Scotland For Christmas Part 31

The driveway was made of gravel, and the tires crunched beneath them. Jacob studied the castle as they approached it.

Later, he intended to sketch everything he remembered; to take photos seemed disrespectful. This was not a crime scene. He felt driven to remember it, though, but for himself, not for any official investigation.

He noted that the exterior of the castle was made of gray stone and had at least two wings to the back and to one side. A small wooden drawbridge was slung over what might have once been a moat; now it appeared to be a dry ditch.

By habit-even more of a habit since the bullet he'd taken in the line of duty-Jacob scanned the windows. He saw nothing; no shadows, no people. Automatically, he felt the tension in his neck relaxing.

Malcolm parked and took out his phone. "I didn't think of it until now, but we should've called Rhiannon to warn her we were coming."

"Maybe it's better if we meet her inside," Kristin said.

"She'll be upset," Malcolm insisted. "There are too many of us."

"I'll go." Isabel reached for her door handle and climbed out. She turned to smile at Jacob before she shut the door behind her.

Gamely, he smiled back. He knew what she was doing for him, knew what this had cost her, emotionally and professionally with her uncle. But Jacob was forcing himself not to think ahead where she was concerned.

He'd compartmentalized his life again. Now was for the mission. When an agent was on the job, he kept his professionalism.

He would not falter.

Jacob got out and stretched his legs. Minutes ticked past, but he was used to waiting. This was normal for him, and he'd trained his emotions to endure it.

After a time, Isabel returned, and she looked shaken. "Rhiannon already knows we're here. The guard called her when we pa.s.sed through the gate. Then she watched us through a security camera."

Malcolm made a short laugh. "Why am I not surprised?"

"There's more." Isabel looked nervously at Malcolm. "She saw us all at the wedding, as well." She turned to Jacob. "You, too. She knows who you are."

That unnerved him. He couldn't pick Rhiannon out of a lineup, and yet he was the professional. "She recognized me as your wedding date?"

"More than that." Isabel looked helplessly at Malcolm again. "I told her Jacob's full name and why we're here, and she said that she wants to talk to him alone."

"But that's ridiculous." Malcolm got out of the car, shutting the door. "My sister doesn't talk to strangers. She doesn't even talk to her cousins. Everyone knows this." He gestured to Isabel. "You know this!"

"Yes, but...something seems different about her this time," Isabel said. "We had a long conversation." She put her hand to her chest. "I don't remember the last time we exchanged so many words." She honestly looked astonished.

Jacob was getting a strange, itchy feeling. He grabbed his notebook. This would be the best chance he'd ever have to talk with an eyewitness; he could feel it.

John Sage would never tell Jacob anything about what had happened. Malcolm had relayed what little he could, and it hadn't been enough. But Rhiannon-she'd surely seen more.

"You don't have to worry about me," Jacob said to Malcolm. "I'm trained. I know how to talk to vics-to people who've been through traumatic situations."

Malcolm grunted; he didn't look convinced. Shaking his head, he turned to Kristin. "What do you think?" he asked quietly. "Honestly?"

"I think," Kristin said slowly, "that if Rhiannon says she wants to see someone, then she should see that person. She's a grown woman, and who are we to stop her?"

Kristin was right. It was Rhiannon's home; Jacob could just walk in. This was more than he'd hoped for-he could finally speak with an actual witness to his father's last tactical operation.

But still Malcolm paused. To Jacob, he seemed wary. He'd spent a lifetime worrying about his sister.

"Did I mention that I'm trained?" Jacob asked again. "Even more-I've just survived a trauma of my own." He pulled back his collar and showed Malcolm the bandage. "I know how it feels, Malcolm."

Malcolm let out a breath. Finally, he looked Jacob in the eye. "Let's go."

Jacob nodded and let Malcolm lead the way. He stayed close to Isabel, looking all around them and taking note of their surroundings as they entered the building.

The interior of the castle was cool, though there was a blazing fire burning in a great stone fireplace in the entry hall. The ceiling was enormously high. Though the castle was decorated for Christmas, traditional hangings also adorned the stone walls: medieval swords, muskets and other such battle weapons. Colorful tartan carpeting was spread over the floors and up the stone stairway.

At the top of the stairs, a tall woman with long dark hair the color of Malcolm's stood waiting with hands clasped.

