Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams Read Free Page A

story, he swore, even though she was stunning.
    Trust Edward Armistead, one of Fleet Street’s most ruthless gossip peddlers, to find someone like her. Armistead was an expert when it came to acquiring gossip, and he never stinted on money or personnel when tracking down a story.
    Furious, Draycott turned from the window, a wild plan already forming in his head. Yes, the woman deserved exactly what she got, he decided.
    For right now, Nicholas Draycott was no longer a gentleman. No longer the hero of Bhanlai.
    Tonight he was only a man—a man who had reached the end of his rope.

CHAPTER TWO
    T HE AIR WAS STILL AND heavy, rich with the scent of thyme and hyacinth as Kacey moved forward into the cool shadows of the stable. She called out several times, but no one answered.
    Frowning, she tried to gather the few scraps of information she’d been given before leaving New York.
    â€œLord Draycott is an unusual man,” Kacey’s employer, Cassandra Edwards, had announced. “He’s intensely protective of his privacy. Obnoxiously so, in fact. You’d do best just to keep out of his way. I imagine his staff will provide you with anything you need. The man probably won’t even be in residence at the abbey—he has homes all over England, did you know?”
    As it happened, Kacey hadn’t known, but that suited her just fine. The last thing she wanted was a nervous owner hovering about while she examined the would-be Whistler canvas.
    And with several million dollars riding on her decision, she couldn’t blame an owner for being a little nervous about her findings.
    Still, she hadn’t thought the earl would be quite so eccentric as to leave the house closed up and silent, with no one at all to meet her. After all, he had stipulated this weekend as the best time for her to arrive.
    Kacey pulled her case higher on her shoulder, frowning. Perhaps money and pedigree did that to a person—made him cold and careless of others. She made a mental note to avoid the viscount at all costs.
    Inside the stables, the air was still and cool, little motes of dust dancing across the last golden beams of sun slanting down through the high windows.
    Kacey’s breath caught. Even here, the sense of timelessness, of being caught in a dream, lingered, for the stalls were all empty, pooled with shadows.
    So where was everyone? she wondered crossly. She had been punctual to the dot. The bus had dropped her at the foot of the home wood, as the driver referred to the dark expanse of beeches and elms. He had provided her with careful directions to the abbey, but his look, Kacey recalled now, had been frankly curious.
    And faintly hostile.
    Her brow creased in thought, she dropped her canvas bag and sat down on an upturned wooden crate. She tugged off her right boot, massaging her cramped and blistered toes.
    Her gaze wandered up to the ceiling, crisscrossed by massive overhanging beams. That was when she first noticed the meticulous carving atop the first stall—three horses in full gallop, tails flying, hooves aloft.
    On an impulse, she unzipped her bag and extracted her camera. Unless she missed her guess, that detail was an eighteenth-century masterpiece, perhaps the work of Grinling Gibbons himself! Quickly she switched on her flash and began to shoot. She would ask the viscount for permission when she saw him, of course, but meanwhile, this was just too good a chance to pass up, especially since Cassandra had just received a commission to restore a pair of sculptures by Gibbons in Cheshire.
    In the excitement of her discovery, Kacey forgot that she should be looking for the man who belonged to that sleek black sports car parked outside or tracking down a place to sleep. Already the sun was melting over the treetops.
    Instead, she saw only the fine details of wood and plaster, intent on capturing them on film.
    Concentrating on her documentation, she didn’t notice the tall shadow which