by Lynn Kurland
“No,” Zachary said, stunned, “I didn’t.”
“You would have had to wear a suit.”
“I think I’ll stick with you.”
“I thought you might. And if this makes it more palatable for you, consider the car your fee for designing the leisure center last year when you really didn’t have time.”
“I’ve already been paid for that.”
“Bollocks,” Cameron said with a snort. “You did it for the price of a decent meal. Take the car, Zach, and be grateful that your lady will now be safe when you travel. You could also consider getting on the road very soon. I think you have projects to see to.”
“I’m heading south this morning.”
“Comfortably, I should think. You’re welcome.”
Zachary smiled. “Thank you. And I do own a suit, you know.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Cameron said. “Hope you have money for petrol. I don’t think Derrick filled it up for you. I’m assuming he left you the keys.”
“He was on his best behavior, apparently.”
Cameron only laughed. “I daresay. Watch out for overzealous traffic officers. I’m not responsible for your points when Hamish Fergusson deigns to hop out from behind whatever bush he’s currently claiming. Cheers.”
Zachary hung up and sighed deeply. He picked up his gear and went to put it in the back of something he could have afforded for himself but never would have bought. It would have put too hefty a dent in his savings. But given that he was saving for a very specific thing, perhaps the car was a blessing in disguise.
And Cameron did have a point. He had designed a project for Cameron and Jamie the year before and he’d done it for dinner at the pub. Perhaps things shook out the way they were supposed to in the end.
He could hope.
He walked around to the front of the car to find Mary peering into the headlights. He leaned against the fender and looked at her.
“Well?”
“Does it go fast?”
“Very.”
She straightened. “Then you’ll be back that much sooner.”
She sounded like that was a good thing. He looked at her for a moment in silence, then reached out and gathered her into his arms.
“I’ll call you tonight when I get to Artane.”
She nodded.
He paused, then took her face in his hands. He kissed her on each cheek, as close to her mouth as he dared. He lifted his head and looked at her, but her eyes were closed and she had definitely trembled. He hugged her once more, then forced himself to pull away.
“Go back inside if you would, love, and let me make sure you get into the right century.”
She nodded, then walked back unsteadily to Moraig’s doorway. She stepped over the threshold, then turned to face him.
“Content?”
Well, he would have been if he’d been walking back inside the house with her, but since he couldn’t, he would content himself with seeing the proper century still lurking inside Moraig’s house. He looked at her for another long moment, then walked around the car and got in. He spared a brief moment to enjoy the new-car smell, then backed up.
He waved, had a wave in return, and drove off down the bumpy road past Patrick and Madelyn’s hall, past the turnoff to Jamie’s, all the way to where the private road hooked into the main road that wound through the village. And he hoped again he wasn’t making a terrible mistake. He had a sick sort of feeling in his gut, as if he were proceeding down a path that was lined by unpleasant things that he couldn’t see yet, but would sooner than he cared for.
He took a deep breath, chalked the unease up to lack of sleep, and concentrated on getting himself to England in one piece.
It should have been a pleasant trip south. The Range Rover was a dream to drive compared to anything else he’d owned over the past ten years, and he had work in front of him that he knew he would be able to do quickly and well. Mary had a cell phone and Elizabeth and Madelyn to look after her. As long as nothing untoward happened to her, she would be fine.
He couldn’t help worrying about what those untoward things might be. He hadn’t talked Robin of Artane into letting him bring his only daughter forward just so she could electrocute herself on a toaster.
He was halfway to Edinburgh from Inverness when his phone rang. He picked up immediately, fearing the worst.
“What?”
Gideon de Piaget laughed. “Aren’t you the professional one today?”
“I was expecting someone else,” Zachary said with an uncomfortable laugh. “Sorry. Hello, Lord Gideon. What may I do to serve you today, my lord?”
“That’s better,” Gideon said, sounding as if he were suppressing the impulse to purr. “I do so enjoy being deferred to as often as possible.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
Gideon laughed. “Don’t until I wring a favor out of you. I’m running a little late out of London and I was wondering if you’d be willing to drop by Seakirk on your way to Artane and pick up papers Seakirk signed for me. Things to do with the cottage, you know.”
“I’d love to.” Anything he could do to butter up the lord of Seakirk so he could potentially relieve the man of one of his properties, he would happily do.
“All right, then. I’ll see you tonight at home, will I?”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Oh, I hope not,” Gideon said with a laugh as he hung up.
Zachary spared a thought for the fact that he was making a trip in a day that would have taken him two weeks on horseback in a different century.
The twenty-first century did have its advantages.
Four hours later, he was pulling up to Seakirk’s outer gates. The portcullis was raised, but he didn’t see anyone manning it. He continued on up the way to a set of more conventional wrought-iron gates that swung in just as effortlessly.
Spooky.
But he wasn’t bothered by spooky, so he simply continued on his way, pulling to a stop in what looked like a likely spot. He got out of the car, stretched, and wished he’d stopped more than just once along the way. But he hadn’t and there was no taking it back now. He limped up to the front door.
