A Highlander for Christmas (8 page)

But Jared had also glimpsed the darker side of Maggie Kincade. She was on edge, struggling to deal with the loss of her father and the unanswered questions left by his disappearance. Until those questions were resolved, her father’s notoriety was her notoriety, shadowing everything she did. Jared was certain that her selection would create a security nightmare once the British tabloids got wind of Nicholas’s plans.

Which they would do very soon.

Still, the choice belonged to Nicholas. Jared was simply the messenger.

“Come on, Mag. Open the cursed thing before I have cardiac arrest,” Chessa muttered. She turned as two men pushed beneath the beaded curtain just inside the restaurant’s front door. “Oh, hell. More reporters. Those two were at the shop yesterday asking questions.”

Jared rose to his feet. For the space of a heartbeat his hand brushed Maggie’s. It took more effort than he’d imagined not to react at the hot flare of contact.

Honor
, he reminded himself. People were entitled to their secrets, no matter how complicated or painful.

“Go on.” He gave a grim smile. “The corridor will take you straight to the kitchen. There’s a door to the street.”

Maggie’s hands clenched. “Why are you doing this?”

“Call it a favor. Or call it repayment for a very pleasant day.” His voice hardened as the two men gestured and went for their cameras.

“But it’s not your problem.
I’m
not your problem.” She stood unmoving, all tension and indecision. The curve of silver at her neck rose and fell jerkily with each breath. “And they might hurt you. Two men decked Chessa’s brother last week when he wouldn’t get out of their way.”

Jared’s smile was slow and very cold. “They won’t deck me.”

She stared at his broad shoulders. “No, I suppose not. But I still don’t see why you’re making this your business.”

The hell of it was, Jared didn’t know either. He told himself the question was irrelevant. “You underestimate yourself, Ms. Kincade. Now
go
.”

“He’s right, Mag. Come on.”

“Stop!” the man in front barked. “They’re going out the back. Get the shot, damn it!”

Jared produced a very pleasant smile as he heard Maggie and her cousin slip from the banquette and scramble toward the kitchen. He was still smiling when his arm rose and the first camera hit the floor, reduced to twisted metal and shattered glass beneath his foot.

“Are you nuts? We’re the press. You can’t do that.”

“As a matter of fact, I can.” Suddenly Jared was back in Thailand, hearing the thud of bamboo on human flesh. He knew the blind fury of being hounded, prodded, and tormented because of the color of his skin and words on his passport. As a captive in box number 225, he had reached out from his prison, aching to touch fresh air and silence. Through the rusted metal bars he had smelled the night air, rich with jasmine and a hint of orchids.

Neither could hide the stench of sweat and fear.

When his hands had clenched on the rusty bars, he’d felt the trickle of blood. Then he’d heard the sharp stamp of feet. They’d come ahead of schedule. Hands on the bars, key in the lock. Taunts in a foreign tongue.

Then the bamboo. Pain that did not end.

That night he had been almost too tired to fight. He’d almost forgotten what he was fighting for, but he had not turned away. There had been no mercy in the face before him. No weakness in the hands that gripped the length of bamboo with its point of rough metal When the questions came in an angry staccato of Thai, Chinese, and perfect English, he had given them the silence they hated.

So the bamboo fell.
And fell. And fell.

He had made no sound. The act had cost Jared him dearly, but irritating his attackers was his only pleasure. After an hour, he had prayed for death, but they wouldn’t even give him that.

Fighting the pain, he’d thought of stars: Vega.
Sirius. Altair.
As the torment broke over him, he had tried to remember the stars shimmering in the loch where he had grown up. The memories were all that had kept him from screaming, until the darkness finally enfolded his tortured body.

Until the next beating.

The man in box number 225 had known what it was like to give up hope, but Jared wasn’t going to let Maggie Kincade know that kind of despair

“Wise guy, are ya? Let’s see how you like this, pal.”

Jared moved first. He put his whole weight into the punch and enjoyed the feeling of his fist as it struck the cursing, ruddy face below a pair of furtive eyes that had a nasty mind.

Some favors were definitely more pleasant than others, he decided.

~ ~ ~

Maggie’s heart was still pounding as she pushed open the door to her apartment, the vellum envelope with the gold coronet clutched in her hands. “Did you see that, Chessa? He broke
both
their cameras.”

“That’s not all he broke, and he didn’t even raise a sweat. Incredible physique.” Chessa tossed down her coat, smiling at the memory. “I think I could almost love that guy.” Abruptly she rounded on Maggie. “Now open the bloody thing. And
don’t
tell me you need more time.”

Maggie stared at the heavy envelope. She had submitted two samples of her work months ago as part of her application for an international jewelry exhibition sponsored by the twelfth Lord Draycott and his American wife. After weeks of waiting and worrying, she had forgotten all about the submission.

Now she regretted the impulse to submit her designs. She’d had too much failure lately, and she didn’t need any more. “Don’t get excited. They’re probably telling me not to give up my day job. Politely worded, of course. The English are good at that.”

“Why would they send a messenger to tell you that?” Chessa countered.

Light
played over the Christmas tree in the corner as Maggie tore open the envelope and tried to pull out the single heavy sheet, but failed.
Get a grip
, she told herself, remembering the hard mouth and the dark hair that had brushed against broad shoulders.

He’d had gentle hands. Old eyes.

Maggie didn’t want to remember. She didn’t want to feel this coiling heat or gnawing curiosity. She definitely didn’t want to owe a stranger for any favors, no matter how much she had needed his help.

Lamplight struck the golden coronet. And what if she had won? How would she feel to see her designs in platinum and gold resting among heirloom hallmarked silver and historic gems in cases that bore the dignified Draycott crest?

