Claire Delacroix (40 page)

For over a thousand years—so legend has it—the brambles have grown wild over the ruins of Dunhelm Castle. Many believed that the thorns were a sign that the castle was cursed, so no one dared to trespass, and the secrets that they protected and concealed have remained hidden—until now.

Armed with a pair of gardening shears, Baird Beauforte is determined to clear away the brambles that hinder the development of his resort, and he won’t let local superstition deter him. Dunhelm Castle is supposed to be the latest jewel in the Beauforte Resort chain, but the renovations can’t be finished if the workmen are frightened of a so-called curse. To dispel any lingering fears, Baird decides to vanquish the briars himself. What he never expects is to find a mysterious slumbering beauty...

Aurelia is like no one he has ever met before. Upon awakening, she demands to know his identity and why he is in her father’s castle! Bemused by her claim of being a king’s daughter, he is certain he had never met this “princess” before, although something about her rouses a haunting sense of familiarity. Soon, dreams plague this by-the-book businessman... dreams that feel more like memories. And Baird begins to wonder if he can claim his heart’s princess—now and forever—with a kiss.

Chapter One

T
he thorny brambles had no chance.

The hedge clippers Baird had borrowed from the groundskeeper were fiercely sharp and he wielded them with characteristic determination. The brambles, though, refused to surrender without a fight. Baird had never seen brambles grow so big, so tangled or so robust.

They must be ancient, like everything else at Dunhelm Castle.

Another massive thorn bit at him and Baird cursed under his breath. No wonder the groundskeeper had refused to clear this corner! Talorc could blame local superstition but the truth was that he was just avoiding a miserable job.

It was raining this morning, as it had rained every day since his arrival at his new holding, but the light drizzle didn’t bother Baird. He was getting used to Scotland’s wide variety of rains, as well as the national refusal to let poor weather change plans for the day. After all, the skies could change in the blink of an eye.

What wasn’t changing was the way Baird felt at Dunhelm, and he wasn’t having an easy time getting used to that. He felt as though nothing else mattered in the world except Dunhelm and his being here.

Baird felt at home in the old ruins.

For a man who had never had a home, who had been certain he never wanted one, and who had always made a point of not settling anywhere for any length of time, this was more than unusual.

It was downright weird.

Baird meant to put a stop to Dunhelm’s strange effect on him, and he was going to do it today.

Dunhelm Castle—or what remained of it—occupied a jagged point of an island dropped into the misty gray of the North Sea. Although the grass was as level as a bowling lawn where Baird worked, rocky cliffs fell unevenly to the crashing sea beyond the encircling stone walls. There was a beach on the east side of the peninsula, though the wind was cold enough to flay the skin of anyone foolish enough to swim there.

All around Baird were the walls, the crumbled ruins that once had been towers and halls and kitchens. The wind from the west whistled through the ruins, and at dusk, the castle seemed alive with whispers of forgotten times. Baird did not consider himself an imaginative man, but Dunhelm seemed to pulse with the heartbeats of all the people who had lived here over the millennia.

He wondered whether it was the age of the place that entranced him. Certainly, he had never owned anything a thousand years old. And he couldn’t think of any other reason why one sight of Dunhelm had been enough for him to make his decision. It was almost as though he recognized the castle from some long-forgotten dream.

But that would have been irrational and Baird Beauforte was a supremely logical man.

All the same, from that very first glance, Baird had known that this was the property for Beauforte Resorts to establish its toehold in the European market. He told himself that this was finely honed instinct at work, an understanding of the market based on years of experience. A logical recognition of opportunity.

But even to Baird’s own ears, that claim was beginning to ring hollow.

One thing was for sure—Baird had never felt such satisfaction in signing his name to the contract that would make a property his own.

It was good that he was so committed to this place, for Dunhelm was the largest renovation Beauforte Resorts had ever undertaken.

And by far the most expensive.

But all the costs of restoration would be worth it. Dunhelm would be spectacular, the crown jewel of the Beauforte chain. Already the main circular tower rose restored behind Baird and the restaurant at the top—with its panoramic view—was being roughed in.

