Scotland For Christmas Part 10

He put down the box. "No."

"You should come to Scotland and drive to the northwest. That's traditional Clan Ross territory. There are major castles you can see, all with so much history."

"How did you know my kilt size?"

"I guessed." She looked down, obviously checking out his groin region. She stared for longer than was seemly, and he felt himself grinning.

"You're observant," he said drily.

She blew out a little puff of breath. Got up and paced. "Sometimes I wish I wasn't part of my clan at all. I wish there was a place for me where I didn't have to fight so hard to claim what's mine."

She glanced at him sideways. "Ah, look at me, running on, telling you my woeful story."

He laughed. "You're saying that to the wrong person."

"No, you're the right person. I know you can't be keen on attending a wedding, either."

"With you, sure I am. As long as it's not my own," he joked.

"That's good that you can laugh. Have you been to many since it happened?"

"Not a single one."

"Really?" This seemed to make her feel better. Which was the only reason he'd answered the question honestly, he supposed.

They were so careful with one another. For some reason that struck him. He liked it. "We'll be fine, Isabel."

She inhaled deeply. "I'll come pick you up in an hour, then," she murmured.

"No. Meet me downstairs, by the fireplace, remember?" He would escort her inside from there, in style.

She nodded. "Very well." Then, "Oh, wait. I forgot my book."

A poetry book, by Robert Burns. Interesting.

She shook her head. "This is torture. I've been asked to recite a love poem and do it beautifully for the bride and groom, as if nothing affects me."

"Here." He dragged out two shot gla.s.ses, fussy little ones that came in the room on a filigree tray. He poured them each a dram. "I don't normally do this. But nothing about this job is normal to me."

She smiled wanly. "Slainte mhath."

"What does that mean?"

"To your health."

"Interesting. I'd been about to toast to shared pain."

DOWNSTAIRS, THE Ma.s.sIVE stone fireplace had been set with a roaring blaze. Jacob warmed his back as he waited for Isabel to descend the flight of stairs and join him.

Already, the colonial-era inn milled with her family's half of the wedding guests-Scots, the men wearing kilts like his father must have worn, plaids in varying colors and designs, with more accessory items than Jacob ever had guessed, from knee socks with a jeweled dagger tucked under the right side, to black shoes, and hanging from the waist, a leather pouch big enough to carry a pistol, if the wearer was so inclined.

Jacob pa.s.sed his hands over his eyes. He still hadn't seen the groom-Malcolm-the nephew who'd been kidnapped as a boy. Jacob needed to do something about that. He was feeling itchy, needing to step up this operation. It frustrated him that John Sage wouldn't be present for hours yet.

Just as the clock showed three-thirty, Isabel came down the stairs.

Jacob snapped up his head. She'd put up her hair and wore a low-cut, clingy dress that showed her skin for the first time-her long neck and a hint of cleavage.

His mouth was open and he was probably drooling. His gaze slid up and down her body, appreciating her. She wore a long, dark green dress. Though not out of place for the occasion, it clung in just the right places and slid over her hips when she moved, drawing his attention.

Blinking, he dragged his gaze back up. She had stilled and was looking him up and down, from his skirt-er, kilt-with the sporran buckled over his crotch, up his jacket, to his face.

He raised an eyebrow at her, and her cheeks flushed.

It's just a job, he told himself. Don't take this seriously. It doesn't mean anything.

But their gazes were locked together, and he couldn't break away. Across that crowded room, she stood still on the bottom stair, only her chest rising and falling. She held on to her end of their stared connection.

Don't, he told himself. He broke their link. But when he looked up next, she was strolling toward him, her lips twitching. On the way over, she shook out a thin plaid shawl and draped it over that gorgeous skin on her shoulders, clipping the material together with a brooch, some kind of Celtic design with blue stones against silver. The blue matched her eyes exactly.

"h.e.l.lo, Isabel."

