A Distant Magic by Mary Jo Putney Read Free Book Online Page B

Not all women would enjoy jewelry of such barbaric splendor, but Meg, the Countess of Falconer, would love this broad collar of brilliant red beads and tiny shells, while this delicate necklace of silver links and sparkling gemstones would be perfect for Duncan's small daughter.
    She became so engrossed in her selections that she forgot the handsome stranger until she turned to leave the beadwork area and bumped into him when she stepped into the passage. She was knocked backward, but he caught her arm quickly.
"My apologies, mademoiselle," he said in flawless French as he released her.
    Intensely aware of where he'd touched her arm, she said,
"The fault is mine, monsieur. I am so dazzled by the Fontaine treasures that I
didn't take proper care."
    It was all she could do not to stammer since the man was even more compelling this close. The wavy black hair pulled into a queue was his own, not a wig, and his dark eyes had mysteries in their depths. She tried to read his energy, but it was tightly closed.
    Switching to English with only the faintest trace of an accent, he said,
"Forgive my forwardness, but you are English, I think?"
    So much for the quality of her French. "Scottish, actually, but
close enough."
    "Scottish?" Hot, indefinable emotion flickered in those dark eyes.
"I knew a gentleman of Scotland once. Macrae of Dunrath."
    "My father or brother," Jean exclaimed, pleased to have a reason to continue the conversation.
    "Your father, I think," he said, his gaze intense. "It has been
many years since we met in Malta. You would have been hardly more than a babe.
He said that he had a son, Duncan, and a bonnie wee daughter, but I don't
remember the name. Would that be you, or an older sister?"
    "I have no sisters and only one brother." She smiled at him. "I'm
Jean Macrae."
    "I am called Nicholas Gregorio." His eyes narrowed. "Does your
father yet live?"
    "He died ten years ago."
    "So James Macrae is dead," Gregorio said softly. "A pity. I had
dreamed of meeting him again. I trust your brother is well ?"
    "Yes, and with two bonnie bairns of his own."
    "So the Macrae line continues." Gregorio's gaze became abstracted, as if seeing the past, before his focus sharpened on her again.
"May I shake the hand of James Macrae's only daughter?"
    His intensity was beginning to unnerve her, but he still fascinated.
"Of course." She extended her right hand, thinking it might have been better if she'd not removed her glove. His hand was also bare, and the touch of skin to skin seemed dangerously intimate. But he had known her father, so he was not really a stranger.
    He clasped her hand with a powerful grip and energy blazed through her. Darkness, fury—
    —and the world shattered.
     
    Nikolai's hand still held the girl's, which slowed her collapse enough for him to catch her before she folded onto the floor. Dear God, but she was light, scarcely heavier than a child! He stared down into the small, pale face. She must be in her middle twenties, but she looked much younger, a prim, sheltered child of the British aristocracy.
    He felt an uneasy qualm. This girl was not the one who had betrayed him into slavery. But the sins of the father were visited on their sons, and on their daughters. For too many years, during burning days and bleeding nights, he had planned the revenge he would take against Macrae. He had reveled in it, and sometimes that lust for vengeance was all that had kept him alive.
    Though he was bitterly disappointed to know that his enemy was dead, he was not really surprised, not after so many years. But until now the time hadn't been right for Nikolai to seek justice. He had needed to obtain freedom and power to put himself in a position to pursue Macrae and his family.
    Ironically, he was in the Fontaine warehouse to purchase goods for his first voyage to London. He had planned this journey for years, for he was finally prepared to seek out his enemy. Now that enemy's daughter had fallen into his hands.