The massive wrought iron double gates Baird had commissioned had been installed just the day before. They were the perfect accent to the long stone wall that marked the perimeter of the property and cut the peninsula off from the rest of the world. The Beauforte Resort logo was forged into the gates and dramatically silhouetted against the sky before the approaching visitor.

The work was a bit behind schedule, but Baird’s vision of Dunhelm was taking shape. There was no reason why he shouldn’t leave this job in the capable hands of his staff, as usual.

Except that he couldn’t bring himself to leave Dunhelm.

Even worse, he wasn’t sure why.

This tangled mound of briars had aroused Baird’s curiosity from his first tour of the property. His interest was only strengthened by Talorc’s and every other local workman’s refusal to go near the briars.

Not one to back away from a challenge, especially with no reason other than superstition to do so, Baird had taken the task of cutting back the thorns himself.

He was sure that revealing Dunhelm’s every hidden corner to the pale sunlight would loosen the place’s hold over him. After all, this was the last part of the estate still hidden away. And he had always liked to solve puzzles.

That must be at the root of his fascination with this place. Once he cleared the thorns, Baird was sure that all mysteries would be solved. Then Dunhelm’s grip over him would vanish.

Every fallen bough fed his conviction. Baird had to conquer these thorns, and he had to do it today.

* * *

Baird had worked up a good sweat when the briars reluctantly parted to reveal a flat stone on the ground before him.

It was just a stone but he had a strange certainty that it was a step. Baird hacked with renewed vigor, smiling to himself with satisfaction when a second step was revealed.

He was right! There was a secret in this corner and he was about to uncover it.

Although the briars seemed to be suddenly more resistant to his efforts, nothing could have stopped Baird now. The rain fell like a protective mist all around him, a light fog hiding the other workers from view. The mist even seemed to muffle the sounds of construction.

It was as though he was alone in the world. No stranger to that feeling, Baird shoved up his sleeves, and methodically sliced back the stubborn growth.

The steps appeared before him, one after the other, descending into the earth. Baird, hot on the heels of solving a mystery, worked his way down them, his anticipation rising with every minute.

What could be down here? Who had made the steps? And why?

On the eighth smoothly fitted flagstone step, the brambles became thinner. It was chilly down here, the shadows of the walls on either side embracing him coldly.

Just a little further and he would know.

“Baird? You down there?”

Baird jumped at the sound of the familiar voice. He wiped a hand across his brow and felt the exhaustion in his muscles for the first time. How long had he been at this? Baird turned back and spied Julian’s silhouette against the gray sky.

“Down here, Julian.”

“Down there?” Baird could imagine the grimace his words earned and almost laughed. Julian and his damned shoes. “Won’t you come back up?”

“Nope. Got to finish.” Baird bent back to his task, Julian’s muttered curse not low enough to be inaudible.

He was probably meant to hear it.

“I don’t know why you had to have this place,” Julian muttered as he trudged down the stairs. “It needs more work than any other property we looked at, and it’s miles from London. No one will come all this way, especially since all it does is rain!”

“They’ll come.” Baird’s voice was low with conviction. “They always come to Beauforte properties.”

“‘Every guest is royalty to us’ and all that,” Julian echoed the firm’s motto. “But all the same, this is a miserable place.”

Baird caught a glimpse of Julian’s Italian leather loafers, their patina looking somewhat the worse for wear. Typically, the lawyer was dressed to the nines. Julian would never abandon his suit and tie, even in the most inclement weather.

But Julian was too much of a California child to ever completely succumb to the conservativeness of business dress. Though he wore a suit and tie, the boldly cut Armani suit was of a grayed eggplant shade, the tie a brilliant yellow.

Julian had only recently allowed his signature blond ponytail to be lopped off—after a young, attractive woman had joked that he was compensating for the increasing baldness on the top of his head by growing what hair he had overly long.

The ponytail had not survived the hour.

Forty could strike a man hard, even one so trim, well-groomed and successful as Julian.

Baird, on the other hand, had taken to jeans and Gore-Tex within hours of arrival here. It was true it had rained in some way or another every single day, but he loved all the myriad shades of blue and green mirrored in the shifting sea, not to mention the clouds drifting above it.