She stopped just outside his comfort zone, gazing up at him. Tiny, heart-shaped crystals dangled from her earlobes, distracting him.

"And to think I was considering not coming down," she murmured in a low, musical voice that he had to lean forward to hear.

"What made you decide to come?"

She shrugged at him playfully. "I remembered I had a handsome American in a kilt waiting to watch me recite a love poem."

Handsome, huh? "I thought the poem was for the bride and groom."

"It is." She winked at him. "But the reading of this particular poem is also a family tradition, and I've been practicing to perform it in my own unique way. You'll have to wait and see my skills."

"You've got my attention, Isabel."

"Yes, I saw that on the stairs."

He blew out a breath and looked away. The crowd was moving, heading en ma.s.se in the direction of the church next door. Someone b.u.mped her, causing her to sway for a moment, and in quick reflex, he caught her elbow.

She smelled good and her skin was soft, as if she'd just showered and moisturized. He let his fingers subtly caress the spot.

She leaned slightly closer, her eyes twinkling. "So. Shall we walk to the church together and begin our torture session?"

"Shared pain," he said, remembering the whiskey toast back in his room.

"You don't like weddings. I don't like reading love poems. If we watch out for each other, maybe we can change our fates today."

He led her away from the main crowd and through the open doors, not knowing what to think, except that it seemed they had a shared plan. He didn't mind that at all.

She smiled and tilted her face to the sky. Outside, the balmy wind had picked up, which sent the pleats of his woolen kilt slapping against his bare knees. An interesting sensation. Underneath the kilt, he'd worn a pair of shorts he usually jogged in, even though he knew it was tradition not to wear anything beneath. And maybe, with a pretty woman on his arm, he was starting to understand why.

He hid his smile.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

Strange how they were getting to know each other's moods. "Antic.i.p.ating your poetry, is all," he said.

"'My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.' Do you know that one?"

"No. Are you joking-that's really the t.i.tle?"

"No, I'm not joking, and it's a pity. I'd thought I'd recite the whole thing directly to you, and we could both laugh at it in secret."

He saw what she was doing, distracting them both from the fact that they were walking into a church. For a wedding.

"How is everyone not going to laugh out loud?" he asked, playing along.

"Because as I read it to you, I'm going to pretend that I'm already CEO of Sage Family Products, and delivering a dramatic enactment for the purpose of a very clever internet advertis.e.m.e.nt." She leaned into him and whispered, "And only you will know that I'm doing this."

He burst out laughing. He was enjoying this woman.

And yet, she was reminding him of his purpose, too.

All these members of the Sage family surrounded him, and there was intel to be gathered. Now was the time to pay attention to that task.

He studied the crowd around them as he and Isabel strolled the fifty or so yards across the gra.s.s. They followed closely behind a group who were laughing, too. They genuinely seemed to like and take comfort in each other's company.

"Who are these people?" he asked Isabel, gesturing before them.

"Who, my cousin Gerry and his wife?"

"No." Jacob didn't need to know names, specifically. He'd never remember them all anyway-there were so many cousins. He was more interested in the groom and John Sage. "I mean, what's the big picture as to how you fit in with the wedding party as a whole?"

"Well, my father had four siblings-three younger brothers and a sister, the youngest of all. The groom-Malcolm MacDowall-is his sister's only son. John Sage is my father's-was my father's-next oldest brother, and he's the only one of my uncles who never married."

Jacob nodded, filing away the information. There was one more person he needed to know about. He noticed she hadn't mentioned the groom's sister, the niece who'd been kidnapped.

Bridesmaids in autumn-red-and-gold dresses were lined up, chatting on the landing of the church entrance. "Who are they?" he asked Isabel, pointing to the women as he escorted her up the steps.

"Friends or relatives of the bride, I suppose. They're definitely not siblings, because Kristin is an only sister with lots of brothers. She has four."

