A Bird Without Wings Read online

  Without waiting for a response, which she couldn’t have managed at any rate, he started the car again, and they were off.

  Not long after, they turned through massive wrought iron gates set into ivy-covered stone walls, up a long sloping drive lined with mature maples. She sighed with pleasure as the late-morning light flickered over them through the rustling branches.

  The Ransome estate materialised before them and she stifled a gasp.

  The enormous house sprawled on top of a rise, squatting like a giant three-legged spider, with the main centre section rising up three floors, and each of the three wings two-storeys.

  “How many people live here?” she asked in awe.

  Lucius sighed heavily. “Most of them, from time to time, depending on mood and fortune.”

  “Really?”

  “They agreed a few years ago that they could live more economically as a clan, so my parents and my two uncles bought this monstrosity. And then added the three wings, so each family branch could have its own private quarters whenever they happened to all be here.”

  “This is economical?” she muttered.

  “Don’t get me started. They have a similar place in California and another in BC. Then there’s the place in the Hamptons.”

  “It is beautiful,” she said hesitantly as the car halted on the cobbled drive.

  “It’s tacky,” Lucius said brutally, then shrugged. “It’s nicer inside, I suppose, in the main house. But honestly, I think they did it just to be weird. Really. Who lives in a McMansion commune? The Ransomes do, that’s who.”

  She chuckled—he was as mortified by his family’s idiosyncrasies as she was by hers.

  “It’s not funny,” he said sullenly. “Idiots. They’re going broke fast, and will have to start selling off some of their white elephants like this. And they’ll never get what they sank into it. Wrought iron gates. Fieldstone perimeter and garden walls. Those trees you were admiring—do you know how much it costs to have forty fully grown trees transplanted? It’s just—” He searched for a word.

  “Disgracefully opulent?”

  His mouth twisted into an expression of agreement. “That’s the best description I’ve heard yet.”

  She eyed the massive stone house, complete with porte-cochère and high-walled gardens. “And it’s not a McMansion. It’s probably considered a McManor House. No, bigger. What’s bigger?”

  He did laugh then, quite genuinely. “A McCastle. Come on.”

  She assessed the vehicles in the courtyard as they exited the car. SUVs, sports cars, luxury sedans. Escalades and Ferraris and Mulsannes, oh my. “How many are in your family?”

  But before he could answer, a little girl came running out the front door, under the porte-cochère and straight at them. “Uncle Lucius!” she screamed delightedly and latched onto his leg, hugging it.

  “Hey, brat,” he said teasingly, pretending to have difficulty walking with the girl attached. “When did you get so big?”

  “I’m eight now!”

  “Must have been then. Lucy, this is Miss Dahl. Say hello.”

  “Hello,” Lucy greeted, still holding onto Lucius, staring wide-eyed at Callie.

  “One of my sister Serena’s brats,” Lucius identified. “Okay, little leech,” he grumbled, and easily swung Lucy up into the crook of one arm as they headed inside, the little girl looking smugly pleased at being called names as she gazed at her uncle adoringly.

  Callie did not have the opportunity to absorb the details of the colossal foyer, for the family—laughing and talking over each other—swarmed the space as they entered. No time for formal introductions, as Lucius’ mother Maddie swept Callie away into the vast kitchen, followed by his aunts all asking her ten thousand questions about her work at FalTech, her family, and her marital status. They didn’t wait for answers, merely made up their own as they settled her at a long polished-plank harvest table and started plunking down food enough to feed armies, along with coffee and freshly squeezed juice and champagne for mimosas.

  The rest of the family poured in after them, taking seats and talking over each other, boisterous and cheerful, argumentative and thick-skinned as insults were traded back and forth. The noise level swelled, laughter rang high, and the breadth of love in the room was deep, rich, and true.

  From Lucius’ descriptions of a spoiled clan and her own distant and paper-based assessment of the upper crust family, she had expected cool, stiff elitism. That this menagerie was urbane Lucius’ family was inconceivable.

