“I’m glad you remembered. You’re the best office help I’ve ever had.” She hugged the dog then opened the door. The box of ignored mail waited on the highest shelf.
Hannah carried it to the exam room and plopped it on a table. A mustiness wafted up from the box when she opened the lid. After a series of sneezes, she focused on the contents. She really needed to hire more office help. Millie’s once-a-month overhaul wasn’t enough anymore. Holding her nose until the urge to sneeze again passed, she dug through the mail crammed in the box. Over half should havebeen tossed instead of squirreled away. Her mind wandered as she pawed through the odd-sized envelopes.
Taggart de Gaelson worried her. Well, not worry. But his demand for her attention was more than a little irritating. But that wasn’t all. The strangest sensation hit her when she walked into the diner and spotted him. Like needing to remember something very important. And the air had crackled with static electricity. Or some sort of energy. Whatever it was, it refused to be ignored.
But it was his eyes that bothered her most. They mesmerized her. Icy blue with a dark rim, they bored into her soul and pried open all her secrets. A shiver stole across her. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he knew every thought that crossed her mind. And those hands. She stopped sorting through the mail, remembering how her hand had disappeared in his large, calloused grasp. He had subtly tugged her closer while greeting her. His touch had increased the strange, almost electrical crackling around them. She almost choked, realizing she had forgotten to breathe.
“Whew. What’s wrong with me, Soph? You’d think I had never seen a man before.”
The dog barked an understanding yip, wagged her tail, then curled around Hannah’s feet.
“At least I have you.” She focused on the musty carton. Deeper in the box, she spotted one of the certified packets. After much pulling and wiggling, she worked it loose from its wedged position in the bottom of the cardboard box.
Hands shaking, she tore it open and removed the sheaf of heavy vellum paper. She scanned the documents, then swallowed hard against the increased pounding of her heart. A name jumped out at her: Sullivan. She remembered the name from her mother’s side. In fact, if she remembered the stories Granny always told, Gracie Sullivan was the first of her line who claimed to be a talented witch. Poor Gracie had paid dearly for that claim. For her consorting with the dead, an oak plank piled high with stones had supposedly squeezed the demons out of Gracie Sullivan’s soul. Unfortunately, it also crushed her.
She double-checked the heavy manila envelope. Taggart had enclosed pictures. Aerial shots of a castle and grounds. Centuries of enduring the harsh elements of the Highlands had weathered the keep to a charred, somber gray. The skirting wall and corner guardhouse appeared less battered; their huge rough blocks looking a lighter shade in the photo's lighting. The fortress itself perched atop a remote cliff overlooking an angry sea. From what she could see, a few more centuries of erosion and the fearsome structure would topple off into the waves below.
Expansive woodlands covered the surrounding area, including a deep ravine that formed a jagged boundary around the castle. One gated bridge crossed the ravine and led to the skirting wall guarding the keep. Even in the twenty-first century, Taroc Na Mor still appeared to be an impenetrable stronghold.
She shivered as icy fingers of recognition tickled the back of her neck. Recognition? But why? With the lightest touch, she traced the outline of the slate roof of the keep, almost feeling the jagged coldness beneath her fingers. Gulls cried overhead. A briny wind blew in from the sea. She licked her lips as she studied the glossy photo closer. Shocked, she licked them again, tasting the salty tang of the ocean.
“I have lost my mind.” She picked up the letter and read it again. It clearly stated Taroc Na Mor was hers. She was the only living heir. “This has to be wrong.” She shoved everything back in the envelope and tucked it under her arm. “Watch the place, Sophie. I’ll be back in a little while.”
The dog agreed by thumping her tail against the floor.
5
Hannah tossed the papers down on the table in front of him and slid into the chair. “Why are you here? What exactly is it you want?”
“Ye are not exactly the trusting sort. Are ye, Ms. MacPherson?” His cynical laugh tensed her even more. “That is verra wise. Ye will live a lot longer that way. But there is a vast difference between caution and bitterness. Ye dinna wish to become a complete solitary, do ye?”
Her hands tightened into fists. This man had no idea about the complications in her life, and it was also none of his business. She tipped her head toward the photos of Taroc Na Mor. “Tell me why you are really here. I know I ignored the mail. But you are here now. What is it you want?”
He reached across the table and fingered the corner of a picture. With a heavy sigh, he traced his thumb along its edge as though wishing he could step inside. Homesickness filled his face. Longing shone in his eyes. His love for Taroc Na Mor came across loud and clear before he uttered a word. “When we received no response, it was my duty to find ye and explain all that is yers.”
“So, you are the executor of the estate?” That relaxed her. Somewhat. Leaning forward, she folded her hands on the table. This hadto be an error. She knew of no relatives in Scotland. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t have any living ones left in the United States. Uneasiness rolled across her in waves. Something about this entire business didn’t seem right.
Taggart paused, leaning across the table and turning the photo. “Actually, I am a member of a group who has watched over Taroc Na Mor down through the centuries. I guess ye might say I am a protector of sorts.”
That sounded ominous. “I don’t do cults.” She pushed back from the table. He didn’t seem unhinged, but appearances could be deceiving.
He straightened in his chair and returned the photo to the worn manila packet. Revealing his perfect white teeth in a blinding smile, he gave a modest chuckle. “I assure ye, Ms. MacPherson. ’Tis nothing quite so sinister. We merely tend to the special needs of the estate, and when we can find them, take care of its heirs. Now tell me, what do ye think? Is it not grand? Do ye not believe Taroc Na Mor is the most beautiful piece of land on which ye ever laid yer eyes? Come visit yer property and claim it for yer own.”
She managed a polite smile, gathered up the remaining photos, and stuffed them back in the envelope. Time for the same kindness she used to tell difficult things to patients. Maybe then he would go away. She ignored her stomach’s churning. His intense gaze, heightened by a gleam of anticipation, wore her down. His disturbing scent of powerful, never-take-no-for-an-answer male didn’t help. The sooner Taggart de Gaelson left Jasper Mills, the better. He needed to get back across that pond to Scotland.
With a quiet clearing of her throat, she placed the envelope on the table and patted it. “I will admit Taroc Na Mor seems very lovely. But I’m afraid you’ve wasted both time and money by coming all this way. I’m simply not interested in relocating to Scotland and certainly can’t afford the upkeep of a second home in another country. My place is here. This is where I am needed.”
“Say again?” He splayed both hands on the table as though ready to lunge across it.
“Here. On my mountain,” she said while pushing the packet toward him. “My home is here. This is where I buried my husband, and this is where I intend to stay.”
“Ye have to at least see the land. I canna believe ye would toss it aside like scraps ye rake from a plate.” He shoved the envelope back to her.
Perhaps he didn’t have to look the part to be crazy. She stood and leaned forward until her nose almost touched his. “If it is my land, I can do anything I want with it, even if it means ignore it. I’m surprised Scotland hasn’t taken it away since I have paid no taxes on it. Who knows how much money I owe on that land? I’ll probably have to sell it to pay them.”
“Taroc Na Mor canna be sold! Are ye daft?” He stood so fast his chair flipped backwards across the diner. “There are no back taxes due. We pay them.’Tis our duty as the Guild of Barac’Nairn.”
“The what?” She eased a step back to avoid the ranting Scot. His eyes flashed dark and dangerous now that he seemed so aggravated. If not for the fact he appeared a little obsessed, she would fix him up with Millie. Her friend had a thing for sexy Highlanders, and this one definitely had a roll-me-in-the-heather kind of look.
