"I"m sorry that you"ve never had a real massage before. I"ll have to remedy your neglect." She moved to the upper corner of his back. "You never told me your occupation, by the way."

Ian thought he might be melting. "Being laird of a decrepit old castle isn"t enough?"

Her eyes crinkled. "I know a bit about the costs of repairing old properties. I also know a bit about British inheritance taxes. They"re crippling, I"m told. You must have some other moneymaking skill." She tilted her head. "You have the look of a man who makes his living by...knowing people. Detecting how they think and reading their deepest desires. You would be very good at that.Are you a psychiatrist?" she asked gravely.

"No."

"A doctor?"

"Definitely not."

Her teeth snagged her lower lip. "You don"t look like one of the titled jet set."

"I didn"t know that a particular look was required," Ian said, happy to steer the subject away from his profession.

"Oh, absolutely." Jamee pursed her lips. "Perfectly tailored double-breasted jacket. Bespoke at Bond Street, of course. Faded jeans, very well fitting. Very expensive. Probably with a designer label."

Ian chuckled, recognizing a dozen of his London acquaintances in her description. "But of course."

"Perfect bone structure. Arrogant manner and a year-round tan. Artificial, of course." Her eyes narrowed. "I bet you don"t own a single piece of designer clothing," she said accusingly.

"You lose." He eased back into the curve of her shoulder while her fingers turned him into a quivering mass of mush.

"What? An Armani suit? For taking tea with the royal family."

"Afraid not. No Armani suits anywhere at Glenlyle."

"Shoes, then. Handmade in Milan by a fifth-generation shoemaker. The family business has a royal warrant from the Queen Mother. Not that the owner would ever be so gauche as to display it in public. The shoes are..." She wrinkled her nose. "Let me see, brown suede. Wing tip, but very subtle. Worth a fortune. You wear them with your Turnbull and Asser ties."

Ian smiled broadly, enjoying the game. Enjoying the smile in her voice.

Especially enjoying the way her breath puffed against his neck and her breasts nudged his shoulder.

It shook him to realize how long it had been since he had been happy or even comfortable in the company of a woman. He had known physical pleasure with many women, had been generous with his own body and his slow, thorough exploration of theirs, but comfort was not a part of those memories.

There had always been a shadow since he was a teenager and his father"s ghillie had told him the story of Blind Laird"s Rock and the ancient curse that lay on every eldest Glenlyle son.

But it was hard to think of curses when Jamee"s fingers worked such exquisite magic. "Wrong again. No suede shoes, wing tip or otherwise. Does a pair of St. Laurent cuff links count?"

Jamee shook her head, sighing dramatically. "McCall, you are destroying all my illusions about the leisured rich. Next you"ll tell me that you don"t even have a valet."

"You"re damn right I don"t have a valet," Ian muttered.

"A pastry chef?"

"None at Glenlyle, nor ever has been." He closed his eyes and groaned as her fingers laid furrows of unbelievable pleasure down both sides of his spine. "I think I"ll have to call you Joan of Arc Night from now on."

Her laughter ruffled the dark hair at his neck. Again that strange, slow heaviness invaded his chest.

"Joan of Arc Night. It has a kind of ring to it. Never heard of her, though. I thought I knew all the saints."

Her perfume wafted over him and Ian realized she was bending closer. A pillow slid behind his back. "What now? I doubt you can manage to top yourself." Unfortunately, as soon as the words were out, Ian knew how she could do just that.

He cleared his throat. "So whatdo I look like? If not one of the idle rich."

Jamee traced his cheek from nose to ear as if she were trying to read what lay beneath the skin.

"Like one of the fierce clansmen who rescued Alasdair MacIan after the massacre of Glencoe.

Someone who has seen the darker side of life."

"My ancestors did shelter the MacIans in the days following the Campbell treachery," Ian said gravely.

Jamee touched the other side of his jaw. "Like one of the warriors who stood with Wallace at Stirling and Bannockburn. A man who would never give up, no matter how bleak the odds."

"There was a McCall at both of those battles. Another McCall hung when Wallace died." Ian opened his eyes and saw Jamee staring at him. Just staring, her cheeks bright with color.

Her gaze told him that he looked like ahero.

God help them both when she found out the truth.

HIGH ABOVEthe darkened wooded hills, Draycott Abbey glistened in the moonlight. A shadowed figure paced the weathered roof, his hands locked behind his back.

"I mean it, Gideon. It"s damnably dull here at the abbey. No interesting people come to visit, only those blasted diplomatic types that the viscount has to entertain. Currying favor with the National Trust, he calls it. A blasted nuisance, that"s what I call it. These people have no sense of humor. Even a good, solid apparition in the bedroom can"t shake a chuckle out of them."

Out of the shadows a great gray cat appeared, his eyes glimmering in the moonlight.

Adrian frowned. "Yes, I know I"ve been out of sorts."

The cat flicked his tail.

"Oh, very well, I"ve been utterly irascible, I admit it. It"s the season, I"m afraid. Something about Christmas brings all my worst inclinations to life. Life," the guardian ghost of Draycott Abbey repeated mockingly. "There was a bad choice of words. I haven"t trod on real soil for almost two centuries." He sighed and the white lace at his cuffs rippled in the wind. "I remember many a Christmas of gaiety, one with that Dickens fellow in particular. One night of determined apparitions was all it took to send him flying back to London."

At his feet the cat meowed softly.

"Of course, I love Christmas. I love the porcelain angels, the silver candlesticks and the holly and the pine draped everywhere. But this year, I have something different in mind," Adrian said slowly.

The cat curled about his booted feet.

"No, I do not mean the apparition of the Great Huntsman charging through the front hall and up the main stairwell," Adrian said irritably. "That was simply a youthful prank."

