The Presence. Heather Graham
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it was almost as if you’d ridden in on cue!”
“I’d meant to stop it before it started,” he told her. “Eban had heard you rehearsing, and though he was pleased with all the work being done, he wasn’t pleased to hear the family slandered.”
“But you said the story I made up was true!”
“I never said that Bruce MacNiall strangled his wife.”
“She did disappear.”
“She disappeared from the pages of history.”
Lightning suddenly filled the sky again, followed with rocketing speed by thunder that caused the castle to shake. Startled, Toni let out a little scream, jumping to her feet. Seeing him, she flushed, lost her balance in her attempt to regain her seat quickly and toppled over—directly into his lap.
Long elegant fingers fell against his bare chest. The silky soft sweep of her hair caressed him. Warm and very solid, her scent, that of lavender soap and femininity, caused an instant physical reaction in him that he prayed wasn’t evident through the sheer fabric of his pajama pants.
“Oh, God! I am so sorry!” she swore, struggling to get up. Trying to brace against his knee, she missed. Her flush deepened to something of a painful crimson, and her apologies came out in a garbled stream.
“It’s all right!” he expelled, plucking her up, setting her on her feet and remaining vertical himself. “It’s very late. If you’re sure that you’re fine …”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said, looking toward the window. He had the strange feeling that she was expecting to see someone there. Or that she was afraid that she would.
“You know, I’m not exactly tired, but I can see that you are. Go to sleep. I’ll get the newspaper and study the pages here, in this chair. That way, if you have a nightmare about me being in your room, you won’t panic, because you’ll know that I’m here,” he said.
“I’m a big girl. Really,” she told him.
“I’d rather read the paper than fall asleep to another scream,” he told her.
“It’s all right,” she said, tossing back a length of hair. “I don’t want you to feel that we’re any more of a burden than you already do.”
“So go to sleep,” he said.
“I won’t scream again, really.”
“I’m going for the paper,” he told her.
When he returned, she was still standing there uncertainly. There was a conflict of emotions in the deep blue of her eyes. She obviously wanted to tell him to jump in a lake, but she was doubting her own rights. For her own sake, and that of her friends, she didn’t want him as angry again as he had been when he had first arrived.
Yet … he sensed a strange touch of fear in her, as though she really didn’t want to dream again. That she would prefer a living, flesh-and-blood stranger in her room to being alone in it with her dreams.
“Look, I’m serious!” he said. “Go to bed, get some sleep. I’ll be here.”
“You’re going to sleep in the chair all night?”
“Frankly, there’s not a lot of night left. When the dawn breaks, I’ll head over to my own bed. If you wake up then, it will be light so you won’t panic. It always works that way.”
“How do you know?” she demanded suspiciously.
“Because people never panic in the daylight. You know, the light of day. Reason and sanity. They go together.”
She stared at him uncertainly, then headed for the canopied bed.
“This isn’t fair to you,” she said, turning her back to him.
“Go to sleep.”
She crawled on top of the bed and pulled the covers around her.
He shook out the paper and took a seat before the fire. But though he tried to read, he couldn’t pay attention.
He glanced over to the bed. So much for her having difficulties sleeping. Her eyes were closed. She was on her side, facing his way. An angel at rest. Ivory features so artistically sculpted. Full, dark lips, parted just slightly. Arms embracing a pillow.
Oh, to be that pillow!
She had to be a shyster, he told himself angrily. No
matter how innocent or vulnerable she appeared, she couldn’t have just made up his history, not down to the name Annalise. He had to take care around her, despite the fact that she could twist something deep inside of him. Or maybe because of that. Annalise.
Impatiently he tried to read again, but then he gave up, folded the paper and simply watched her sleep, doing his best to stretch his length out comfortably in the chair.
After a while, he dozed.
Then … he awakened with a violent start.
He didn’t scream; he made no noise. But his dream had been no less the terrible.
He had seen her … facedown, hair flowing in the bubbling water of the little brook in the forest. Facedown … as he had found the murdered girl.
He reached for his brandy glass and swallowed the pinch of deep amber remaining within it. He gave himself a fierce shake. Looking to the window, he saw that the dawn was breaking at last. Silently he rose. One more brandy and maybe he could get a few hours of sleep. One more brandy … and he might quell the tension that was ripping up his insides.
He walked to the door of the dividing bath and then paused. He returned to the bedside.
She slept, an angel still. That spill of hair …
It might have been any hair.
He hardened his jaw and swore softly, decrying his own nonsense. It was fucking dawn. He needed to get some sleep.
Thayer Fraser shivered as he walked along the path, heading down toward the stream, valley and forest. “A
nice brisk walk in the lovely morning air!” he said, speaking aloud. “Actually, that would be fucking cold morning air! “ he added. His voice sounded strange in the silence of the very early morning as it echoed off the stone walls of the run-down castle. Eerie, even.
At the base of the hill, he turned back. Most folks outside the country didn’t know that there were still many such places as this castle—smaller castles, family homesteads, not the great walled almost-cities-within-cities such as the fortified castles at Edinburgh and Stirling. They could be found, and some of them poor, indeed, much smaller than many a manor house. And naturally, in a far sadder state of being.
He stared up at the stone bastion, beautiful against the sky this morning. There was not a drop of rain in sight, not a single cloud. Ah, yes! This was the stuff of postcards, coffee-table books and calendars, the kind of thing American tourists just had to capture in a million and five digital pictures!
So far—though they all claimed to be in the bad times together, just as they were in the good—they were all secretly blaming Toni. For she had been the one to find the property on the Internet. She had been the one to write to the post box. And she had been the one to receive the agreement, bring it to her lawyer and then pass it on to all of them.
So, yes … they were blaming Toni. But pretty soon they’d be looking at him.
After all, he was Scottish, born and bred. He’d seen the advertisements in Glasgow, and had told Toni that it looked fitting for their purpose.
“Shite!” he muttered aloud.
He looked to the forest. Hell, he’d actually never known what they called the damned place. They should understand that. Most Americans had never seen their own Grand Canyon. Why should he be supposed to know about