“You’re daft, old woman,” he said, pouring more single malt down his throat. “Nothing’s changed.”
The wagging finger brushed against his nose. “Keepin’ secrets, that’s what they say about you in town. That another bonny lass has broke your heart.”
“As if a man could keep a secret in Glenraven,” he said, looking at the fierce old woman who stood before him.
“Is it love, laddie, or hot blood?”
“I’ll not answer that, you nosy crone.”
The lines on Old Mag’s road map of a face rearranged themselves into a smile. “’Tis love, I’d be thinking.”
“You don’t think,” Duncan said, “or you wouldn’t come to that conclusion.”
“Love,” Old Mag repeated. “Your fancy talk can’t hide the truth from my old eyes.”
“Not love,” he said, more quietly this time then looked out the window. “Not love.”
She placed a gnarled hand on his forearm and patted him. That hand had rocked his cradle and wiped away his tears. “’Tis my fondest wish that you find a lassie to love you true.”
“In this world, Old Mag, I don’t know if such a lass exists.”
“Then look for her,” Mag roared from the depths of her warrior’s soul, “for she will not come lookin’ for you.”
DUNCAN TOLD HIMSELF he was flying to Glasgow on business that afternoon.
And when he could not find out what he needed to know in Glasgow, he told himself it was business that took him to St. Andrew’s.
And from St Andrew’s to Edinburgh, to every dealer and collector his beautiful American might have questioned.
The Circadian Gallery was closed. Ronald Penwirth was in London for the week. Laura McVeigh of Renko’s remembered meeting Samantha but hadn’t bothered to get her name. “I told her nothing about you, Duncan,” she said proudly. “Our clients’ privacy is of paramount importance to us.”
He went through every dealer and collector he could think of until only Margaret Sinclair was left. Margaret had mounted one of his first shows and considered him her discovery. She was in her early eighties now, but still active in the art world.
“What a grand surprise!” Margaret greeted Duncan warmly with a kiss to both cheeks. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again until the show in April. With the time you’ve been having, I thought you’d stay in the castle.”
“I have a favor to ask of you, Margaret,” he said. “You’re the only one who can help me.”
Margaret’s lined face lit up with amusement. “Ach, lad, if only that were true. In my youth, I’d have met you measure for measure.”
“And I’d have considered myself a lucky man.”
“You can be a sweet talker, Duncan Stewart, when you’ve a mind to be.” She took a sip of Scotch. “So tell me, what is it you’re looking for?”
He met her eyes. “A woman.”
Margaret’s cheeks reddened and she laughed. “You’re a bold one, make no mistake about it. Any particular woman?”
He pulled out a folded piece of paper then handed it to the woman. “Her name is Samantha. She’s American, maybe from Texas. I drew this picture of her. If you’ve seen her—” He clipped the end of his sentence rather than betray himself any further.
Margaret smoothed out the paper as she studied the pencil study he’d sketched in the Land Rover. “This doesn’t do her justice. She had lovely coloring—taffy blond hair and cornflower blue eyes.”
He could hear his pulse beating in his ears. “Then you’ve seen her?”
“Aye.” She folded the paper then handed it to him. “She came looking for you, laddie, the day of your crash, but I told her nothing. I would not help anyone invade your privacy.”
“I know that, Margaret. She found me through her own means. It’s her name I want.”
“I do not remember her name,” Margaret said. “And look at the face on you, my friend. I’ll remind you not to kill the messenger. I do not remember her name but I do remember where I filed her business card.” Her sweet expression darkened into a scowl as she flipped open a long wooden box and removed a card. “Is this the woman who turned the dogs of Fleet Street loose on you?”
“Aye,” said Duncan grimly. “She’s the one.”
“And wouldn’t I like to give her a piece of my mind,” said Margaret, handing over the card. “’Tis a terrible thing to do to an innocent man.”
Not all that innocent, Duncan thought, but Margaret’s unwavering loyalty touched him. There had been little enough of that in his lifetime.
“The nerve of her, leaving you alone at the scene of a plane crash. Has she no heart?” Margaret declaimed. There was something of the actress in the elderly Scotswoman. “Has she no compassion?”
Duncan managed to ease his way from the gallery before Margaret saw to it that he was returned to the throne as ruler of Scotland.
Minutes later he was behind the wheel of his Land Rover with the small card propped on the dash.
He had Samantha’s name, her company’s name, her address, phone number, fax number and e-mail address.
He wondered if she was the one who had his heart.
Houston, July 4
THE DRESSMAKER knelt in front of Sam and frowned. “Darlin’, I don’t know what’s wrong,” the woman said through a mouthful of pins. “This gown fit you two weeks ago and now you’re bustin’ out all over.”
Sam looked at her reflection in the long mirror and winced. The dressmaker was being kind. Even her cleavage had cleavage. She felt like a refugee from Baywatch.
Her sister Martie, already coiffed and dressed in her wedding gown, leaned close to Sam and lowered her voice. “Did you get a boob job, Sammy?”
Sam’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “Of course not!” She tried to laugh, but no sound came out. “I—I bought one of those push-up bras. I guess it does a better job than I thought.”
“Well, take it off right now,” Martie ordered. “You can’t walk down the aisle looking like that.”
“What’s wrong with the way I look?” Sam demanded. “I’m…busty.” A statement she never
