"I do," he agreed. "And happily so, since I'm his son."
"Indeed," the other man said slowly, as if he couldn't quite believe it.
"Don't let it worry you. Today I'm just the errand boy."
"High-priced errand boy."
"Not high enough, believe me." He handed over the manilla envelope. "Here you go."
"Thank you." The man rose as he took it, then held out his hand. "Gideon de Piaget. I run AE, Inc. I'm surprised we haven't met before. I seem to have spent an inordinate amount of time at Kilchurn and Sons of late, but I've never seen you there."
"I try never to be there," Jake said. "I have three other, quite capable brothers who are soldiering on, doing the family name proud. They mostly live at my father's offices in Manhattan, but they do make the occasional appearance here in London to put in their obscenely long hours for the firm. I'm quite thankful for that, as it leaves me free to pursue other quite inappropriate interests."
"Hmmm," Gideon said, looking faintly interested.
"Just a bit of dabbling in gems," Jake admitted modestly. Actually, that dabbling took him all over the world in search of the unusual and exquisite, which in turn left him able to create one-of-a-kind pieces that fetched prices even his father found outrageous. All that left him with neither time nor desire to put in the eighty a week that employment at his father's money machine required. Not that he ever would have anyway. He couldn't stand the thought of all those hours and nothing but paperwork to show for it.
Gideon's fascination with inappropriate interests was apparently evaporating. He sank down into his chair, his attentions fixed on the documents in his hands.
Jake sat as well, briefly. He didn't want to be hanging out in some corporate box, no matter how luxurious; he wanted to be slogging through some mosquito-infested swamp in search of a forgotten mine where he might find a cache of something rare. In fact, he had just such a trip planned for the next day—if he could get out of AE, Inc. and over to his father's office to finish his task before he died of corporate asphyxiation.
He was on his feet almost before he knew how he'd gotten there. Gideon just turned another page and kept reading, so Jake assumed he wouldn't mind having his things perused.
To Jake's surprise, Gideon's office wasn't filled with important but impersonal pieces of art a decorator would have chosen. It was filled with quite lovely pastoral scenes that were no doubt geared to make one feel as if he needed to spend pleasant afternoons on a little hill in the Lake District. Nice, easily digested paintings that demanded nothing and offered peace.
Well, except for the one dominating the wall to Jake's left.
Jake's pacing ended abruptly as he came face-to-face with an enormous photograph of a castle. He was accustomed to seeing castles, having lived in England for well over half his life, but this was different.
It wasn't that the place wasn't huge; it was. It wasn't that it wasn't imposing; it was. It wasn't that it wasn't stark and unforgiving; it was that as well.
It was that it looked so… familiar.
But he was quite certain that he'd never seen it before.
Artane…
The name whispered across his soul, sending a violent shiver down his spine. He never shivered, not even when facing down spiders the size of his head in the depths of South American jungles.
He wondered, briefly, if that stray blow to his nose had damaged his good sense as well.
"Artane," Gideon said absently.
I know, Jake thought with a gasp, like a drowning man gulping in his last breath of sweet air before he surrendered to the pull beneath him.
"The family seat."
"I beg your pardon?" Jake managed with enormous effort, unable to turn away from the photograph. "Your family seat?"
"Yes, actually," Gideon said. "Have you never been?"
"Never."
"Why not?"
"I'm not sure." But if it had anything at all to do with his violent reaction to the place, maybe he was grateful for it.
"You don't have much of an American accent. Have you lived in England long?"
Jake happily turned his back on Artane and leaned against Gideon's sideboard. "Years. My father sent me to Eton when he learned I was enjoying my pricey New England boarding school a little too much."
"Did you enjoy it?"
Jake was ready to blurt out his standard answer of it was hell, but found himself unsettled enough by his recent encounter with photography to have to scramble for something else.
"It was fine," he managed finally.
"Did you go to University here, as well? I assume you live here now."
"I did and I do."
Gideon gestured to the castle behind Jake. "You should make a visit."
"I don't really have time—"
"Married?"
"No time for that either. In fact," Jake said, straightening and rubbing his hands together purposefully, "I don't really have time for much at all. I've got to be going, if you're finished…"
"There are rumors that it's haunted," Gideon continued, as if he hadn't noticed Jake getting antsy. "Artane," he added, as if he thought Jake might be unsure of which castle he was referring to.
"Interesting," Jake said, looking for the closest exit.
"Of course, I will admit that Artane doesn't have ghosts like they do at other castles," Gideon conceded. "Seakirk, for instance."
"How unfortunate," Jake murmured sympathetically, moving toward the door.
"But we have the occasional odd thing turn up at odd hours."
Jake didn't believe in ghosts and he certainly didn't believe in anything else he couldn't see—unless of course it was the rumor of a bit of sapphire or opal in some obscure third-world country that would require him to don his fedora and hike through malaria-infested jungles or leech-plagued swampsbut even so, he couldn't deny that just looking at Artane gave him a feeling of déjà vu that was altogether unsettling. All the more reason to get the hell out of there while he had his sanity intact.