  Feeling lost, she glanced around for him as anchor, and found him standing at the door, taking in the chaos with a cynically tolerant expression on his handsome face. That he loved them was clear; that he would rather not was almost as equally apparent.

  Their eyes met, and she grinned broadly at him. He offered a reluctant smile in return, and his gaze flicked over her with a degree of the interest she had seen last night. Heart hammering, she quickly looked away.

  “Lucius darling! Sit down now. And introduce Callie to everyone properly. Everyone shut up!” Maddie, a petite dark-haired woman in her late-fifties, was very bossy, and as everyone quieted, it was obvious that she ruled their lives—if only in two-minute increments.

  Lucius obediently did the honours, though he remained standing, and Callie made mental note of names and relationships. Her familiarity with family history helped a good deal, though the family tree provided in the HRF file was sketchy for more recent generations, since its focus was Neville’s era. But Lucius had two sisters (both married—their husbands fitting into the clan with obvious ease as they participated fully in family matters) and a brother (brown-eyed Benedict was otherwise an almost-carbon copy of Lucius, though not quite so generally magnificent, she decided with a suspicious degree of partiality), five nieces and nephews, eight cousins, ten first cousins-once-removed, and innumerable second cousins. Not everyone was present, but in all, there were twenty-odd people in the kitchen, not including the house staff.

  For the Ransomes employed rafts of staff—including a chef who looked quite pained by the constant interference, repeatedly suggesting that the patio was a much better place for brunch. But the staff all seemed otherwise happy and were very much part of the family.

  Or maybe babysitters. Zookeepers?

  It was from Maddie’s Italian roots that Lucius and his siblings had their dark exotic genes, for the other Ransomes, while still dark-haired, were generally fairer. Lucius’ father, Christian, made a great fuss over her, and the ramparts on her emotions suffered some battering under the lavish attention. They all made a fuss over her—a stranger—welcoming and warm in a sincere way that was completely foreign to her.

  But they were also uncontrollable. As they settled into a celebratory mood when the conversation turned to the HRF, they were easily distracted as family history touched on British and Canadian history, which sparked political arguments and wildly tangential observations of everything from the historical inaccuracy of movies to the merits of prenuptial agreements to how to make the best pastry. She could only listen in a daze as Benedict, who had taken up cosy residence next to her, offering her many tempting bites of the variety of foods while whispering in her ear details of familial relationships and critical witticisms of Ransome antics that made her laugh (he had Lucius’ intelligence—and opinion of the family—as well as looks).

  Lucius stood by the doors leading out to the patio, sipping coffee and saying nothing. But he glowered at her and Benedict.

  She had to find a way to focus them, but other than yelling over them, she didn’t know what to do. Then a miracle happened, wherein someone puzzled over which wife of Henry VIII met what end in what order, and there was a breath of silence as they all thought about it.

  “It’s a mnemonic,” she blurted out, the most she had been able to say in the last twenty minutes. “Divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived.”

  Well, they marvelled over that, but she had already lost the advantag
e as Benedict popped a mini quiche (done in the most delightful pastry) into her mouth, and the family went on about various mnemonics and the big ice storm of ’98.

  Benedict tucked a stray lock behind her ear and slid an arm along the back of her chair, watching her mouth in much the same way his brother did, making her blush, her lashes falling.

  “Enough.” Lucius’ authoritative voice cut through the noise with ease.

  Silence instantly fell as they all looked to him expectantly. And not only were they silent, they stayed that way.

  Marvel of marvels.

  The porcelain coffee cup clicked definitively on the countertop as he set it down, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less bossy. “Ben, find a place to charge Callie’s camera. The rest of you organise yourselves into some semblance of order to be interviewed. Cal, you’re with me. Bring your stuff.”

  She hastened to follow as he stalked out of the room.

