Chapter 1
Edinburgh, Scotland
Current Day
The grayish, buff-colored stone building façade, so different from the slick glass exterior of their New York office, looked, like many of the other buildings in Edinburgh, as though it had risen from the ground whole and in place. The entire city seemed to have been built of stone quarried from close by.
Genevieve Warren stood in front the auction house, the cobbled street hard and uneven beneath her feet. A light drizzle pattered against the black umbrella she held over her head.
She allowed herself a shiver of excitement and strode forward. Air whipped down the street and tugged a long strand of dark brown hair across her chin. She tucked it back behind her ear and turned to lower the umbrella and give it a shake before pushing open one of the large glass doors.
A well-dressed man strode down the entrance foyer and paused to greet her and introduce himself as Mr. Jonathan Taylor. His face was narrow, and his light brown eyes had a hint of gold. His blond hair, a few inches too long to be considered traditionally immaculate, hung over his shirt collar, and had her studying him with interest.
“I’m Genevieve Warren.” She offered her hand. “I’m here to inquire about the gargoyle from the Dunvegan Castle grounds.”
“Yes. My secretary notified me you’d be coming. I’ll get a bag for your umbrella, and we’ll go down the hall. The statue is so heavy, we decided it would be best to keep it on the ground floor. We haven’t moved it to a room yet. But I’ve had it uncrated in the storage room at the back of the building. I hope you won’t mind viewing it there.”
“No, not at all.” She studied the golden glow of the floor and the high ceilings while she waited for him to return. After maneuvering the umbrella into the plastic bag he handed her, she walked alongside him down a wide hallway.
The storage area was well lit, and had handcrafted shelves, some with slots where paintings could rest on their edges until they were hung. Reinforced shelving for pottery, ceramics, and other three-dimensional artworks stretched against all four walls. Her gargoyle—the one she hoped would be hers by the end of the day—was close to the large shipping bay doors. She recognized him from the back. A tail curved around his muscular thigh, while his wings stretched up and back, partially folded.
She first saw the statue in the garden at Dunvegan Castle and asked about it then. Years of exposure to the elements and nature had discolored and streaked the stone, leaving it mottled. The pattern of weathering looked like melted candle wax, but it didn’t detract from the sculpture’s power and beauty.
Genevieve circled to face the piece and was struck once again by the raw emotion depicted in the creature’s face, a combination of torment and rage. He was ugly, yet she saw a dash of humanity in his features. It was the human element that drew her. His expression had remained in her thoughts long after she left the castle and moved on to her bed and breakfast there on the Isle of Skye.
In medieval architecture of the Gothic period, gargoyles were used mostly as downspouts on roofs to project water away from the buildings during rainstorms. To find a full sculpture of this kind was very rare. The owners had to want a fortune for it.
But then again, maybe not. Instead of being a curiosity, and drawing the attention of visitors on the castle grounds, she’d been told it had often frightened them because of the suffering depicted in his expression. He was life-sized, and that in itself made him intimidating. Had he not been down on one knee, he’d be at least six feet tall.
Another oddity was the sculpture had impressive, realistic sexual organs—a strange detail, since gargoyles had always been depicted as sexually neutral, though most gave the impression of being male. To find such nudity in a sculpture of that period was shocking.
During the medieval era, artists and society as a whole were focused on eradicating sin. Nudity of any kind in paintings and sculptures was adamantly discouraged, and was almost nonexistent. In fact, she was surprised the sculpture hadn’t been defaced.
“He of course needs to be cleaned, what with the pigeons having roosted on him, and the natural weathering of the stone. The fact that he hasn’t been tended will work in your favor, and the price will be adjusted.”
“I’m a sculptor. I know how to clean stone,” she murmured, taking in the shape of the gargoyle’s ears. They lay against his head, and were pointed at the top, which made him look a little like a Vulcan.
“A professional sculptor?” Jonathan Taylor asked.
“Yes. I work in stone and wood.”
“Genevieve Warren.” His brows rose. “I read an article in a magazine just recently about your work.”
“You may have. It’s beginning to come along.”
He smiled. “And they say the Scottish are masters of the understatement.” His accent had grown a little thicker.
“I am part Scot and part French. My father’s family came from La Varenne, my mother’s family was from the Inverness area. Those two so different cultures wrapped up in one person may be why I am always at odds with myself. May I touch him?”
“Certainly.” He gestured toward the statue with a long, expressive hand.