So...none of the bridesmaids were the kidnapped niece. "Does Malcolm have any siblings?" he asked carefully. The niece had to be here somewhere in the crowd.

They were filing into the back of a chapel with one long aisle down the middle. The fact that he was inside a church came up on Jacob so suddenly, he only had time to blink.

"Interesting that you should ask," Isabel said, and drew him aside from the main crowd, waiting two by two to be escorted into wooden pews by three groomsmen dressed in kilts with black tuxedo-type jackets. Wedding music played from an organ in the loft of the church. Jacob recognized those strains.

"Look behind you," Isabel whispered into his ear, and pointed.

"Behind me?" And he was usually so situationally aware. Dammit. It had to be the location's effect on him. Irritated with himself, he turned.

"That's Malcolm, the groom," she whispered.

Malcolm's attention was on a table beside him. He didn't look nervous, but then again, Jacob hadn't been nervous, either, right up until his bride had shown up and made her dramatic announcement.

Jacob couldn't help it, he glanced at his watch. The bride had a few more minutes. She wasn't late.

He glanced back at Malcolm, and then noticed the laptop Malcolm was fiddling with. There was a hazy shadow on the screen.

"Who's that on the laptop?" he murmured.

"Rhiannon. My cousin."

Jacob squinted. There was, indeed, a woman with long dark hair on the screen, and she was speaking quietly to Malcolm over a video connection.

Isabel moved closer to speak directly into Jacob's ear. Close enough that he smelled her perfume and felt her breath. He moved closer to her, his nose practically in her hair.

"Rhiannon is Malcolm's younger sister," she said, her lips just brushing his skin.

Jacob stepped back and stared at Isabel. Her expression was inscrutable, but she seemed tense. They had to be speaking of the woman who'd been kidnapped as a young girl.

"Why isn't she here today?"

"Rhiannon is agoraphobic. She doesn't leave the grounds of their family's estate in the Highlands."

"Why?"

Isabel gave him a distressful look. He supposed he already knew why-Rhiannon didn't leave the safety of her home because she'd been traumatized. He'd heard of it before, in his training, especially in his reading of histories and case studies regarding the survivors of violent situations.

Agoraphobia was an anxiety disorder. It could very well be Rhiannon's coping mechanism. Likely, she had seen something deeply upsetting. Possibly involving Jacob's father.

Jacob put his hand to his head. All these years, he'd a.s.sumed he and his family had been the only ones affected by his father's murder. Obviously, he'd been wrong.

Jacob moved closer to the laptop screen behind Malcolm. On it, he could see that Rhiannon's eyes were darting-taking in the chaos of the church scene before her-which reminded Jacob that the cameras went both ways.

She could hear and see them, just as they could see and hear her. She noticed Jacob staring at her, and a look of panic crossed her eyes.

Jacob then quickly moved with Isabel at his elbow, gently guiding him along. Jacob realized that Malcolm was standing in front of the screen not just to speak with Rhiannon, but also as a deterrent, a guard so that other people couldn't speak to her or upset her as they filed past to their pews.

Every cousin in the family seemed to reverently pause and quiet down as they pa.s.sed her on the laptop screen. Some nodded. Some looked down, reflective. It seemed to Jacob like a quiet, sad respect they paid her by not pointing out her hidden presence.

It spooked him, and he was a guy who carried a firearm, a badge and a radio every day of his working life. He was trained to run toward gunfire, not look away from it. He dropped threatening perpetrators with a knee to the neck. He jumped in the way of an attack, without a second thought.

This situation was different. And he saw...in a sickening epiphany that kicked him hard, that maybe the department psychologist had been right to single him out. This-his father's murder-had left its mark. It wasn't just something horrible that had happened a long time ago and was over and done with. It was an event that wasn't finished, that didn't finish, that still had rippling effects in many people's lives-more than he had ever realized.

"What exactly happened to her?" he asked Isabel. "Why does Malcolm have to protect his sister like this?"