It was opened by a white-haired butler of substantial years who looked so crisp, Zachary stood a little straighter in self-defense.
“I’m Zachary Smith,” Zachary said. “I’m here on an errand from Lord Blythwood to pick up papers from the earl.”
“Of course you are, Master Smith,” the butler intoned. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Zachary ignored the shiver that went down his spine. Somehow, he felt as if he were about to be the main course at an oth erworldly banquet of some sort. He took a deep breath. “I didn’t catch your name ...”
“’Tis Worthington, sir,” the butler said. He stood back and gestured for Zachary to come inside. “Follow me, if you will.”
Zachary didn’t dare not. He followed the butler across a fabulously well-preserved great hall and back to stairs that led up to another floor. Everything looked so original, Zachary had to check in repeatedly to make sure he was in the right century. Either the Earl of Seakirk had more money than the Queen, or he was an absolute pain in the backside about his restorations.
Zachary liked that already about him, being something of a perfectionist himself.
Worthington paused in front of a door, then opened it and indicated that Zachary should go inside.
“Is this a family room?” Zachary asked in surprise.
“It is His Lordship’s private solar,” Worthington conceded.
“Isn’t he hesitant to let complete strangers into it?”
“We have an excellent alarm system, sir.”
Zachary studied him in silence for a minute. “Ghosts?”
Worthington almost smiled. “I’ve heard about you.”
“I shudder to ask.”
“I imagine you do,” Worthington said, unperturbed. “You might enjoy the gallery to your lef
t. A very fine collection of medieval weapons.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Worthington said in a perfect imitation of an American accent. He waited for Zachary to enter the solar, then pulled the door shut.
Zachary was momentarily tempted by the very comfortable-looking sofa, the remote, and the enormous flat screen dominating one wall, but he resisted admirably. There were other treasures to be admired first.
He walked over to an open doorway and found that Worthington hadn’t exaggerated. There was indeed an amazing collection of medieval gear inside. He paused at the doorway, then shrugged and walked inside. Ghosts would no doubt tattle on him if he touched anything he wasn’t supposed to, so he put his hands in his pockets and contented himself with the thought of just looking.
Or at least he did until he took three steps into the gallery.
There was an enormous portrait hanging over a very lovely eighteenth-century mahogany rolltop desk. Zachary stared up at it and felt for something to sit down on. There was nothing, so he sat down very hard on the floor.
It was Robin and Anne. And their children. Those were apparently Robin’s sons. He was certain that was Robin’s daughter. It was so startling to see a portrait of Mary with her family that he simply couldn’t take it in. He sat there and gaped.
Why was that portrait hanging in the lord of Seakirk’s private study?
“Worthington said I had company.”
Zachary scrambled to his feet, then turned—
And came face-to-face with Robin de Piaget.
It actually took him a moment to realize it wasn’t Robin he was looking at, though the man standing in front of him couldn’t have looked any more like him if he’d been him. Well, except for his eyes. He had Anne’s eyes.
“Your Lordship,” Zachary managed. “I’m, um ...”
“Zachary Smith, if reports are to believed,” Seakirk said with a bit of a smirk. “Architect extraordinaire, if those same reports are correct.”
“I do my best to please,” Zachary said, putting his hand on Seakirk’s desk to keep himself upright. He wished mightily for another turn on the floor. He was starting to feel as if that floor were pitching under his feet.
Why was Mary’s picture above Seakirk’s desk? More to the point, why did Seakirk look so much like Robin de Piaget?
“Yank or Scot? I can’t place your accent.”
“Yank,” Zachary managed. “Transplanted ten years ago.”
Seakirk grunted. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. And based on what I’ve heard, you’ve seen more than your share.”
Zachary smiled, though it felt very strained. “Scotland is full of magic.”
“So is England, I daresay.”
Zachary imagined that Seakirk had seen his share of magic, but he couldn’t for the life of him determine how or when. He just knew that he was positive he was looking at a man who should have died hundreds of years ago.
Kendrick de Piaget.
“Do you need a drink?” Seakirk asked suddenly.
Zachary shook his head sharply. “Sorry. I’ve been traveling recently. It’s, um, jet lag.” Yeah, about eight hundred years’ worth and believe it or not, your sister has it, too. “If I could just get those papers Lord Blythwood left for you to sign, I’ll get out of your hair.”
Seakirk shot him a puzzled look, then shrugged and went to rummage around in his desk.
“That’s a beautiful portrait,” Zachary said, because he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
A perennial problem, apparently.
“My family,” Kendrick said absently. He produced papers, then handed them off.
Zachary took them gratefully, then followed Seakirk even more gratefully out of his solar and down the stairs.
“Oh, Kendrick, there you are!”
Zachary looked across the hall to find a woman coming out of another part of the castle. She walked across the floor and came over to lean up and kiss the lord of Seakirk briefly.
“Addy wants a ride on your horse. I told her she would have to convince you.” She paused. “I didn’t realize you had business.”
