LITMIR.BIZ

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his worry would not be gone. Men would kill to hold the art of Leonardo da Vinci even if the art was cursed by its creator.

      The abbey’s lord was a careful man, a generous man, and the weight of duty drove him hard from the moon-touched Long Gallery to the library and to the shadows of a stone staircase above his wine cellars.

      The cat was somehow before him as he took the stairs in hurried steps, a lantern held high to mark his way. The worn notebook did not move, cradled at his chest for safety.

      Maledetto con gesti e’ parole.

      The words burned like poison in his head.

      Cursed by hand and tongue.

      Cursed to dream and want, all who hold this book.

      Up the stairs a chair fell with a clatter. Drunken voices echoed through the sleeping house, calling his name. No more time.

      Quickly he pressed at the wall, opening a niche between stone and mortar. In the small, snug opening he shelved the notebook.

      For now, the sketch that had come from the hand of Leonardo da Vinci would hide in his own chamber inside a similar wall recess. He would make a safer hiding spot for it later.

      The abbey’s lord could do no more. A prize won in a turn of cards, the sketch caught at his heart. Da Vinci’s hand was clear in every stroke and curve of the Mona Lisa’s face, all distant grace and soft seduction.

      According to the notebook, the sketch was the artist’s final study before he began his painting. As was his custom, the Italian master often chose chalk to sketch the details of all he would later attempt in oil, and the notebook recorded his process of creation.

      Both were priceless. Together they provided an unmatched look into the mind of a genius.

      But there was no time for the viscount to linger. Upstairs boots rang out and petulant voices shouted for more port. Draycott felt a sudden disgust for his dissolute guests.

      They were not real friends. He knew that any one of them would kill for the notebook and the art it described. The worn leather cover taunted him. His hands shook as he sealed the niche.

      Here the notebook and its secrets would rest. With luck his descendants would have the strength to preserve this treasure, keeping it safe along with the priceless sketch it described in such intricate detail, capturing all da Vinci’s agony of creation.

      Frowning, Draycott raised the lantern for one last look. All was sealed. No signs of cracked stone or shifting mortar gave away the notebook’s hiding place. By all appearance the wine cellar wall lay untouched, ancient as the house.

      It was done.

      But the weight of the curse remained.

      Maledetto.

      Draycott Abbey

      Summer 1785

      THE WALL WAS EMPTY.

      Plaster spilled from a gaping hole, wood beams broken crudely. Blood stained the silk wallpaper where the thief—or thieves—had worked in painful haste. Boot tracks crossed the white snow of fallen plaster, vanishing at the far window, where the curtains fanned out like searching hands.

      Adrian Draycott scowled at the hole in the wall. He cursed as he saw the broken recess, the hiding place of his family’s da Vinci masterpiece. Now only a carved and gilt frame remained, its pieces discarded on the marble floor.

      The thief had come by night, moving straight to this room while Adrian was in London on estate matters. No one had heard the furtive steps. No one had seen the knife that slit the wall and dug to find the hiding place of Leonardo’s chalk study.

      Now the elegant smiling face, accursed in its glory, had vanished. The eighth Viscount Draycott closed his eyes, breathing hard in the shock of the theft. Yet even then he felt something close to relief.

      Maledetto con gesti e’ parole.

      The words drifted, twisting like smoke.

      Cursed by hand and tongue. Cursed to dream and want.

      The still-hidden notebook had recorded Leonardo’s curse long centuries before. Both sketch and notebook had been stolen from Leonardo’s studio by a charming servant ever alert to the chance for profit. For his crime the servant had earned the artist’s curse. So had all others who came in contact with the stolen possessions.

      Adrian Draycott ran a hand across his eyes. Well did he know the bitter pains of great loss, of trust betrayed. That pain he kept well hidden beneath a cold, languid facade. He cared for no one and nothing—only his beloved home.

      The great gray cat pressed at his boots, tail raised, eyes alert. The viscount bent low, smoothing the warm fur. “So here ends both the tale and the curse, my friend. The art is gone, and though I should feel fury, I do not. I am…relieved. Let another poor fool carry the curse’s weight. The Mona Lisa’s smile is too cold and enigmatic for my taste.”

      The cat meowed, brushing against the viscount’s boot. “I almost wish they had taken the notebook, too. In truth, I care not for this curse it carries.”

      The cat’s eyes moved, keen in the spring night. Slowly Adrian turned, facing the open window that marked the thief’s retreat.

      Drops of blood stained the broken sill.

      Maledetto.

      “No matter,” the viscount muttered, trying to believe his words. “The curse cannot hold power here. Not after so many years. It is done. Over.”

      Adrian Draycott prayed it was so. But the cold wind through the tall windows and the prickle at his neck argued otherwise.

      CHAPTER ONE

      The Isle of Skye

      Scotland

      SHE WAS COLD and tired and hungry. Her blistered feet ached and right now all Nell MacInnes wanted was a hot bath and a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea, followed by a warm bed to rest her weary body.

      She closed her eyes, listening to the buzz of quiet pub conversation around her. The little inn nestled up against a pristine loch with towering mountains on three sides. The locals were far too polite to intrude on Nell’s reverie, and when she dumped her mountain gear and backpack on the floor, sinking into a worn wooden chair, no one raised an eyebrow.

      It was heaven to be warm and dry after six days of climbing the nearby peaks, battling rain and wind on every ascent. If not for her climbing partner, Nell might have curtailed the trip three days sooner, but Eric’s enthusiasm was hard to resist. No doubt he would appear from his room upstairs within the hour, after taping his badly sprained ankle.

      Warmth began to seep into her bones, as gentle as the low burr of the Scottish voices around her. Scotland was truly heaven, she thought.

      “And I’m telling you it was no such thing as my imagination, Angus McCrae. A grand fish it was—bigger than two arm spans, I’ll tell you this.”

      Over the muted, good-natured argument about a lost fish, Nell heard the pub’s front door open. Cold wind snapped through the room as two men entered, scraping booted feet. “Where is the American man, Angus? We need the climber called MacInnes.”

      Nell stiffened at the flawed description. Who wanted her now, when all she craved was one precious night’s rest? No one from San Francisco even knew she was in Scotland.

      The man at the door wore a muddy parka and broken-in boots. A satphone was gripped at his chest. “We’ve bad weather up on the hill and I need the American—assuming the man’s as good as I’m told.”

      Nell took a short, wistful look at her half-eaten shepherd’s pie and the cup of tea, but a request for aid was never refused.

      She gulped the rest of her tea and stood up. “I’m the American named MacInnes.”

      “You—a woman?” The man looked startled.

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