Catch Me If You Can (21 page)

She moved back down the wide hallway, past the grand staircase, but bypassed the stairs they’d been on, and the hall leading down the labyrinthine corridors to the rear entry he’d come in through earlier. Instead she angled them along another, less obvious hall, ending at another, wider staircase that was likely at the rear of the main house. He’d thought for a moment they were heading up them, presumably to her room or rooms, but instead she ducked around behind them, then stopped in front of a narrow oak do
or, angled back in a skinny littl
e niche in such a way that it would go completely unnoticed if you didn’t know to look for it.

“Shortcut,” she told him. “You might have to duck.” She opened the door and stepped into a low passage.

After rearranging the weight on his back, he hunched a bit and followed behind her. “Where are we?”

“Servants’ passage.” She held the lantern up in front of her, illuminating a narrow corridor that stretched out before them, angling downward and continuing on into the darkness. They passed two offshoots before she turned down the third. “Most of the castle is no longer accessible by these tunnels,” she told him. “The Sinclair who oversaw the first major reconstruction of the castle had the foresight to include a series of passageways, connecting the house to the towers and outer wings, both for security and ease of service by his attendants. They were maintained until Finlay Sinclair took over in the late eighteenth century. He undertook the second major renovation, but the castle was in pretty bad shape by then, having taken the brunt of several battles during the rebellion.

“The towers and battl
ements had taken the most abuse, but the central structure and the wings connecting it to the north and south towers had suffered some severe damage as well. He did his best to restore what he could, but the southern passages are largely impenetrable now, as is the south wing, but that’s due to other problems that came later on. Some of these offshoots lead to nowhere now. The western wing leading to the loch was added at the turn of the following century, and has no access to this network at all. Which was a problem for a few of my ancestors who were in need of another means of escape.” She flashed him a smile. “Usually in the dead of the night.”

Tag took in the information, but said nothing. He knew what she was trying to do. She’d played Scheherazade for hi
s father, weaving her tales of ti
mes past, in exchange
for stories of her clan’s American counterparts no doubt. And a lot of money.

He’d had a pretty good look at t
he overall structure of the castl
e as he descended into the valley and drove into the courtyard. It was no small stronghold, with an impressive gray stone edifice of a main structure, flanked by two wings which fanned out in triangular fashion, connecting a matched set of towers stationed at either end
like sentries. Crenellated battl
ements topped the central building and ran the length of both wings, circling the top of each tower as well. But that was where the standard fortress structure ended.

Windows of different sizes and styl
es had been installed, apparentl
y as needed or desired over the years, in variou
s locations throughout. The battl
ements atop the towers differed significantly in style from that of the main building. And the western wing she’d mentioned was of an altogether different architectural style, and jutted out at an odd angle from the section that connected the two towers, pointing toward the lake. It was a hodgepodge really, one which he imagined could give future anthropologists quite a headache if they didn’t have the written history at hand. But even keeping all that in mind, he doubted quite seriously that this was any kind of a shortcut.

He had an excellent sense of direction. It had long since become second nature for him to peg due north in whatever territory he was inhabiting. Even with all the twists and turns they’d taken, he knew they were heading toward the north wing tower. With the courtyard central to the structure, that would have meant a hike around the perimeter wings. But even with the winding maze of construction that likely made such a trip somewhat convoluted, this winding maze of underground passageways, or the ones she was taking him on anyway,
wasn’t any more a direct route. She just hoped to seduce him, and not in the way he’d intended her to.

But despite her stories, it still wasn’t personal with him yet. Not in the way that struck a chord deep inside him, where an undeniable connection was felt. He did admit that he found the history interesting. May
be a little more personally th
an a tourist would, but not much.

She tossed another look over her shoulder as she tugged him down yet another dark passageway. “We’re here.” She stopped in front of another oak door, this one smaller and more rough hewn than the first.

“The north tower?”

Her eyes widened fractionally in surprise. “Remind me to take you along if I ever plan on getting lost.” Then she smiled and opened the door.
“My
tower.”

She entered first, then held the lantern up so he could wedge his backpack and duffel through in front of him. They were in a circular vestibule of sorts that was all stone and just as cold and damp as the passageways had been. “Cozy,” he commented, as he shuffled in far enough for her to close the door behind him.

She turned and lifted the lantern so that it illuminated a set of stone stairs that appeared to be built right into the stone walls of the tower. Stretching up beyond the circle of lantern light, they were just wide
enough for one person…
and had no railings or other means of support.

“Let me put my file in your pack and I’ll tote that up so you can manage the duffel.” She was already slipping the pack from his shoulder.

He was still looking at the spiraling stone staircase.

She tucked the thick accordion file in a rear pocket and muscled the pack onto her back. “What have you got in here anyway?” she asked, then noting the direc
tion of his gaze, she smiled. “
You’re not afraid of heights or anything, right?”

“No. I was thinking more of balance.”

“Don’t worry, the steps are slightly slanted toward the wall, so you lean away from the edge. Really, you get quite used to it. One or two trips and you’d be skipping up and down without even a lantern. Trust me.”

He shifted his gaze to hers. “I think I’ve done a pretty fair job of that.”

She just shot him a wink that could only be described as saucy, then literally danced up the first half dozen steps, taking the light with her. “Well then, no reason to slow down forward progress, is there?”

He shifted the duffel so it was centered on his back, and began the climb. Heights didn’t bother him, but he was careful not to look down anyway. No sense in borrowing equilibrium trouble.

