The Dark Highlander

Only then did Dageus reclaim his seat. He was staring at her intensely, his gaze full of sensual promise. She shivered. His expression couldn’t have said any more clearly that Chloe Zanders had kept her virginity quite long enough.

“You look lovely this morn, lass,” he said silkily, as he passed her first a platter of potatoes and eggs, then one of fat wedges of ham and kippers. “I fancy you in a gown.” His eyes added that he knew there’d been nothing to put beneath it when she’d gotten dressed, intimating that he was the one who’d chosen her gown and brought it to her room while she’d slept.

Her erotic awareness of the man—an eleven on a scale of one to ten—rocketed to a twenty. Chloe took a deep breath, managed a “thank-you” and turned her attention toward something tangible to tackle: food.

Simon Barton-Drew’s face was grim as he replaced the phone in the cradle.

Trevor hadn’t phoned in for fourteen hours. Simon had been trying to reach him on his cell since early that morning, with no success.

And that could mean only one thing.

Scowling, he kicked a chair across the room. Trevor had better be dead, he brooded.

Stalking to the outer door of his office, he swiftly locked it. Before closing the blinds, he glanced out at the rain-slicked street. With the exception of a mangy alley cat noisily wrestling a bit of trash from a nearby Dumpster, the area was deserted, the street lamps buzzing as they flickered on. As much time as he spent in the dilapidated Belthew Building on Morgan Street in a seedy section on London’s outskirts, Simon felt more at home there than in the elegant brownstone where his wife had stopped waiting dinner for him twenty years ago.

The land on which The Belthew Building stood had been owned by the Druid sect of the Draghar for centuries. Constructed above ancient labyrinthine crypts, it had served as their headquarters for nearly a millennia, in various incarnations. Once an apothecary, then a bookstore specializing in rare books, then a butcher’s shop, once even a brothel, it now housed a small printing business that drew little notice, and there was no paper trail connecting it to the powerful Triton Corporation.

Their members were the elite, well-placed in society, many in government, more still in the upper echelons of large holding companies. They were wealthy, learned men with impeccable pedigrees.

And they would be furious to know that he’d lost contact with Trevor. Though Simon was Master of the Order, he was nonetheless accountable. Highly accountable, in this sensitive time. His followers had not funneled so much money and time into the sect for anything less than the promise of absolute power. They all possessed a certain degree of ruthlessness that would come to the fore should they think him incapable of controlling his minions.

Flipping off the lights, he moved through his darkened office by rote. He removed a painting mounted on one of the many recessed wood panels of the wall and typed in a sequence of numbers. He replaced the painting and, as the paneling slid up behind his desk, he opened a second door and strode down a narrow hallway.

Several minutes and several additional complex passkeys later, he entered a passageway that sloped sharply downward, where it met a precipitous fall of worn stone stairs. When he reached the bottom, he turned and took the next flight, then a third, then hurried through a maze of dimly lit, damp tunnels.

He had to send someone to Inverness to discover if Trevor had been taken alive. And if so—to tidy up. It would require the most loyal and committed men he had. Men who would never let themselves be taken alive. Men who would die for him without hesitation. The best men he had.

His sons were where they could nearly always be found, in the electronic heart of their operation, monitoring innumerable facets of their business.

And they were, as always, eager to serve.

After breakfast, Dageus asked Nell to take Chloe to find a light cloak suitable for her to ride in. Chloe, her inquisitive gaze darting everywhere, allowed herself to be led from the great hall.

After the women departed, Silvan arched an inquiring brow. “Doona you wish to be starting with the texts, lad?”

Dageus shook his head. “I need this day. I need to show Chloe my world, Da. What it was like. What I was like. If only for a day.” That wasn’t exactly the truth. The truth was the night had been hellish and the morn wasn’t getting any better. He’d not been able to sleep, strung tight as a corded bow. He’d passed the time till dawn fantasizing about Chloe and all the ways he would seduce her. He’d scarce maintained his tight façade of calm through breakfast. And when Chloe had admitted what a battle she’d been fighting to keep her hands off him, it had been all he could do not to toss her over his shoulder and drag her off to his bed.