Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (42 page)

Cathlin pulled the smaller garment from Marston and tugged it between her fingers, frowning at its size. “But how would you, that is, how could this
possibly—
”

“Never mind,” Dominic growled, snatching away the two items and tossing them back into the box. He glared at Marston. “And if I ever hear one word said about this, Marston. One single, bloody word…”

The butler looked affronted by the mere suggestion that he would ever breach a confidence.

“Come on, Cathlin,” Dominic said harshly. “Let's say good
bye to the guests. Then there are some security arrangements for the wine that I want to discuss with you.”

“But what about these lovely gifts?” There was a wicked gleam in Cathlin's eyes. “I adore black, and something tells me you'll look positively unforgettable in—whatever that bit of nylon is called.”

Dominic muttered something sharp and unrepeatable. “
Now,
damn it.”

 

A
S
M
ARSTON WATCHED THE
pair storm out, a smile crept over his lips. “Yes, altogether a most satisfactory day.” Marston was still smiling a few moments later when Nicholas and his wife strode into the kitchen.

“Mission accomplished?”

“Quite satisfactorily, I would say, your lordship.”

“Wonderful.” A smile softened the viscount's angular features.

“Nicholas, you didn't! What a beastly thing to do to them.”

“I am afraid, your ladyship, that he did.” Marston smiled broadly at the viscountess. “It was most interesting to watch a grown man blush, by the way.”

Nicholas gave a bark of laughter, while his wife managed to look disapproving. “You two are impossible, you know. Just like two children.”

“Yes, I expect so,” the viscount said happily. “Perhaps this will make up for what Dominic did to me the last time we were in Bangkok.”

His wife's eyes widened. “What is that supposed to mean, Nicholas Draycott?”

“I couldn't possibly repeat it,” her husband said coolly. “It would be a violation of A-level state secrets.”

“I'll violate a great deal more than state secrets if you don't tell me all about it this minute.”

“I suppose I might be persuaded to talk,” Nicholas murmured.
“Under great duress, of course. Seduced by the wiles and intrigues of a trained enemy agent.” Heat filled his eyes as he looked down into his wife's smiling face.

Kacey inched closer. She slid up onto tiptoes and whispered something in Nicholas's ear. The viscount looked skyward and shook his head. “Some torture is definitely beyond a man's capacity for resisting.” He took his wife's arm and guided her toward the corridor. “Very well, Mata Hari, it all began some time ago…”

“Is Michael Burke in this story?” his wife asked eagerly.

“As it happens, he was there too.”

Kacey clapped her hands in glee. “Perfect. I want every single detail. And I am prepared to pay well, of course,” she added wickedly.

Nicholas slanted a pleading look skyward. “Definitely more torture than any red-blooded man could bear. Maybe we'll have to leave for London sooner than I planned,” he murmured, as his wife pulled him out of the room.

D
ARKNESS GATHERED IN THE
valleys and slipped over the silent hills. Somewhere in the night an owl cried, long and shrill.

“I'll rest easier now that there's a backup generator in place.” Dominic and Nicholas stared at the dark hills. Dominic's old associate from London had worked through the day, and the system was now complete. “At least we won't be having any more unexpected visitors.”

Nicholas studied his friend. “You're sure you want me to leave, Dominic? I could change my plans, if you think—”

“No, I'll handle things here. Now that the power is guaranteed, we'll be fine. Harcliffe has promised to send some more men down in the morning, along with whatever equipment I need. So shove off, Nicky. Take your wife and daughter off to London, as planned, and stop fretting.”

The viscount sighed. “Very well. I just hope you know what you're doing.”

“I do.”

“But what about—”

“Good-bye, Nicholas.” This time it was a flat order.

 

“W
HAT AN EXTRAORDINARY
wedding.”

All the other guests had left, and now Cathlin and Serita stood in the rose-filled courtyard before the gatehouse. Cathlin watched a swan part the sleek waters of the moat. “Too bad it wasn't real,” she muttered.

“It could be, you know. That's up to you and Dominic. There's something else you should know. La Trouvaille is his.”

Cathlin's eyes widened. “I don't believe it. What about all the stories?”

“Just a smoke screen. He wants total privacy and no interference until he's convinced the wine is as good as he can make it.”

“But it's wonderful!”

“Try telling Dominic that. My guess is he's still feeling shaky about whether he can pull off such a huge change in his life.” Serita frowned. “He's a good man, Cathlin. Not at all like the image he projects. That was all part of his work, to allow him to mingle among high-profile celebrities and Royals, with no one the wiser. Underneath the flash, he's very kind—and very careful.”

