Chapter Two—Moving into Position
Feeling the effects of jet lag slightly, Sara sank gratefully onto the overstuffed settee in Mr. Smith’s study while he examined the manuscript. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been in London and here she was, back in a pre-summer heat wave.
She had been nervous going through airport security and had carefully scrutinized the passengers in front and behind her before she’d laid the portfolio on the conveyor to pass through the x-ray machine, but no one had seemed particularly interested.
She had also kept alert to who sat next to her in the waiting area, but again, no one had seemed sinister or threatening, so perhaps the incident with the car had been coincidental…
or the pickpocket had no idea where she went.
Her friend, Michael, always teased her about “situational awareness,” but then, he had a natural bent for it. He was a warlock.
For the most part, the flight had been uneventful.
Except for the good-looking cowboy in boots and tight Levis who looked remarkably like her hero from earlier.
If the clothes hadn’t been such a drastic contrast to the well-dressed hunk, she would have sworn they were the same man.
He took a seat behind her and across the aisle.
Well over six feet, his broad-shouldered, well-muscled frame had hardly fit the coach seat.
For a moment she had wondered why he wasn’t in First Class or at least Business Class where he’d have more room to stretch those long, muscular legs.
He had shoulder-length tawny hair, the color of a lion’s mane, full and luxurious.
The kind she’d love to run her fingers through.
He wore glasses with lenses shaded dark enough that she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but they did nothing to disguise the strong cheekbones or the straight nose.
Full sensual lips and a chiseled jaw made him look like Adonis.
Since he hadn’t even noticed her—well, how could he, with all those female flight attendants blocking the aisle and hovering over him?
—she figured he was a cover model, or more likely an actor.
Her defenses went up. She’d had enough of those.
Still, it had made the trip a little more pleasant. Okay. A whole lot more pleasant.
“It certainly seems to be authentic,” Mr. Smith said as he carefully lifted a piece of brittle parchment and turned it over.
She hoped so. She’d nearly gotten killed for it. Or maybe not. But either way, she had decided not to tell Mr. Smith of the adventure. He might not send her on any more trips if she did.
“I hope the price wasn’t too high.”
He waved away the thought. “My dear, if this is truly a map that leads to the Holy Grail, no price is too high. Just think of what the collectors’ world would think…the Grail authenticated, but owned by the mysterious, reclusive Mr. Smith.” He giggled and clapped his hands at the thought.
Sara wondered if her employer had any idea of what the spiritual value of finding the Grail would be.
Probably not. He concerned himself only with acquiring objects.
Mainly medieval weapons. She glanced at the far wall, across from the fireplace, where a collection of swords from the Scottish claymore to the Roman spatha hung.
She truly doubted that the manuscript would lead to the Grail. After all, it had been written centuries after the Grail disappeared. Not that she didn’t believe in the Grail. She did. She was a white witch, after all, a follower of the Goddess. And chalices were symbols of the Great Mother.
“It’s too bad you don’t read Gaelic,” Mr. Smith said, eyeing her hopefully.
Sara smiled. “I don’t. But I know someone who does.”
His round face broke into a big smile. “Ah, I knew I could count on you! Who is it? Is it someone I know? We must invite him here, by all means.”
She shook her head. “He was my professor in ancient Celtic history. He’s quite elderly now, confined to a wheelchair, and somewhat reclusive.”
Mr. Smith’s eyebrows knit together. “But wasn’t Celtic history mostly a study of Ireland? This is Scotland we’re talking about.”
Sometimes, it was hard to be patient with people and remember that not everyone had a love of history. Even if they did try to collect some of it.
“Scotland was first Pictland, of course, and the Picts spoke their own language. But the Roman word for the Irish invaders was Scotti. The language is very similar.”
His brow smoothed and he waved his hand in the air. “No problem, then. I will simply make a copy of this document and you can take it to him. And you might tell him he will be well paid.”
As he moved to the copy machine, Sara thought the money would matter little to the old professor—although, on an educator’s pension, he could certainly use it.
But for him, the love of actually reading a document this old would be enough.
She could hardly wait to see the look on his face when she showed it to him.
