Authors: Melissa Schroeder
Forces outside the family are determined to ensure that they
fail. When an old enemy threatens both the well being of the clan and the
fragile new love, Callum will have to choose between believing his mind or his
heart.
Prologue
Scotland, 1746
Death would be too kind for the Clan McLennan.
Donedella McWalton clutched her husband’s faded plaid to her
chest. Even as fear slithered down her spine, she knocked on the door to the
witch’s remote cottage. As she waited, a chilling gust of wind stole through
the thrashing branches of the winter-bare trees.
From above, an owl screeched. She shivered. Before her
nerves settled, the door creaked open. Donedella saw no one standing before
her. She hesitated in the gaping doorway, which earned her a disembodied
cackle.
“Come in, my lady,” an ancient voice called from behind the
door.
Donedella’s heart skipped a beat. Bolstering her courage,
she skittered over the threshold, eyes darting around the room. With only the
light from the hearth’s fire, it took a moment for Donedella’s eyesight to
adjust. No bats hung from the ceiling. No potion boiled over the fire. But as
the flames danced, the shadows moved and dread twisted through her.
“You are Lady Donedella.”
She jumped at the sound of her name and toward the voice.
Donedella had imagined the woman to be older, scarier. But this woman was not
much different from herself. The kerchief on her head covered what looked to be
a mop of curly gray hair. Her simple peasant clothing draped over her generous
figure. Even as Donedella noted the normal dress, she sensed dispassionate
study from the woman who earned her keep off the misery of others.
Donedella nodded.
The witch walked forward, her steps sure and steady. She
stopped within an inch of Donedella.
“You want to kill someone?”
“Nay.” She shook her head. “That would be tae easy, tae
nice.”
The old woman humphed and paced away. Donedella watched her,
wondering if the witch would do what she requested. Or could. This witch was
her last chance. Her last hope. Without the woman’s help, the vile McLennans
would ‘ner pay for their crime. Panic raced through her, curdling her stomach.
She swallowed the bile in her throat.
The witch glanced over her shoulder, and Donedella almost
gasped. The cold, calculating gleam in the other woman’s eyes sunk into her
bones, chilling her from the inside out. She fought the shiver that raced down
her spine.
“For this you shall pay...handsomely?” The smile she flashed
Donedella had nothing to do with pleasure.
Drawing in a deep breath, she nodded. “Aye. I’ll pay
anythin’ to have my revenge on the McLennans.”
The older woman glanced at the plaid Donedella held. She’d
almost forgotten she’d brought it. “I see you have the plaid. You know what you
are asking? You know that this curse is not done lightly?”
Before she could allow her conscience to get the better of
her, Donedella let the pain of the last four months bubble up inside her.
The death of her beloved, the murder of her
sons, and the ending of their clan as they knew it was too much to bear.
Even as she knew that the spell she sought would condemn her soul to hell, she
could not stop the hate. It swept through her, whirled into her heart, into her
soul, demanding vengeance.
“I want them tae suffer.”
“’Tis as you wish, my lady.” The fire snapped, the flames
jumping as the witch nodded again and turned from her. “They will suffer,
indeed.”
Present Day,
Edinburgh, Scotland
Callum Lennon dropped the file folder into his briefcase and
sent his younger cousin an irritated glare. “You said she would be here at two,
Angus. It’s now four, and I’ve got a meeting on the other side of town. I’ll
never make it on time.”
Angus adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and studied him. The
younger man graced Callum with an expression rife with his legendary patience.
Damn
. Every
department head claimed when they received
The
Stare
, they knew they’d lost the argument. Callum supposed this wasn’t any
different.
“She’s running a little late. It isn’t her fault London was
fogged in,” Angus pointed out.
Callum grunted. “It’s her fault for coming from London in
the first place. Bloody Sassenach.”
Angus smiled but said nothing in return. Everyone in the
family knew Callum distrusted all things English. His younger cousins could
have the luxury of an open mind. But Callum’s memories were still ripe, even
after all these years. But then, no man walked away from watching his family
and friends butchered with a whole heart or soul.