  He led her down a wide and long hallway—littered with glossy antique furniture and lavish art on the walls—to a spacious den, ushering her in and closing the door behind them.

  “Did I not warn you they were insane?”

  “I should have paid better attention.” Unable to hold it back any longer, she laughed gleefully.

  His eyes darkened. Muttering under his breath, he pointed to the ornate desk. “Set up here,” he said gruffly. “I’ll get them organised—despite my instructions, they’re sure to make a mess of it. They’re easier to handle one- or two-on-one.”

  She was flustered by the brief expression of desire in his eyes, reminding her of his suggestion that they start fresh. She was back on uneven ground where she didn’t understand her role.

  She settled in the chair behind the desk and he leaned over her to boot up the computer. His scent filled the narrow space between them.

  “If you need it,” he murmured. “Internet, et cetera. Do you need anything else?”

  She shook her head, feeling a blush flood her face.

  “Have you had enough to eat? I didn’t see you eat much of anything, though god knows Benedict tried to keep you amply supplied.”

  Responding to the thread of temper in his voice, she glanced up at him. “Yes, he was very kind,” she replied sweetly.

  “Kind. Is that why you’re blushing?” he mocked.

  “All a part of my innocent aura,” she demurred, silently cursing genetic disposition.

  He spun the chair so that she faced him, leaning his hands on the arms, his face very close to hers. “I thought we were going to pretend that nothing happened.”

  “I am pretending that. You’re the one keeping it alive.”

  “Then stop teasing me.” His lips brushed her warm cheek.

  “I—I’m not,” she protested, shrinking away. Heat emanated from his body. A hazardous moment of focusing on the pulse that beat in the hollow of his throat was too intimate, so she dropped her gaze a little. But with his bent posture, she had a clear view down his thin linen shirt, thanks the few unfastened buttons, revealing that chest she had been denied the previous night, the taut abs and sexy navel. Oh, dear.

  Her gaze flicked back up to find his sapphire eyes glimmering with humour and desire. “Leave some clothes on me, doll,” he teased huskily.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have no idea,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth.

  A knock sounded, though she thought at first it was just her heart.

  “Come in, Ben,” Lucius said dryly, and captured her parted lips in a tenderly intimate kiss.

  Oh, this was bad. And so good. Infatuation dead; desire alive. Apparently liking someone was not a necessary ingredient to wanting.

  Except she did kind of like him, after all.

  He let her go with one last nibble on her lower lip, smoothing an escaped curl between his fingers. “Why don’t you interview Ben first, doll, since he’s here?”

  She slid her gaze to the doorway where Benedict leaned on the jamb, smiling quizzically.

  Lucius moved away, stopping for a moment beside his brother. “Get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it,” Benedict chuckled.

  No idea what he was doing—hah! How dare he mark her as territory, like some feral dog!

  It’s kind of nice—and totally new!—to be considered territory.

  But all that was too complicated and confusing when weighed against her shaky ego.

  Chapter Six

  Lucius’ sister Olivia rocked her baby while reciting her theories on the HRF, and Callie made notes. This was the last of the interviews; it was going to take days to organise the masses of information she had garnered.

  The Ransomes were intelligent, opinionated, and untamed; they were also incredibly charming.

  And scandalous dreamers and schemers who had whittled away at a fortune. Not for any lack of sound advice. Lucius and ‘Gramps’ (Gordon Ransome, who was not present today) had tried to guide them. It was as if business sense had mostly bypassed the last couple of generations, and Neville was likely spinning in his grave with what his descendants had lost. If it weren’t for Lucius bailing them out, and Gramps keeping the parent company—Falcontor—going strong, they would be in very serious trouble. If they weren’t already. She wasn’t sure.

  The most ridiculous aspect of it all was that the Ransomes understood all of this; they knew all their many faults and where they had fallen short.

  What they did not admit was that even if there were an HRF, it would have to be worth millions upon millions if it were to keep them going for more than a few years, unless things changed significantly in their spending and investment practices.

