Falkone's Promise Read online

  She said dully, ‘Oh, no!’ and stared at him. She did not know what she had expected—someone older, more refined, more ... she did not know what. She added, without thinking, and more to herself than to him, ‘I guess I blew it.’

  His dark brow quirked provocatively. He agreed, ‘If that quaint Americanism is meant to refer to your most unco-operative behaviour a moment ago, yes, you did. There’s an old Gaelic saying—never rebuke the well-intentioned advances of the man who butters your bread.’

  Dawn refused to succumb to the mortification that was threatening to swallow her whole. After all her careful preparations to make a good impression on her host, after all her determination to prove herself competent and efficient in the performance of this assignment, what had been her first move upon setting foot on foreign soil? She had allowed herself to be swept into a ridiculous fantasy of romance and adventure and flung herself into the arms of a stranger—the arms of her host!—like a starry-eyed schoolgirl. Horrible thoughts burning with embarrassment were racing through her head with the memory and she frantically sought a way to regain lost ground and erase the last few moments from history.

  Anger was her best defence, and her eyes began to snap as she twisted up her braid and pinned it securely to the top of her head. She said coolly, ‘I can only hope, Mr. Boyd, that yours is not an example of Gaelic hospitality. And I think we’d best understand now that I’m here in a professional capacity, not for your entertainment, and I don’t appreciate one bit being pounced upon in the woods like a—like a—’

  ‘Like a beautiful woman?’ he suggested mildly.

  She stared him down. ‘The fact that I’m a woman,’ she responded evenly, ‘beautiful or not, shouldn’t concern you in the least.’

  ‘Ah, but it does,’ he said softly, and his eyes swept over her in a deliberately appreciative manner. ‘And please don’t try to tell me that you didn’t enjoy what happened between us a moment ago—it’s a little too late, I’m afraid, for modest protestations.’

  She wilfully subdued a renewed flush that threatened to scorch her cheeks, holding on to her composure with a death-grip. ‘I am not in the least interested in—what happened a moment ago,’ she replied steadily, ‘except, perhaps, to feel a mild sense of insult, and to warn you that I don’t intend to allow anything similar to happen again.’

  He lifted one dark brow in a sardonically quizzical manner. ‘I find that very hard to believe,’ he said smoothly. ‘A woman as lovely as yourself must be interested in all sorts of things besides business. And, for the record, I didn’t intend to insult you, I meant it as a compliment. You must be used to them.’

  ‘I am,’ she told him coldly. ‘Which is precisely why I find it such a bore. And I promise you, the only thing I am interested in on this trip is the job I was sent here to do. So if you’ll be so kind as to direct me to the castle...’

  Something in her icy-cold demeanour must have finally got through to him. He looked at first curious, perhaps a little startled, and then a shield as remote as hers came over his face. For some odd reason that look disappointed her. It was as though he had already forgotten her, dismissed her as unworthy of his notice, and that hurt her.

  He said in a smooth, expressionless voice. ‘My apologies, then, for having bored you.’ He turned to pick up his guitar, and as he did he cast a chilling look over his shoulder. ‘Since you were impudent enough to start out on foot, I assume you have no objection to continuing in the same manner?’

  She nodded, and he gestured without looking at her towards the right. ‘The road is just beyond that fir. Continue straight to the north and the castle is less than half a mile away.’

  She said stiffly, ‘Thank you,’ and with a short, impersonal nod, Byron Boyd pushed his way through the bracken and soon was out of sight.

  Dawn was left feeling slightly vindicated, but strangely depressed. She could not afford to offend her host. What in the world had got into her? But then it was he who had made the first offensive move ... wasn’t it?

  She found herself strangely fascinated by the man who was Byron Boyd—his moods, his banter, his sharp humour. She had been sorry to see that humour fade beneath the mask of cold politeness. He was a man she would have liked to have known better, but she had just destroyed her only chance at that.

  Then she remembered something that should have made her feel better, to either dismiss the incident as the childish game it had been, or to despise him thoroughly for the cad he was. But, in fact, it only made her more depressed as she set her steps doggedly for the castle keep. It was Byron and Margaret Boyd.