Kendrick shook his head. “We’re finished. Gen, this is Zachary Smith.”
Genevieve de Piaget smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Kendrick’s wife, Genevieve. You’re the head of CAT, aren’t you? We’re thrilled with your plans for the cottage, by the way.”
“That’s wonderful,” Zachary managed.
“I used to do restoration myself in the States,” Genevieve continued, “so I was prepared to be critical. Gideon showed us your portfolio, though, and we were completely wowed. You’re an American as well, aren’t you?”
Zachary nodded, though he thought if he didn’t get out of their hall, he might open his mouth and say something to Genevieve he shouldn’t. He suspected it might be anything from, What in the hell are you doing married to a man who died—and yes I saw it in Artane’s Big Fabulous Book of Genealogy—almost eight hundred years ago? to, Do you realize that I have your husband’s sister hidden away in Scotland and I’m beginning to think she should stay there?
“You know,” Genevieve said, slipping her hand into her husband’s, “we should see what Mr. Smith can do with Wyckham. Actually, Kendrick, you should just sell it to him.” She smiled. “I can tell just by looking at what he’s done that he has a serious case of castle fever.”
If they only knew.
“I’ll see how the cottage finishes up,” Kendrick said with a frown, “then we’ll see how well he grovels.”
Genevieve laughed. Zachary tried to laugh as well, but all he could do was eye the closest exit and wonder if it would be rude to just make a break for it.
“We’ll discuss it later, Zachary,” Kendrick said. “I believe I have a date with my daughter in the stables. Why she loves horses so, I can’t fathom. I think ’tis best to humor her, though. You never know that she won’t grow up to be a brilliant horsewoman at some point.”
Zachary nodded, because he couldn’t do anything else. Yes, she would probably grow up to be a brilliant horsewoman, just like her aunt. Only she would have far more freedom than her aunt had ever enjoyed.
Only now her aunt had all the freedom in the world to do what she liked with whatever poor nag he might be able to afford for her. Assuming she was interested in his buying her a poor nag. And that had as its prerequisite her wanting to have anything at all to do with him.
He had to get out of Seakirk before he started babbling.
He shook hands all around, then walked with Kendrick to the door. He was extremely happy to get into his car that would most certainly get him out the gates without trouble and drive away.
And he wondered just what else Fate was going to throw at him that day.
It was sunset before he paused at the ticket booth near Artane’s front gates. He had straightened out his crew at the cottage, verified for himself that there were no ghosts, and discovered that all sightings had been reported by a stranger no one seemed to know. A very corporeal stranger. Zachary supposed he would do well to dig a little deeper there, but not that evening. He had business with one Gideon de Piaget, second son of the current earl of Artane.
He paid the granny in the ticket booth her ten pounds without question even though the castle wasn’t open for visitors and she actually had to put down her knitting to demand her fee. He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked up the way, trying not to allow his memories of medieval Artane to layer themselves over the current castle.
He had, he would readily admit, seen too much.
Gideon was waiting for him in the courtyard, just as Robin had been more than once. Zachary stumbled, took a firmer grip on both his imagination and his gear, then continued on the way.
“You made good time,” Gideon said with a smile. “And I see no smoke billowing up from down the way. An improvement, wouldn’t you say?”
Zachary opened his mouth to comment on that, or the weather, or the granny down the way w
ho was going to beggar him before summer, but instead out came words he hadn’t intended.
“How well do you know Kendrick of Seakirk?”
Gideon blinked in surprise. Then he shifted.
Zachary immediately sensed a guilty conscience.
“What do you mean?” Gideon hedged.
“I mean how well do you know him? How long have you known him? Did you grow up playing cricket together? Hang out in Nobility Club together? Go to University together? What?”
“Er, we’ve done, um, business together—”
“Who is he?”
Gideon opened his mouth, no doubt to hedge a bit more, then he shut that mouth and considered. “You frighten me.”
“I have a finely attuned BS meter. It’s pegged right now.”
Gideon smiled sickly. “Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you what you want to know. Mostly,” he added not entirely under his breath.
“I just want one answer,” Zachary said, “and I think it’s probably better to have it out here so I don’t bleed all over your father’s floor when I faint and crack my head open.”
Gideon turned back. “All right.”
“Is he a de Piaget?”
“Very distant cousin.” He paused. “Of a sort.”
Zachary pursed his lips at the lie. “What about his family?”
Gideon shrugged. “He loves his wife dearly and you’ll never meet a man prouder of his children—”
“Not his current family. His other family. The one he grew up in. What does he say about them?”
“Megan and Genevieve have probably talked more than we have about that sort of thing.” Gideon shot him a pleading look. “You know, feelings and that sort of rot that make us of the male persuasion very uncomfortable.”
“Are his parents still alive,” Zachary pressed, “or ... ?”
“I’m fairly sure it’s or. I don’t know about his siblings.”
Zachary hated to make Gideon squirm—he was squirming quite badly now—but he had to have answers.