Duncan's Rose Page 3

  “Thanks…” The guy was fast in disappearing. Are they all like that?

  Miranda gazed around the room. It looked like an office, with walls filled with books on shelves between two tall windows. This room was the size of a small apartment in New York. A mahogany cabriole sofa in dark blue, a mahogany writing desk…the colors were masculine and tasteful. If it were her choice of furniture, she might have chosen the same, except she would add greenery to the whole theme.

  “Miss Blair, welcome to my home.” The gentleman who stood beside the window was tall, with a broad chest. He wore a robe and a pair of trousers. The office was dark except for the soft light that filtered from the writing desk, which was not bright enough for her to see his face.

  “Thank you, I hope I’m not intruding,” Miranda said.

  “Not at all, it’s my pleasure to have you here.” He walked toward her with steady, lazy steps; as his face came into the light, his features became clear to her.

  Her eyes widened as a flash of a memory from her visions hit her. That face…his grayish-blue eyes. “Duncan…” The name slipped from her lips just as all feeling leached from her limbs.

  His face blurred and the room swirled around her as she fell straight down, into his arms.

  Chapter Three

  Strong arms carried her to the sofa. Miranda felt as if she were flying on a fluffy cloud. As he carried her, a fresh wave of anxiety overwhelmed her.

  Those eyes, the face. Although this man was wearing a white mask that covered the left side of his face, she recognized him: Duncan. Much as she had with Rose, her first glimpses of him had been hazy and unclear, but with time, he gained substance. He became clearer with each vision she had, until his gray-blue eyes haunted her every vision.

  When he had appeared in the last two vivid mental images, she had enjoyed every minute of his soft touches and kisses. She blamed this on her own inner desire for a man in her life.

  She remembered one day when she was in her mother’s kitchen, two years earlier, when she’d had a vision. Suddenly, she was in a different house and area. She wore a ball gown and danced the waltz in the arms of a stranger. She felt his strength, his warmth, the crazy yearning in her soul for him, not knowing who he was, but at the same time believing he meant the world to her. Then, when she turned up to kiss him and see his face, the visual perception evaporated. She’d gotten only a faint glimpse of him and a feathery touch of his lips. His eyes were grayish-blue and rimmed with a thick layer of dark eyelashes. She’d whispered his name. Duncan!

  Miranda had not dated anyone for two years after her separation from Jack. Loneliness struck her as never before. Jack had been her first love after her graduation from Yale University.

  She’d been writing about the Marcas Wardlaw case at the time of that first vision. She blamed herself for being so obsessed with the case that she invented those visual faculty—her doctor had said that was a possible result of her obsession with the case.

  The second time she’d had one of her visions was when she was visiting the library near her apartment, again researching the Marcas Wardlaw case.

  Miranda recalled, on that day, she felt darkness gather before it started; then the view changed, as if she were in an old movie. She wore different clothes: a hat decorated with roses and a floral, off the shoulder brocade gown with pretty, gathered, short sleeves and a fluffy skirt. In the visual perception, she was running after her father, telling him she hadn’t betrayed him and begging for forgiveness, asking him to spare Duncan’s life. She begged through desperate tears, and wept from her heart. But someone held her from behind, an older man who resembled Rose so much that he had to be her older brother. He dragged her inside a mansion, all the way to her room, and locked her in, crying. Her sadness and burning guilt pained her to the core.

  Rose must have betrayed someone she loved very much. The memory of the stinging pain in her chest and the agony of that visual sense never left her; the wound was still fresh in her heart today.

  Miranda had caught a glimpse of Duncan’s face in that second vision. She had looked at a partially burned picture that Rose’s father was destroying in front of her. Miranda came out of that vivid mental image and fainted in the middle of the library. When she awoke, she was in the hospital. Doctors and nurses bustled around her, dismay and worry on their faces. Terror flooded through her as she regained consciousness, with the realization that different people than the ones in her vision now surrounded her. She hated the feel of belonging in two worlds. The doctor in the hospital told her at the time she was stressed, but something told her that stress wasn’t the issue; she believed she was going crazy every time she had a vision.

