Weddings From Hell, Page 2

  Scooping all the letters into a pile, she dumped them back into the shoebox, shoved on the cover, and stuffed it back into the closet. Then she went to the telephone like she should have done in the first place, called her boss, and asked him for the name and phone number of his lawyer.

  Chapter 2

  Three days later, Kira stepped out of the airport in Edinburgh and into overcast weather. There was a heavy mist in the air. It hovered and hung, wet and clingy, like a living fog that attached itself to your face and hair and clothes as if trying to claim you for its own.

  Silly thought.

  Hairy Tony’s legal eagle had been able to verify that Ian Stewart was indeed an attorney in Scotland, and that Iris MacLellan had indeed died. That was enough for her. She’d phoned the man back, and he’d taken care of all the arrangements for her. He’d booked her flight—the tickets had been waiting at the airport as promised. He’d said a car would be waiting to take her to her accommodations. And the entire time his voice had stroked her senses like a lover’s caress. It gave her chills, his voice. And she didn’t know why.

  She peered through the wet air. It was evening, just past sunset, and everything was swathed in shades of gray. But there was a small, boxy black car sitting at the curb, and even as she started toward it, a man got out, and came closer.

  “Kira?” he asked.

  She nodded, getting a better look at him as he drew nearer, but knowing already who he was. She recognized that voice. It had appealed to her on many levels, from the first time she’d heard it, from its resonance and tone, to its friendly, honest nature, to the accent that so reminded her of her mother, to the feeling it gave her that he was always teasing, just a little.

  She was unprepared, however, for the way he looked. He was taller than she’d imagined, and seemed broad in his tan trench coat. His hair was a mass of black curls, all of them wet now where they lay on his forehead. He smiled, and when he did, his velvet-lashed eyes crinkled at the corners and his sensual mouth curved in a way that made her stomach tingle.

  “Ian,” she said.

  “Aye. I’d know ye anywhere, Kira.” His eyes, when he said that, probed hers with an intensity that was out of place. He seemed genuinely glad to see her. So glad, she almost expected him to hug her right off her feet at any moment. But he seemed to forcibly restrain himself. “You’re a MacLellan, through and through.”

  “I hope that’s a compliment.”

  “I’ll shower you in them, if you like.” And then he did hug her. Didn’t ask or wait around for permission, just wrapped his arms around her and hugged her hard, as if he’d been doing it for years. Maybe that was the way of things here, she thought. So she hugged him back just as enthusiastically, and she didn’t even have to fake it all that much.

  And she felt something in that embrace, because it seemed to change, from friendly and welcoming, to something decidedly more intimate.

  When he released her and stepped back, he looked as shell-shocked as she felt. He had to avert his eyes as he took her arm and turned toward the car.

  “Oh, my bags—”

  “I’ll be getting the bags into the boot, lass. You first, though.” He didn’t slow his pace, then opened the passenger door, which was on the wrong side of the car, and held her elbow as she got inside. He closed her door, and rushed away to get the bags, stowing them in the trunk—er, boot, she corrected mentally.

  And then he was back, climbing behind the wheel, putting the car into motion, and turning his high-beam smile on her as he did. “You’re about to become a very wealthy woman, Kira MacLellan. And it’s not the money alone of which I’m speakin’.”

  “No?”

  “’Tis the heritage of the Clan MacLellan. The family you’ve never known. The history and the lineage—’tis as rich and colorful as any tapestry you could imagine.”

  “I suppose it is. But I’ll be inheriting more than that, won’t I, Ian?”

  “Aye, there’s the money as well. And some of the holdings, I would imagine. I only know in general the plans your great aunt made for you. My father handled the details.”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I meant. I was speaking about the um…the curse.”

  He jerked the wheel in unison with his head. The car veered as he gaped at her, and then he quickly righted it again, clearly shaken.

  “So you know about the curse, then?” she asked him.

  “Of course I do. It’s surprised I am that you know of it.”