  But there was no HRF. No wonder Lucius was so frustrated by them.

  His territorial marking had had an unexpected result: since that little performance for Benedict—who had apparently reported back to the family—everyone had treated her as if she were Lucius’ girlfriend . . . and girlfriends were apparently to be graced with intimate information. She was now privy to all sorts of information about Lucius C. Ransome that she was certain he never would have shared with her.

  Those tidbits served to make him simultaneously more human and more fascinating than ever.

  She and Olivia glanced around as a commotion at the door distracted them. Four little faces poked around the jambs: Lucius’ nieces and nephews, two of each sort.

  “We want to talk to Callie, too, Aunt Liv!” Lucy declared.

  Olivia grimaced. “Is that all right?” she asked Callie.

  “I want everyone’s ideas,” she averred with a smile.

  Rising from the desk, she motioned the children into the den and they excitedly gathered around the low table in front of the sofa. She sat on the hardwood floor with them, her notebook open on the table and a pen in her hand.

  “I have to abandon you for a minute,” Olivia said. “Can I leave Riley with you?”

  “Sure,” she agreed, and Olivia laid the baby on a pink blanket on the floor beside her.

  The children were entertaining, but more interested in asking questions about her and the much-admired Lucius than talking about the legend of the HRF. But when questions wandered into overly awkward relationship territory, escalating suddenly with demands to know if Lucius kissed her, how often, did she like it, and were they getting married (bloody romantic Ransomes!), she managed to awe them by stating that she and Lucius fought often and usually about the HRF.

  Certain it must be she who was the instigating disbeliever of these arguments, they eagerly parroted the HRF stories they had been told—though Lucy had a charming idea that the paintings of the birds must hold a secret as they were so icky and weird (So, they are weird like the ravens? Lucius did mention that.)—and Callie dutifully made notes.

  At last they scattered, leaving her with the baby. Sighing, she released the clip from her hair, allowing the curls to fall freely, and she stretched lazily, spine crunching pleasantly.

  “Do you have an opinion on
the HRF?” she asked the gurgling pink bundle.

  Riley chuckled, and Callie leaned over to tickle the child’s belly, evoking squeals of delight. The loose coils of her hair fell around them, and the baby latched onto fistfuls, tugging lightly.

  “Aren’t you sweet,” she murmured, and had a flash of envy for what this family had. Borderline crazy they may be, but very loving in a demonstrable way, they absolutely were. To grow up as part of such a clan; to be loved so effectively . . .

  “Ow!” she laughingly protested as the baby used the handholds of curls to pull herself into a sitting position. “But aren’t you clever! Is it your first time sitting up? You do look proud of yourself. Riley, huh? Such an Irish name for such an English-Italian girl. But, shh! I won’t tell anyone. I’m stuck with an uncommon Greek name, and my parents are of Norwegian and German extraction. Of course, they’re insane—far crazier than any Ransome—so it makes complete sense.”

  Riley tilted back precariously on her padded tush, eyes widening in trepidation, feet kicking out stiffly as she sought balance, fingers tightening and pulling harder. Suddenly, she rocked forward again, her forehead smacking into Callie’s nose.

  “Ow! You’re dangerous, aren’t you?” Rubbing her nose, she laughed gleefully at Riley’s triumphant laugh, and kissed the baby’s forehead tenderly, loving the scent of her. Baby powder had always been her favourite scent—it carried a sense of innocence and safety that she could not account for in her conscious memory.

  Slowly, she became aware of another presence, and looked up to see Lucius in the doorway.

  He merely looked at her, his expression enigmatic. The air seemed to pulse.

  “How long have you been there?” she finally managed.

  “Long time.” And then, very quietly, he asked, “Where have you been?”

  “Here,” she replied, puzzled by his puzzlement, his almost ethereal air. “I’ve been here the whole time.” Wherever he was in his head, it wasn’t with her. “Lucius?” she prompted.