  He was married.

  CHAPTER TWO

  By the time Dawn reached the castle she was hot, sticky, and discouraged. She would almost have rather died before admit defeat on the first really big assignment she had ever had, but that was now what she was dangerously close to doing. She imagined a very grim two weeks ahead of her, spent mostly trying to avoid Byron Boyd, and as a result a very dry and possibly even unpublishable article to return to the States with her as an example of how far she could go in the business if given a chance. It was all wretchedly unfair!

  The castle was approached through an avenue of towering oaks, set upon a slight rise, and faced by an enormous, dark lake which reflected every detail of the stalwart architecture to perfection in the shimmering sunlight. Dawn had to pause and focus her camera, changing lenses for a scope view, back again for the close-up of the twin lions worked in granite which guarded the walkway, moving ever closer until she was surprised to view through the camera the huge oaken door swing open and a tall, middle-aged lady appear in its place.

  ‘Hello!’ she called, lifting her arm in greeting. ‘You must be Miss Morrison.’

  Dawn let the camera drop to its supporting strap about her neck and went quickly up the stone walkway, mounting the wide, bluntly hewn steps as she replied, ‘Yes, I am.’ She found it not so difficult as she had anticipated to look fresh and eager to begin work.

  ‘When Jeff told us you’d decided to walk, we began to get a little worried about you. It’s not an easy trek—all uphill!’

  For some reason, Dawn had been prepared to dislike this brisk, stocky lady with the slightly grey hair, but miserably she began to realise it was impossible. Her smile was open and warm, her manner unpretentious and welcoming, yet Dawn could not help wondering how a man such as Byron, so virile and sensual, could have chosen such a plain woman, obviously many years his senior, for his wife.

  She apologised as she reached her, ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I thought it was important to get a closer look at the countryside before I began.’

  The woman waved it away. ‘Not at all. Byron made it clear you were to have the run of the island while you were here.’ She extended her hand with another cheerful smile. ‘I’m Margaret Boyd.’ Dawn could not help returning the smile as she clasped her hand. ‘And my name is Dawn. I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Boyd.’

  She laughed a little. ‘No, it’s Miss, and you can call me Maggie. I never married, to my brother’s great disappointment. He’s stuck with me for life!’ Through her confusion, Dawn was aware of an odd sense of relief. She stammered, ‘I’m sorry, I thought you and ... I’m afraid I assumed I would be meeting husband and wife—’

  Margaret Boyd laughed and linked her arm companionably through Dawn’s as she lead the way inside. ‘No, indeed. We’re bachelor and bachelorette, respectively, which I suppose is rather unusual at our age. But life on an island is rather restrictive. Most native islanders marry late and stay married, which is not an altogether bad arrangement, is it?’

  She kept up a continuous stream of chatter as they entered the great hall, and Dawn felt the tingle of excitement seep through her once again as she looked about her. The walls were stone, and she noticed immediately a severe drop of temperature which must have been near ten degrees, along with a faint, musky odour which hinted at dampness and antiquity. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness they fell fir
st on the traditional suit of armour, glinting in a shaft of dusty sunlight through the open door, then the Boyd crest occupying a prominent place on the forward wall. It was a brilliant azure with a silver band across the centre, featuring a single hand pointing upwards with the thumb and two fingers extended. Below it was inscribed the motto in flowing letters: Confido.

  Maggie, noticing the direction of her gaze, explained, ‘It means “I trust”. A very safe motto to choose in a day when fealty to the king could mean the difference between life and death, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It’s a splendid motto for any day,’ Dawn agreed enthusiastically, already feeling herself being drawn into the character of this place. She would not take the time now to set up her tripod and light meter, but come back later for that all-important shot. She was burning to know more of the history of the family. ‘Can you tell me a little about the family?’

  Maggie laughed. ‘Shall I give you my entire tour-speech, or encapsulate it?’

  ‘Either is fine,’ Dawn smiled.