Obviously he'd gotten up too early that morning. It had taken a toll on his common sense.
"Artane has been home to de Piagets since the beginning of the thirteenth century." Gideon continued, apparently oblivious to Jake's discomfort. "Quite a decent lot, on the whole."
"How nice."
"We have a fabulous collection of medieval artifacts," Gideon went on. "I come from a family of pack rats, it seems. Books, swords, jewelry. If you're interested in old, it's there for the asking."
"I have to be going now," Jake said, wondering how rude it would be if he just grabbed the appropriate paperwork from Gideon's hands on his way to the door.
"We've resorted to tourists," Gideon said. "My father isn't thrilled about it, you know, and he isn't open all that often, but you do what you have to in order to satisfy the Inland Revenue. And we have AE, as well. Several other interests globally. I'm hoping the venture with your father will add to that."
"Well, if it has anything to do with making money, you can be sure my father won't come to the party unless he plans to take quite a haul away," he said shortly. "Now, if you don't mind—"
Then something Gideon had said registered in his busy brain.
"Jewelry, did you say?" he asked.
"Vats of it. Are you into that sort…" Gideon paused, then looked at Jake in surprise. "You aren't any relation to Kilchurn Ltd., are you? Importers of the rare, the unique, and the ridiculously expensive?"
"We're not ridiculously expensive," Jake said evenly. "Considering what I have to go through to procure the rare, unique and equitably priced, as well as all the design time—"
"You design it as well?" Gideon asked, with mild disbelief. "You don't look like a designer."
"I'm a full service shop," Jake said dryly. "Acquisition, accounts receivable, and security. I have fewer problems when people think I'm just the bodyguard."
"I suppose," Gideon said with a smile, tapping the papers on his desk. "All the more reason for
you to go north. You'll go mad for the rubbish piled in heaps against the walls in the vault. You might even find something useful."
"No," was out of Jake's mouth before he could stop it.
Artane…
"No," Jake repeated firmly. "I can't."
"My father has to sign this," Gideon said.
"Send a courier."
Gideon looked at him and Jake could have sworn the man's nose twitched, as if he smelled something suspicious.
Damn it.
"No," Gideon said slowly, looking at Jake quite seriously, "no, I don't think so. Either you go, or the deal's off."
Jake felt his jaw slide south. "I beg your pardon?"
"I just have the feeling there might be something in my father's hall that you need to see." He paused, then smiled briefly. "Call it Fate."
"I don't believe in Fate."
"My father can put you up," Gideon continued, as if he hadn't heard. "Or you can stay at my wife's inn."
"She runs an inn?"
"She owns an inn," Gideon corrected. "The Boar's Head. Very quaint. Very sixteenth century. I'll ring them and have them set a room aside."
"I need—"
"A reservation? Don't worry. I'll do it for you." He handed Jake the papers. "I assume you're going home to get cleaned up?"
Jake glared at him. It wasn't very polite, but he couldn't help himself. "Damn you," he muttered.
Gideon laughed. "I'll have all the details over to you in an hour. Give my love to my family. Enjoy your stay at the inn."
Jake looked at him narrowly. "Why do I feel like there's something more going on here than simple altruism?"
"As I said before, I'm a big believer in Fate, and Fate's telling me you need to see my father's hall."
Jake gritted his teeth. He didn't have time for Fate, not when high-powered buyers were waiting for goods he was supposed to bring home in less than a week, goods he was going to have to do some ferocious bargaining to get.
That same breath of sea air whispered over his soul, bringing with it a longing so intense, a joy so sweet, that he caught his breath. He, Jackson Kilchurn IV, a take-no-prisoners kind of guy, thought he just might have to sit down. He drew his hand over his eyes and then rubbed them for good measure.
"Not enough sleep," he announced.
Gideon rose and came around the desk. He clapped a hand on Jake's shoulder and led him the rest of the way to the door. "It's been a pleasure. Ring me when you return and let me know how you found things. Perhaps I'll take some of my hard earned sterling and come visit your shop."
"I'll try not to sell you paste," Jake said sourly.
"You'll have a smashing time," Gideon promised, sounding pleased. "Expect directions within the hour."
"Thank you so much," Jake grumbled.
"My pleasure." He held out his hand and shook Jake's. "Best of luck in my father's vault."
"That much of it I'll enjoy," Jake said as he left Gideon's office.
He made it unmolested to his car and returned with all haste to his flat, fully intending to go immediately to bed and forget the unsettling and quite unwholesome events of the day.
Instead he found himself pacing in front of his expensive double-hung windows and pausing every now and again to stare at the equally expensive Georgian manors across the street. But instead of being soothed by their symmetry, he found himself being overwhelmed by the vision of a grim-looking, stone bird of prey, crouched on a bluff by the sea, looking out over the beach as if it dared anyone to come and try to conquer it.
It was just a castle.
Then why did the mere sight of it threaten to shatter his quite manly and jaded heart?
Almost an hour to the minute from when he'd left Gideon's office, a discreet tap sounded on his front door. Jake accepted an equally discreet manilla envelope from a well-dressed lad who demurred when Jake offered him a tip. Obviously Gideon paid his people well.
