Velvet Haven

reached for her hand and curled his fingers between hers.
    “Let’s get you some air.”

    Still unsteady, Mairi allowed Bran to hold her hand and guide her down the hall, then to a curved staircase with an ornately carved banister. On the newel post was the MacDonald clan emblem. Beneath it was the Celtic triscale. Seeing it made her think of Lauren and the crazy dreams she had been having since stealing the manuscript from Our Lady. A feeling of wariness stole over her.
    “Where are you taking me?” she asked as she looked up and saw nothing but blackness.
    “Upstairs.”
    Panic set in and she tried to pull her hand away, but he tugged her along. “Trust me, Mairi.”
    “It’s not something I’m good at.”
    He looked over his shoulder at her. “Then we have something in common, for I don’t trust easily, either.”
    “Yeah, well, in a fair fight I’d say you have nothing to worry about.”
    The grin he gave made her light- headed, and like a fool, Mairi kept following him up the stairs, which seemed to go on forever. “This is the old mansion,” she gasped, looking at the coved ceilings with their detailed cornice work.
    “The entire club was at one time the mansion. This part is used by the owner and . . . family,” he muttered, pulling her along a darkened hall.
    “Family?” she asked as she stumbled over her feet, trying to keep up with his long strides. He grunted, stopped suddenly, and she ran into his back. He steadied her with an arm around her waist before he opened the door and ushered her inside.
    “Daegan MacDonald’s study,” he announced. The door shut behind him, and Mairi felt her body jump. She waited to hear the click of a lock, but no sound came. Looking around the room, she studied the masculine retreat, the warm woods, the dark leather wingback by the fireplace. In the marble mantel-piece was an etching of a stag.
    This was the type of place she could get lost in for hours, with a warm blanket and a good book. It felt homey and rich and very definitely masculine.
    “You mentioned family,” she said as she studied the portrait of a man and woman over the fireplace. They were dressed in Victorian garb. The man in it looked eerily like Bran.
    Bran nodded at the portrait. “Daegan built this place when he left home. He was my uncle.”
    “Uncle?”
    “Several generations removed, of course.”
    “Of course,” she murmured, studying the picture once again. “You look very much like him. And the lady?”
    “Isobel. The love of his life. He cherished her. You wouldn’t believe what he gave up to have her.”
    “What did he give up?”
    “Everything he was. His home. His identity.”
    Mairi couldn’t imagine someone sacrificing like that for her. “Well, she’s very beautiful.”
    “I suppose,” Bran muttered as he stood beside her, looking at the portrait. “I don’t really see it.”
    Mairi wondered what sort of woman could tempt him if the gorgeous woman in the portrait wouldn’t have; then she pushed the thought away. There was no way in this world she was prettier than Isobel MacDonald, so why even hope.
    “The man you were speaking to downstairs, with the short black hair?” she asked, finding a safer topic. “He resembles Daegan, too.”
    “He’s my cousin. He owns the club.” Bran scowled. “Enough of the family tree.” He strode to a window where heavy drapes were pulled shut. He flung them open, revealing French doors. He opened one and motioned her through. “Step outside. The fresh air will do you good.”
    Following him onto a terrace, Mairi crossed her arms over her chest. It was chilly being up this high, and with the wind blowing. A storm was moving in, and the rumble of thunder sounded much too close for comfort.
    “Here,” he murmured. He shrugged out of his long trench and covered her shoulders. It was warm and inviting. Discreetly she inhaled his scent: masculine with a hint of spice. Her blood instantly heated.
    “It’s going to storm.” She motioned to the sky just as it lit up with lightning.
    “I won’t let you get wet.”
    She laughed. “So now you’re claiming you can keep the rain away?”
    He shrugged and rested his arms on the balustrade. “Perhaps.”
    She noticed his left arm was covered in vinelike tattoos. In the moonlight they glowed pewter and silver, like his eyes. “Cool tats.” She motioned to his arm.
    He nodded and slid his right hand over his forearm, hiding them. “Had them forever.”
    “Neat