  ‘Allow me to suggest the condensed version.’ They both turned at the sound of the masculine drawl behind them, and Dawn felt her spirits sink. Byron Boyd stood there, leaning in the doorway, the muted sunlight dancing off his dark hair, shadows casting his face into even more severe lines than she remembered. ‘I’m sure Miss Morrison is tired from her—er—journey, and would be better equipped to deal with our formidable annals after she’s rested.’

  Maggie said, ‘Allow me to present my brother, Miss Morrison, Byron.’

  Dawn replied, somewhat weakly, ‘We’ve met.’ But she was stung by the steady mockery in his eyes, the way his tone twisted when he referred to her ‘journey’, and she refused to be intimidated by his deliberate efforts to remind her of their last meeting. She drew herself up and continued in a more businesslike tone, pleasant but very professional. ‘You’re mistaken, Mr. Boyd, I would very much like to hear the history of your family. That is my business, after all.’

  He inclined his head ever so slightly, as though conceding to her the slightest of victories, and strolled forward, his hands in his pockets. In the most perfect imitation of a tour-master, he recited, ‘The first known records of the Boyd clan date back to the year 1066, when they are reported to have come to Scotland with William the Conqueror. The baroncy was received by Robert de Boyd in 1205, and from that point the clan branched out in many directions. Thomas Boyd married Princess Mary, daughter of King James III, in about 1420. James Boyd set up his fortress on this island in 1536, where it has withstood many savage attacks through the centuries and was almost demolished during the time of Cromwell. Reconstruction began in 1720, but many features have remained unchanged. You will notice as you ascend the upper staircase scars in the wood which are reported to have been made by the sabres of the lord of the manor in 1613, in defence of his lady-love.’ He looked at her. ‘We’ve always been a jealous breed, and distinctively loyal to our ladies.’ Her cheeks were burning, for she knew he was enacting this entire charade only to mock her, but he continued airily, ‘Our seed is spread far and wide, reaching at last the fair shores of the New World where Benedict Boyd, in 1636, became the first governor of the Rhode Island Colony.’ He lifted an eyebrow towards her in direct challenge, as though to say, ‘Enough?’ and Dawn picked up on it stiffly.

  ‘Thank you, that was most informative.’ She turned deliberately back to Maggie, who was scowling at her brother in a typically sisterly fashion.

  ‘But there’s much more...’ he pursued, and Maggie interrupted by linking her arm once more through Dawn’s.

  ‘I’m sure Miss Morrison will want to rest now, and then, after a nice cup of tea, I’ll take her around.’

  ‘Don’t bother, sister dear,’ said Byron smoothly, stepping forward to take Dawn’s other arm in a ridiculously defiant gesture. ‘I’m free for the rest of the day and nothing would give me greater delight than to take the young lady on the grand tour.’

  With dignity, Maggie stepped back. ‘You may begin, then, by showing her to her room.’ She smiled reassuringly at Dawn. ‘I’ll bring a pot up in a quarter of an hour and we’ll have a nice chat, all right?’

  Byron dropped her arm as soon as they were out of sight of Maggie, but placed his hand lightly upon her waist as they began an almost immediate descent up a narrow, twisting stone stairway. She could feel the heat of his fingers even through her tweed jacket, the caressing motions they made with the movement of her body, and she thought it must be only imagination that made her so uncomfortable. She said, rather loudly to break the monotonous rattle of their footsteps against the stone, ‘Where’s the scarred wooden railing?’

  He replied softly, his voice echoing like a sensuous whisper off the rounded walls, ‘This is not the one. We’re in a tower now—the tower where, legend has it, William Boyd seduced the daughter of his bitterest enemy and was such an effective lover that the two clans were united and lived happily ever after.’ He paused, and she had to turn to look at him. For the first time, standing a step above him, she felt they were equally matched, but the soft glint in his eyes nonetheless made her uneasy. ‘I’ve often wondered how it was accomplished. Were they walking along, like this, and did she turn to face him, like you’ve done, and did his arm steal around her waist, like this...’