  She shook her head. “I know very little. I have only my mother’s dying words, begging my father to warn me about it, and a letter from my dearly departed great aunt Iris, begging my mother not to marry and bring the curse upon herself.”

  His lips thinned. It was the first time she’d seen him not wearing a smile. “I dinna believe in curses,” he said.

  “But you know about this one. More than I do, at least.”

  “Well, now, that would depend on how much you know, Kira.”

  She shrugged, turned her gaze inward. “I take it that every MacLellan woman who gets married is destined to die at the hands of her husband, in one way or another.” Lifting her gaze, letting it roam over his cheek, and battling the way her insides clenched with raw desire as she did, she said, “Is that about the gist of it?”

  “There’s much more to it, or so they say. But as I said, I dinna believe in it.”

  “Still, I’d really like to know the rest of it.”

  He nodded. “I’ve no doubt o’ that. But as it happens, we’ve arrived.” He pulled the car to a stop, and she looked through the windows at a sprawling castle. Not the kind you might see in a fairytale, but more like something out of a nightmare. Its stone was such a dark gray as to appear nearly black in places. There were barred windows in some sections, spikes lining the uppermost walls, towers on either end that stood like menacing sentries.

  “Welcome to Castle MacLellan,” he intoned as she stared. And then he touched her shoulder. “Dinna look that way, love. ’Tis much nicer on the inside than it seems from without.” He got out of the car, came around to her side, and opened her door. “Shall we?”

  She got out, and shivered at the cold, wet embrace of the fog. Or maybe it was at the cold appearance of the stone monstrosity in front of her. Or maybe, she thought, it was none of those things. Maybe it was the certainty that she was about to step right into her mother’s secrets, and the gut feeling that once she did, there would be no turning back. Not ever. And life would never be the same.

  And then Ian took her arm, held her a little closer to his side, and a warmth suffused her, and gave her the strength and courage to walk with him up to the door.

  Chapter 3

  The woman who greeted her at the door was fat and pink. Those were the two things most noticeable about her, those and her friendly smile. She’d let her hair go silvery, but still wore it in long curls that tumbled unfettered to her shoulders.

  She was dressed in a pewter-colored, quilted house coat, and a pair of what looked like ballet slippers.

  She gripped Kira’s hands in both of hers, beaming at her. “Lassie! Oh, I’m so glad to see you at long last. Welcome home!”

  And then before she could reply, Kira found herself wrapped in soft, squishy arms, and pulled into a bosom that could have housed several small children.

  “I’m your aunt Rose,” the woman told her. “Your grandmother’s youngest sister.”

  When she could pull her head back enough to allow her to speak clearly, Kira said, “It’s wonderful to meet you too. And thanks for the warm welcome.”

  “Oh, come with me, child. You, too, Ian! You know we can’t get along without you.”

  Glancing back at her handsome driver, Kira lifted her brows, not quite sure how he fit in to the scheme of things here.

  And there was no time to find out, as she was led through a massive entry hall and into some kind of great room that had been filled with modern furniture in the most classic Queen Anne style, everythi
ng feminine, delicate, even lacy. The sofas and chairs had curved clawed arms and legs and floral prints. There was a fainting couch, or at least she thought that’s what it was. The decor seemed to Kira to be in direct contrast with the architecture, which was big and dark and masculine.

  In one of the most elegant of the chairs, a woman sat. She was bone-thin, and her hair was jet black, except for the stark white at the very front. It hung long and straight. Again, unbound.

  It seemed strange that women of their age would wear their hair long and loose, rather than cutting it or perming it or pinning it up. Maybe it was a cultural thing.

  She rose, the thin one. She wasn’t smiling as she extended a boney hand. “Hello Kira. I’m your great aunt Esmeralda.”

  Kira took her hand and gasped at how cool it was, how frail it seemed, despite the vibrance in the woman’s dark blue eyes.

  “You don’t seem quite as glad to see me as Aunt Rose is,” Kira said.

  Esmeralda’s finely arched brows rose. “You’re as frank as your mother always was.”