  If only I knew when it was going to end.

  But now, after seeing this man, she wasn’t so sure she was crazy. Maybe someone or something was about to happen that would explain everything to her.

  Her brain multiplied sixes by sevens. Somehow this man, whoever he was, had a connection to her visions. She was not crazy; this man did exist. And Rose…she may have existed, too. That fact alone might make her go insane. She hoped the whole trip was not an imaginary experience and she was not in some mental hospital, imagining it all. She didn’t know what to think any more.

  She must make sure, somehow, that she wasn’t imagining things. She decided to open her eyes and see if she might still be in her bed in her Park Avenue apartment.

  I am not really on an island …

  A cold, wet cloth tapped her forehead and a soft touch caressed her cheeks. “Miranda…wake up.” A softly harmonic voice, like a slight, cool breeze, touched her ears. Gracious, if she was dreaming, then let her be.

  It’s him! I must open my eyes.

  When she did, the man was still there. She winced at the sight of his mask. It didn’t scare her, really, but he frowned slightly, and a wounded look haunted his eyes. She hoped his reaction wasn’t because of her noticing the mask.

  As if it were coming from the end of a tunnel, she could hear his rich baritone voice and see his lips move, but she couldn’t hear his words. Instead, she felt lost in a storm of emotions, both old and new. With no other option, her mind a tangled mess of thoughts and memories, Miranda simply stared at him.

  She studied his face, now so clear and so close. A touch of warm concern mixed with confusion lay within his grayish-blue eyes. The long, dark eyelashes cast shadows on his high-boned cheeks. Her gaze swept down to his square jaw, to his firm lips…would they feel the same as they looked? His warm breath on her face mixed with the hint of a familiar, minty aroma. Her gaze swept all the way up to his straight brown hair; a thick strand fell across his mask and tangled in front of his magnificent eye. Her fingers tingled with the urge to tuck it away, and to take that mask away so she might discover the rest of him, but she restrained herself.

  She knew this man—but how could she explain that? It was hard to explain to herself, let alone anyone else.

  Miranda cleared her throat and realized he was studying her face as she studied his. His hand brushed her cheek, his touch soft and so gentle. Her whole body shivered, and a tingling teased her spine. She wanted to place her hands around his neck and pull him toward her, to feel him, smell him, even kiss him.

  The force inside her burst into flames as her hand unconsciously touched his broad chest. Her palm touched the bare skin from his open shirt; the fuzzy, soft hair on his warm chest tickled her fingers, and his muscles tensed under her touch. He looked down where her hand was and he frowned, then turned his gaze to hers with what seemed like yearning. She could have sworn that she could feel him, read him, and understand him. “What happened?” Her voice came out as a whisper.

  “You fainted,” he said softly, as if wary of disturbing the peace around her. He continued brushing her forehead with the wet cloth, his eyes still roaming her face, his expression a heated, pleasurable agony. And yes, she felt it all.

  Miranda sat up. “I don’t faint,” she lied. It wouldn’t do to have him know
she had fainted numerous times before.

  “There’s a first time for everything.” He smiled and his lips parted slightly to reveal pearly teeth. She wanted to part them with her tongue, instead she licked the corner of her lips cherishing the risqué thought. That smile increased the warm look in his eyes. She was trapped, falling deeper into his seductive allure.

  Sitting beside her, he pointed at a tray on the table. “I took the liberty of trading in the tea for hot milk and cookies for you.”

  She loved milk and cookies; she surprised everyone with her habit of having milk and cookies any time of the day. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  He got up and walked toward his writing desk, tightening his maroon robe around him and placing his hands in his pockets. He was wearing dark blue trousers and dark maroon shoes. When he turned, her gaze searched his face and his white mask, itching to ask his reason for wearing it. What could have happened to him?