He opened the envelope to find that it contained only a handful of papers. One was directions to the Boar's Head Inn. The other was directions to Artane. The last was a brief note from Gideon.
Jake,
My father is expecting you and has invited you to make free with his vaults. Apparently, he purchased one of your more expensive baubles for my mother a pair of years past and finds himself delighted that you're deigning to grace him with your august presence. He has a magnificent chef and the scenery is not to be missed. Let me know how you find the old pile of stones.
Gideon
Jake took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He found himself being driven inexorably north.
Against his will.
Without choice.
But driven just the same.
There had better be a damn good reason for it. He shoved all the appropriate paperwork into his briefcase, then, with a sigh, picked up the phone to have his assistant change his plans.
* * *
Chapter 2
ARTANE, 1227
"What are you doing?"
By the saints, was no one capable of asking anything else? Amanda was growing enormously tired of that question—especially since she'd been hearing it for days from anyone who had breath for speaking. Unfortunately she hadn't had, and still didn't have, the breath for a vigorous answer. She hunched over with her hands on her knees and drew in her breath desperately. Robin bounced in place next to her, not even giving in to a noticeable change in his breathing.
"She's training," he said easily. "What does it look like?"
"It looks like the most sizable piece of foolishness you've ever combined," Nicholas snapped. "By the saints, Robin, she looks fair to falling into senselessness!"
"I… do… not," Amanda gasped.
"She does not," Robin agreed. "She's doing quite well. For a wench."
Amanda swung at him, but he jumped aside easily. She turned her irritation on her next eldest brother. "I… am… training," she wheezed.
"So one might think," Nicholas said. "But what I want to know is why? What need could you possibly have to run about in lad's clothing, muddying boots that cannot be yours, following Robin in his exercises in torture?"
Amanda was almost grateful for the chance to stop engaging in Robin's exercises in torture and spar with a different brother for a change. She heaved herself upright and took a final deep breath. "I have determined that knowing a bit of something useful might be… useful."
Nicholas put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward him. "How it could possibly serve you, I cannot fathom." He looked at Robin sternly. "You should be vowing to find lads to guard her, not driving her into the dirt in an effort to teach her things she does not need to learn. 'Tis a man's duty to protect the woman he loves."
Amanda closed her eyes briefly. It was truly a pity she and Nicholas were of the same family. Nicholas was, and she could admit this freely even though she had known him for as long as she'd had decent memory, a superb lad with impeccable manners and a shining sense of chivalry.
"Anyway, she isn't capable of learning these things, given that she is but a woman—"
Amanda elbowed Nicholas in the belly and he released her with a grunt. There were times she fancied that she might love him, but those notions were quickly dispelled when he opened his mouth.
"I have men to guard me," she said archly, "which you might have marked if you could pull your attention away from your polished glass long enough to look."
"There is truth in that," Robin agreed, "though I don't know how you manage to find lads patient enough to follow you on your endless trips to the seashore." Robin shook his head. "Sand in their boots, salt in their hair, sunburnt necks and backs of ears—"
"Look at her," Nicholas said with a snort. "Reward enough, I'd say."
Amanda refused to be placated by that olive branch. She turned her nose up at Nicholas. "I see them fed Cook's most select and choice pasties, things other men could only dream of tasting—things I will not recommend find their way to your trencher in the n
ear future." She took Robin by the sleeve. "Let's be off. I daresay I prefer your company to his at present."
Nicholas made sounds of horror. "See you?" he exclaimed. "You've damaged her, Rob. When she begins to find you more to her liking than me, there has been grave damage done to her finer sensibilities—"
Amanda left him babbling behind her. She marched determinedly away, dragging an unresisting Robin with her. Of course he wouldn't resist. She was for the lists. In his mind there was no other place a man with any sense would find himself. She stopped in the middle of the field and looked up at her brother.
"Well?" she asked. "What next?"
"Knife work. Until you build your strength, we'll content ourselves with something less heavy. Given that you are of the fairer, weaker, softer sex and need coddling—"
Amanda drew the knife he'd chosen for her, not caring what weapon she had in her hand as long as it was a weapon and it was pointing toward Robin. She jabbed toward him purposefully. He only yawned, apparently unimpressed with her attempt. He was, as he would have readily agreed, the master, and she but the student.
And as he began to drill her first in defensive moves and then in offensive, she had to admit he was everything he always claimed to be. She had seen him humiliate numerous men in the lists, of course, and a handful in less civilized circumstances, but it was one thing to watch; it was another thing entirely to participate.
The afternoon wore on very slowly.
But she did not yield.
The sun was sliding west when Robin finally called peace. He nodded approvingly at her.
"You're a right fiercesome wench, Amanda," he said. "I can't remember the last lad I had charge of who had your persistence. But nonetheless, I think we'll stop for the day. Not that I couldn't continue far into the night," he added. "I feel quite energetic still."
And he looked it, damn him. But just the same, Amanda took the compliment willingly; she also took the chance to cease. She shoved her damp hair out of her eyes and accepted a cup of water from Robin's page.