Labyrinth (9 page)

Approval flickered in
Clyde
's eyes,
then
disappeared as quickly as it had come. Maybe SAS training wasn't the reason McNeil was so skilled at keeping his thoughts hidden. Seemed the habit ran in the family.

Clyde
started to turn, and Alex said, "Don't be so hasty,
Clyde
. Just because there's a beautiful woman here is no call to ignore family." Alex threw a grin her way,
then
added, "I'll have an ale, as well."

McNeil slipped a muscular arm around her waist as he leaned close and pressed his mouth to her ear. "They do make
a fine
fish and chips here. Not quite what I had in mind, but you won't be disappointed."

She shivered at the wash of his warm breath in her ear. His arm tightened enough to say he caught the reaction and another flush swept through her. Thankfully,
Clyde
appeared, three foaming mugs of beers in hand. Margot nodded thanks and took three long gulps that emptied half her glass.

McNeil again leaned on the bar so that he could see her face. "Are you all right?" The gleam in his eye said he was well aware of his affect on her.

She gave him a deprecating look. "Don't get cocky. This room is filled with attractive men."

"But none of them can do this." He pressed his mouth to her ear again, gently took her lobe between his teeth, and nibbled.

Gooseflesh raced down her arms. His fingers flexed on her waist and memory flashed of Lord Morrison's warm fingers as he slipped a hand inside her pajama top and pulled her against a chest as solid as the one that pressed into her shoulder. Would McNeil be able to bring her to the brink of insanity as the Scottish lord had? Her insides liquefied with the mental picture of her bucking against Colin's finger. The image dissolved into McNeil's long, dark fingers inside her, stroking the sensitive spot as her walls closed round him in a convulsion of pleasure.

Margot jerked back to the present when McNeil trailed a moist kiss downward, flicked his tongue to the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder, then straightened. His gaze lifted and met hers in the mirror as he took a leisurely sip of his ale. She resisted the need to shift on the barstool in order to ease the discomfort that throbbed between her legs. Dammit, if she excused herself and went to the ladies room McNeil would know good and well she'd gone to administer a hard finger fuck. But would he know that was only a primer for what she really needed: him?

Her pulse quickened at the thought of him slipping into the bathroom after her, turning the lock, then backing her against the wall and sliding his fingers past her jeans waistband into her wet folds. Her breath caught at the mental picture of Lord Morrison slipping between her and the wall, his body hard and warm as he thrust his engorged cock against her ass in unison with the in and out motion of McNeil's fingers inside her channel.

Her heart pounded. Sweet Christ, where had Colin Morrison come from in that fantasy? Margot caught sight of McNeil in the mirror, his stare intense, a knowing smile hinted at in the lift of his mouth. A quiver radiated through her stomach. She wanted like hell to see that same look on his face when he pounded into her.

Chapter Eight

A tiny click sounded when the lock pick Margot used to unlock Cat’s door shifted the tumblers into place.  She pulled the pick from the door and slipped inside the room. A lone desk lamp illuminated the empty room. She leaned against the door, pushing it shut behind her, and released a breath. It had been too long since she'd met a man as interesting as Charles McNeil, yet she'd had him drop her off at Castle Morrison with only a kiss good night. Her insides still quivered from that kiss. Damn, but it was more than just wanting the man. He made her want to explore every inch of his body with a slow, methodical inspection that would take years.

Margot snorted. She’d lost her mind. She inserted the jiggler pick into the credit card sized case alongside its eleven casemates. Unlike the other doors she’d seen in the castle, Cat had installed a modern tumbler lock on her office door.
A fortunate happenstance that made it easy to get past the locked door.
She slipped the case into her back pocket, then locked the door and faced the room. The small desk lamp cast a shadow on the eight-pointed Scottish Templar cross that spanned the massive chain mail in the alcove behind the desk. A sudden chime caused her to whirl toward the fireplace. Two more chimes followed. She stared, heart beating three wild beats for every gong the mantle clock chimed. The room fell silent. Damn. The place didn’t need ghosts. A heart attack would get her before Castle Morrison’s ripper did.

Margot blew out a breath, then crossed to the desk and dropped into the chair. What was she looking for? She hadn’t gleaned a single clue as to the real reason behind Cat’s invitation to Castle Morrison. Margot would settle for starting with the real reason she’d bought the castle.

Despite her flashes of anger, Cat had been more like the old Cat than she had been since her marriage. One of those flashes of anger had been when Margot appeared for breakfast this morning. Could the problem with the contractors account for her mood? It couldn't be
McNeil,
he hadn't shown up until early afternoon. Margot thought back to the moment she’d stepped from the stairwell and Cat’s gaze met hers. Anger had flickered in Cat’s eyes,
then
gave way to a thinning of the lips. A look Margot had seen many times after Cat married Donny.

When Cat
suddenly
fell in love with Donny, Margot hadn’t been able to silence the fear that Cat might marry him in order to tear down the barrier she believed barred her from the right side of the tracks. Margot tried convincing herself that her cop’s mentality made her question Cat’s motives, but Cat’s anger fueled the suspicion, and eventually Margot feared Cat had used her marriage to Donny to compete with—and even hurt—Margot. That anger reminded Margot of the reaction she’d observed this morning. It made no more sense now than it did then. Why hurt the one person who’d always stood by her? And why get pissed off when she had invited Margot to
Scotland
?

