"Duart, two pilots, and a four-man hostage rescue team. I know that doesn't sound like many, but if it can be done, they'll do it; if it can't, it wouldn't matter if I'd brought three times that number."
By mid-morning, with Duart added to the briefing, assorted members of the Hunting Lodge once again assembled in the library at Strathmourne. McLeod, Harry, and the two newcomers had been joined by Philippa, Julian, Victoria, and a taut and anxious Ximena. Closer by the fire, Peregrine was doodling in the margins of the list he and Julia had compiled of ancient sites in the southern half of Scotland. Julia herself was ensconced in the library bay window with lolo's dream journal, still brooding over the text and the cryptic lettering. Christopher alone was absent, patrolling on the astral from the nearby parlor.
"I understand the limitations, Lady Sinclair," Duart was saying to Philippa, "but telling me you think he's in the southern half of the country isn't much help." He indicated the map spread on the twin card tables in the center of the room. "Until and unless your people can pick up something more specific, I don't see how we're going to be able to do anything. I've got a crack unit on standby out there, and we can be anywhere between here and the border in close to thirty minutes - but if tonight is as critical as you think, we've got to have some lead time. He's got to have the lead time."
Philippa drew a deep breath, schooling herself to forbearance, and let it out slowly. "I'm aware of that, Major," she said softly, not looking at him. "You'll just have to bear with us. Believe me, we're doing all we can."
When Adam next struggled out of the abyss, his body seemed no more responsive than it had been, but he thought his thinking might be slightly less muddled than at any time since his capture. Bright light shone against his closed eyelids, but before he risked opening his eyes, he tried to take stock of his condition.
He was still laid out flat on his back, but something warm and vaguely comforting draped his naked body from the chin down, something of a more domestic nature than the silvery mylar blanket that had covered him earlier. Under the concealment of whatever it was, he tried flexing a wrist, then an ankle - and felt restraints at both - but the slight escalation of physical restraint hardly mattered, since he clearly was still in no condition to make any physical bid for freedom.
Temporarily setting that option aside, Adam turned his attention to visual input. A furtive peek from under closed eyelids revealed that the IV line still snaked from above his head to some point beneath what he now could see was a patchwork quilt, but he seemed to have been divested of any remaining medical paraphernalia save an oxygen cannula held in place at his nostrils by an elastic band. The variety of electronic beeps that previously had punctuated his twilight sleep had been silenced; nor could he readily spot any electronic leads emerging from under his quilt. Furthermore, though his throat was parched and scratchy, the endotracheal tube had been removed.
Marginally reassured, he turned his attention beyond his immediate vicinity, hoping to maintain the fiction that he was not yet conscious. The air outside his covering was colder than he remembered. The change in temperature, coupled with a warring variety of new smells, suggested that he might have been moved from his bare holding cell to another location.
This realization caused his pulse to quicken slightly, for no matter how competent his captors might be at cloaking his psychic signature from would-be rescuers, such cloaking was difficult to maintain while on the move - which meant there was a chance that the Hunting Lodge might have been able to get a bearing on him, at least for a while. Unfortunately, the move - and the reason he was being allowed to regain consciousness - also meant that Imbolc Eve probably was fast approaching.
Even as his still fuddled mind shrank from that near-certainty, a door off to his right swung open with a stiff creak. Hard-soled footsteps approached his bedside, bringing with them a residual whiff of expensive perfume. As the footsteps halted, a female voice said acidly, "I know you're awake by now, so you might as well stop pretending."
Adam had heard that voice before. He opened his eyes. The light above him was momentarily dazzling, but after a blink or two, he managed to bring the woman's face into hazy focus.
Her appearance was hauntingly familiar - dark hair smartly coifed above clear olive skin and features that might have been attractive, had they not been hardened by a predatory coldness of expression. Despite the artful application of makeup, dark circles stained the hollows of her eyes, suggesting that his captors might have shared some of the stress they had inflicted upon him.
But it was the blood-red color of her pullover that helped him make the sinking connection as to who she was. Two years before, when she had given him a lift to the hospital following a car crash near the Forth Road Bridge, she had called herself "the Christmas Samaritan." He had never learned her true name, but later events made it abundantly clear that the "accident" and its aftermath, including her convenient and timely assistance, had all been orchestrated by Raeburn.
He was too debilitated to mask the shock of recognition. She saw it, and gave him a feline smile.
"Why, Dr. Sinclair, how flattering. I see you still remember me. I don't believe I introduced myself properly before. My name is Angela. Unfortunately for you, I am not the kind of angel apt to offer you any hope whatsoever."
Still smiling, she turned away to open a large leather satchel on an adjacent bed. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the light, Adam could see they were alone in what appeared to be the bedroom of a holiday cottage. Thin curtains had been drawn across the windows, but he had the impression that it was dark outside - which meant that the Eve of Imbolc must be already upon them.
Rummaging sounds recalled his attention to Angela and the satchel, as she unpacked an assortment of items that included a cutthroat razor, a shaving mug, and a shaving brush with an ivory handle. The sight of the razor reminded Adam absurdly that he had neither bathed nor shaved for at least three days.
Still thinking somewhat sluggishly, he watched her take the mug and brush to the sink, humming tunelessly as she turned on the hot water tap. Just audible above the sound of running water, the hollow clink of ivory against china held him in dumb fascination as she began lathering up the brush.
"You really could do with a shower," she remarked over her shoulder, smiling coldly at him in the mirror as he started at the sound of her voice, "but I doubt you could manage to stand up to take one. That means it's going to be up to me to make you presentable."
Desperate to clear his head, Adam decided to test his voice. "For what?"
Angela paused to cock her head at him in the mirror.
"Why, didn't Francis tell you?" She turned off the water and slung a towel over her shoulder before sauntering back to the other bed to pick up the razor. "You have a starring role in tonight's little drama. I'm afraid we do have a very demanding Patron, but I'm sure you'll be a great success. Unfortunately for you, the production is for one night only."
He closed his eyes and turned his head away, grateful that he could manage even that, his dry throat trying to swallow down his dread. The clatter of her implements being set on the bedside table recalled him from his drifting even as she took hold of his covering and whipped it from his body. Caught off guard, he was unable to keep from flinching at the abrupt exposure.
"You are a fine figure of a man, aren't you?" she murmured as she eyed him up and down. "It really is a pity you haven't had time to father a child on that pretty sloe-eyed bride of yours - or have you, you sly devil? Is that the reason for the rather rushed incipient nuptials?''