The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (49 page)

Meanwhile, there were the practicalities of more ordinary life to deal with, and the very real complication of an increasingly mobile and vocal twelve-year-old under their roof. After a slow start on Saturday, as she eased into eating proper food again and starting to regain her physical strength, young Gillian bounced back to blooming good health with a resilience that was almost magical. By Sunday, she was strong enough to come downstairs for brunch, and that afternoon, her father flew up from London, after receiving the joyous phone call from his wife the previous day.

At Adam’s invitation, the Talbot family settled in to spend a traditional Scottish Christmas at Strathmourne, for while Gillian was making astonishing progress, Philippa advised the parents that their daughter’s prognosis would be far brighter if new psychological evaluations confirmed that the danger was past before allowing her to go home. Privately, she and Adam were reluctant to let Gillian out of their protection until she was less vulnerable, and were taking active measures to strengthen her own protection, under the guise of ongoing therapy. Meanwhile, just to know that she was safe under their roof was one burden eased in the face of their own present dilemmas.

They spent Monday morning putting up a tree in the drawing room, to Gillian’s delight. That afternoon, after lunch and a nap, their rapidly recovering patient proclaimed her Christmas Eve wish to be introduced to Adam’s horses. When Philippa saw no reason to object, the battle was lost. Gillian even badgered her mother into letting her put on outdoor clothes instead of a robe over her nightgown, for she intended to inspect Adam’s stable as a proper lady should. Philippa declared her intention of retiring for a much-needed nap of her own.

As her adoring parents looked on in wonder, her father with a camera in hand, Adam put Gillian up on the gentle Khalid and led her around the yard several times, then swung up behind her and walked the big grey out of the stable yard to the front of the house, where the winter-dead lawn at least provided footing for a docile trot. Peregrine had come up from the gate lodge with his sketchbook after lunch, and followed the Talbots out to the front steps of the house to watch, pencil flying, as Adam put the horse into a gentle canter on the grassy verge that ran along the drive. The city-bred Gillian was thrilled.

They had gone perhaps a hundred yards along the drive and were turning to come back, Gillian breathless with excitement, when a yellow Morgan sports car with black wings came nosing along the drive. Smiling, Adam pulled up and walked the horse over to the driver’s side as Ximena recognized him and stopped. He brought his right hand to the bill of his riding cap in a casual salute as she rolled down her window.

“Afternoon, Dr. Lockhart,” he said.

Mock disapproval raised her brows. “ You’re supposed to be convalescing.”

“Oh, I am,” Adam replied. “We both are. This is my very special friend, Miss Gillian Talbot, who specifically requested that she be taken for a ride this afternoon.”

“Oh, I see,” Ximena replied. “How do you do, Gillian?”

Gillian blushed and hid her face against Adam’s hacking jacket.

“She’s a little shy, I’m afraid. Go on up to the house, and we’ll meet you there.”

With an indulgent smile, Ximena put the car in gear and continued on. Gillian, once she was out of earshot, rolled grave blue eyes up at Adam over her shoulder as he let Khalid walk on.

“Dr. Sinclair, is that your girlfriend?”

“Well, not yet,” Adam replied. “But she might be. I only met her a week or two ago. She’s a doctor. In fact, she’s the one who patched up my head.”

“Hmmm. She’s pretty,” Gillian allowed. “We’d better go fast, then. My mummy says that a gentleman should never keep a lady waiting.”

“No, he shouldn’t,” Adam agreed, chuckling as he gathered the reins around her. “Besides that, you like to go fast, too, don’t you? All right, then, my girl. Hold on and we’ll go fast.”

Even at the canter, Ximena was already getting out of the car by the time they pulled up at the end of the lawn. As Adam swung down, leaving Gillian in the saddle, Peregrine came to take Khalid.

“Your pretty lady doctor?” he murmured under his breath.

“Yes, indeed. Come to take my sutures out, I expect,” Adam said blandly. “Do you mind taking Gillian and Khalid back to the yard?”

“Not at all,” Peregrine said, grinning. “Come on, Gillian, and you can help me put this great, grey beast back in the barn, okay? And before we do that, your mum and dad can take some pictures of you sitting on him.”

