The Presence. Heather Graham
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that for whatever length of time she’d still be in the castle, she had to take showers. She gritted her teeth, knocked tentatively and heard nothing. She went in. The shower-tub combination was to her left, and a large vanity with double sinks to her right. The last time anyone had redone the bathroom had been many years ago, but it was still decent with artistic little bird faucets and a commode and bath and shower wall that had surely been state-of-the-art at the time.
The doors to the master’s chamber and the bride’s room were directly opposite one another. She stared at the door to the other room for several seconds, then walked over to it and tapped on it.
“Yes?”
She opened the door and peeked in. He was still in his towel, deeply engrossed in the paper, and he had a fire going. The entire room seemed much warmer than hers.
A little resentment filled her until she remembered that there was a fireplace in her new room. She could build her own fire.
“I was going to use the shower. I just wanted to make
sure that you didn’t need it.” And that you don’t intend to barge into the bathroom.
She had a sudden, absurd image of him riding the great black stallion into the tiny bathroom.
He arched an ebony brow. “My apparel would seem to show that I’ve already bathed,” he said.
“Right. Well, I’ll unlock the door from this side when I’m done.”
“Yes, please do,” he said, and looked back at the newspaper.
She couldn’t resist. “The Times, huh? You apparently like American newspapers better than American people.”
“I usually like Americans very much,” he said. There was the slightest accent on the second word he spoke.
She closed the connecting door and locked it, swearing beneath her breath. The situation was bad enough. If there had to be a living MacNiall, why couldn’t he have been eighty, white haired and kind!
Fighting her irritation, she stripped and stepped into the shower. The hot water didn’t last very long; she was probably the last one getting to it that night.
Still swearing beneath her breath, she stepped out, towel-dried quickly and slipped into a flannel gown. In her room, she debated the idea of attempting a fire. She’d had one herself in the other room, but David and Kevin had built it for her. Despite her Chicago homeland, she’d never built a fire.
Using the long matches from the mantel, she tried lighting the logs in the hearth. But nothing happened. Some kind of kindling was needed. Perhaps a piece of newspaper or something. Looking around the room, she saw nothing to use.
Lightning suddenly flared beyond the gauzy drapes that covered the door to the widow’s walk. It was an actual balcony, she thought, not a little turret area, as was found in the master’s chambers.
Immediately after, thunder cracked. The wooden door that led outward to the old stone area swung in with a loud bang as the wind blew it open with a vengeance. She hopped up and hurried over to the door. It was a nasty night, not the kind she had imagined here!
She closed the door with an effort and bolted it. Staring through the slender openings of the arrow slits, she saw another flash of lightning. She should count her blessings that they hadn’t been thrown out that night.
She gave up on the fire and curled into the canopied bed, then hopped up again. The only light switch for the room was apparently right next to the bathroom.
With it out, she was plunged into a darkness so deep it was unnerving. Shaking her head, she opened the bathroom door, turned the light on, hesitated, then left the door on her side of the room ajar—she would have killed herself trying to get into bed in the pure ink that had filled the room.
Was she being an idiot? No, this fellow truly had no interest in her. Maybe she should be insulted, she thought wryly. At five-nine, with deep blue eyes and light hair that had deepened over the years to a dark blond, she was usually considered to be attractive. But apparently not to the ogre in the next room.
Bruce MacNiall. She must have heard the name somewhere.
Lying in the great bed, she shivered as she hadn’t shivered in years.
No! It was not some kind of precognition coming
back to her. She had stopped all that years ago, closed her mind, because she had willed that it would be so! Still …
She tossed and turned, wishing that there was a television in the room. Or a fire. Watching the flames would have been nice.
Her mind kept racing, denying that this could be happening when they had tried so hard to do things right. There had to be a mistake. There had to be something to do!
How had she come up with the name Bruce MacNiall?
At last, she drifted to sleep.
Bruce had just lain down when he heard the ear-piercing scream. Instinct brought him bolt-awake, leaping from the bed. A second’s disorientation was quickly gone as he heard a second cry of terror.
It was coming from the next room.
He raced through the connecting bathroom to see his uninvited guest sitting up in the bed, pointing in front of her, a look of terror on her face.
“Miss Fraser … Toni! What is it?”
He realized only then that she wasn’t really awake. Racing to her, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. Her reaction stunned him. She jerked from his hold and leaped with an incredibly lithe and agile motion to her feet and stared down at him.
She was a rather amazing sight, mane of gold hair caught in the pale light, shimmering like a halo around her delicate, refined features. Her eyes were the size of saucers, and in the soft-colored flannel gown, she might have been a misplaced Ophelia.
Something hard inside him wondered just what new act she was up to now. Something else felt a moment’s softness. The terror in her eyes seemed real. For the first time she seemed vulnerable.
“Toni,” he said firmly, stretching out his arms to catch her around the middle and lift her down. “Toni!
Wake up!”
She stared at him blankly. “Toni!”
With a jolt, she blinked and stared straight at him.
He thought she was going to scream again. Instead, she blinked once more and quickly stepped back, eyeing him up and down. Luckily he had donned a long pair of men’s cotton pajama pants.
“I think you were dreaming,” he said.
She frowned, flushed and bit her lower lip. “I screamed?”
“Like an alley cat,” he informed her. He stepped back himself. In this pale light, in this strange moment, he suddenly realized just how arresting a woman she was. Not just beautiful, but fascinating. Eyes so intensely blue, bone structure so perfect and refined, her mouth so generous. Her features seemed carefully drawn, as if they had been defined by an artist. And despite the vivid color of her hair and her eyes, there was a darkness about them, as well.
“I woke you,” she murmured. “My deepest apologies.”
“I wasn’t actually sleeping, but I am surprised you didn’t wake the entire castle. Or maybe you did,” he added. He couldn’t refrain from a dry smile. “Maybe they’re creeping down the hall now, afraid to come in and find out what’s happening.” He left her and walked to the door, opened it and looked out. Then he shrugged. “Well, castle walls have been known to keep the sounds of the tortured from traveling too far.”
She still stood there, tall, elegant, strangely aloof. He found that he was annoyed to be so concerned. She seemed to be the head of this wretched gang that had the gall to “invent” history and