Beyond the Highland Myst(39)

Adrienne shuddered. She'd never forget that night.

The fight had begun over—of all things—a trip to Acapulco. Adrienne hadn't wanted to go. Eberhard had insisted. "Fine, then come with me," she'd said. He was too busy, he couldn't take the time off, he'd replied.

"What good is all your money if you can't take the time to enjoy life?" Adrienne had asked.

Eberhard hadn't said a word, he'd simply fixed her with a disappointed look that made her feel like an awkward adolescent, a gauche and unwanted orphan.

"Well, why do you keep sending me on these vacations by myself?" Adrienne asked, trying to sound mature and cool, but her question ended on a plaintive note.

"How many times must I explain this to you? I'm trying to educate you, Adrienne. If you think for a moment that it will be easy for an orphan who has never been in society to be my wife, think again. My wife must be cultured, sophisticated, European—"

"Don't send me back to Paris," Adrienne had said hastily. "It rained for weeks, last time."

"Don't interrupt me again, Adrienne." His voice had been calm; too calm and carefully measured.

"Can't you come with me—just once?"

"Adrienne!"

Adrienne had stiffened, feeling foolish and wrong, even though she'd known she wasn't being unreasonable. Sometimes she had felt like he didn't want her around, but that didn't make sense—he was marrying her. He was preparing her to be his wife.

Still, she'd had doubts___

After her last trip to Rio, she'd returned to hear from her old friends at the Blind Lemon that Eberhard hadn't been seen in his offices all that much—but he had been seen in his flashy Porsche with an equally flashy brunette. A twinge of jealousy had speared her. "Besides, I hear you don't work too hard while I'm gone," she had muttered.

The fight had begun in earnest then, escalating until Eberhard did something that so astonished and terrified Adrienne that she fled blindly into the steamy New Orleans night.

He hit her. Hard. And, taking advantage of her stunned passivity—more than once.

Crying, she flung herself into the Mercedes that Eberhard leased for her. She stomped the accelerator and the car surged forward. She drove blindly, on autopilot, mascara-tinted tears staining the cream silk suit Eberhard had chosen for her to wear that evening.

When the police pulled her over, claiming she'd been driving over one hundred miles an hour, she knew they were lying. They were Eberhard's friends. He'd probably called them the moment she'd left his house; he knew which route she always took home.

Adrienne stood outside her car with the policemen, her face bruised and swelling, her lip bleeding, weeping and apologizing in a voice that bordered on hysteria.

It didn't occur to her until much later that neither of the policemen had ever asked her what had happened to her face. They'd interrogated an obviously beaten woman without showing an ounce of concern.

When they'd cuffed her, taken her to the station, and called Eberhard, she wasn't surprised at all when they replaced the receiver, gazed at her sadly, and sent her to be locked up.

Three days she'd spent in that hellish place, just so Eberhard could make his point.

That was the night she'd realized how dangerous he really was.

In the cool of the broch, Adrienne hugged her arms around herself, trying desperately to exorcise the ghosts of a beautiful man named Eberhard Darrow Garrett and the foolish young woman who'd spent a lonely, sheltered life in an orphanage. Such easy prey she'd been. Did you see little orphan Adri-Annie? Eberhard's little fool. Where had she heard those sneering words? On Rupert's yacht, when they thought she'd gone below for more drinks. She shivered violently. I'll never be a man's fool again.

"Never," she vowed aloud. Adrienne shook her head to ebb the painful tide of memories.

The door opened, admitting a wide swath of brilliant sunlight. Then it closed again and blackness reigned absolute.

Adrienne froze, huddled in on herself, and forced her heart to slow. She'd been here before. Hiding, waiting, too terrified to draw a breath for fear of alerting the hunter to her exact location. How she'd run and hid! But there had been no sanctuary. Not until the streets of obscurity she'd finally found in Seattle, and there had been an eternity of murky hell down every winding backroad between New Orleans and the haven of the Pacific Northwest.

Bitter memories threatened to engulf her when a husky croon broke the silence.

The Hawk? Singing? A lullaby?

The Gaelic words rumbled husky and deep—why hadn't she suspected he would have a voice like rich butterscotch? He purred when he talked; he could seduce the Mother Abbess of Sacred Heart when he sang.

"Curious, were you? I see you came of your own accord." His brogue rolled through the broch when he finished the refrain.