Writ on Water (7 page)

Rory Patrick's own smile was lopsided. Miss Smith wasn't at all what he'd expected, and she had knocked his half-made plans off-kilter. He didn't want to encourage his father's paranoia about the cemetery, but the old man could get stubborn when crossed, and out of sheer obstinacy would hold on to a notion until it fossilized into the hardest stone and one needed a jackhammer to chip it away from his brain. So Rory had decided that it wouldn't be wise to show anything other than tepid interest in MacGregor's plans, in case he unwittingly woke further stubbornness in the old man's breast by demonstrating even mild
dissension with the preparations to stop the imaginary grave-robbers who were staking out Riverview.

Keeping silent while MacGregor carried on had irked him unbearably in the last few days. MacGregor had always been eccentric—but this was way past his former levels of looniness. It was all such a ridiculous idea. There were no thieves. No one even knew about their cemetery. At least, they shouldn't know.

Rory frowned. Of course, there was that weasel, Claude. His cousin was always short on funds and none too scrupulous about how he made his living. He had seen the graveyard when his mother died and was—against Rory's wishes—interred there. But surely even Claude would draw the line at grave robbing his own ancestors. After all, he'd been raised a Patrick from the time his father abandoned him.

Or perhaps not
, a new voice whispered. Little though he cared to admit it, MacGregor was a perspicacious devil. Sometimes his hunches bordered on second Sight. If anyone could predict the approach of trouble it was his sire.

Rory swore tiredly and looked at the half-mowed lawn.

Hiring a photographer to document the collection was a sensible precaution, which he supposed that he couldn't deny his father, even though he wanted to. But MacGregor's other ideas were completely unacceptable. Their privacy had to be
maintained until the new security system in the house was installed. Someone at the insurance company had been reviewing their records and the latest evaluation of the art collection in the gallery had the insurance company insisting upon stronger measures of protection—an unwanted expense since most of the family money was tied up in an expansion of Rory's business.

But MacGregor did not understand what the company meant by “sensible precautions.” He'd taken that as a green light to do anything short of starting a nuclear war. And what he cared about most was this damned graveyard. He'd been talking about hiring mercenaries to police it. If he'd had had any idea of how to go about it, he might have done it, too, in spite of Rory's arguments.

“Stubborn mule,” Rory muttered, feeling hot and put-upon, and questioning the wisdom of coming back home to live.

As a sop to refusing his father armed guards and ferocious attack dogs, Rory had been staying at home a lot more in the week just past. He was even arranging his schedule so that he would be able to be there full-time after this next weekend. He had hoped that it would be enough to stop MacGregor from doing anything goofy—or something really crazy, like going on nightly patrol with a shotgun and shooting some horny kids who were only looking for a little privacy in the woods of Riverview.

Unfortunately, he had been out-maneuvered,
and MacGregor hired this photographer without consulting him.

And now she was here. It was a vast pity that Chloe wasn't rock stupid and hag-ridden; MacGregor might have gotten bored with her then and sent her away. Since the cemetery's best defense was the fact that it was completely unknown—not even marked on county maps or historic registers—all Rory could do was hope that this young woman was as discreet as she was pretty, and completely ignorant about art. Because she was probably going to learn a lot of fascinating things about the family from MacGregor.

Yes, the old man appreciated attractive women. Rory really liked Chloe's intelligent blueberry eyes and the fact that her sense of humor hadn't atrophied in spite of working for Roland, and he and his father were enough alike for him to know that MacGregor would appreciate these things as well, and would want her around him all the time. But unlike Rory, MacGregor would feel no need to keep quiet about his art collection or his certainty that thieves were coming to Riverview. MacGregor equated beauty with innocence, and this woman worked for his old friend. He would never believe Rory's warning that silence on the subject was critical, that talking about possible theft to the outside world was making it a self-fulfilling prophecy. MacGregor would take one look at Chloe Smith and wouldn't be able to resist showing off by bragging about all the great sculptors
whose art was in his cemetery. He was apt to insist that she learn the history of every person buried at Riverview, and the value of every marble piece that covered them. And that would lead straight up to the picture gallery where the ancient Patrick rogues were immortalized. Yes,
some
talk about the paintings' value was bound to ensue if Rory left them alone. Which was a lot of temptation to place before a working girl. Who wouldn't want to talk about this strange place and its priceless paintings and sculptures to a few close friends?