Cathlin sniffed. “He would be. He likes to be in control of every detail. I suppose that's what makes him such a good bodyguard.”

“
Made
him,” her friend corrected. “He's out of that life for good, from all I hear. It took this wretched will to force him out of retirement.”

Cathlin frowned. “There's something else, isn't there, Serita? Something you haven't told me.”

“Dominic carries around a lot of ghosts, Cathlin. On his last job in Royal Protection duty I understand that the car he was in came under attack. When the bullets started flying, he did what he was trained to do—shoot first and ask questions later.”

Cathlin swallowed. “And?”

“I don't know the details. They're classified. But I know people died that day and…Dominic considered himself responsible. He left the profession he was very good at.”

Cathlin closed her eyes and shivered.

“He turned in his resignation after that. I understand that Harcliffe has come after him again and again—he's never gone back.”

“Why won't they leave him alone?” Cathlin asked bitterly.

“That's James Harcliffe as much as government policy, I
expect. I have heard that once Harcliffe has his claws in someone, he never pulls them out. It's a matter of principle with him.” A shadow fell across the weathered flagstones. “But I expect I'd better be going. Just you remember what I told you, Cathlin.”

“I will.”

Dominic was framed in the broad oak doorway, his face cast in shadow. He looked at Cathlin for long moments. “You'd better come in now. The alarms are all triggered.”

Cathlin nodded. But still she did not move.

Are you carrying around the memories? she wanted to ask. You gave up your gun but did you give up everything that goes along with it?

But Cathlin said nothing. She wanted nothing more to do with the shadow world that had stolen her father, because it had brought her far too much pain already. And as Dominic stood unmoving, his face hidden by the shadows of the cloud-veiled moon, Cathlin decided he would hardly be likely to entrust her with any confidences.

She turned away. “I'm going down to have a last look at the wine.”

“Fine.”

 

S
TANDING IN THE COURTYARD
with his hand on weathered stone ten centuries old and the wind in his face rich with the scent of a thousand roses, Dominic wished he was someone different, someone without ghosts and a past, someone who could be anything it took to make Cathlin O'Neill smile and laugh and feel whole again.

Someone who wasn't plagued by memories.

But there was a job to be done and Dominic meant to see it through. Until it was completed, there was no time for dreams or carelessness or emotion—not if he hoped to protect Cathlin's life.

He scowled down at a section of flagstone, nudging it with
his toe. A section of rope lay half-hidden in the shadow of a stone. Small, cleanly sliced at both ends, it was twisted into a rough loop handle.

Dominic picked the rope up and turned it idly. The loop was like those used by French farm workers to carry cases of wine.

Frowning, he turned the rope to and fro in the moonlight. Then he saw the dark blotch of blood near one end.

Blood from their recent intruder?

Cursing, Dominic turned and ran for the cellars.

 

“C
ATHLIN
?”

She wasn't in the cellar. She wasn't in the foyer. She wasn't in Nicholas's study. Fighting down his fear, Dominic hammered up the stairs to her room.

No sign of her.

A wild instinct brought him around with a start. “Cathlin, answer me!”

He raced along the hall to the kitchen and pounded down the stairs. She was standing before the broad rear windows, watching moonlight spill over a bank of white lilacs. There was a box on the table beside her and a glass in her hand.

Dominic knocked the elegant crystal goblet from her lips just as she was about to drink.

“Are you
crazy
?” Cathlin gaped down at the shattered glass.

“Did you drink any?”

Cathlin just stared at him.

“Did you
drink
any, damn it?”

She shook her head. “What's wrong with you? That was exceptionally old and rare—”

“Poison, unless I miss my guess.” Dominic's mouth set in an angry line.

“Poison? I don't believe it.”

“It's my job to be right, Irish. To spot things that are wrong,
even when they look entirely unimportant. And it's always in the little things.” Grimly, he shoved open the wooden case and studied the bottles inside. “Where was it from?”

“The card was from the Wine Department at Harrods.”

“Was it addressed to you by name?”

Cathlin nodded. “The gift of an old colleague of mine who works there now.”

“You're absolutely sure of that?”

“I know his stationery, if that's what you mean. We've worked together several times in the past. Dominic, this is ridiculous. You can't really believe that a perfectly respectable wine expert from Harrods would try to poison me.”