She wasn't what Jacob expected. Yes, he'd seen a glimpse of her on the monitor at the wedding, but based on what Isabel had told him about her agoraphobia, he'd expected someone frail, possibly even beautiful, like a proverbial Sleeping Beauty hidden away in her remote tower. But Rhiannon Sage looked robust, in good health, and though she might have been considered pretty by other men, she couldn't compete with the beauty he saw in Isabel.

Rhiannon was...quirky. Maybe even artistic, now that he knew she was a painter. Her fingertips were smeared with green and she was wearing a smock, as if they'd interrupted her work.

Jacob stopped two steps below her. Isabel continued to the top and smiled. "This is Jacob." Turning to him, she said, "Jacob, this is my cousin Rhiannon."

In a dignified manner, and yet with a dimple showing in her cheek, Rhiannon held out her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, finally."

Finally? What the h.e.l.l was she talking about?

His hand fell to his side. But he gathered his wits and continued up the two steps to greet her.

Her hand was warm. He glanced over to Isabel, and saw that she was smiling at him. But her lips were trembling, and he knew she was trying to make him feel at ease, though neither of them were.

Somehow, though, he was drawn forward, propelled to follow Rhiannon.

"Isabel, would you like to come with us?" Rhiannon asked.

Isabel darted a glance to him. "Yes, please," she said quickly. Her hand curled into Jacob's, and he gave it a squeeze before sliding his arm around her shoulders.

They pa.s.sed through a hallway and down a set of back stairs, and then walked outside into the mist for a short bout across a courtyard. The outbuilding Rhiannon took them to wasn't easily detected from the castle entrance. It simply disappeared into the folds of the landscape, and Jacob felt as though he'd been cleverly fooled.

"Have you ever been inside here before?" he mouthed to Isabel, and she shook her head in reply.

"It's her studio," Isabel whispered into his ear as Rhiannon picked through a set of keys. "No one but her immediate family and Uncle John ever goes inside."

He felt a chill of privilege. But why him? With his left hand, he gripped the notebook more tightly. Forced himself to observe the perimeter.

Beyond the small courtyard, there seemed to be acres and acres-hundreds of acres, maybe-of raw, unspoiled Highlands. The wind blew across the trees, straight at him, and he raised his elbow to s.h.i.+eld his and Isabel's faces.

Instinctively he knew that Rhiannon thrived here. She walked these wild lands; she drew her artistic inspiration from this environment.

Rhiannon smiled at them, opening the door and waving them inside.

They walked up another turret, shaded in darkness, with uneven stone stairs and a curving line. Jacob felt spun about. He wasn't sure what was north or south, high or low, night or day.

Rhiannon led them into her workshop-Jacob smelled the oil paints before he saw anything-and Isabel, slightly ahead of him, made a small gasp of joy.

The place was... He didn't know how to describe it. Bursts of color and light. A wide, airy window, south-facing, overlooking that Highlands wilderness.

He walked across the floor, noticing that Rhiannon had painted a woodland mural upon the boards, and dotted it with glittery designs. It looked like a fairy playground, he thought. But who was he to judge? This was Rhiannon's private s.p.a.ce, and she'd invited them inside. Without a doubt, that was a sacred trust, and he respected that.

Jacob shoved his notebook into his pocket. Clearly, if he approached this like a technician, he would be lost here, missing what was most important. So he swallowed and kept walking, toward an easel she'd set up, facing away from the windows so the light was at her back.

"Roses," Isabel murmured beside him, a smile covering her face. "Look at that, Jacob. Red, red roses."

The entire, huge canvas was covered in an eerily lifelike, vivaciously alive panel of pure red roses. He stared, stunned. Jacob had some sketching talent; he'd taken a few art cla.s.ses as a kid, but this...Rhiannon MacDowall was world-cla.s.s in her talents.

Clearly, they'd interrupted her. The brush tip was still wet with green oil paint; the palette rested on a ledge of the easel.

Jacob glanced around. Where was her still-life display? He saw no photographs or pictures, either. Outside, it was winter-any rosebushes in the gardens would only contain bare, dead branches.

"Are you painting this from memory?" he asked.

"Of course," Rhiannon replied.

"You heard me sing the Burns poem," Isabel exclaimed. "At Malcolm's wedding, didn't you?"

Rhiannon smiled, clearly pleased. "Yes, and you inspired me." She put her palms together. "This painting is for you. I want you to keep it when I'm finished."