She stepped closer and knelt to cup the gargoyle’s snarling face in her hands. From her position, she gazed directly into his eyes. She read suffering in the narrowing of his lids, but also defiance, and more than a glint of rage.
A strange, tumbling sensation attacked the pit of her stomach. His bunched jaw muscles felt almost real. For several moments, she was content to caress the shape of his chin. The artisan who sculpted this was a master.
She braced a hand against the muscular slope of his shoulder to rise while she studied the line of his wing, caught in the moment when it had just started to flex.
“What do you think about him?”
“I think he’s so ugly he’s beautiful.”
Taylor laughed.
The pelt of thick, wavy hair following the contours of the gargoyle’s head was strange as well. He was a chimera—part human, and part beast. She rested her hand upon his head, tempted by the detail to smooth the disheveled strands. She stepped away to circle him again and study his wings. Bony fingers fanned out from his shoulder blades, and veins branched from the joint to trail through a thin membrane very similar to a bat’s. The detail was exquisite, and would show up much better once he was cleaned.
To his credit, Taylor stood by silently, and didn’t pressure her for a sale. “How much are they hoping to get for him?”
“Twenty thousand pounds. But there is a hitch.”
She raised her brows. She wasn’t surprised.
“Historic Scotland will not allow any sculpture of the period to be sold outright and transported to another country, but it can be put on permanent loan. Which means you would not be able to purchase him outright, but can instead pay for the right to have him relocated indefinitely.”
So she would be paying twenty-five thousand US dollars to house and care for him, but could not claim ownership since she lived in another country. Twenty-five thousand dollars she could use for materials to do more sculptures. Stone didn’t come cheap. But she could do some smaller things, or work in wood to make up the difference. Her work was moving very well these days.
She studied the gargoyle a few more moments. “The transport to get him home will cost me dearly,” she murmured. Possibly as much as five thousand. And then transporting him from the ship to her studio another two or three. She was probably looking at close to thirty-three thousand, maybe more.
She’d gone insane. She was going to spend as much for a sculpture as it would cost to house a family of four for a year in her neck of the woods. And he wouldn’t even belong to her.
“They could easily get five times what they’re asking at auction and sell him to someone here in Scotland.”
This statue was a one of a kind, and would be well worth the money.
Why was she so drawn to him? He couldn’t fit in her studio with all her own work. He’d have to go on the porch outside her studio. The insurance would probably be astronomical.
She cupped his cheek and felt the curve against her palm. He had to have been fashioned after a real man. She’d do some research and find out. She bent and whispered in his pointed ear. “Do you want to come to America with me?”
Taylor chuckled.
She looked up and smiled again.
“We can help you with the transport arrangements. We often ship things stateside via plane and ship.”
“I’d appreciate it.” She reached inside her coat pocket and withdrew a business card with her name and contact information on it. “You sound very sure they’ll sell him to me.”
“I can’t be completely certain, but they remembered your interest in him when you visited the castle a few weeks back. ’Twas from them I got your number. They seemed interested in giving you right of first refusal.”
“If they decide my offer is enough, I’ll give him a good home, and he’ll be in out of the rain and snow.”
Taylor grinned, his light brown eyes alight with amusement. “You talk about and to him as though he’s alive.”
“My own sculptures seem alive to me. I breathe life into them with my hammer and chisel. Whoever sculpted him”—she nodded toward the gargoyle—“thought the same.”
Taylor turned his attention to the statue with a thoughtful look. “Too bad they didn’t give him a more pleasant expression. But then he wouldn’t have scared away evil spirits nearly as effectively.”
“He wouldn’t be nearly as interesting, either.” Genevieve wandered toward the exit, and Taylor caught up to walk with her.
“Would you care for a cup of tea?” he asked.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time, and I’m sure you have other responsibilities waiting for you.”
“Actually, I’m through for the day, and I’d be pleased if you’d join me. There’s an Italian restaurant just up the street.” He gestured for her to go ahead of him through the door.
Genevieve studied his narrow face with its warm brown eyes and shaggy blond hair. A quick twinge of grief assailed her, and she started to turn him down…but hesitated. She’d only be in Scotland another three days. But it might be pleasant to spend an hour with an attractive man. She’d never see him again.
And Simon, her agent, wasn’t here to warn her away from him as he always did.
They came to a stop in the entrance foyer. “Italian sounds good.”
Taylor smiled, his eyes alight with pleasure. “I’ll just get my coat and umbrella.”