The Presence (4 page)

“Naturally, I've seen it,” she snapped.

“Right. You cleaned that, too.”

“Yes, we did.”

“Lovely.”

He deposited her suitcase on the floor.

It was fine, it was lovely. But…
it attached to his room.
How did she know that the man wasn't…
weird?
What if, in the middle of the night, he came through the connecting doorway? No, there were other vacant rooms. She should choose one of them.

He must have read her mind, for a small smile of grim amusement—and a touch of disdain—suddenly played upon his features. “Rest assured, you can lock your side of the bathroom door.”

“I should hope so,” she murmured.

“Really? Seems I'm the one who should be concerned about locking doors. Have no fear, Miss Fraser. There's
really not a great deal for you to worry about. From me, at any rate.”

His look assured her that he found her less appealing than a cobra. For some reason, that was disconcerting.

Because the bastard looked good in a towel?
she mocked herself. More than that, he had assurance and self-confidence. Sharp, intelligent eyes, well-sculpted, masculine, handsome features. And his other assets were well sculpted, too.

“I'll keep my door locked, too,” he assured her.

“You do that,” she said sweetly.

He turned and walked back through the connecting bath. The towel, amazingly, remained just as it had been tied.

Toni shut the door in his wake. She leaned against it, wondering how such a brilliant night could have possibly ended in such disaster. And how she had not only in vented a historical figure who had actually existed, but one with a seriously formidable, modern-day descend ant who was here, in the living—near naked—flesh?

Fear trickled down her spine, but she ignored it. It was very late now, and she was determined to get organized and get some sleep. And that was that.

She looked around, trying to forget the man on the other side of the door and keep herself from being cowed by him in any way. Surveying her surroundings, she decided it was more than just a fine room. Really. It was a
better
room.

She moved away from the door, telling herself that she liked it just fine, that she was going to move right in—even if it did prove to be just for the next few nights.

So determined, she went about arranging her toilet
ries and unpacking some of her belongings. But despite her resolve to settle in and get some sleep, she was restless and disturbed. First, this really was one total mess. She couldn't believe that they had been taken by some kind of a shyster. But worse, it bothered her that his family history, which she thought she'd made up, had turned out to be true.

Finished with hanging a number of her garments, she gathered up her toothbrush, toothpaste and flannel nightgown and headed for the bathroom. She hesitated at the door, then decided that for whatever length of time she'd still be in the castle, she had to take showers. She gritted her teeth, knocked tentatively and heard nothing. She went in. The shower-tub combination was to her left, and a large vanity with double sinks to her right. The last time anyone had redone the bathroom had been many years ago, but it was still decent with artistic little bird faucets and a commode and bath and shower wall that had surely been state-of-the-art at the time.

The doors to the master's chamber and the bride's room were directly opposite one another. She stared at the door to the other room for several seconds, then walked over to it and tapped on it.

“Yes?”

She opened the door and peeked in. He was still in his towel, deeply engrossed in the paper, and he had a fire going. The entire room seemed much warmer than hers.

A little resentment filled her until she remembered that there was a fireplace in her new room. She could build her own fire.

“I was going to use the shower. I just wanted to make
sure that you didn't need it.”
And that you don't intend to barge into the bathroom.

She had a sudden, absurd image of him riding the great black stallion into the tiny bathroom.

He arched an ebony brow. “My apparel would seem to show that I've already bathed,” he said.

“Right. Well, I'll unlock the door from this side when I'm done.”

“Yes, please do,” he said, and looked back at the newspaper.

She couldn't resist. “The
Times,
huh? You apparently like American newspapers better than American people.”

“I usually like Americans very much,” he said. There was the slightest accent on the second word he spoke.

She closed the connecting door and locked it, swearing beneath her breath. The situation was bad enough. If there had to be a living MacNiall, why couldn't he have been eighty, white haired and kind!

Fighting her irritation, she stripped and stepped into the shower. The hot water didn't last very long; she was probably the last one getting to it that night.

Still swearing beneath her breath, she stepped out, towel-dried quickly and slipped into a flannel gown. In her room, she debated the idea of attempting a fire. She'd had one herself in the other room, but David and Kevin had built it for her. Despite her Chicago homeland, she'd never built a fire.

Using the long matches from the mantel, she tried lighting the logs in the hearth. But nothing happened. Some kind of kindling was needed. Perhaps a piece of newspaper or something. Looking around the room, she saw nothing to use.

Lightning suddenly flared beyond the gauzy drapes that covered the door to the widow's walk. It was an actual balcony, she thought, not a little turret area, as was found in the master's chambers.

Immediately after, thunder cracked. The wooden door that led outward to the old stone area swung in with a loud bang as the wind blew it open with a vengeance. She hopped up and hurried over to the door. It was a nasty night, not the kind she had imagined here!

She closed the door with an effort and bolted it. Staring through the slender openings of the arrow slits, she saw another flash of lightning. She should count her blessings that they hadn't been thrown out that night.

She gave up on the fire and curled into the canopied bed, then hopped up again. The only light switch for the room was apparently right next to the bathroom.

With it out, she was plunged into a darkness so deep it was unnerving. Shaking her head, she opened the bathroom door, turned the light on, hesitated, then left the door on her side of the room ajar—she would have killed herself trying to get into bed in the pure ink that had filled the room.

Was she being an idiot? No, this fellow truly had no interest in her. Maybe she should be insulted, she thought wryly. At five-nine, with deep blue eyes and light hair that had deepened over the years to a dark blond, she was usually considered to be attractive. But apparently not to the ogre in the next room.

Bruce MacNiall. She
must
have heard the name somewhere.

Lying in the great bed, she shivered as she hadn't shivered in years.

