Countdown - Iris Johansen [149]
“I’m surprised you admit it.”
“I always admit my faults.” He grinned as he handed her the shot glass. “That way I don’t intimidate anyone by the sheer volume of my talents and accomplishments.”
“And your incredible modesty.” She drank the brandy and made a face as the liquid burned through her. But in a moment she did feel warmer, steadier. “Thank you.”
“More?”
She shook her head. She didn’t know why she’d accepted the liquor to begin with. She wasn’t sure she trusted him, and he’d already told her that he wanted no one to know that his family had any connection with Cira. He was a tough, ruthless bastard, and that might mean she was in danger of violence. Yet here she was sharing brandy with him and feeling very comfortable about it. “It wasn’t really about the cold.”
“I know.” He tossed off his brandy in one swallow. “It’s been a hard time for you. But brandy is a cure-all for more than the chill.” He took her glass and carried it back to the chest. “And it will make you more mellow toward me.”
“The hell it will.”
“A tiny jest.” His eyes were twinkling. “Mellow is not how I’d ever describe you.” He put away the glasses and brandy. “So are you going to tell Trevor that I may be sitting on his pile of gold?”
“You consider it your pile of gold.”
“But Trevor believes in the luck of the draw and finders keepers. So do most of the people who’ll come after it if you let the cat out of the bag.”
“You can keep outsiders away from the castle.”
“But what if it’s not in the castle? I don’t believe it is. I’ve searched for a long time for some trace or clue to where it’s hidden and I know every nook and cranny. Of course, it could be somewhere on the grounds or even buried back in the Highlands where Angus lived before he came here.”
“Or not exist at all.”
He nodded. “But I won’t accept that. Cira wouldn’t want me to give up.”
“Cira died two thousand years ago.”
He shook his head. “She’s here. Can’t you feel it? As long as her family exists, as long as the Run still stands, she’ll live too.” He met her gaze. “I believe you know that.”
She pulled her gaze away from his. “I’ve got to get back to the castle. Trevor will be wondering where I am. I didn’t tell him where I was going.”
“And he probably didn’t question you because he didn’t want to offend your independence. He’s still not sure of you. Though he’d like to be.”
“I’ve no intention of talking to you about Trevor.”
“Because you’re not sure of him either. Sex isn’t everything.” He laughed. “Though it’s a hell of a lot. Is the bond there, Jane? Does he make you feel what Cira wished Pia? What were her words? Velvet nights and silver mornings? Do you feel as if you’re the most important person in his life? You need that.”
“You don’t know what I need.”
“Then why do I feel as if I do?”
“Sheer arrogance?” She turned and headed for the door. “Stay out of my business, MacDuff.”
“I can’t do that.” He paused. “Ask me why, Jane.”
“I’m not interested.”
“No, you’re afraid of what I’ll say. I’ll say it anyway. I can’t stay out of your business because it goes against both my nature and my training.”
“Why?”
“Haven’t you guessed?” He added simply, “You’re one of mine.”
She stopped short, rigid with shock. “What?”
“Mine. Turn around and look at Fiona again.”
She slowly turned around but stared at him instead of the portrait. “Fiona?”
“Fiona wed Ewan MacGuire in her twenty-fifth year and moved to the lowlands. She bore him five children and their family lived a prosperous life until the late 1800s, when Fiona’s descendants fell on hard times. Two of the younger sons left their home to seek their fortune, and one of them, Colin MacGuire, boarded a ship for America in 1876. He was never heard from again.”
She was staring at him, stunned. “Coincidence.”
“Look at her portrait, Jane.”
“I don’t have to look at her portrait. You’re crazy.