Miss Smith's photos were supposed to guard against thieves being able to fence their loot if they came sneaking into Riverview with a flatbed truck and a crane—an event that Rory's father believed was imminent. And if he convinced her of the danger, she would want to tell Roland and maybe the police about it so they could be on guard. That would never do.

“Well, damn it to hell in a little red wagon.” It was going to be hard to keep Roland Lachaise's pet photographer in the dark about MacGregor's grandiose paranoia if she stayed very long.

Could she be bribed into silence? Probably not. The young were so often crusaders. His best hope was that she wouldn't be able to take the enforced boredom that went with life on a plantation where the inhabitants didn't bother with luxuries like TVs and telephones in every room. And perhaps if he devoted his spare time to her, escorted her to
the graveyard, maybe took her out evenings, he could keep her time with MacGregor to a minimum and interest her in other things. . . .

Of course, demonstrating an interest in Chloe Smith would leave him open to a whole other realm of parental craziness. MacGregor was a veteran matchmaker, and would likely start in again about wanting grandkids if his son showed any predilection for Miss Smith's company.

All things considered, Rory decided, MacGregor's annoying hobby of finding his son a wife was marginally less dangerous than his obsession with a recurring dream of tomb raiders disturbing their ancestors' bones. If all else failed, he would be willing to sacrifice himself on the altar of duty and distract his father with a blatant flirtation. It wasn't like it would be torture sitting somewhere, gazing by candlelight into Chloe Smith's magnificent eyes.

And maybe all MacGregor's blatant hints about marriage and grandchildren would scare her away.

Chloe walked through the foyer, past a refectory table of splendid proportions, and waded through a deep pile Bokhara rug thick enough for ground squirrels to burrow in. She couldn't help being impressed. The other plantations she had visited had their treasures roped off from the general public. Here she could actually touch the priceless antiques.

“Ostentatious,” she murmured, “but I could call it home.”

“And so you shall,” enthused a large voice coming from her left. She sighed. It apparently was her morning to be overheard making silly remarks, and this time it wasn't just the gardener who was listening in; it was the three-tailed bashaw himself.

“Mr. Patrick?”

A large shadow filled the gap between the pocket doors. MacGregor Patrick stepped into the room. She recognized his face from Roland's photographs, but was surprised by his theatrical presence. In demeanor and build he was a good double for John Wayne—except for the smile, which was too effervescent to be vintage
“Duke.”

“MacGregor to my friends, which I know you shall be. Come inside, my dear.”

MacGregor took her hand in his own massive paw and towed her into the library. He relieved her of her small cases by stripping them off her shoulder and dumping them on the floor. Chloe squeaked once in protest of the rough treatment of her cameras, but he spoke over her protest. “Have a seat while we get you something cool to drink. Summer's comin' early this year. Can't have you wiltin' into decline on our very expensive carpet, now can we?”

“Er—no.”

Chloe was momentarily deceived into thinking that he was just a normal man playing host to a normal guest and using a royal
we
as a jest. But he maintained his imperial image by immediately
going to a corded bell pull and tugging vigorously. He apparently didn't actually mean to fetch refreshments himself. That meant servants.

Feeling more lost than ever, Chloe shook her head.

“Set, child!” He rushed back over to her and pressed her into a chair.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Chloe obediently sat—her knees were buckling anyway—and leaned back to enjoy her surroundings. Everything, from her host to the books in massive cases made of quarter-sawn oak, was very large.

MacGregor Patrick, instead of taking a seat behind the enormous desk covered in heavy tomes, seated himself in the wingback chair beside her. He beamed.

“Thank you, I am thirsty,” she answered politely, awed by the giant folios around them and the smooth leather beneath her fingers. It was soft enough to be satin.

