a frightening man, Mr. MacKay.”
“Calan.” He didn’t move. His air of controlled concentration seemed to deepen. “And why would you think that?”
“Because you make everything you say sound sincere. You make a woman believe…” She ran a hand through her hair, shoving the short curls back off her face. “Never mind.”
“No, go on. Believe what?”
His low question seemed to play over every inch of her skin.
“It doesn’t matter.” Kiera lifted her bag, her decision made. “Enjoy your breakfast. I’m leaving now.” As she turned, two balls of her favorite red tweed yarn spilled free, rolling over the table.
He twisted and caught them both, long, powerful fingers curved around the wool. Gentle but expert.
Just a way a lover would touch. Madness, Kiera told herself.
“Nice ply. Not Scottish, though. I’d say this wool was made somewhere else.”
She closed her eyes, feeling her cool decision fade fast. “Don’t start talking yarn ply to me. That’s really hitting beneath the belt.”
After a moment he laughed. The sound started low, almost a rumble, then grew, spilling free from his chest and filling the whole patio. The sound made him seem younger, less controlled. “So I have a secret weapon now.”
“I mean it. That is truly low. Men don’t discuss yarn. It’s a sacred law. It makes the world a safer place.”
“I think you’d have liked my aunts.” He looked up, watching a bird soar along the horizon. Emotion threaded his voice. “Many a winter night I spent before the fire, helping them wind their handspun wool. Each knitted cable and rib had a meaning. I used to think that the whole world lived within the space of those waves and cables.”
Something dark crossed his eyes. Then his smile faded. Kiera was stunned at how fast the transformation came.
“You miss them.”
“Every minute of every day. And looking at that yarn of yours…” He seemed to shrug off bad memories.
Kiera felt her last bit of resolution fade. You couldn’t turn away a man who knew yarn.
She dropped her bag back on the table. “I give up. Have a seat.”
He moved behind her with the casual grace of a man who used his strength and reflexes for a living. Tennis star? Golf pro?
No, she guessed it was something more exotic.
He refilled her teacup. “The keemum smells excellent. I’ll track down more hot water.”
He turned the silver pot, using that same spare grace that made every movement fascinating. She couldn’t help watching him cross the patio and then vanish inside. When he returned he had a new pot and steam played around the spout.
Fast, she decided. Competent at whatever he did. But there was more at work here than politeness or competence. She just couldn’t figure out what.
“So what do you do? Butler? Purveyor of hand knits?”
He smiled a little and shook his head. “Afraid not.” Kiera could have sworn his eyes changed color again, azure flashing into rich gray.
Curious, she slid into her favorite game, studying the strong, broad hands and the small scars on his fingers. No rings. No jewelry. Not even a watch. “How do you know what time it is?”
He followed the angle of her eyes and pointed east. “Right over there.”
“The sun?” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Are you an anthropologist? Wildlife photographer?”
He shook his head.
“You’re not a mountain climber because you don’t have the right build.” Kiera pursed her lips. “They’re smaller as a rule. Broad shoulders, with all their weight focused in their arms and chest. You’re too tall. Your legs are probably even stronger than your arms.” She cleared her throat. “Just a theory, of course.” Suddenly self-conscious, she pushed the plate of scones toward him. “Feel free. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“The tea will be enough for me.”
“You don’t wear a watch. You don’t eat. Now I’m really curious.”
“Don’t bother. You’d find me very boring. But I see that you’re interested in Draycott Abbey.”
She tensed. “Why would you think that?”
Gently, he moved a paper out from beneath her knitting project. Kiera realized he had found her map of the surrounding county, part of a color handout from the local bookstore.
Unfortunately, she had folded the page so that the abbey lay right in the center. She might as well have burned her intentions on her forehead.
“Oh. You mean, this? The gardens looked somewhat interesting,” she said casually. “And I’ve always been a sucker for a good ghost story.”
“Ah, yes.” He studied the sheet filled with tourist information. “Did they mention the thirteen bells? And the eighth viscount, who is said to walk the abbey parapet on moonless nights?”
“Not that I remember.” Kiera pushed the folded paper away. “After a while all these grand houses begin to sound alike. Ghosts and traitors and spies.” She began to knit, determined to avoid the force of those gray eyes. “Do you know the place?”
“I more than know it,” he said quietly. Now Kiera was certain he was watching for her reaction.
Her heart missed a beat. “Don’t tell me that you…own it?”
“Me? No. I’m only working there.”
“What kind of work?”
“Outdoor work. Checking lines. Straightening out problems.”
“You’re no landscaper.”
“No, I’m not.” He leaned back, half of his face shadowed by a towering oak. “Would you like to see the grounds?” he asked abruptly.
She almost dropped her knitting needles. “No thanks. I’ve been on enough house tours.” She wanted to stand up, to run away. How had she been so careless as to leave that folded tour guide out on the table?
Because she’d only slept two hours the night before. Because she hadn’t expected to share her table for breakfast, Kiera thought crossly. She forced herself to stay right where she was and smile back at him. “No, I’m in the mood for bright lights. I’m headed for London tomorrow. Clubbing,” she lied.
Something told her he wasn’t the clubbing type.
When his lips tightened, Kiera saw that she had guessed right.
“Tomorrow? Then you have today. I’ll be an excellent guide.
