Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (34 page)

Crazy, O'Neill. No doubt all old houses affect people this way.

A click. Suddenly light covered the damp stone walls that loomed up out of the shadows. Close to the ground Cathlin saw a jagged opening in the stone. She looked questioningly at Marston. “Here?”

The butler nodded. “The skeleton has been removed, of course. The remains were interred at the Ashton estate near Tunbridge with full church rites.”

Dominic hadn't mentioned that. Somehow the news didn't make Cathlin feel any better. The shadows felt oppressive, and a nearby palpable sadness brushed at her neck. A sound beside her made her turn. “Yes, Marston?”

“I'm afraid I did not say anything, miss.”

“No?” Cathlin frowned. She
had
heard something. It had come in that moment while she'd studied the jagged hole at the far end of the cellar. And it had been a single word.

Gabriel.

She took a steadying breath. Time to stop dodging ghosts and get to work. “May I?” She pointed to Marston's flashlight.

“Of course.”

“Is there an alarm working?” She balanced one leg on the stone ledge, flashlight in hand.

“Only a simple electronic affair.” Marston moved off to the wall and flicked a switch on a matte gray box.

Cathlin moved deeper into the shadows, shining light over the uneven stones. Dust skittered around her feet as she bent close to the cold granite floor.

And there she froze, her body rigid.

Rising from the shadows was a mold-and dust-encrusted wooden case filled with eight bottles cushioned lovingly in a nest of straw.

She was staring down at Gabriel Montserrat's legacy.

C
ATHLIN'S PALMS BEGAN TO
sweat.

Château d'Yquem 1792.
She knew it instantly. Her heart told her all that her scientific analysis would take days to resolve.

The wine was real; she could feel it in every screaming pore of her body.

She raised the flashlight, forcing her mind to its work. The wine looked authentic enough. The glass was of the proper texture and weight for that period. The bottle lips were full, another sign of authenticity. Her heart hammered, loud in her ears. Had Gabriel Montserrat truly died to bring this case here two hundred years before? And if so, how was her own ancestor involved in the mystery?

Chewing on her lip, she crouched over the priceless find. If the wine was indeed authentic, as all her senses screamed, then the demanding work of conservation would begin. She would have to check the bottles for hairline cracks, pitting and corrosion before moving to a delicate scrutiny of the corks. Even in the cool damp air of the abbey cellars the corks would have turned brittle. Old wines needed to be recorked every quarter century as standard practice, and these had had no such care.

Yes it would be the greatest challenge of her career.

If
she stayed, of course.

Cathlin ran her finger carefully over the case, touching the dust that had accumulated for decades, probably for centuries.
How could she possibly leave until she'd had a chance to verify scientifically that the wine was genuine? And how could she ignore the tragic mystery of Gabriel Montserrat's death in this place of cold shadows?

Dominic was right. It was too rare an opportunity for her to turn her back. There was no doubt that the intensely sweet white wines of the Garonne had been prized for centuries, and no less a figure than Thomas Jefferson had visited the area and sung their praises. She recalled a letter she had once seen. “I have persuaded our president, George Washington, to try a sample. He asks for thirty dozen [bottles], sir, and I ask you for ten dozen for myself.” Cathlin knew that there was no record of either American receiving his shipment that year. Was it just possible that this case came from the order commissioned long ago by Jefferson?

Trying to control her excitement, she pulled out a fine brush and cleaned the dust from the closest bottle. As her fingers touched the cold glass, a tiny, electric jolt ran through her. Heaviness seemed to gather at her heart, like the French valleys she had seen filling up with mist. She shivered, fingering the cameo at her neck, which had grown suddenly cold.

Nonsense, Cathlin told herself sharply. It was just a hidden tunnel that sent cold air slashing against her face.

But she was intensely aware of the shadows pressing around her. And she found herself wondering which shadows belonged to her and which were Draycott's.

 

H
E WATCHED HER FROM THE
shadows. Even in the dim half-light of the narrow tunnel, her hair had a glow of vitality. As she bent protectively over the old wine, using a fine brush to remove two centuries of dust, Dominic Montserrat understood just how vast was Cathlin O'Neill's love of fine wine.