“And how is Roland, the old devil?” The voice was far from quiet. MacGregor was obviously unaware of the hushed reverence demanded by the library decor. To him, books—even when rare and expensive, and in great numbers—were to be read, not venerated in silence. It was his home; obviously he would speak as he pleased. “It's been an age since he's come up for some fishing. I can't imagine why he doesn't retire.”

“He's fine. Busy this time of year,” she answered politely, and in a less quiet voice than she
would normally use since it occurred to her that maybe MacGregor was hard of hearing. Anyway,
when in Rome
. . . “And I doubt he'll ever retire. He has far too much fun cracking the whip over the wage slaves who work for him.”

MacGregor gave a snort of laughter and slapped his knee. Again, Chloe was struck by the theatricality of the gesture. It was as though her host knew of his reputation as being larger than life and had decided to live up to the role.

A small shadow entered through the pocket doors. It reached the wingback chairs only slightly ahead of its owner. The lady, dressed in the traditional garb of a housekeeper, was so humped at the shoulders that her stance was nearly forty-five degrees off of vertical. She looked ancient and weary, suggesting her stoop had come about a full four-score and seven years ago.

Chloe blinked, but, being polite, was careful to show no other expression. Of course, MacGregor Patrick would have an ancient hunchbacked servant. Anything else would be pedestrian and clash with the decor.

“Morag, would you fetch in some lemon ice for our guest? Chloe, this is Morag MacDonald.”

“How do you do?” Chloe said, firmly resisting the urge to get up and offer the frail soul her chair. The stern face that went with the stooped body did not suggest that the housekeeper would be accepting of any show of sympathy.

Morag nodded, but didn't speak before shuffling out of the room.

“Fearful old dragon,” MacGregor whispered in a voice that still managed to fill the room all the way to its ornate crown molding. “Distant cousin by marriage. She won't retire, either. I've tried for years to get rid of her, but she's up every morning just like the sun. Sneakin' around and listenin' at keyholes! What a nosy pest! She has no respect for my privacy. None at all. And my son abets her. It's downright humiliatin'.”

Chloe didn't answer. Finding a safe reply would have been like trying to thread a needle with a very small eye and a bit of very thick yarn. Especially as she suspected that Morag MacDonald might very well be able to hear them discussing her, and she didn't want to piss the women off. The housekeeper might look slow, but that didn't mean she was powerless.

“Did you meet my son? He said he'd be about this morning. Fine strapping lad he is.”

In a sudden burst of embarrassing intuition, Chloe asked: “Rory? Yes, we did bump into each other. He was taking a break from mowing the lawn.”

MacGregor frowned. “Mowing the lawn, is he? Well, my son is very efficient. Very
democratic
—likes to do things for himself.” Chloe had the feeling MacGregor meant bourgeois. “He's also very opinionated. Not that having an opinion is
a bad thing! Not if you're a man,” he added hastily.

“Of course not.” Chloe suppressed a smile. Obviously his son's opinions were a foreign—and possibly degenerate—neighborhood where MacGregor didn't often venture. She wondered what, besides mowing the lawn for himself, the two men might not agree about. Roland hadn't said anything about MacGregor's son—
the two-tailed bashaw?
she thought, suppressing an inappropriate grin at her title for Rory's official place in his father's hierarchical structure.

The room began to shimmer. Feeling suddenly lighthearted, Chloe leaned back in her chair and got comfortable. Obviously, she wasn't going to be hurried into efficiency, and she was getting very interested in Riverview and its inhabitants. It was a far cry from what she had imagined in her dreams. So much for the curse of prophesy. This was about as scary as Disneyland.

“The fact is . . . well, Rory is damned particular about the gardens and won't let the boys near the house. Brings his own two special assistants to help with the work when he can't do it himself.”

If
the boys
were responsible for the carpet padding and the gnomes, then Chloe could hardly blame Rory for keeping them at bay. Some things were mere bad taste; others were sacrilege. She wouldn't allow these gardens to be desecrated either.