Only heaven. Only a chance at dizzying professional success and recognition by the finest craftsmen and goldsmiths in all of Europe, along with the support of one of the oldest collecting families in England.

From what Maggie had read of the viscount’s plans, this could become one of Europe’s most publicized exhibitions, including a year’s endowed residence and financial backing. She would revel in the teaching and education projects that the viscount had outlined, along with some restoration work.

Chessa’s arm wrapped around her. “Well, what does it say?”

‘‘They can’t possibly want me.” Maggie touched the paper. “No one else sees the things I see, Chessa. How old and new can be matched. How metal can flow and bend.”

Chessa shoved her down into the chair. “Just open the wretched thing.”

Maggie touched the tiny gold letters. She tried not to care, tried not to hope, but her throat tightened.
I won’t lose this chance
, she thought fiercely. Something slammed down hard into her chest.
I can’t.

She tore open the sheet. The mouse peeked out at her from its hole, squeaking softly.

“Tell me this instant, Margaret Elizabeth Kincade,” Chessa hissed.

Maggie swallowed hard. “I’m in,” she whispered. “I’m in. I’m going to
England
, Chessa. I’m invited to have my designs shown exclusively at Draycott Abbey and selected venues throughout Europe. After that comes a year in residence as a teacher at the craft museum Lord Draycott has just endowed in Sussex.”

Her cousin’s crow of delight was almost drowned out by the blare of horns from the street below, followed by the scream of the buzzer. More reporters?

“You’re getting out of this hole tonight,” Chessa said flatly. “We have work to do.”

Maggie barely heard. She was in. She was going to England. She still couldn’t grasp the reality of the news.

“How long before you leave?”

“Leave?”

“For England,” Chessa said impatiently.

Maggie squinted down at the invitation “Three weeks, I think.”

“Three weeks!” Chessa swirled, a mad blur of silk and fine tapestry. “You’ll need shoes, dresses, gloves—”

“I already have gloves.”

Chessa sniffed. “Leather and heavy duty canvas aren’t what I had in mind. After all, there will be parties. Openings. Formal evenings in those big, stuffy English conservatories.” She tapped her cheek, “Lingerie, too. I bet you don’t even
own
a pair of panty hose,” she muttered in disgust.

“I wear pants,” Maggie said defensively. “And I like my style just fine.”

“What style? You’re a sixties throwback, pure and simple. I bet you don’t even know what a foundation garment looks like.”

“Does a soldering vest count?”

Chessa rolled her eyes skyward. “Bless her father, for she knows not how she has sinned.” She caught Maggie’s arm and tugged her toward the single cramped bedroom, her face militant. “Go pack because you’re coming home with me tonight. First, we’re going to celebrate your acceptance letter with Veuve Cliquot at Henri’s and then a long, leisurely dinner at Le Cirque The best table, of course.”

“But we don’t have reservations…”

Her cousin gave a smug smile. “As if Vincenzo would dream of seating me anywhere but the best spot.”

“What if there are reporters?”

“Vincenzo hires men to take care of things like that. Big, nasty men in specially cut Armani jackets.” She looked assessingly at Maggie. “Tomorrow we do clothes. I have a wonderful ensemble of hand-rolled French silk that will be perfect on you.”

“But I—”

Chessa raced into full gear, ticking off items on an imaginary list. “Half-slip, garters, and camisole. Then we add real silk stockings—the only kind to have, believe me. Men just adore it when you roll them off slowly. I’ll bet that man in the restaurant knows everything there is to know about silk stockings.” Her eyes darkened. “And the perfect way to take them off. Did you see how he looked at you?”

“What do you mean?”

Chessa snorted in disgust. “Of course you didn’t see. You never do.” She tapped her jaw. “Well, it wouldn’t bother me to find out more about him.” Her eyes gleamed for a moment, then refocused. “But back to business. “I’ll take care of the clothes. I suppose we can leave the jewelry to you.” She dodged the pillow Maggie flung through the air. “Just a joke, idiot. I wouldn’t dream of cramping your style when it comes to jewelry. There you’re an undisputed genius.” She frowned at her cousin’s tangled cinnamon curls. “But we have some serious work ahead of us with your hair.”

Maggie crossed her arms militantly. “Forget it, Chessa, I’m
not
cutting my hair. No way.”

Chessa didn’t even hear. “How long did you say we have?”

“Three weeks.”

“Miracles have happened in less, I suppose. I’ll say a few prayers.” She took Maggie’s arm in a firm grip. “On the way, we’ll stop at a little place I know on First Avenue. They have the most incredible handmade Italian shoes…”

Maggie gathered her most valuable gems and metals in a special aluminum carrying case, along with pliers and shears, in case inspiration struck in the night. Then she turned and surveyed the shadows. The room was dingy, no doubt about it. There were no bookcases. No flowers or comfortable chairs.

It was a place to work and nothing more. A place where she passed time twisting silver and spinning dreams, until she had a real workshop of her own full of glinting spirals and stars slanting across fine chains of hand twisted gold.

She put her last wedge of cheese down for the mouse.

“We’ll call Faith from my apartment and bring her up to speed. Then I want you to try on my new shantung sheath. It will fit you like a second skin. I think my gold sandals might work with it.”

Caught between smiles and exasperation, Maggie started to protest.

But suddenly there was magic in the air. Light played over the tiny Christmas tree and set the needles dancing. A lace angel dangled from its string beside a cat with a bright red Santa hat.

And this was her gift, Maggie thought, cradling her vellum envelope. Suddenly giddy, she felt the grains of one life sliding away while another life began. She had a jolt of pleasure, a kick of excitement. Where would it all end?

As she followed Chessa to the door, neither one saw the shadow slipping along her back fire escape.