“It’s not far to the main landing. We’ve electricity from there.” She tossed a smile back at him. “And wider stairs.”

He found if he focused on the swing of her hips and the way her tightly curved backside tucked into the taut muscles of her thighs, it made the trip up far more enjoyable. He barely noticed the iron fittings hammered into the stone at regular intervals, intended to support lighting and weaponry. In fact, by the time they got to the trapdoor that led to the main landing, he was a wholehearted supporter of stone stair climbing as an excellent form of physical fitness. Her ass wasn’t the only thing rock hard by the time they squeezed through the narrow door.

“You can leave your bag here for now,” she said, turning toward him as he entered the doorway and helping him slide his duffel down his back to the floor. She’d already taken off the backpack, which he scooped back up. Her paperwork was still tucked in the front, but his own files were zipped inside. Along with the cherrywood box and all its personal contents. Better to keep that close at
hand, he figured. They’d get to it eventually. At the moment, his mind was on other matters. Namely finishing what they’d begun back in that earlier stairwell.

“Welcome to my home,” she said, flipping on a light switch after she closed the door. “My c
astle within a castl
e, as it were.”

The soft glow of wall sconces and a heavy wheelshaped chandelier overhead lit up the c
ircular room. It was significantl
y warmer in here than in the passageways or the subterranean stairwell leading up here. But there was still a damp chill in the air. He supposed that was castle living in winter. It was one open room, the full circumference of the tower, with easily a fifteen-foot ceiling. The floor was layered with several carpets, all antique and faded, but providing a nice barrier to the cold stone beneath. It was part kitchen, part living room, with a big r
olltop desk wedged between the ti
ny kitchen table and the stone fireplace.

There were three doors leading from the room. Two of them were paneled, painted cream, and from their position, he imagined led to the wings that connected her t
ower with its twin in one directi
on, and the main house in the other. The last door was heavier, painted a deep green, sporting a row of tiny, thick panes of diamond-shaped glass across the top, and obviously led outside. A small antique table was positioned by that door, on which was a small glass dish that held a handful of coins, a pack of gum and a set of keys. The staircase leading to the next floor was in fact broader, and not carved from stone. It sported a beautifull
y carved filigreed balustrade th
at all but begged to be stroked. And from the looks of the polished worn pattern, many hands had done just that.

He tried not to imagine who those hands had belonged to, if any of them had been Morgan hands, perhaps gripping the banister as they ascended the stairs
toward another Sinclair in some earlier era. He tried not to, but it was against his nature not to. Visualizing the past and the people who’d populated it was too much a part of who he was, of why he’d gone into the field of anthropology, to easily switch it off.

That it was his own ancestors he was visualizing this time and not some forgott
en Mayan subsect didn’t mean…
well, anything. His interest could merely be of professional significance, not personal.

And it was getti
ng harder and harder to deny what a crock of shit that was. He’d said on the way in he was just going to go for it, immerse himself if he felt like it. His father was gone, so what difference did it make? Why was he still so intent on fighting any notion that it might be personal? He didn’t want to think about the fear Maura had mentioned, or analyze, well, anything at the moment. What he needed to do was just calm down, stop overthinking every little thing, and go with the flow for a goddamn change. He was with a fascinating woman who seemed as intent as he was on spending some naked time together. Just focus on that, for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t like the rest of it was going anywhere.

“The Sinclairs were big on portraits, I see,” he commented, nodding to the oversized, gilt-framed canvases that filled most of the available wall space, stacked up in a hodgepodge manner, almost to the ceiling. There were a few scenic pieces, but most were of stoic-faced, heavily sideburned Scots. The main house had been decorated much the same way. Whatever space hadn’t been consumed by bookshelves anyway.

“Imagine what they’d have done if cameras had been around back then,” she said, in her typical dry tone. “Didn’t the Morgans on your side of the pond detail their history this way?”

“If they did, I wouldn’t know about it. As you probably know, my father wasn’t much on celebrating his immediate forebears. If any paintings existed, it’s quite possible he destroyed them.”

She didn’t look particularly shocked. If anything, she looked sad, and maybe a bit resigned. “If he did, I’m sure he came to regret it,” she said, ever the stalwart defender in all matters pertaining to his father.

Tag swallowed a cynical snort. She’d had a different relationship with the man; he had to get past letting that bother him. No sense in tainting her memories with his personal views on the subject. One had nothing to do with the other, after all.

“What about the Sinclairs or Ramsays?” she asked. “Growing up with them, you’ve been in their homes.”

He shrugged, thankful enough to sidestep the topic of his father that he expanded more than he normally might. Talking about his childhood wasn’t high on his list of enjoyable ways to pass the time. “Sure. But as a child, I don’t know that I paid much attention to artwork. I was more interested in digging up arrowheads and old fossils.”

Her lips curved, her dimples flashed. “So, that’s where your life’s passion started, eh?”

His lips quirked a littl
e. It was hard to be moody around Maura. For all her passion for t
he past, she seemed to have littl
e patience for getting maudlin about any of it. “Yes. I used to dig around old man Ramsay’s pond. I had dreams of discovering a dinosaur and becoming famous like Indiana Jones.”

“Ah, we share a childhood idol, then.”

“Indiana Jones?”

Her lips curved more deeply. “Harrison Ford.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling himself when she sighed in deep appreciation.

“Ah, indeed,” she said. “So, dinosaurs. You must have spent a lot of time digging.”