No! It was not some kind of precognition coming
back to her. She had stopped all that years ago, closed her mind, be cause she had willed that it would be so!

Still…

She tossed and turned, wishing that there was a television in the room. Or a fire. Watching the flames would have been nice.

Her mind kept racing, denying that this could be happening when they had tried so hard to do things right. There had to be a mistake. There had to be some thing to do!

How
had she come up with the name Bruce MacNiall?

At last, she drifted to sleep.

 

Bruce had just lain down when he heard the ear-piercing scream. Instinct brought him bolt-awake, leaping from the bed. A second's disorientation was quickly gone as he heard a second cry of terror.

It was coming from the next room.

He raced through the connecting bathroom to see his uninvited guest sitting up in the bed, pointing in front of her, a look of terror on her face.

“Miss Fraser…Toni! What is it?”

He realized only then that she wasn't really awake. Racing to her, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. Her reaction stunned him. She jerked from his hold and leaped with an incredibly lithe and agile motion to her feet and stared down at him.

She was a rather amazing sight, mane of gold hair caught in the pale light, shimmering like a halo around her delicate, refined features. Her eyes were the size of saucers, and in the soft-colored flannel gown, she might have been a misplaced Ophelia.

Something hard inside him wondered just what new act she was up to now. Something else felt a moment's softness. The terror in her eyes seemed real. For the first time she seemed vulnerable.

“Toni,” he said firmly, stretching out his arms to catch her around the middle and lift her down. “Toni! Wake up!”

She stared at him blankly.

“Toni!”

With a jolt, she blinked and stared straight at him.

He thought she was going to scream again. Instead, she blinked once more and quickly stepped back, eyeing him up and down. Luckily he had donned a long pair of men's cotton pajama pants.

“I think you were dreaming,” he said.

She frowned, flushed and bit her lower lip. “I screamed?”

“Like an alley cat,” he informed her. He stepped back himself. In this pale light, in this strange moment, he suddenly realized just how arresting a woman she was. Not just beautiful, but fascinating. Eyes so intensely blue, bone structure so perfect and refined, her mouth so generous. Her features seemed carefully drawn, as if they had been defined by an artist. And despite the vivid color of her hair and her eyes, there was a darkness about them, as well.

“I woke you,” she murmured. “My deepest apologies.”

“I wasn't actually sleeping, but I am surprised you didn't wake the entire castle. Or maybe you did,” he added. He couldn't refrain from a dry smile. “Maybe they're creeping down the hall now, afraid to come in and find out what's happening.” He left her and walked
to the door, opened it and looked out. Then he shrugged. “Well, castle walls have been known to keep the sounds of the tortured from traveling too far.”

She still stood there, tall, elegant, strangely aloof. He found that he was annoyed to be so concerned. She seemed to be the head of this wretched gang that had the gall to “invent” history and entertain others with their perception of the past. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

“I just… I'm fine. And I'm truly sorry.” Her words were sincere. Her eyes were still too wide. And she seemed to be afraid of something.

Him? No. Something in her nightmare?

Bruce hesitated. Leave! he told himself. He didn't want them here. Lord, with everything else going on…

She shivered as she stood there. That was his undoing.

“The wretched room is freezing. Why didn't you build yourself a fire?” he demanded.

“I…”

The uncertainty seemed so unlike her. She'd been a tigress, arguing with him before. Impatiently he strode to the fireplace, dug behind the poker stand for kindling, laid it over the logs and struck a match. Hunkered down, he took hold of the poker to press it deeper into the pile of wood. He wondered if that had been a mistake, if she was going to think that he'd turn and take the poker to her.

But she was still standing, just as he had left her. To his sincere dismay, he felt a swift stir of arousal. The flannel should have hung around her like a tent, but it was sheer enough for the light to play with form and
shadow. And there was that hair…long, lustrous, blond, curling around her shoulders and breasts.

“A drink. You need a drink,” he told her. Hell, he needed one.

She lifted a hand suddenly, obviously regaining some of her composure. “Sorry, I don't have any.”

“Thankfully you didn't jimmy the wardrobe,” he told her. “I'll be right back.”

He went back through the bathroom and opened the wardrobe, found the brandy and poured two glasses from the left-hand shelf. Returning to the bride's room, he found that she had taken a seat in one of the old upholstered chairs in front of the fireplace.

He handed her a glass. She accepted it, her blue eyes speculatively on him. “Thanks,” she told him.

“They say it will cure what ails you,” he told her, lifting his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” she returned. A little shiver snaked through her as she took a long swallow. “Thanks,” she said again.

He set his glass on the mantel, hunkered down and adjusted the logs again. A nice warmth was emanating from the blaze now.

He stood, collected his glass again and took the chair by her side.

“So…do you want to talk about it?”

A twisted smile curled her lips. She looked at him. “Sure. It was you.”

“Me! I swear, I never left that room,” he protested.

“I know. It was very strange. It was as if I had wakened and…there you were. Only, it wasn't really you. It was you—as you might have been—in historical costume. It was very, very real. Absolutely vivid.”

“So I was just standing there, in historical costume? Well, I can see where that might be a bit unsettling, but those screams… It sounded as if the devil himself had arrived.”

She flushed slightly.

“You were in more than costume.”

“Oh?”

“Were it a picture, the caption might have read, ‘Speak softly and carry a very big and bloody sword,'” she said.

“Ah. So I was about to lop off your head. Sorry, I may be irritated and rude, but I do stop short at head-lop ping,” he told her, then turned, getting comfortable in the chair. “Don't you think you might have gotten a bit carried away with your historical fiction?”

“I have to admit, I've scared myself a bit,” she murmured. “I made up a Bruce MacNiall, only to find out that he exists. Well, in the here and now, that is.”