The cat purred softly.

"I"m glad to hear that you enjoyed it, Gideon. Nicholas"s father was not so happy, as I recall."

He tapped his jaw thoughtfully, studying the lace at one cuff. "What I had in mind was tracking down a gift that will be perfect for Gray. It is books she loves, Gideon, and I want the rarest book of all for her as my gift this year."

The cat sat back on his powerful haunches, gray tail twitching.

"No, I do not mean that Magna Carta," Adrian said in exasperation. "Nor do I mean a first edition of the Gutenberg Bible. Much fun she would have reading those to me beside a roaring fire. No, I"ve been thinking about that Dickens fellow. A first edition of his would put the glow back into her cheeks, I know it. And I have a strong suspicion that I can find that specific volume at Dunraven Castle."

The cat sat up abruptly.

"Do stop carrying on so. I know you love the salmon there, you bloodthirsty beast. Not a single fish is safe when you"re anywhere north of the Tweed. But there will be no fishing until we"ve done our work, do you understand? We need to find that gift for Gray."

The cat paced restlessly, his great amber eyes agleam. For a moment, just a moment, it almost seemed as if a ghostly fish flashed through the air, silver scales bright in the moonlight.

"Yes, I know very well what a salmon looks like, Gideon. I"m afraid they don"t delight me as they do you, however. But help me finish my search and I"ll be more than happy to watch you eat your fill." The abbey ghost stared thoughtfully at the moon glowing above the horizon. "I suspect we might even find our incompetent visitor there, too."

The cat"s ears twitched.

"Yes, I do have my ways. He"s gone to Scotland, something to do with that mission he mentioned." Adrian smoothed his lace cuffs. "I suppose I must see that he doesn"t make an absolute ruination of the job. I shall leave in two days. That will give me ample time to convince the viscount and his wife that they need to take a little trip to the north." He looked down at the granite roof. "Yes, I saidme. Alone. Because you, my dearest friend, are leaving for Scotland now." Adrian rubbed his jaw. "I"m afraid your friend is going to need some help up there." His soft laughter drifted over the abbey roof and merged with the murmur of the moat. "Ready?"

At Adrian"s feet the great cat stretched once, then twitched his tail.

"Remember the method, do you?"

Silver scales flashed in the air, one phantom fish, then two more. The cat sniffed delicately and raised one paw.

As Adrian watched, his old friend simply walked into the shimmer of air and water and vanished.

"Heaven be with you and guard you," the abbey ghost whispered.

WIND WHISTLEDaround his ears.

A strange wind, full of strange scents.

His gray paws twitched, then struck muddy turf. He listened intently, ears pricked forward.

Here was fowl and sheep and salt-sea air.

And man. Several of them.

Gideon moved silently forward into the fog, his eyes ablaze.

CHAPTER NINE.

IAN HUNCHEDone shoulder against the weathered stone of the storage shed and fingered his cellular phone, waiting for the hiss of static that had plagued all his earlier calls.

"Dunraven Castle." The words rang out with crystal clarity.

"Can you hear me?" Ian fairly shouted the question. "This is Ian McCall."

Static crackled briefly, then fled. "Ian, it"s Kara. Where in heaven"s name are you?"

"Caught in the bloody fog, that"s where. Tell that lumbering husband of yours we"ve been holed up in the crofter"s cottage above the cliffs since yesterday."

"At least you"re safe. We were starting to worry, because there have been any number of accidents on the shore road. Duncan swears it will be clearing first thing tomorrow. His Scottish Sight at work, you know." Kara MacKinnon laughed. "At least that"s what he tells me. I suspect he heard the forecast."

"I hope he"s right. I"m getting tired of my own cooking."

"But I thought you said we." You aren"t alone up there?"

"No." Ian hesitated, reluctant to say more over the phone.

"Here"s Duncan now. Take care, won"t you? We"re saving a seat for you by the fire."

"And a tall glass of whiskey to go with it, I devoutly hope."

"Done," the laird"s American wife said with a chuckle. Ian heard the phone change hands.

"Where are you, man? Angus has had fresh scones and goose pate waiting for two days now."

"In the bloody fog at the crofter"s cottage. Not ten kilometers from Dunraven, and it might as well be the moon."

"You did the right thing to keep off the road," Duncan said. "It would be suicide to take those cliffs now. The fog is expected to clear by the early morning."

"So Kara said." Ian frowned. "Listen, Duncan, I"m not sure how long before this line breaks up, but I should tell you that I"m not alone up here. I also suggest we switch to Gaelic."

"I see. I spoke to Nicholas yesterday and he filled me in." Duncan continued in the liquid sounds of the old tongue both men had learned as children. "Have you had any trouble?"

"Nothing overt yet, but it"s only a matter of time. Is it possible for you to get a car through to the cottage?"

Duncan sighed. "I"ll be on the way myself the instant it"s safe. But right now-well, it can"t be done. Not in this fog. And there"s no one closer than Dunraven, I"m afraid."

Ian rubbed the knot at his neck. "That"s what I thought. Can you at least check out any reports of problems in this area? We"ve seen lights up here in the fog."

"Three French climbers were fogged in on the slope of Fionn and rescue teams have been out tracking them. Damn dangerous-I was out with them all day yesterday. Could that be what you saw?"

"Possibly, but I"m taking no chances."

Duncan read the subtle warning as Ian had meant him to. "I see. In that case, I"ll make a few calls and phone you."

"No, don"t do that," Ian said sharply. "I"ll ring you back in several hours."

"Why the secrecy, man? If I"m going to help, I need more facts."

Ian scowled at the fog. "We"ll talk when I get to Dunraven, Duncan. Assuming that this bloody fogever lifts."

"Sit tight, man. The weather is worst right where you are, along the north side of the bay."