To Tame a Highland Warrior (47 page)

She retrieved the piece she’d kicked and rolled it gingerly between her fingers. Waves of emotion flooded her: a sea of shame and anger and humiliation, capped with a relentless fear that she still wasn’t safe.

A draft of air kissed the back of her neck and she stiffened, clutching the chess piece so tightly that the crown of the black queen dug cruelly into her palm. Logic insisted that the windows behind her were shut—she
knew
they were—still, instinct told her otherwise.

The rational Adrienne
knew
there was no one in her library but herself and a lightly snoring kitten. The irrational Adrienne teetered on the brink of terror.

Laughing nervously, she berated herself for being so jumpy, then cursed Eberhard for making her this way. She would
not
succumb to paranoia.

Dropping to her knees without sparing a backward glance, she scooped the scattered chess pieces into a pile. She didn’t really like to touch them. A woman couldn’t spend her childhood in New Orleans—much of it at the feet of a Creole storyteller who’d lived behind the orphanage—without becoming a bit superstitious. The set was ancient, an original Viking set; an old legend claimed it was cursed, and Adrienne’s life had been cursed enough. The only reason she’d pilfered the set was in case she needed quick cash. Carved of walrus ivory and ebony, it would command an exorbitant price from a collector. Besides, hadn’t she earned it, after all he’d put her through?

Adrienne muttered a colorful invective about beautiful
men. It wasn’t morally acceptable that someone as evil as Eberhard had been so nice to look at. Poetic justice demanded otherwise—shouldn’t people’s faces reflect their hearts? If Eberhard had been as ugly on the outside as she’d belatedly discovered he was on the inside, she never would have ended up at the wrong end of a gun. Of course, Adrienne had learned the hard way that any end of a gun was the wrong end.

Eberhard Darrow Garrett was a beautiful, womanizing, deceitful man—and he’d ruined her life. Clutching the black queen tightly, she made herself a firm promise. “I will never go out with a beautiful man again, so long as I live and breathe. I hate beautiful men. Hate them!”

Outside the French doors at 93 Coattail Lane, a man who lacked substance, a creature manmade devices could neither detect nor contain, heard her words and smiled. His choice was made with swift certainty—Adrienne de Simone was definitely the woman he’d been searching for.

It wasn’t easy for Jillian to hide in her chambers all day. She wasn’t the cowering sort. Nor, however, was she the foolish sort, and she knew she must have a plan before she subjected herself to the perils of her parents’ nefarious scheme. As afternoon faded into evening and she’d yet to be struck by inspiration, she discovered she was feeling quite irritable. She hated being cooped up in her chambers. She wanted to play the virginal, she wanted to kick the first person she saw, she wanted to visit Zeke, she wanted to eat. She’d thought someone would appear by lunchtime, she’d been certain loyal Kaley would come check on her if she didn’t arrive at dinner, but the maids didn’t even appear to clean her chambers or light the fire. As the solitary hours passed, Jillian’s ire increased. The angrier she became, the less objectively she
considered her plight, ultimately concluding she would simply ignore the three men and go about her life as if nothing were amiss.

Food was her priority now. Shivering in the chilly evening air, she donned a light but voluminous cloak and pulled the hood snug around her face. Perhaps if she met up with one of the oversized brutes, the combination of darkness and concealing attire would grant her anonymity. It probably wouldn’t fool Grimm, but the other two hadn’t seen her with clothes
on
yet.

Jillian closed the door quietly and slipped into the hallway. She opted for the servants’ staircase and carefully picked her way down the dimly lit, winding steps. Caithness was huge, but Jillian had played in every nook and cranny and knew the castle well; nine doors down and to the left was the kitchen, just past the buttery. She peered down the long corridor. Lit by flickering oil lamps, it was deserted, the castle silent. Where was everyone?

As she moved forward, a voice floated out of the darkness behind her. “Pardon, lass, but could you tell me where I might find the buttery? We’ve run short of whisky and there’s not a maid about.”

Jillian froze in mid-step, momentarily robbed of speech. How could all the maids disappear and that man appear the very instant she decided to sneak from her chambers?

“I asked you to leave, Grimm Roderick. What are you still doing here?” she said coolly.

“Is that you, Jillian?” He stepped closer, peering through the shadows.

“Have so many other women at Caithness demanded you depart that you’re suffering confusion about my identity?” she asked sweetly, plunging her shaking hands into the folds of her cloak.

“I didn’t recognize you beneath your hood until I heard
you speak, and as to the women, you know how the women around here felt about me. I assume nothing has changed.”

Jillian almost choked. He was as arrogant as he’d always been. She pushed her hood back irritably. The women had fallen all over him when he’d fostered here, lured by his dark, dangerous looks, muscled body, and absolute indifference. Maids had thrown themselves at his feet, visiting ladies had offered him jewels and lodgings. It had been revolting to watch. “Well, you are older,” she parried weakly. “And you know as a man gets older his good looks can suffer.”

