The Presence Part 32

He shook his head.

"No?" she said.

"Not tonight."

"Then why were you staring at me?"

He caught the innocent confusion in her eyes.

"I hate to admit to having feelings of a rather base inclination at the moment, but frankly, Miss Fraser, I was watching your hips, the machinations of the way you moved, and thinking I wanted nothing more to do with the dead, the old, the past. I find that my concern right now is extremely focused and has everything to do with the present. The immediate present. Dare I be cra.s.s? Madam, I was watching your a.s.s."

The confusion left her eyes. She laughed softly, a breath of antic.i.p.ation, of excitement in the sound that stimulated every sensual essence in his being.

He drew her against him then, allowing his fingers to ripple down her back and form around her b.u.t.tocks as he drew her close. "This is my castle, and as laird here, I do have the right to every s.e.xual fantasy known to man, as far as mind and place are concerned. Before the great hearth, in the kitchen, on the stair... But the place is filled with your a.s.sociates, and G.o.d knows, they may well wander at night. And, truthfully, stone is quite hard on the back and the bones, so..."

"You do have a great bed," she mused.

"And you have a great--great a.s.sets," he a.s.sured her teasingly.

She escaped his hold, scampering ahead of him up the main stairway. In the hallway of the upper landing, she waited, looking back. Her smile was still in place, her eyes bright, her hair like a halo in the dim light. He was rather certain that she had chosen the cotton gown with the full intention of getting him to show her the crypts that night, that she had worn it in case they had, indeed, run into any of her friends.

She couldn't know how the soft fabric molded to her with sheer seduction, or that he would find her as appealing in burlap. Or that, even standing in the hallway so, she could arouse him to a staggering heat and hunger.

She turned, heading for the room, and he caught up with her just as she plunged into it, drawing a little cry of surprise from her. With her in his arms, held against him, he kicked the door closed, turned and found his way to the bed. They fell heavily upon it, and in moments, were tangled together.

That night he loved everything about her. It wasn't just that she was made beautifully, with the right a.s.sets, curves, flesh, b.r.e.a.s.t.s, skin, face, lips, or her innate ability to use all to the most erotic levels. No. Her seduction was in her laughter, the husky, silver whisper of it, and her eyes, conveying an excitement, a thrill, that elicited a masculine response of ego, that sheer, pulsing, hard, desperate, devil-may-care arousal.

Neither her gown nor his clothing actually left their bodies as they came together in a wild clash of fabric and flesh that needed no play, for that had come before, in the simple act of getting up the stairs and closing the door. In a smile, in a whisper, in the sapphire pools of her eyes. That time.

Then there was laughter as they untangled themselves from wool and cotton, kicked away sheets so that they could be drawn back up. There were the jokes about kilts, more words whispered, the sweetness of being close in the aftermath, eyes touching again, hands against one another, naked flesh against naked flesh.

It occurred to him then, almost in a corner of his mind, that he never wanted her to leave. s.e.x was easy to come by. She was not. Only once before had he felt...

Not at all ready for them, he pushed such thoughts aside. And when he made love to her again, it was slow, painstakingly slow, for himself, and yet...his fingers idled over her flesh, teasing long before she turned back to him, snaked herself against his body, moved down against him, caused him to erupt to fire again.

He thought that it was late, very late when they lay together and started to drift to sleep. But just when the darkness was about to overtake him, he opened his eyes. He didn't know what he had heard, but he had been attuned for years to listening. And he had heard... something.

He rose carefully, silently, taking up his swatch of tartan and quickly wrapping it about himself. Bare chested, he silently opened the door and started along the hallway. His feet made no sound against the stone.

He came to the top of the stairs and looked down to the hall.

Nothing.

He shrugged. One of his guests must have arisen and then gone back to bed. Until he'd had his "guests" here, he'd never even bothered to lock the great main doors, Ullingham had never really had such a thing as a crime ratio. None of the local teens would break in. If they were of that bent, they'd want to hit a store with a cash register. It was true, as well, that there were those who swore the place was haunted. Who wanted to chance the anger or vengeance of such a b.l.o.o.d.y legend as Bruce MacNiall?

He hesitated, then walked down the stairs. The doors were locked, as they had been when he and Ryan had come in after seeing to the stabling of the horses. So he walked back upstairs and slipped silently into the room, and next to Toni.