  A knock on the door distracted her from analyzing him. The butler strolled in with another tray, She watched in silence, drinking her milk and enjoying a piece of the sweet, soft cookie. William smiled at her and placed the tray on a marble table near the sofa. Then he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  The masked man walked over to the marble table. She could see some cotton and what looked like an alcohol bottle and an empty cup on the tray.

  “Please, come closer, Miss Blair.” He poured some of the alcohol in the empty cup.

  “What are you doing?” she asked nervously as she adjusted herself in a sitting position.

  He wet the cotton with the alcohol, then held her face in his hand. “We need to disinfect this wound so your beautiful, delicate face won’t scar.”

  Heat claimed her face. My ears must look like two small tomatoes by now. No one had ever told her she was beautiful before, not even her ex-boyfriend; Jack wasn’t much of a sweet-talker. It wasn’t the words he said as much as the way he said them, soft and full of sincerity, that made her blush.

  He lifted her face, which allowed her to look into his eyes again; she was mesmerized by their allure. Even exquisite eyes had never drawn her in before, but it was the warm, familiar feeling in them... “When can I see Mr. Wardlaw?”

  Her question made him pause. “He’s sick,” he replied, “and unfortunately, he won’t be able to see you for a while. That’s why I’m here.” He continued cleaning her scratch.

  “And who are you, to him?” she asked, blinking.

  “I’m Mac Wardlaw, his nephew.” He smiled.

  “Mac as in Macarthur, MacDonald, MacCloud…?”

  Miranda inwardly cringed as Mac’s brows drew together in a frown. She cursed herself, but asking questions was second nature to her. Surely, Mac understood why she was here. He would have been told of her research into Marcas’ death. It dawned on her that Mac was related to the little boy; she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking him about Marcas. Her hands curled into fists in her lap and she waited for him to finish treating her wound.

  She would ask questions later in regards to her research. Isn’t that what I came here for? And this man’s uncle, Mr. Kenneth Wardlaw, had agreed to her visit and the interview, knowing very well she would have questions for him to answer. But maybe Mac didn’t know that. Maybe she would have to be clear about her visit.

  Mac finished cleaning her wound so quickly she didn’t feel any pain. “Well, you’re all set, Miss Blair.” He closed the bottle of alcohol, gathered the wet cotton pieces, and rose from the seat. He walked languidly to the bin and tossed in the used cottons.

  He then turned to face her, and the look in his eyes turned glacial. “Just Mac, my dear Miss Blair,” he said. “Just Mac.”

  Chapter Four

  Miranda stretched out over the large bed and sighed. It was bigger than three beds, and a lot softer. The sun peeked through the French doors of her room and spread its warmth over her face. The previous night, Mac had said his goodnights and sent dinner to her room. He was gentle with her and understood her need to relax, which she appreciated. When she had finished her meal, she’d gone to sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  The journey was exhausting her. Now that her head had cleared, she realized it had been foolish of her to risk her life. The thought of a shower teased her aching muscles. Miranda slipped out of bed, walked to the French doors, and opened them wide. A breeze of fresh air stroked her hair and caressed her cheeks.

  Ah, how wonderful.

  She took a deep breath and glided to the balcony, the coolness of the white marble smooth beneath her bare feet. Miranda stood, holding the banister, and gazed at the view of the brilliantly flowered meadow. Trees surrounded a small, man-made lake; a white bridge spanned the water, creating a path to the other side of the green garden. A hexagonal pavilion of Greek design stood a few feet from the blue, sparkling lake. At the property’s far end, the beach, lazuline, sparkled under the clear sky.

  She filled her lungs again with the soft, lively air.

  A knock on the door drew her attention. She turned and pulled the ties of her robe more tightly together. “Come in,” she said. Footsteps and a clearing of the throat announced William. His smile was shy as he entered her room, head down, as if he were apologizing for his interruption.