Yes, this was the perfect opportunity for her, if only she could be persuaded to take it. Suddenly Dominic found himself praying
that the case was authentic, because he wanted to see the excitement blaze in Cathlin's eyes when she astounded the wine world with her discovery. She deserved that joy. The abbey owed her that much, after taking her mother from her.

Without warning, tension stirred along Dominic's neck. Crouching low, he spun about, prepared for an attack.

But none came. There was no movement around him, nor sound of any sort. He was alone here beneath the damp stones, ringed by shadows. And something about those gray walls with their leaden darkness made sweat touch his face.

Something was wrong.

Habits too deeply ingrained to deny screamed out that he was not alone, that someone was watching him. Only his imagination, Dominic tried to tell himself as he eased upright.

 

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
Nicholas Draycott tracked Dominic down in the middle of the gently sloping lawns that led away from the moat. The viscount smiled wryly as he watched his friend go through sharp jabs and impossibly high whipkicks, covered with sweat and looking mean.

The man was a master and no mistake, Nicholas thought.

And just as well.

They all were going to need that expertise to survive when the news of this discovery got out.

“You're looking damnably fit, Dominic.”

Dominic wiped his forehead with a towel and held out a hand. “Not too bad for an old playboy vintner. You look lean and mean yourself.”

“Oh, my Thailand days are over, I assure you. The most exercise I get these days is chasing that scapegrace young daughter of mine around the abbey grounds.”

“There could be worse ways of getting exercise.”

Nicholas nodded. “You ought to try it. Kacey has little Gene
vieve in town, while she does some research on the local records, but you'll see them tonight.”

Dominic looked off over the hills. “I'm glad for you, Nicholas. For this. And for how well everything has worked out.”

For a moment the silence stretched out. Then Dominic bent over the wooden fence and lowered his body into a thigh-stretching warm-up. “And it's about time you showed up, considering that you finally have me where you wanted me.”

“Not alone, I hope.”

“No, Cathlin's here, too. She got in an hour before I did, but I'm not sure how long she'll stay. She's down in your cellars right now nursemaiding that bloody case of wine.” Dominic broke into a series of dancelike high kicks coupled with shadowboxing jabs. Fists raised, body moving, he jabbed, then lunged into the
chassé
kicks that made French kickboxing, or
savate,
so lethal. “Nothing could tear her away, in fact.”

“Is that irritation I hear?”

Dominic glared at his friend, as sweat ran in beads down his broad chest. “You're damned right it is. The woman's impossible. Not time nor prayer nor divine intercession is going to change that. She hates me, she hates my profession, and she hates Draycott.”

“She's here. That's a start.”

“Against her every wish, she's here. Even after what happened at Seacliffe, she refuses to believe she might be in danger.”

“Something happened down there, did it?”

Dominic pounded at an invisible opponent, dipping and bobbing, his face grim. “Which incident are you referring to, the time I lost the prowler with the semiautomatic revolver or the time that someone nearly ran us off the road on the way back to Seacliffe?”

Nicholas whistled soundlessly. “That bad already? I'd hoped we'd have a little more time.”

“Well we don't. I discovered that your letter to Cathlin was
missing my second day at Seacliffe. Whoever took it knows every detail of the discovery and Gabriel's will. Someone wants that wine and my guess is they're willing to kill to get it.”

“Instinct?”

“Like a kick to the gut.” Dominic's eyes hardened. “You remember that last winter in Thailand? How I was sent out alone?”

Nicholas wouldn't ever forget. It had preceded his own captivity by mere months. “I remember.”

“Well, I'm feeling that same way right now, and I don't like it.” Dominic stabbed at an imaginary opponent and frowned. “I never wanted back into this life, Nicholas. There are too many shadows. And now, on top of that, there are the dreams…” He cursed and turned away.

“What dreams?”

“Something—nothing. Blast it, I don't know, Nicholas. Maybe I'm just too rusty. But my dreams aren't your problem. I don't know why I even mentioned them.”

“Maybe because we're friends. By listening, I also ensure a continuing supply of that wonderful wine of yours. If you'd put more fields into production, I wouldn't have to bribe half of the Garonne Valley to save a few cases for me.”