“She’s the only expert who would travel here on short notice
to talk with us.”
Callum raised a dark brow. “That should tell you something.”
Angus continued as if Callum hadn’t even responded. “And
despite your assumptions, she is considered the best in the field. Her
published works in archeology alone would qualify her. With her interest in Celtic
legends and her ability to read so many dead languages, she’s a godsend. We
were lucky to catch her between projects.”
Unusual restlessness forced Callum to his feet. Even as he
approached the window, he could feel worry for his cousins settling around his
shoulders like a familiar cloak. Duty bound him to protect the clan at all
costs, and he had fallen short of shielding them more than once.
A fine mist covered the window due to an abnormal November
shower. The weather fit his mood. A burst of wind rattled around them, a sound
he found oddly calming. Callum was well acquainted with the cold. For years he
had lived with it in his blood, chilling his bones, freezing his soul. Each
year he seemed to slip a little further into the depths of it, until he
wondered if he’d ever be free. Even if they won this battle, he knew well he
might have already lost the war.
Callum didn’t like Angus’s plan, but with everything he and
his cousins had faced, he owed them this bit of hope. The other four were so
optimistic about what their discovery could mean. And, hating to crush their
expectations, he allowed it. It was naïve and desperate, but he understood why
they wanted the quest to be true.
But it could be true
.
Callum viciously squashed that voice in his head, the one
that spun gold out of midair. As laird, he had to ignore the lure of fantasy
and keep his feet planted firmly on the ground. If this dream shattered, as it
had all the times before, and their lives returned to “normal,” he would handle
their pain, their loss. It was his duty to look after them.
Angus’s mobile rang, breaking into Callum’s brooding
thoughts. After a few short sentences and a quick laugh, Angus hung up.
“That was Fletcher. They’re on their way up.”
He shot Angus another irritated glower, and then turned to
look out the window again. They wanted this expert, but that didn’t mean Callum
had to be nice, especially since they were paying this woman a bloody fortune.
“Promise you’ll keep an open mind about this, Callum.”
“I said I would.” He couldn’t—wouldn’t—hide his animosity or
his impatience.
“Be civil to Dr. Chilton. She’s the top of her field and was
supposed to take a bit of a breather between assignments. She only returned
from a dig last week.” He paused, and when he spoke next, his tone was measured
and all levity had dissolved from it. “This might be our last chance.”
Pushing aside his annoyance, Callum nodded—once. Angus was
right.
“I’ll be professional. By God, we’re paying the woman just
to meet with us. I never promised to be civil.”
When Angus didn’t reply, Callum realized his cousin’s
attention was focused on the door. The anger there melted into a smile that
Angus reserved only for women.
“It’s so refreshing to meet a man with such honesty.”
The voice—crisp and thoroughly English—held a tone of amused
condescension that grated down Callum’s spine. He felt the heat of
embarrassment creep up his throat to his face. Knowing that their guest had
finally made her entrance, he turned to greet her. The moment he saw her, every
bleeding thought in his brain vanished.
Phoebe Chilton wasn’t anything like he expected. He’d seen
pictures of her in her file and on the back of her books, but apparently the
woman didn’t photograph well. If she had, he’d have been prepared to behold the
Botticelli angel who stood before him.
A wealth of curly blonde hair surrounded a gently rounded
face. Fat drops of water clung to the curls, which had been in some kind of an
arrangement, but half of it had fallen out and was now draped over her
shoulders. Pale lashes framed green eyes that reminded him of the sea. One
blonde brow rose as his gaze moved to her cute, slightly upturned nose, a lush,
pink frowning mouth, and a pointed chin—which she lifted ever so slightly. The
shoulders of her ill-fitting, tweed, brown jacket were damp from the rain, as
was her skirt, which seemed to be a size too big. The run in her hose and
unattractive pumps completed the outfit.
