Countdown - Iris Johansen [42]
But that wasn’t her nature. She couldn’t stand pussyfooting around and ignoring the stick of dynamite Trevor had hurled at her. She’d have to confront him, and she wasn’t looking forward to it.
Lord, she was hot. The heavy velvet draperies of the room were smothering. Or maybe she was so charged it only seemed warm. It didn’t matter. She needed air. . . .
Night with no air.
No, that was the dream, Cira’s dream.
She threw back the curtains and opened the heavy casement window.
Bright moonlight shone on the ancient courtyard below.
Ancient? Compared with the ruins of Herculaneum this castle wasn’t old at all. Yet it seemed old when she thought of the comparative youth of the United States and the city of Atlanta where she’d been born. MacDuff’s Run had a haunting quality that was different from Herculaneum. There you were forced by the weight of thousands of years to accept the death of the city and its inhabitants. Here you could still imagine that the Scots who’d lived here would come marching down that road that led to the castle or out that gate to do—
Someone was standing by the stable door across the courtyard, looking up at the castle.
MacDuff?
No, this man was slender, almost gangly, and his hair appeared to be light, not dark. Definitely not MacDuff. Yet there could be no doubt of the intensity of his body language.
The man stiffened, his gaze on someone or something on the front steps. Then he faded back into the stable. Who had he seen?
Trevor.
She saw him walk toward the gate. Even after all these years she had no problem recognizing that springy gait. The cars were parked in the courtyard, but he was making no attempt to use any of the vehicles.
Where the hell was he going?
Evidently she wasn’t the only one asking that question. A man in a windbreaker stepped out of the shadows as Trevor approached. One of the guards Trevor had told her about? They spoke for a moment and then Trevor passed him and went through the gate. The guard faded back into the shadows.
The terrain was rough and stark outside the castle and not inviting for a casual stroll. Was he going to meet someone? If he was, they must already have arrived, for there were no car lights piercing the darkness.
And what was he doing going out without protection when he’d told her it was dangerous for her to do it? If Grozak hated him as much as he’d said, then Trevor would be a prime target.
Fear iced through her. She instantly rejected it. Jesus, Trevor wasn’t her concern. If he was idiot enough to go strolling out there in no-man’s-land, then he deserved what he got. He could take care of himself.
And she wouldn’t stand here and watch to see if he came safely back through that gate. She shut the window and drew the drapes. A moment later she was crawling beneath the sheets and closing her eyes.
Go to sleep. It’s not going to do any good to worry about the arrogant bastard. Don’t think about him.
But where the hell had he gone?
7
I went to the village and bought you a perfectly splendid wardrobe,” Bartlett said as he met her at the bottom of the steps the next morning. “Well, perhaps not splendid. The village only has a few shops. Splendid indicates ball gowns and velvet wraps, and I went for slacks and cashmeres. But very fine quality. Though you look much better in our clothes than we ever did.”
“Sure I do.” She wrinkled her nose as she looked down at the loose jeans and navy crewneck sweater she was wearing. “I appreciate the sacrifice but I’ll be glad to get into something that I don’t trip over. Were you able to get my sketchbook?”
Bartlett nodded. “That was a little more difficult. But I found a drugstore and they had a meager supply.”
“I’m surprised you were able to get anything this early. It’s only a little after nine.”
“The lady who owned the clothes shop was kind enough to take pity on me and open early. I guess I must have looked a bit forlorn standing out in front of her window.