Grimm’s mouth turned faintly upward as he stepped forward into the flickering light thrown off by a wall torch. Tiny lines at the corners of his eyes were whiter than his Highland-tanned face. If anything, it made him more beautiful.

“You are older too.” He studied her through narrowed eyes.

“It’s not nice to chide a woman about her age. I am
not
an old maid.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he said mildly. “The years have made you a lovely woman.”

“And?” Jillian demanded.

“And what?”

“Well, go ahead. Don’t leave me hanging, waiting for the nasty thing you’re going to say. Just say it and get it over with.”

“What nasty thing?”

“Grimm Roderick, you have never said a single nice thing to me in all my life. So don’t start faking it now.”

Grimm’s mouth twisted up at one corner, and Jillian realized that he still hated to smile. He fought it, begrudged it, and rarely did one ever break the confines of his eternal self-control.
Such a waste, for he was even more handsome when he smiled, if that was possible.

He moved closer.

“Stop right there!”

Grimm ignored her command, continuing his approach.

“I said
stop.”

“Or you’ll do what, Jillian?” His voice was smooth and amused. He cocked his head at a lazy angle and folded his arms across his chest.

“Why, I’ll …” She belatedly acknowledged there wasn’t much of anything she could do to prevent him from going anywhere he wished to go, in any manner he wished to go there. He was twice her size, and she’d never be his physical match. The only weapon she’d ever had against him was her sharp tongue, honed to a razor edge by years of defensive practice on this man.

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Tell me, lass, what will you do?”

Lisa awoke abruptly, uncertain of where she was or what had awakened her. Then she heard men’s voices in the hallway outside the office.

Galvanized into action, Lisa leaped to her feet and shot a panicked glance at her watch. It was 5:20
A.M
.—she would lose her job! Instinctively she dropped to the floor and took a nasty blow to her temple on the corner of the desk in the process. Wincing, she crawled under the desk as she heard a key in the lock, followed by Steinmann’s voice: “It’s impossible to get decent help. Worthless maid didn’t even lock up. All she had to do was press the button. Even a child could do it.”

Lisa curled into a silent ball as the men entered the office.

“Here it is.” Steinmann’s spotlessly buffed shoes stopped inches from her knees.

“What amazing detail. It’s beautiful.” The second voice was hushed.

“Isn’t it?” Steinmann agreed.

“Wait a minute, Steinmann. Where did you say this chest was found?”

“Beneath a crush of rock near a riverbank in Scotland.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. How did it remain untouched by the elements? Ebony is obdurate wood, but it isn’t impervious to decay. This chest is in mint condition. Has it been dated yet?”

“No, but my source in Edinburgh swore by it. Can you open it, Taylor?” Steinmann said.

There was a rustle of noise. A softly murmured “Let’s see … How do you work, you lovely little mystery?”

Lisa battled an urge to pop out from under the desk, curiosity nearly overriding her common sense and instinct for self-preservation.

There was a long pause. “Well? What is it?” Steinmann asked.

“I have no idea,” Taylor said slowly. “I’ve neither translated tales of it nor seen sketches in my research. It doesn’t look quite medieval, does it? It almost looks … why … futuristic,” he said uneasily. “Frankly, I’m baffled.”

“Perhaps you aren’t as much of an expert as you would have me believe, Taylor.”

“No one knows more about the Gaels and Picts than I do,” he replied stiffly. “But some artifacts simply aren’t mentioned in any records. I assure you, I will find the answers.”

“And you’ll have it examined?” Steinmann said.

“I’ll take it with me now—”

“No. I’ll call you when we’re ready to release it.”

There was a pause, then: “You plan to invite someone else to examine it, don’t you?” Taylor said. “You question my ability.”

“I simply need to get it cataloged, photographed, and logged into our files.”

“And logged into someone else’s collection?” Taylor said tightly.

“Put it back, Taylor.” Steinmann closed his fingers around Taylor’s wrist, lowering the flask back to the cloth. He slipped the tongs from Taylor’s hand, closed the chest, and placed the tongs beside it.

“Fine,” Taylor snapped. “But when you discover no one else knows what it is, you’ll be calling me. You can’t move an artifact that can’t be identified. I’m the only one who can track this thing down, and you know it.”

Steinmann laughed. “I’ll see you out.”

“I can find my own way.”

“But I’ll rest easier knowing I’ve escorted you,” Steinmann said softly. “It wouldn’t do to leave such a passionate antiquity worshiper as yourself wandering the museum on his own.”

The shoes retreated with muffled steps across the carpet. The click of a key in the lock jarred Lisa into action.
Damn and double-damn!
Normally when she left, she depressed the button latch on the door—no lowly maid was entrusted with keys. Steinmann had bypassed the button latch and actually used a key to lock the dead bolt. She jerked upright and banged her head against the underside of the desk. “Ow!” she exclaimed softly. As she clutched the edge and drew herself upright, she paused to look at the chest.