Angus made the introductions. She didn’t offer her hand. Her
gaze raked over him, reeking of disapproval. Though they did not touch, her
attention sent heat leaping through his veins, not only surprising but
frustrating him.
When she made eye contact, she said, “I would say I was
delighted to meet you, but then my mother taught me never to lie.”
Sarcasm often amused him—unless it came from those on his
payroll. He pushed back at the urge to respond to the woman’s barb. He
definitely didn’t like the sharp punch of lust to his gut for what amounted to
an employee—and an English one at that.
“I apologize that you overheard my comments.”
She smiled without humor. “But not for saying them?”
He shrugged. “I don’t apologize for my opinions.”
This time she laughed. The light, joyous sound took him by
surprise, as did the dance of anticipation his pulse did when he heard it.
“Forget it. I deal better when someone is honest with me. I
don’t need anyone to pump up my ego. It’s rather big enough on its own.”
Before Callum could respond, Angus gestured to the seat
behind her. “Dr. Chilton, why don’t you have a seat?”
She turned her attention toward Angus and smiled again. This
time it reached her eyes, lighting them from within. Angus, full-grown man that
he was, blushed to the tips of his ears.
“Thank you, Mr. Lennon.”
As she settled into the chair, Angus spoke in a voice just
solicitous enough to agitate Callum. “I think to keep confusion at a minimum,
you should call us by our first names.”
Her smile turned impish, dimples winking at the corners of
her mouth like a mischievous fairy. “I completely understand. With three Dr.
Chiltons on a site, my parents and I tend to be informal as well.”
Apparently forgetting about Callum and Fletcher, Angus eased
his hip up onto the corner of Callum’s desk. He wore the expression of a
besotted puppy as he leaned forward and rested his forearm on his leg. Callum
would be amazed if Angus didn’t expect a pat on the head or a scratch behind
his ear.
“That’s right. You sometimes dig with your parents. Your
husband is in the same field, correct?”
Her happy expression faded, and her eyes lost some of their
lightness. “He did. My husband passed away eighteen months ago.”
“Oh.” Angus straightened and cleared his throat, breaking
the beat of silence that followed his comment. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head and patted Angus’s hand, the short
contact annoying Callum. “No need to apologize. Unless you move within
archeological circles, you wouldn’t have heard.” She sat back and then turned
her attention to Fletcher, who had taken the seat next to hers. “Thank you once
again for retrieving me from the airport.”
The smile Fletcher offered oozed charm and seduction. “It
was definitely my pleasure, lass.”
When she didn’t do more than return the pleasant expression
and then direct her attention to Callum, Fletcher frowned. Callum bit back a
chuckle. Fletcher wasn’t accustomed to women ignoring his charm, and it was
damned refreshing to meet a woman who was immune to it.
When he turned back to Dr. Chilton, her practiced,
professional smile was back in place. Frustration crawled through him until he
stopped himself. Why should he care if she didn’t give him a warm smile? He
didn’t, not when she was destined to be another disappointment.
When he said nothing, that damn eyebrow rose again. “Since
you seem a bit anxious, why don’t you tell me what you want, and we can get
down to business.”
*
*
*
*
Phoebe Chilton didn’t get flustered easily. Her life had
never allowed for that. Starting college at the age of thirteen and earning her
second doctorate by twenty-two, not to mention the constant lectures she gave,
supplied the experience needed to think on her feet, even when males
outnumbered her three to one.
In her field, she was accustomed to men, but nothing in her
experience even came close to the masculine beauty surrounding her now. The
testosterone filling the office was enough to make her dissolve into a puddle
of very feminine lust.
When Fletcher Lennon had met her at the airport, she’d had a
hard enough time not drooling. At least six feet tall, blue eyed with brown
hair tipped in bronze from the sun, he turned the head of every woman between
the ages between two and ninety-two. There was a rugged appeal to his face,
with the strong jaw and wide, thick shoulders. Not to mention the outfit: a
chambray shirt, worn, butt-hugging jeans, and cowboy boots. Cowboy boots on a
bloody Scot!