  Dawn stepped backwards, almost tripped on the upward step, and regained her footing by flinging her hand out against the wall. She was annoyed to see laughter dancing in his eyes, but the seductive arm dropped to his side. ‘You haven’t a mind for scientific exploration, Miss Morrison? How disappointing! I was hoping you would help me solve the puzzle.’

  She said haughtily, ‘As far as I can see there’s no puzzle at all. Obviously, your ancestors were either midgets or acrobats. It’s far too cramped in here for two grown people to even conduct a pleasant conversation, much less...’ She broke off, and blushed, grateful that the dimness hid her colour.

  He took the two steps in one so that he was standing beside her, very close, once again overpowering her with his size. She felt the warm brush of his breath across her cheek, his hand light upon her arm, and, worst of all, the ever-so-slight pressure of his chest against her breasts, titillating, embarrassing, and, in these cramped quarters, completely impossible to avoid. ‘Ah,’ he said softly, ‘but you’re forgetting my family’s reputation as lovers. Passion requires very little room.’

  ‘I, on the other hand,’ she managed, turning quickly to resume her ascent, ‘require a great deal of room, and this place is beginning to get a little claustrophobic.’

  She heard his soft laughter follow her and once again her cheeks burned, but he said nothing further until they emerged through a doorway on to a light, airy hall. It was parquet-floored, panelled in natural pine, and lit with two oversized casement windows at either end. ‘These are the modern apartments,’ he said, and Dawn was amazed at the abrupt alteration in his tone. Once again he was at a distance, formal, and faintly contemptuous. ‘The guest rooms. There are twelve altogether, and at a charge of fifty American dollars a night we should turn quite a hefty little profit, wouldn’t you say?’

  She was uncertain how to respond to this new mood, but did venture, ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘You think it will appeal to the rich American tourist, then? Of course we realise that when travelling abroad they do expect to experience some inconveniences—it wouldn’t be Europe if they didn’t!—so we’ve installed only three bathrooms on this floor.’ He tipped his head towards her mockingly, his eyes bitter. ‘But perhaps that’s going a bit overboard? Would one have been sufficient?’

  Dawn went cold under his sudden and totally undeserved hostility, and she replied, ‘I’m sure I’m no. expert on conducting a business such as this. I’m here merely to photograph and report what I see.’

  ‘Then you may report,’ he said with sudden harsh ferocity, ‘that Byron Boyd has no desire to see a bunch of damn fools tramping over his property and lolling about his house in their Be
rmuda shorts and Polaroid cameras, so if they come they’d better be blasted sure to stay out of my way!’

  She stared at him, aghast. ‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so, that’s hardly the attitude to persuade the public to pay your outrageous fees and put Falkone’s Acres at the head of their “must see” list on their next trip to Scotland! One doesn’t go to all the trouble and expense of planning a vacation such as this merely to be insulted, any more than I would think you would go to all the expense of opening your house to the public simply for the sheer delight of ordering them from your doorstep.’

  For a moment he glared at her with all the violence he might have liked to display to those crass and arrogant tourists he held in such contempt. He said curtly, ‘No, I will not forgive you for saying so. And the word is “home”, Miss Morrison. Not “house”.’ Then, with a lift of those powerful shoulders, the angry mood vanished as quickly as it had come. ‘What the hell! It’s done, now, and there’s nothing but to make the best of it. Obviously, I should have left the role of tour guide to my sister.’

  Dawn could not help murmuring in agreement, ‘Obviously,’ as she followed him down the hall, which bore a striking resemblance to the interior of any better-class American hotel. There were candle sconces on the wall, quality reproductions in strategic locations, gold brocade curtains at the windows. There was even, she noticed, a modern lift at one end. She must mark that down, it was something her readers would want to know, but she was having difficulty keeping her mind entirely on the article for pondering the puzzle of Byron Boyd. He had apparently gone to a great deal of trouble to make the place comfortable and appealing to the tourist, but went out of his way to let her know the extent of his distaste for the entire project. Each moment he was becoming more of an enigma, and each moment her desire was heightening to know more about him.