"That's..." Isabel hesitated as if tempted to refuse. But then she looked directly into Rhiannon's eyes, and Jacob saw the tears gathering in her own. "I'm honored," she said.

"No, I'm honored." Somberly, Rhiannon walked to Jacob. He let her take his hand, let her lead him to an alcove, where she sat him on a couch. "I have something for you, too," she said.

He had no idea what to expect. He glanced at Isabel, who'd also walked over to stand before him, but she simply shrugged.

Rhiannon was on her knees, digging inside a huge battered armoire. At last, she pulled out a parcel and stood, bringing it over to him.

Her expression was clear and solemn. "I drew this for you many years ago."

"For me?"

"Yes. I always knew you would come someday. I knew you would find me. When I saw you with Isabel at Malcolm's wedding, I knew straightaway that the time had come...."

Jacob's hands shook. Numbly, he opened the dusty envelope that Rhiannon had brought him.

It was a pencil sketch, much like the one he'd made of Isabel, but this was more childishly drawn, and it was of him.

He exhaled hard, dropping the sketch. Isabel gasped, her hand over her mouth.

"How is this even possible...?" he sputtered.

Rhiannon sat next to him. "Oh, I see. You think it's you, Jacob. But it's not. This is Donald Ross, the man who saved my life."

He whirled to face her. He picked up the sketch, studying it more closely. Emotion flooded him. He hadn't realized he looked so much like his real father. His eyes stung. It made sense, because he looked nothing like his mom.

This man-his father, Donald-wore a police officer's uniform. He had a kind face. In the sketch, he was about Jacob's age, and he was smiling.

"He told me he had a son named Jacob," Rhiannon said.

Jacob's eyes stung harder, and he blinked fiercely. "He spoke of me?"

"He said you were in America, with your mother, and that he thought of you every day. Someday, he hoped to go see you. He said this several times, so it was important to him."

Jacob had never expected... He'd never...

"I'm sorry, Jacob. Your father deliberately took a bullet that was meant for me, and that's all I'll ever say about that night. Can you understand?"

Wordlessly, he nodded. Jacob knew about taking bullets. He knew about that sacred trust....

"People always want to hear more, don't they?" Rhiannon said to him. "The therapists are kind, and they want to be helpful. But there are some things that are meant to be kept to ourselves, at least until the time is right. I didn't want to talk about Donald Ross with anyone else but you. Only you. Because I knew you would find me when you were ready to know."

Jacob sucked in his breath. He glanced at Isabel, and she was already crying for him. Her hands were covering her mouth and her eyes were glistening with tears. Pain welled in his chest, and he knew he was losing control. For an instant he thought of Isabel that first day when she'd vomited all over the floor in that coffee shop. He was going to lose his composure, too, and it couldn't be stopped.

"Rhiannon, I need to go...." He stood, wanting to say much more, but he couldn't form the words.

He took the sketch she'd made and rolled it as carefully as he could, then tucked it inside his jacket pocket. He wasn't letting this go, ever.

"Yes, I'll show you the way downstairs," Rhiannon said. "It's all right. Come back and see me anytime, if you'd like."

"Yes, thank you," he managed to say.

She put her hand on his. "Farewell, Jacob. As we say in Scotland, haste ye back. I do hope to see you again someday."

And then Jacob was stumbling outside, face into the mist, sinking onto the bench at the edge of the garden.

ISABEL'S HEART WAS breaking for Jacob. She went downstairs with him and watched from the doorway. He sat with his head in his hands in that dead winter courtyard. His back was to her, and his muscles moved as he took in deep breaths.

She put her hand to her chest, crushed by the sight of his pain. Waiting, she stood guard over him. Finally, she couldn't take it any longer and went to him, pressing her body over his.

She covered him as a blanket, her cheek on his back, her arms hugging him, pa.s.sing him all her love. If she could take his pain into her own body, she would do so in a heartbeat.

"Jacob, I'm sorry." She kept her words close to his ear; otherwise, they would have been swept away by the wind.

"I didn't know..." His voice was faint, as though all of his intense emotion was spent. "I was wrong about him."

She hugged him tighter. "He loved you," she said softly. "He thought of you all along."

"My mom doesn't know. We thought...he'd failed us."

"Maybe he just needed more time." She paused. "He was a hero to Rhiannon."

"He was," he whispered.

"I'm glad you know now."