Dominic looked shocked. “Bribe? I never knew. The volume is low to keep my quality high until I can expand in an orderly fashion. But you could have called me anytime, Nicky, and I would gladly have—”

“Not a bit of it. You've made a wonderful success of La Trouvaille in three years, and I'm perfectly willing to grease a few palms if it will make the French functionaries look on you more indulgently.” Nicholas's smile faded as he looked at the old Jeep parked near the stables. “And now I think it's time I spoke with Ms. O'Neill. Marston tells me she has every look of intending to stay in the cellars for hours. I want to see that she is given every
courtesy here, Dominic. It's the least I can do, considering…” His voice hardened. “Considering all she lost here.”

“I understand.” Dominic spun a sharp right hook at an opponent only he could see. “I just don't want you surprised if she doesn't stay around very long.”

Nicholas stared at the roses dancing beside the moat. “Then I suppose we'll have to find a way to change Ms. O'Neill's mind, won't we?”

There was a marked firmness to his jaw as he strode off toward the abbey a few moments later.

 

D
OMINIC WAS FINISHING
another series of flying high kicks, oblivious to the world, when a slender form homed in on him with the ferocity of a Scud missile.

“Dominic Montserrat, I want to talk to you!”

“You want to pull out my nails slowly, one by one, more like,” he muttered, giving his chest a swipe with the towel hanging on the fence nearby.

Cathlin puffed up, arms akimbo, black hair waving in the wind. “Just what do you think you're doing?”

“I believe I'm exercising,” her quarry said calmly.

Cathlin caught a breath, pulling her eyes away from the broad expanse of Dominic's bare chest. “Are you trying to deny it?”

“I might, if I knew what you were talking about.”

“I
knew
you'd deny it!”

“If you'll just calm down, Cathlin—”

“That's
Ms. O'Neill
to you, Officer Montserrat. Or have you already forgotten your riveting little speech about everything being business between us from now on?”

“I've forgotten nothing,” Dominic said. Softly.

“Don't you threaten
me.
”

Dominic reached past her for his shirt. “What's got you so furious?”

“This.”

Tossing his towel over his shoulder, Dominic picked up the tabloid pages Cathlin was waving in the air.

The headline was brutal and bold. “Dead lord comes back from grave to uphold family curse.” Below the blazing headline was a very out-of-focus photo of Nicholas Draycott, hollow-eyed and gaunt after his return seven years before from a hellish captivity in Thailand. Next to Nicholas was overlaid a grainy shot of an oil painting in the National Gallery.

The hair was long, the eyes were hard. Discounting the black satin and the diamond stickpin, the man might have been Dominic Montserrat's twin.

“Mad Uncle Gabriel, I presume?”

Dominic nodded. “This one is by a lesser artist than the portrait at home, but the likeness is accurate.”

“You two could be twins,” Cathlin said accusingly.

“I'm a regular throwback, all right, demons and all. Where did you find this?”

“Under your seat in the Triumph.”

“Searching my car now, Irish?”

Cathlin colored. “I had to get something from the Jeep. Your car is parked right next to mine and I happened to notice the headline. When were you going to tell me about this?”

“When it became important.”

“Dead lord comes back to uphold family curse? I'd say that was fairly important.”

Dominic sighed. “It's just nonsense. Some bright person got the idea that Mad Uncle Gabriel had lost the Ashton diamond through treachery and had cursed whoever possessed it. It's just family legend, Cathlin.”

“And I found the Ashton diamond at Seacliffe.” Her eyes darkened to burnished gold. “Do you think he gave it to Geneva?”

“We're here to look for facts and records, Cathlin, something that makes sense. Not family legends.”

“Maybe legends are all we're going to find. Maybe that's all you have to go on when the facts are lost over time. Or when they're hidden,” she added bitterly.

Dominic fingered the towel slung over his shoulder. “Are you talking about Gabriel or your own past now?”

Cathlin frowned out at the shimmering waters of the moat. “Both. I need to know what really happened here, Dominic. Without that piece of my past I'll never have a real future.”