“Someone tried to drive us off the road two days ago, remember? Nothing is impossible, O'Neill. You'd better remember that.” He lifted the cork and studied it carefully. “No cracks or needle marks.” He sniffed the rim. “But there's a slight excess of acidity that shouldn't be there, even in a markedly dry vintage like this. A few minutes longer and the aroma of any contaminants will have entirely dispersed.”

Cathlin frowned. “For an amateur, you know an awful lot about wine.”
But then he wasn't really an amateur, was he?

“Maybe.” Dominic shrugged as he wrapped the cork in cellophane. “Meanwhile, this goes up to London for testing.”

“Who, Dominic? Who would want to poison me?”

“Just about anyone. You're the heart of this whole business, Cathlin. Without you, that wine doesn't get certified and it loses its importance as auction material—or as the political football it might soon become. To bring in another expert with your credentials would take a fair amount of time, and by then, the wine would probably be gone.”

“Dear God.” Cathlin caught a sharp breath. “Was it…someone here today? Someone at the wedding?”

Dominic wasn't about to share his worries with Cathlin, not
when her face was sheet white and her fingers were trembling where she'd locked them at her waist. “I doubt it. Direct involvement like that is far too dangerous. Whoever did this was probably careful to put a dozen steps between this wine and himself.”

He ached to run his hands through that vibrant black hair, to pull her against his chest and hold her until he felt the tension slide away.

But he didn't trust himself to do either. He had already gotten far more emotionally involved than was safe for either of them. “There's no sense brooding, Irish. Tomorrow we'll know more.” Jade eyes burning, he took in Cathlin's pallor and her faint edge of fear. “Steady Irish.” His hand cupped her chin.

“Then someone tried—tried to poison me. It's true.” She caught a ragged breath. “I'm frightened, Dominic. And I hate being frightened almost as much as I hate owing people—and I owe you for saving my life yet again.” She caught a tight breath. “Was it the same men who were in the car near Seacliffe?”

Dominic thought of lying, but gave up. She'd see through a lie anyway. “I can't be sure. Not until James Harcliffe gets back to me with some answers. Now it's time you were in bed.”

“What about you?”

“Not yet.” His face was grim. “I've still got a few things to clear up down here.”

“By that you mean calls you don't want me to hear.”

He didn't deny it. “Get some rest, Irish. Something tells me you're going to need it tomorrow.”

Yes, it had been one hell of a wedding day, Dominic decided grimly.

 

S
ITTING IN THE ABBEY'S
dark kitchens, Dominic made three calls. Each was to an old friend, each a man whose life he had saved over the years during his career as a bodyguard. And each man was delighted to repay an old debt by coming to the abbey and helping Dominic keep the vast grounds secure, no questions asked.

But when he was done, Dominic didn't go upstairs. Instead he pulled out the folders Harcliffe had given him, folders that laid bare the inside of Cathlin O'Neill's young mind, as recorded just after her mother's death.

The reports were chilling, and made even more chilling by the cold, precise, and utterly impersonal language they used.

…deep trauma…unpredictable formation…uncertain prognosis…

Dominic read through page after page of clinical reports that recorded everything, but explained absolutely nothing.

The conclusion? Cathlin O'Neill's memory of that night was clean, swept bare by a trauma that a ten-year-old mind was beyond enduring. The prognosis, couched in five pages of extremely technical language, was that any answers the police hoped for would have to be gotten elsewhere. The girl would never remember what had happened that day at Draycott Abbey.

Except in one unlikely condition.

Dominic sat forward, frowning as he read the sentence over and over again. One condition might trigger Cathlin's memory, and that was if she experienced another trauma of equal and similar severity.

Dominic leaned back and let his breath out slowly. Was that the purpose of these threats to Cathlin? Had someone learned of her past and hoped to trigger those lost memories? Severance, perhaps, as a perverted form of revenge? Or had it been one of the smug, tanned faces who had smiled at Cathlin in London at the charity auction, then gone home to arrange for her murder?

Too many bloody questions.

Grimly, Dominic checked the entrances once more and then the alarms, though he knew they were all in perfect order. After that he made his way upstairs, drawn inexorably to a room with red roses, where moonlight played over the polished floor.

She was sleeping, her hands flung out, her hair a dark veil against the white pillow. He moved closer, feeling faintly guilty,
yet unable to take his eyes away. She twisted as he watched, shoved at the sheet, tugged at the pillow.

Staring down, he heard Cathlin's soft breathing and the wind in the branches outside the window.

Memories, again. How strange that he should have too many memories and she too few. And Dominic wondered what she was seeing in those restless dreams.