  “Good morning, Miss Blair,” he said. “Mr. Wardlaw asked me if you were awake and would care to join him in the Green Garden for breakfast.” He bowed slightly, his gaze firmly fixed on the floor between them.

  “Good morning, William. I need to shower first.”

  “I’ll wait outside your door to guide you to the Green Garden,” he drawled in Scottish but she understood him, his accent less heavy than the pilot’s.

  Her shower didn’t take more than ten minutes. She went to the closet and chose a sleeveless, white dress that hung smoothly from the waist down to her knees. Secretly, she thanked Mac’s thoughtfulness for ordering her a dress and sandals the night before. The butler told her Mac instructed the shopkeepers to open their stores, and the maids had gone on a shopping spree for everything a lady would need. She let her wet hair dry in the fresh air, flowing on her shoulders freely.

  * * * *

  She reached the Green Garden fifteen minutes later, William a half-step before her. He excused himself when she slipped through the wide French doors. The sophistication of the garden design took her breath away. It was a vibrant, spacious area built inside the castle. The walls were dark gray blocks of smooth stone. Trees spread all over the garden, which sparkled under the sunshine that filtered through the open roof. Mediterranean and silver-leafed plants decorated the pathway throughout the garden. Cheddar Pink, sage, and perovskias, gathered in groups of three, flaunting a magnificent color combination of pink, gray-green, and blue-lavender. As she walked on the pathway, her fingers brushed over the irises that decorated a Victorian cedar arch. It’s like the Garden of Eden. She spotted Mac reading a newspaper near a medium-sized pond with two small waterfalls.

  His attention turned from the newspaper to her. “Ah, good morning. Miss Blair. Please join me for breakfast.” He rose from his seat and pulled out the opposite white metallic chair for her to sit on.

  In the daylight, his fine-looking features were clear. Under the bright morning sun, his eyes were lively with an azure color matching his silky shirt. He was an attractive man, with chiseled features. But there was a rugged poetry in the structure of his face that made classical handsomeness utterly irrelevant. His character was too powerful to overlook, even behind his mask.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wardlaw.” She sat in the offered seat. “Please call me Miranda.”

  “Then please call me Mac, Miranda.”

  She smiled. He poured tea for her; she thanked him and helped herself to a piece of toast spread with jam and butter.

  He leaned back on his chair, crossed his legs, and watched her, studying every move she made. A sparkle of mischief in his eyes made her shiver to the marrow of her bones. “You look dashing this mo
rning, Miranda. You slept well?”

  “Thank you, I did.” She licked the excess of jam on her lips and saw him watching her lips. Her cheeks turned molten beneath his scrutiny. Their eyes met. The way his eyes glittered with unleashed desire sent shivers up her spine.

  He rose from his chair and walked with unhurried strides to the corner behind his chair. Blue flowers covered the gate he slipped through, barring her sight. Within a few seconds, he returned, holding his hands behind his back. “I know why you’re here, Miranda. Do you know why I wanted you in the castle?” His velvety voice swept over her body like warm honey and made her toes curl in her sandals.

  So, it was he and not Mr. Kenneth Wardlaw who wanted me brought to the castle.

  “No, I don’t know why you canceled my reservation and invited me here.” She continued in a firm tone, “And I didn’t like the way your men treated me. I felt as if I were being kidnapped.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “How did they treat you? Were they rough or rude? Did they handle you in a way that was offensive?” He leaned toward her and whispered into her ear with a bourbon-smooth tone. “Because if they did, I’ll fire them all.”

  She held her breath for a moment, then a sigh escaped her lips. “No, they just made me uncomfortable. Their invitation sounded like an order.”

  “It was an order,” he declared as he shifted to stand beside her. He held up a lilac bud. “Here, your favorite flower.”

  She froze and gazed at the white bud. Thunder rose in her ears at the sight of it. Her hands started to sweat as she clenched them into fists.