A Highlander for Christmas by Debbie Macomber, Christina Skye Page B
Authors: Debbie Macomber, Christina Skye
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fast becoming a curse.
Moonlight broke over the restless moat. As Jared stared down, he wondered how the proud walls would look in spring, wreathed in bright roses and warm sunlight.
The odd thing was that part of him already knew the answer, though he’d spent no springs within the abbey’s weathered walls Yet somehow he saw how roses would climb and twist, clustered over the gray stone.
His mouth tightened. Too much imagination played havoc with a man’s coordination and tactical responses, making abilities, making him useless in a threat. He’d tried to tell Nicholas this a dozen times, but his friend had refused to listen. That kind of loyalty could get someone killed.
Jared’s body tensed as he revisited the dark alleys and cold nights of his past. He had faced more anger and despair than most men. One by one, he had fought down his enemies and conquered his regrets. But the sense of limbo he had felt since Thailand was a special kind of hell, and waiting was all he had left. He had already glimpsed the manner and place of his own death.
It was moments like this, past midnight in the ragged hours of night, that the man from box 225 yearned for the brush of soft hands and the gentle glide of a woman’s hungry skin. If he were very lucky, maybe even with a woman of passion and curiosity like Maggie Kincade. In their heated joining Jared might have found some semblance of peace.
But the peace wouldn’t endure, he thought grimly. And he had never been a man to settle for pretense or empty fantasy.
So his bed went unshared and his pain went unassuaged. If he muttered or twisted in the night, there was no one else to hear, which was probably just as well.
He smiled wryly at the moon hanging over the gatehouse. Since his return, he’d learned to be versatile in his methods of physical distraction. A ten-mile run over steep, wooded slopes worked fairly well, but a predawn plunge in the abbey’s icy, spring-fed moat worked better still.
For the moment he decided to check the e-mail messages waiting for him on his laptop. Moving inside, he scrolled through a half dozen messages for products he didn’t need from companies he didn’t know. There was nothing of any importance waiting for him.
With a yawn, he flicked off his laptop and listened to a woman’s silky voice purr goodnight. The sound file was a little joke from his computer-genius friend, who had assured Jared that the voice belonged to a sedate grandmother of six in rural Indiana. The knowledge did nothing to dim the effect of her smoky farewell.
Jared settled in a deep wing chair beside the French doors overlooking the south lawn. Tomorrow he planned to finish testing the upgrades he’d made to the abbey’s security. With luck the whole process should require no more than several hours, in spite of the minor bugs he had discovered in the new program. If he was very lucky, he’d manage to be out of sight whenever Maggie Kincade was present.
Frowning, he picked up the latest techno-thriller, hoping it might ease him down into sleep. His gaze narrowed on the slouching figure on the jacket flap, a writer who supposedly had captured the gritty reality of post cold war Asia. The truth, Jared knew, was a lot more boring—and far more callous than any best-seller.
The man from box 225 understood that better than anyone else could.
Still, a diversion was a diversion. He flipped on a single desk lamp and settled back, book in hand, only to feel a ripple of uneasiness. Mist drifted past the window as he rubbed the knotted muscles at his neck and told himself there was no reason for wariness. The abbey’s security system was running perfectly, and no alarms had been triggered This tickle between his shoulder blades had to be pure imagination.
Shaking his head, Jared plowed into the story. After three pages, his vision darkened and the book fell forgotten at his feet. He plummeted into the cold tunnels of sleep, his heart pounding, gripped by a pain
Moonlight broke over the restless moat. As Jared stared down, he wondered how the proud walls would look in spring, wreathed in bright roses and warm sunlight.
The odd thing was that part of him already knew the answer, though he’d spent no springs within the abbey’s weathered walls Yet somehow he saw how roses would climb and twist, clustered over the gray stone.
His mouth tightened. Too much imagination played havoc with a man’s coordination and tactical responses, making abilities, making him useless in a threat. He’d tried to tell Nicholas this a dozen times, but his friend had refused to listen. That kind of loyalty could get someone killed.
Jared’s body tensed as he revisited the dark alleys and cold nights of his past. He had faced more anger and despair than most men. One by one, he had fought down his enemies and conquered his regrets. But the sense of limbo he had felt since Thailand was a special kind of hell, and waiting was all he had left. He had already glimpsed the manner and place of his own death.
It was moments like this, past midnight in the ragged hours of night, that the man from box 225 yearned for the brush of soft hands and the gentle glide of a woman’s hungry skin. If he were very lucky, maybe even with a woman of passion and curiosity like Maggie Kincade. In their heated joining Jared might have found some semblance of peace.
But the peace wouldn’t endure, he thought grimly. And he had never been a man to settle for pretense or empty fantasy.
So his bed went unshared and his pain went unassuaged. If he muttered or twisted in the night, there was no one else to hear, which was probably just as well.
He smiled wryly at the moon hanging over the gatehouse. Since his return, he’d learned to be versatile in his methods of physical distraction. A ten-mile run over steep, wooded slopes worked fairly well, but a predawn plunge in the abbey’s icy, spring-fed moat worked better still.
For the moment he decided to check the e-mail messages waiting for him on his laptop. Moving inside, he scrolled through a half dozen messages for products he didn’t need from companies he didn’t know. There was nothing of any importance waiting for him.
With a yawn, he flicked off his laptop and listened to a woman’s silky voice purr goodnight. The sound file was a little joke from his computer-genius friend, who had assured Jared that the voice belonged to a sedate grandmother of six in rural Indiana. The knowledge did nothing to dim the effect of her smoky farewell.
Jared settled in a deep wing chair beside the French doors overlooking the south lawn. Tomorrow he planned to finish testing the upgrades he’d made to the abbey’s security. With luck the whole process should require no more than several hours, in spite of the minor bugs he had discovered in the new program. If he was very lucky, he’d manage to be out of sight whenever Maggie Kincade was present.
Frowning, he picked up the latest techno-thriller, hoping it might ease him down into sleep. His gaze narrowed on the slouching figure on the jacket flap, a writer who supposedly had captured the gritty reality of post cold war Asia. The truth, Jared knew, was a lot more boring—and far more callous than any best-seller.
The man from box 225 understood that better than anyone else could.
Still, a diversion was a diversion. He flipped on a single desk lamp and settled back, book in hand, only to feel a ripple of uneasiness. Mist drifted past the window as he rubbed the knotted muscles at his neck and told himself there was no reason for wariness. The abbey’s security system was running perfectly, and no alarms had been triggered This tickle between his shoulder blades had to be pure imagination.
Shaking his head, Jared plowed into the story. After three pages, his vision darkened and the book fell forgotten at his feet. He plummeted into the cold tunnels of sleep, his heart pounding, gripped by a pain
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