He pulled her against him. She sighed softly in her sleep. He let the silk and fragrance of her hair tease his nose, and he closed his eyes.

Toni didn't know why she awoke. She had been sound asleep, but suddenly she was wide-awake, staring. A chill gripped her. She wondered why, when she was in Bruce's arms, held tight against him.

She winced and stared toward the foot of the bed.

He was there.

That other Bruce. Come back, from a long ago time. He stood staring at her, his features hard and tense with what looked like sorrow.. .or concern. Fear. For her?

She exhaled. "Not tonight!" she whispered out loud. "Please, please, not tonight!"

She closed her eyes tightly, praying that the vision would go away. And when she opened her eyes, to her amazement, the vision was gone.

"Toni?"

The living Bruce, vital flesh and blood at her side, touched her, whispered her name. She snuggled more deeply against his chest. He absently stroked her hair.

They both slept.

*15*

Bruce's phone rang first thing in the morning. He reached over from the bed to find it, thinking it was in the pocket of his jeans. But he'd come in with the swatch of wool around him he'd used for the tour, and his jeans were around somewhere. Not wanting the sound to wake Toni, he stumbled up quickly, and went searching around to find them. He fell upon them, and after some swearing and mishap, found the phone and answered it.

"Bruce." It was Jonathan.

"Aye, Jon, how are you?"

"Good, good. I've some information for you."

"Oh?"

"Can you come to the office?"

"Sure." Somewhat bleary-eyed, he tried to read his watch. It wasn't quite eight. "There's nothing you just want to say over the phone, eh?"

Jonathan sighed. "I'd rather you come in. What I've to say...well, I don't want to be coming there, and I think y'should come in."

"All right. I'm just out of bed. Give me time to shower." He rubbed his jaw. "And shave."

"I'll have coffee ready here," Jonathan said.

He hung up and glanced over to the bed. Toni seemed to be sleeping deeply, and he was glad. He frowned slightly, worried about her.

Strange that she had known the outlay of the crypts. He kept the door locked--and always had. It was one thing for locals and tourists to wander into the castle area, but another entirely for someone to come in, trip down the spiral stairway and lie injured in the cold, damp corridor of the ancient and the dead. But there were certainly plenty of people who knew what the crypts looked like. And every man jack from the village to the surrounding miles knew that the "great" Laird MacNiall lay at the end of a corridor, immortalized in marble by decree of the good old restored Stuart king, Charles II.

He showered, shaved and dressed quickly, quietly leaving Toni sleeping. As he closed the door behind him and hurried down the stairs, he could hear activity in the kitchen, but no one was in the great hall so he hurried on out and headed for his car. As he drove down the hill, he noticed the forest to his right, and felt again an anger and a conviction that they would eventually find the remains of Annie O'Hara there. And if they did not, she was there anyway, somewhere.

The remains of Annalise had gone undiscovered for centuries.

Parking, he looked up at the statue of his famous ancestor and shook his head. "You know, old fellow, if you are somehow haunting my American la.s.s, I wish to b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l you'd stop!" he said, then became irritated with his own whimsy.

He strode on over to Jonathan's office. The constable was in his office, waiting for him.

"What, do you grow a beard all over your body?" Jonathan demanded.

"You woke me," Bruce told him with a shrug. "I'm here, what is it?"

Jonathan ran his fingers through his sandy hair. "Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. I got this in from a computer fellow with the Lothian and Borders Police. Thought you might find it quite interesting, and that you'd be best out of the castle when you received it."

Bruce frowned, scanning the report.

The "corporation" the group had "rented" the castle from had a post office box in Edinburgh. But the computer site advertising his castle had been conceived and implemented from Glasgow.

He looked up at Jonathan. "Aye, so, it would appear the crooks are based in Glasgow."

Jonathan arched a brow. "Look into the next folder."

It was information Bruce actually had already. About Thayer Fraser's past. He tossed the folders back on the desk, grimacing. "Ah, Jonathan! The fellow has a shady background. And microchips are telling us that a person or persons committing fraud are based in Glasgow. We can't arrest a fellow for that."

"I know. But this, in itself, is d.a.m.ned suspicious. This fellow from Glasgow, a Scot, born and bred in the country, comes here with a group of Americans and claims he's never heard of you, that he has no idea there's a living MacNiall who owns the castle at Tillingham."

"It's a small castle."