Twenty-five minutes later, Margot cursed. Not a single computer file was password protected. Only office supplies filled the drawers. The single oak file cabinet located in the far right hand corner contained invoices, employee records, and the like. This office belonged to a highly efficient businesswoman.
End of story
, as Chief Hicks would say.

Margot began prowling the room. Had Cat hidden the important information in her bedroom? Where would be the best place to hide sensitive information? Margot paused. Where would a person hide something in an old castle? The dungeon came to mind, but that was part of the public tour. She ran a finger along the mantle. Her gaze fell on the fireplace. She paused. No ashes. Margot snorted. No drafty winter nights for Cat. She’d had heat piped into her office—probably her bedroom too. Unlike her guests, she had no desire to endure seventeenth century life.

As if of its own accord, Margot's gaze shifted back to the armor. How much could the antiques be worth? Had to be a fortune, which meant they belonged in a museum. Of course, Cat had a point. For the kind of money her guests paid, they expected the real thing, not replicas. So why keep an authentic Scottish Templar suit of amour hidden in a private office?

Margot crossed to the suit of armor. Maybe this wasn’t an original. How would she know the difference? Cat had been surprised she recognized the Scottish Templar’s cross. Margot ran a finger along the edge of the shield. She hadn’t noticed it when talking to Cat, but while the metal had been polished to mirror-like shine, nicks on the surface indicated the shield had seen action.

She lifted her gaze to the sword. From pommel to tip, the sword was three and a half feet long. Like the shield, it shown to perfection, but nicks on the blade and wear on the pommel said the weapon had also been used—a lot.
The helmet, too, showed signs of wear.
When she examined the hem of the mail and found tiny bits of bent or twisted metal, she knew her guess was right. The luster of the armor couldn’t compare to the shield and sword, but weapons could be polished. If this wasn’t the real thing, it was a well-used replica.

Margot turned, dropped into the chair, and opened the browser on the computer. The high-powered computer had the window open in two seconds. Margot typed in
Scottish Templar armor
.

Hit after hit advertised stores selling replicated medieval armor. She typed in collectors, templar armor, and got six hits relating to people who bought various types of armor for collectors, as well as collections donated to museums. Page after page combined with different key words turned into another fifteen minutes that passed with having found only the
London
Museum
exhibit of a Templar sword. She twisted and looked over her shoulder at the armor. Cat said suits of armor were a dime a dozen in these castles. That meant this armor came with Castle Morrison. Did that mean the lord of the manor had been of Templar stock?

She typed
Scottish Templars
in the Google bar, and began reading when the page loaded.
The Scottish Order of the Knights Templar was one of Royal appointment, an Honor presented by the
Royal Court
. Only limited families were accepted into the Order and at the head of the organization were the heads of three families, seen to be of senior representation of the original Scottish Knights. These three families were: the House of Stewart;
The
House of Sinclair; and The House of Seton; which families were also recognized as representatives of the Carolingian bloodline.

Margot squinted at the screen and read out loud, “Carolingian bloodline.”

Five minutes later, she stared at a window that stated
Merovingian bloodline: the royal bloodline of Jesus later merged with Carolingian bloodline.

Was Cat on some sort of hunt for the Holy Grail? What could the Holy Grail have to do with Castle Morrison?
Not
Castle
Morrison, Margot realized. Lord Colin Morrison. She typed in
Lord Colin Morrison, Isle of Lewis,
and
Scottish Templars
. A page full of mismatched pieces of information appeared on the screen. Dammit. She needed to narrow the search.

Memory of Cat’s words that morning came to mind.
“When I opened Castle Morrison’s doors, their sleuths went to work and uncovered that tidbit. I could have throttled them.”

Ghost Hunters, Inc.
Margot typed in the name along with
Castle Morrison
. A page loaded with a picture of Castle Morrison. Just as she thought, the ghost busters weren’t about to let all that hard work go to waste. She scrolled down the page and froze at sight of a picture of Lord Colin Morrison.

Steely brown eyes stared back at her. Eyes she’d seen in dreams these past two nights. The same hard jaw, broad shoulders, even the tartan that draped his shoulder and wrapped his waist. A jolt of desire hit straight between her legs.

Margot shot to her feet. “What the hell.”

The chair fell backwards, hitting the carpet with a low thud. Desire tickled the insides of her stomach. Memory rose of his body pressed against her back, his cock nestled in the crack of her ass. Her heart jumped to a gallop. Feel of his large hands on her ribcage, his finger on her pleasure point, massaging, vibrating. His harsh laugh reverberated in her ear as he fit his cock into the entrance of her channel—Margot nearly fell forward in her fervor to grab the mouse. She yanked the cursor over the close button in the upper right hand corner of the screen. The web page disappeared, leaving the blue desktop image in its place.

She sent the mouse sliding across the desk and staggered back a step, bumping a calf against something. Margot jumped to the side and saw it was only the end of the chair leg. She seized the chair and righted it, then sat down facing the computer.