Baird’s newfound attraction to the sea was odd, really, given that he had been raised in the southwest, far from a sea of any kind.

“I think it’s beautiful,” Baird said mildly, earning a scathing glance from Beauforte’s legal counsel.

Julian snorted. “Beautiful. Far from it.”

“Just look at the sea. It’s quite a soothing place.”

“Ha! I don’t have to look any further than my own stomach. This is no place for a vegetarian. No country that willfully murders innocent vegetables could be beautiful!”

Baird had to grin despite himself. An ardent vegetarian, Julian should have become accustomed by now to having culinary adventures whenever he ventured far from a city’s bright lights. “It’s not that bad.”

“Oh, yeah? Last night in that horrible dark pub in town—you know the one—the only vegetables they could give me was this heap of something called clapshot.” Julian flung out his hands in exasperation. “Clapshot! Even the name is horrible! What the hell is clapshot?”

“You should know.” Baird returned to his clipping with a philosophical shrug, more than used to Julian’s monologues on the subject of food. “You’re the one who ate it.”

“I did not!” Julian grimaced. “It was orange and lumpy, like it had been put through a blender or something. Baby food.”

Baird grunted as he conquered a particularly thick vine and cast it aside, only to find another right behind it. A more whimsical man might have thought the briars were deliberately blocking his way. “Could be neeps and tatties together in one.”

“Neeps and what? I can guess that tatties must be potatoes in some overcooked form, but what the hell’s a neep?”

“Turnip. Or rutabaga. Those orange things, whatever they are. Mashed.”

Julian shuddered with mock horror. “Just like mother used to make. Ugh! I’m glad I didn’t eat it.”

Baird’s mouth quirked. “Maybe we should bill this as a weight loss resort for vegetarians.”

“Very funny.” Julian folded his arms across his chest and tapped his toe. “I’m not asking for much, you know. Why not a few roasted red peppers? A little rosemary? Maybe they could let some daylight in the place, instead of all that brooding dark wood. Ferns. Brass. Here’s a thought—attractive waitresses.”

Baird spared his friend a glance that spoke volumes before turning back to his clipping. He cleared another step. “Just like some chichi bistro in North Hollywood?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, why not?”

Baird shook his head. “Because it’s not California. Wouldn’t the world be boring if every place was the same?”

“Hardly.” Julian snorted. “We’d eat better, at least.”

Baird decided to offer Julian a choice morsel of news. “If it makes you feel any better, Sebastien’s coming to manage the restaurant here.”

“Sebastien? Here?” Julian looked incredulous. “You’ve convinced Sebastien to leave Manhattan? To come here?” The lawyer glanced about himself in amazement, as though he had been magically transported somewhere other than the Orkney Islands, then scrutinized his employer. “How did you manage that?”

“He thinks it’s ‘elemental’.” Baird watched Julian struggled to come to terms with the concept.

It was obviously an uphill battle.

“Well, maybe it could be, with Sebastien cooking,” he conceded reluctantly, then closed his eyes in rapturous recollection. “The things that man can do with portobello mushrooms!”

Julian sighed, then fixed Baird with a bright glance. “When is he coming?”

Baird shrugged. “A couple of weeks.”

Julian groaned. “It’s like an endurance test,” he muttered, then snapped his fingers in recollection. “Oh, hey, Darlene called. That’s why I came looking for you.”

“Again?” Baird was glad he had missed another worried call from his secretary.

“She wanted to know when you’d be back in head office.”

“Soon,” Baird said, emphasizing the word with a decisive snip of the clippers. “Very soon.”

“Great.” Julian’s tone implied that the news was far from that.

“I thought you hated it here.”

“I do! But now we’ll be gone by the time Sebastien gets here.” Julian scuffed his toe. “It’s just not fair.”

Julian pulled a determined branch away from his face and frowned at it. “These thorns are unbelievable. Look at this thing!” Baird obediently looked at the thorn offered for his perusal, a thorn not unlike the hundreds of others that had already made a grab at him today. “It must be three inches long!”