"Ach! Bruce, you don't want anything to be wrong with the fellow, since he's the la.s.s's kin, and that's a fact."

"True, maybe," Bruce admitted.

"Well, there's more. And I didn't actually get the 'more' legally. The fellow has a bank account with over a hundred thousand pounds."

"It's not a crime to have money, either, Jonathan," Bruce said. "And how did you come about this information?"

Jonathan shook his head. "No way that can be traced, should we go to court against him. I spent some time calling the banks, pretending to be a credit investigator."

"I see," Bruce said.

Jonathan shook his head, looking down at his desk, then back to Bruce. "You're my friend, Bruce. I took a few risks. Make some calls yourself, if you wish. Nae, there's no way I can arrest the fellow now, as is. But the fellows into microchips will be comin' up with more, I think. So, I wanted you to know. And not when you were in the d.a.m.ned castle with the fellow."

Bruce didn't let a flicker of emotion into his face. He nodded gravely. "Thank you, Jonathan."

"Keep an eye on the family silver," Jonathan said. "Or throw the lot o' them out. You've the right, y'know."

"Aye." Bruce rose. "But I think not, not yet. After all, if the computer fellows can get something real on him, we won't want him to have bolted on us, eh? As long as he thinks he's covered his tracks, he'll sit tight."

Jonathan agreed. "There's something about the fellow I never liked. Takin' up with Americans who think they can tell Scottish history!"

Bruce laughed. "Actually, they didn't do a bad job."

"What the fellow did was a serious crime, Bruce."

"What we think the fellow may have done is a serious crime."

"How else does a no-good bloke playin' a piano bar get that kind of money?"

"Well, we don't hang fellows in the square on suspicion anymore, Jonathan. I appreciate you calling me, and I thank you for the information. We'll sit tight and see."

He left the constabulary and decided to pay another visit to Daniel Darrow's office.

Rowenna greeted him in reception. "We've a team here, t'day, Bruce. Seeing to the la.s.s from the past," she told him.

"The la.s.s from the past would be my kin, Rowenna," he said lightly.

"Oh, aye! I meant no disrespect, Bruce, truly."

"I didn't think you did, Rowenna."

"They'll be glad to see you. Daniel said something about wanting a blood sample from you."

"I a.s.sumed they'd want one. My veins are ready and waiting."

"They've machines going in there. They're doing an MRI or the like on her, trying to see what they can before cutting up what tissue they've got. Mind waiting?" Rowenna asked.

"Not at all."

As he sat, he noticed the day's paper, and the headline. Still No Clues To Missing Girl. He picked up the paper and quickly read the article. It rehashed old news, then made mention of some of the old cases being reopened. Cold case detectives were bringing up cases from as far back as 1977, trying to ascertain similarities to current crimes. But before he could read further, Rowenna came back into the room.

"Could you go in, Bruce? There's a Dr. Holmes from Edinburgh in with Daniel. She's an anthropologist, but qualified to stick needles in your arms, as well!" Rowenna said cheerfully.

"Aye, I'm happy to bleed for you all, Rowenna," he said, and tossing the paper back down, he went in to do just that.

"Will you look at this!" David said, pouncing as soon as Toni walked into the kitchen. He had the Edinburgh paper in his hand.

She glanced at the headline, then at David and Kevin. The two had been alone in the kitchen.

"They haven't anything new," she said, staring at the two.

"Read," Kevin advised her.

She arched a brow, then read as Kevin brought her a cup of coffee. She thanked him while trying to decipher what they were so excited about.

The article was mainly about new technology being used by detectives so they could go back to old cases. In 2002, the South Wales police had at last identified the murderer of three girls who had been killed back in 1973, using a Familial/Sibling Swabbing science technology.

There were sad statistics on the number of heinous crimes never solved, and then a reference to the work by police that could be attributed to their dedication and professionalism--something that science could never go without.

The article went on to talk about Laird Bruce MacNiall and his time with the Lothian and Borders Police. It described the victims and the horrors of their deaths, and it commended Bruce. She read on, stunned to discover that the brutal slayings had been committed by a husband and wife, and that, in that instance, an officer's insistence on following his gut instinct had led to the solving of the crimes.

She looked up at David and Kevin. They were both staring at her, waiting for a reaction.

"We knew he'd been with the police," she said.

"Did you read the whole thing?" David demanded.