  “I don’t see much point in being any other way,” Kira said. “Would you have preferred I not come?”

  “You have every right to be here.”

  “Is it the money, then?”

  The woman just stared at her, as if waiting.

  “Well, Ian told me if I didn’t show up for the reading of the will, my share would be divided among the other heirs. And it’s a lot of money, after all.”

  “I already have more money than I’ll ever be able to spend,” Esmeralda said. “We all do.”

  “Well if it’s not the money, then—”

  Slow, rhythmic footsteps—high heels crossing the marble floor interrupted her, and she turned to see a third woman. This one was utterly stunning. Her hair was like shiny copper and her figure, hugged in a skin-tight black halter dress, was to die for. Her skin was nearly flawless. Try as she might, Kira couldn’t see a wrinkle or a line.

  “Hello, Kira,” she said. And even her voice was sultry and beautiful. “I’m your aunt Emma. Your mother was my sister.”

  “You look like her,” Kira said, extended a hand.

  The beautiful one smiled but it was shaky. “So do you.”

  “You don’t have an accent.”

  “I’ve taken lessons to get rid of it.”

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to,” Kira said. “I love the lilt of the brogue.”

  “To each her own,” Emma said. Then she looked around. “This is all of us, dear. The entire family, or what remains of it.”

  “Oh.” No children. And no men.

  “I’ll show you to your chambers,” Rose chirped. “Ian, be a dear and bring the bags along.” She gripped Kira’s arm, and tugged her through the massive place. “We could talk with you all the night through, child, but you’ll be wanting to rest after such a journey. And there’s time a plenty before dinner.”

  She smiled a good-bye to her great aunt Esmeralda and her aunt Emma, then followed Aunt Rose up a curving stone stairway and into a vaulted and echoing hall above. All the way, Ian was right behind her, bags in his hands. He was oddly quiet now that they’d arrived. Rose threw open a set of double doors, stepping through them as she did. “And here you are, lass. A bedroom fit for a princess.”

  She stepped in and looked around. There was a huge canopy bed with silky fabric draped all around it. It was so tall she thought she’d have to get a running start to get into it. The comforters looked like satin, and were the color of French cream. They matched the curtains in the tall narrow windows that lined one entire wall, like a row of soldiers. One of them was open, admitting a breeze that smelled of the rain, and made the curtains dance and sway.

  The wardrobe and dresser and nightstands were all made of rich, dark wood. Walnut, she thought. The floor sported the same kinds of boards, but they only showed around the borders of the gigantic area rug, which was pale green in color with cream celtic knot-work patterns all over it.

  On the walls, there were portraits. Family portraits, she realized as she stepped closer to one of them.

  “That was your grandmother, my dear sister Violet, dead these past forty years.”

  Kira studied the woman’s face, an older version of her mother’s. And her own. “She must have died young.”

  “Aye. Far too young. Thirty and five, she was. Left her two dear girls, Mary and Emma, to Esmeralda, Iris, and I to raise.”

  “Really? Why not their father? My grandfather, I mean. Shouldn’t he have been the one to—”

  “Now the bath is straight through the door there,” Rose interrupted. “That other is a closet, big enough to be a room all its own, I vow.”

  “Thank you. The room is breathtaking, Aunt Rose, it truly is.” She looked back toward the doorway, but Ian had vanished. Only her bags remained.

  “I’ll send up a tea, lassie. You need a good tea to bolster you after such a journey as you’ve made.” She turned to leave.

  “Aunt Rose?”

  “Aye, child?”

  “I really do want to know about…the family history. And…and the curse.”

  Rose pressed a palm to her ample chest and sucked in a breath at the same time. “Then our Mary told you of it, did she?”

  “No. She only mentioned it with her dying breath, Aunt Rose. I thought it was the trauma, that she was delirious. But…but Aunt Iris mentioned it in a letter she sent to my mother long ago. I only just read it last week. So I know it’s real.”