“Oh, that would be so kind, Mr. Lovat,” Iris Talbot said, coming to stroke Khalid’s neck as George moved in for a photo of that. “Gillian, did you remember to thank Dr. Sinclair?”

As they moved off, Adam removed his riding cap and tucked it under his arm, absently smoothing his hair and feeling to see that his protective Band-Aid was still in place over his sutures as he walked over to Ximena.

“One of my patients,” he explained, jerking his chin toward the retreating party as his visitor closed her car door. “Actually, more my mother’s patient, this last week or so—which has been handy, having a backup right here at home. Have you gotten your staff situation straightened out, or are you going to have to run off again?”

She sighed wearily as she followed him up the steps and into the house. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, but she was wearing surgical scrubs and a lab coat under the smart black coat of her last visit.

“Run, I’m afraid. I’ve got to be back on duty in less than two hours.”

“Still short-handed, then?” he asked, ushering her into the library.

“Afraid so.” She let him help her out of her coat. “I sure wish I knew what had happened to Dr. Wemyss. It’s really rotten of him to ditch right at the holidays, and make everybody double up. We’ve got a locum from Thursday, though—if I live that long.”

As she pulled a small green surgical pack from the pocket of her lab coat, obviously intent on business, Adam smiled and went over to the phone on his desk.

“Let me at least order up some tea, then,” he said. “Sounds like you could use it.”

“Fine, but tell your man to just serve it up in a mug, milk and two sugars,” she said. “I love the silver, but I just don’t have the time to fiddle this afternoon.”

Adam gave the order, peeling off his Band-Aid as he did so, then came to sit where she had turned on a floor lamp at the end of the settee.

“I’m sorry to drag you out here for this,” he said, extending his hands to hold the surgical pack as she began unfolding it. “You should have rung me. Philippa could have taken out the sutures—or I could have done it.”

Picking up scissors and forceps, she gave him a grin.

“Are you kidding? And miss seeing the dashing Sir Adam Sinclair in tight riding breeches? Turn your head to the light, so I don’t poke you.”

Controlling a smile, Adam did as he was told, watching the knots of black silk mount up like a collection of small, hairy spiders on the green towel he held, until all fourteen were accounted for. After the first few, she moved his head forward to rest against her side, steadying it between her wrists as she continued working. She did not speak, nor did he, but he found the silence reassuring rather than awkward, and found himself relaxing under her touch.

“There, that’s got them all,” she said, pushing back his hair to inspect more closely. “You’ve healed very nicely. In a few months, you’ll never know you got thumped.”

He was just trying to decide whether to slip an arm around her waist when a discreet knock at the door heralded Humphrey’s imminent arrival with their tea. He sighed as he sat back and Humphrey entered, holding up the towel to receive the forceps and scissors. She said nothing as she folded the towel back around the instruments to make a small packet again and slipped it back in her pocket, merely sitting down wearily across from him as Humphrey brought them each a mug of tea and then silently withdrew.

Lifting his mug in salute, Adam settled back in the settee, watching her. She looked more worn than last time he had seen her, but she seemed to revive a little as she sipped at the steaming tea.

“Ah, that’s good,” she murmured, leaning back gratefully in her chair, head against the headrest. “Other than to drive up here, I think this is the first I’ve been off my feet all day—and my day started at six.”

Smiling, he pushed a footstool closer with one highly polished boot. She was wearing sensible white shoes like nurses wore, designed to give excellent support. On most women, Adam thought they tended to look clunky, but on Ximena they seemed to make a fashion statement in keeping with her profession.

“Put your feet up for a few minutes, then, and relax,” he said quietly. “God knows, you’ve earned it.”

“Yes, I have,” she said, hooking the footstool closer and swinging her feet up onto it. “Mmmm, that’s nice. I don’t suppose you use hypnosis in your practice, do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Why do you ask?”

“Do
you?” she said, glancing at him with new interest as she took another sip of tea. “Is it true that ten or fifteen minutes under hypnosis is like several hours of normal sleep?”

“It
can
be, depending on the subject.”

“Would I be a good subject?”

“I don’t know. Would you like to find out?”

