wishes. There to make those wishes come true.

Christie's fingers tightened on the champagne flute.

Then she caught a glimpse of Santa, and she spilled the rest of her champagne over the front of her red reindeer shirt.

Wow.

Santa was a stud.

She swallowed as she got a good look at the jolly old elf. Santa stood just inside the doorway of Tate Toys, a thick sack flung over his left shoulder—and what a nice shoulder it was. Actually, Santa had
two
nice shoulders. Nice, wide, broad shoulders that stretched the red coat he wore.

Her gaze tracked slowly down his body. No shaking like a bowl-full-of-jelly there. Oh, no, that man—
Santa
—was built. Tall, strong. His muscled thighs stretched the red pants and his powerful legs disappeared into a pair of knee-high black boots.

Santa stalked toward her. A fluffy white—and fake—beard covered his face and a bright red hat hid his hair. All she could see were sparkling green eyes and high, tanned cheekbones.

“Have you been a good girl?”