  Aunt Rose nodded. “Your tea. And then you’ll rest. ’Tis na the conversation a lass needs to be havin’ without bein’ strong, rested, and well nourished. And so it’ll come. It’ll all come in due time. An’ you’ve nowhere to go just now, have you?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Patience, then, lass. Patience.”

  Kira took a nap to help with the jet lag, then an invigorating shower to help her toughen up for the dinner ahead. She fully intended to confront her aunt and great aunts and insist they tell her about this alleged curse of theirs. Not that she believed in curses. Not for a minute, but still, it was her family history. And she had a right to know about it.

  She dressed as she always did, in a pair of snug-fitting jeans and a tank top, then pulled a NY Giants sweatshirt over it in deference to the damp chill of this place, which seemed to seep into her very bones.

  She avoided looking at the haunting portrait of her grandmother, Violet, that hung on her bedroom wall like a gargoyle. She wasn’t ugly—far from it, in fact. She had been a beautiful woman with raven hair and deep blue eyes. But there was something menacing in them, some vague message of doom that seemed to hit her every time she met those eyes.

  Maybe she should ask Aunt Rose to move it to another room. She wondered if that would be out of line, then put the thought aside at a tap on her bedroom door.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened with a vague creaking, and Ian stood there. The rush of emotion that washed through her at the sight of him was way overblown. And yet she smiled a welcome all the same. He wore a suit and tie, and looked incredibly handsome. She got the creeping feeling that she might have underdressed for dinner, though. “Rose sent me for you. It’s nearly time for dinner.” He met her eyes, briefly, and something powerful seemed to pass between them before he averted his.

  “Good. I’m not finishing this meal without knowing the whole story about this curse nonsense.”

  His all-seeing gaze shot to hers again. “Oh, that’s unlikely tonight. There are guests.”

  She lifted her brows. “Guests?”

  “Aye. My own father, Gregory, the Reverend MacDougal and his wife, Jane.”

  Blinking, she let her eyes move from his head to his feet and back again. “Are they all dressed up like you are?”

  “Your aunts enjoy dressing for dinner,” he told her. Then he looked her up and down. “And while I daresay you could make a feed sack look like a ballgown, I might suggest you’d be more comf
ortable changing into something a bit more…er…”

  “Fancy?” she asked.

  “Just slightly.”

  Sighing, she turned toward where her suitcases sat, still packed, on the floor near the bed. One was open, its contents spilling out from her recent search for the jeans and sweatshirt. “I don’t even think I own anything—oh, wait, there’s a sundress. It’s casual, but—” Dashing to the suitcase, she dug into it, and finally pulled out a pale blue sundress. It was knee length, with a faint floral pattern to it and a ruffled hemline. Spaghetti straps and a sweetheart neckline were not going to keep her very comfortable in this oversized refrigerator, though.

  “Very nice,” Ian said, when she held it up for his scrutiny. “An’ I’ve just the thing to keep you warm.”

  She smiled up into those sky-blue eyes. “I’ll bet you do. Tell me, Ian, are you a mind reader?”

  He blinked, his face colored, and he cleared his throat. “If I am, lass, it’s only since I met you.”

  They held each other’s eyes for a long, tender moment. Then he cleared his throat. “Put the dress on, then. I’ll uh—I’ll be back momentarily.”

  She frowned as he left the room, wondering why he seemed afraid of whatever it was simmering beneath the surface between them. Ah, well, whatever. She peeled the sweatshirt off, then the tank top, and then shimmied out of the jeans. The sundress was on a second later, and she was bending over her bags rummaging for a pair of shoes when Ian knocked again.

  “It’s okay, I’m decent,” she called.

  She heard him come in, and kept on with her digging. Then she finally found a pair of white sandals, straightened up, and turned.

  His face told her all she needed to know. He was turned on. The big fraud, pretending to be all shy and uncomfortable with the attraction she felt between them. Maybe men were different here. Maybe he was just different. But he had definitely been checking out her butt just now. And her butt was one of her best features, in her not-so-humble opinion.