felt her heart pound. A buzzing filled her ears and she curled her fingers over the table’s edge. Suddenly Draycott Abbey felt too close, weighing ominously over her like a chill shadow. It was one thing to slip over the fence at night—and another to find herself face-to-face with the hated Draycotts.
“My dear, is something wrong? You’re very pale all of a sudden.”
Kiera leaned down quickly, glad to hide her face as she searched for her fallen needle. The table seemed to spin in a rush of dizziness. Dimly she heard the woman’s surprised voice, followed by Calan’s deeper pitch. His hand touched her wrist, skin to skin, and the whole patio seemed to lurch.
“Kiera—what’s wrong?”
She didn’t have a clue, but it was getting worse. “Sorry—don’t feel well all of a sudden.”
“Too many late nights, perhaps. Calan, let’s go outside for a walk and let her rest. We have so much catching up to do, after all.”
Kiera heard the breathy, seductive voice as if from a great distance. She gripped her yarn and needles, keeping her eyes on her hands to fight the sense of vicious spinning.
“…all right here?” The rough Scottish voice came and went. “…back before long.”
“F-fine. Go. Don’t need to stay,” she rasped.
She felt his hand touch her shoulder and then the two moved away, Magritte’s brittle inquiries filling the air as soon as they left the patio. She was inviting Calan to join her in Norfolk. Some kind of weekend theatrical party at her estate.
Kiera closed her eyes, taking deep breaths. Slowly the spinning began to fade. With the sun warming her face, she forced her hands to relax.
When she looked up, Calan was standing in the doorway watching her.
Just watching her. There was an intensity to him that should have made her uncomfortable.
For some reason it didn’t. It left her…awed.
Kiera saved that little anomaly to ponder later.
“Magritte?”
“Gone. She said to give you her regards. But let’s forget about Magritte, shall we?”
“She wouldn’t like being forgotten, I think.”
“Three minutes and you know her perfectly. Smart of you.” He leaned down, frowning. “How do you feel?”
“Better. I think.”
“You’re still too pale. What happened?”
“I don’t have a clue. Something in the food, maybe.” She took a slow breath, rubbing her neck. “Dogs don’t seem to like you very much. But I suppose Magritte made up for it with her enthusiasm.”
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