She glanced longingly at her watch, then shook her head regretfully. “Damn! I would
love
to, but I really have to get back. “ She sat forward and gulped another large swallow of tea, grimacing at the temperature.

“God,
I’ll be glad when we get this staff situation sorted out! I
am
taking off Thursday, though,
regardless
of who doesn’t show up. I think I’ll probably sleep the entire day.” She cocked her head at him. “I don’t suppose you’d like to pay off on that dinner Thursday night, would you?”

Pleasant anticipation immediately gave way to disappointment as he realized that Thursday was St. John’s Eve.

“Ximena, I’m sorry,” he said honestly. “There’s nothing I’d like better, but I have to go down to Melrose Abbey that night—something called the Mason’s Walk. I’m not a Freemason, but a dear friend of mine who was a very high-ranking one was killed last month. His Lodge and some of his other friends are going down to attend it in his memory. It’s been taking place on that date for well over a hundred years now—maybe closer to
two
hundred—and I think Randall must have attended for probably the last fifty. It was something that meant a great deal to him.”

“Randall?” she said. “Not Randall Stewart, that Mason who was killed in some ritual murder up north of here?”

Adam stiffened just slightly, as the thought suddenly streaked across his mind, previously always dismissed, that
she
could well be involved in all of this. After all, Wemyss apparently had been, and they both worked at the same hospital. But then he reminded himself that her recognition of the name could easily be chalked up to media coverage.

“Yes, I expect you read about it, or saw television coverage,” he said a little cautiously. “Especially under the circumstances, you can see why I’m obliged to go.”

“Gosh, yes,” she murmured, shivering. “Adam, I’m so sorry. I mean—to have something like that happen to someone you know . . . You found him, too, didn’t you? Now I know why your name sounded familiar, when I first met you in the ER: I’d seen it in the papers.”

“Yes, I—sometimes work as a police consultant,” he admitted, gazing down at the tea mug cupped in his hands.

A silence fell between them for a moment, taut yet still companionable, and then she sat forward in her chair, shifting her feet back onto the floor.

“Adam, just tell me if I’m out of line, but if it wouldn’t be too much of an intrusion, I’d be honored if you’d let me come along with you Thursday night.”

Adam looked up sharply. “Why would you want to do that?”

She cupped strong, ringless fingers around her mug, staring at a point on the floor somewhere between them, looking a little uncomfortable.

“I could make some pert remark about enjoying the company, and that would certainly be true, because I find you incredibly attractive. But aside from that—well, my father and my grandfather and both my brothers are Masons, back in the States. In fact, when that story first broke, I clipped articles from the newspapers and set them back to Dad. I remember books by Randall Stewart being on our bookshelves when I was a teenager, and I know what the Brotherhood means to my family.” She sighed and shook her head. “Anyway, if this is how his Masonic Brethren here in Scotland choose to honor him—well, I’d be proud to be a small part of it, just to witness it. I know I can’t actually march, not being a Mason.”

Slowly Adam allowed himself to smile, any doubts he might have had about her melting away.

“That makes two of us,” he said softly. “But if you really want to come, and brave what undoubtedly will be a cold and dreary evening—and that’s only the drive there and back!—then I’d be most grateful of the company.” He quirked her a wry smile. “There’s actually quite a decent restaurant in the hotel there in the town square. If you like, we can have dinner there, afterwards, and you can
still
pick the venue for a more properly festive one later on, to celebrate your name.”

She smiled at that, the mood swinging back upward, as he had intended, then glanced at her watch again, shook her head, and swigged down the last of her tea.

“I have
to go,” she said, getting to her feet. “There’ll probably be casualties stacked three deep in the corridors by the time I get back. Just
once
I’d like to see a Christmas Eve that really was a silent night, holy night. Do you go to church on Christmas Eve, here in Scotland?”

“Usually I do,” he said, helping her on with her coat. “With Gillian and her family here this year, though, I suspect not. There’s a lot going on. I always try to put a lighted candle in the window, though, even if I don’t get to church. It’s an old Celtic custom—a watch-light for Mary and Joseph, looking for a place to pass the night—and maybe a sign of the rebirth of the Light at this time of year. Do they do that where you come from?”