Whatever it said, it was still a rare find for a historian.
“I’ll tell him,” she said as she accepted the copies and put them in her purse. She looked up as Mr. Smith’s butler approached the doorway, looking somewhat flustered, which was highly unusual.
“What is it, Benton?”
“A visitor to see you, sir.”
Smith looked annoyed. “I’m busy. He doesn’t have an appointment, does he?”
“No, sir.”
“Then send him away.” Mr. Smith picked up another piece of parchment.
But the butler hesitated, and Sara’s ears perked up.
Alcott Benton had been a very proper English butler whose employer in Britain had some trouble with one of the Royals over a financial investment—apparently Benton had felt the need to be loyal and took up the point with the Royal’s butler—which resulted, ultimately, in his downfall.
Mr. Smith had acquired him just like he did other unique objects.
No one else he knew had a real English butler.
Sara sometimes wondered if Smith ever realized that half of what Benton said was insult couched in smooth words.
But that he didn’t immediately click his heels and give that short deferential bow spoke louder than any words.
Smith looked back up. “You still here?”
Benton grimaced ever so slightly. “Yes, sir. The…gentleman…was quite insistent that he see you.”
Her employer was working himself up into throwing a theatric fit for not having his wishes carried out immediately, so Sara interrupted.
“Did he give you a card, Benton?”
“Indeed.” The butler produced it from the pocket of his short jacket with a rather flourishing air.
Sara smiled. When Benton had first come to this rather strange household, he had tried placing the mail and business cards such as this on a small silver tray—which Mr. Smith had carelessly put a sticky apple pie dish on.
The pinched look on the butler’s face had been almost too much.
Regency England and modern America just didn’t mix that well.
She looked at the card and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “It says he’s an archeologist. Lucas Ramsey. Specializes in medieval Celtic artifacts. ”
Mr. Smith pursed his mouth and let out a little whoosh of air. “How strange, since I just happen to be looking at one.”
“Not so strange,” a voice said from the doorway. “I was on the dig in the Highlands where your manuscript was found.”
Sara twisted around in her chair and was suddenly very glad she was sitting down.
He was the stranger from the plane. The one who looked like he had been on the cover of a dozen bodice-ripper romance novels.
Only today, he looked more like he might have stepped right out of history itself, even with the dark glasses he still wore.
His golden hair was pulled back with a leather thong.
Without the distraction of wanting to run her fingers through it, she realized she was also looking at her rescuer.
Black leather boots came nearly to his knees and his black jeans hugged and defined very well-muscled thighs.
A crisp, white linen shirt, its sleeves rolled up over strong, tanned forearms, stretched across wide shoulders and tucked into a narrow waist. Across his chest he wore a red, green and blue tartan sash.
Slung diagonally across lean hips was a leather belt and sporran.
A Highlander come to life, sans kilt. Sara began to wonder if she was suffering from more severe jet-lag than she thought or if watching a repeat of The Highlander last night had suddenly gone to her brain.
And she wasn’t sure she cared. This man was hot.
And then reason kicked in and she sat up straighter.
He was at the auction and on the plane with me.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Standin’ in this wee doorway at the moment, lass,” he answered with an easy smile and rich baritone brogue that reminded her of smoky wooden casks of smooth Scotch whisky and heather moors. “May I come in?”
“It appears you are, indeed, in, sir.” Benton raised his head and sniffed.
Mr. Smith laid down his paper and gestured. “Please have a seat.” He turned to the butler. “You can go.”
“As you wish. I shall be close by.” He looked at the stranger and then back to his employer. “If you need me, sir, simply ring.”
A small smile quirked up one corner of Lucas’ mouth as he sat on the settee beside Sara.
Instantly, she was all too aware of the maleness of him.
He smelled like leather and soap and his body gave off a heat that sent her own blood racing through her veins.
Or maybe she was having am estrogen moment. Did he have to sit so close?
Hah! Like you mind that! Her faerie had suddenly materialized beside her ear. Sara tried to ignore her, thankful the imp was invisible to the rest of the world. Trust Nim to pick this day to follow her to work. She usually stayed home.