Christmas at Draycott Abbey

by Christina Skye

  When her slim body pressed against his, she might as well have worn nothing. The rain had left her cotton dress transparent. He bit back a curse as he felt her slender legs, her perfect breasts. She was beautiful, just as he had known she would be. Again he was nearly blinded beneath an oily wave of images—that felt like memories.

  Lace ruffles and hand-sewn silk that spilled beneath his fingers as he shoved away her gown. Then she met his mouth with her own, opening herself to his driving passion.

  Ian closed his eyes as the memories of joy broke over him. How beautiful she had been. How perfect their bodies had been together. Then he had lost her….

  Lightening streaked over his head, yanking him back to reality. Grimly, he carried her up the path along the moat, through a bank of perfumed roses. More of the cursed Draycott roses, Ian thought. Blooms that grew even in winter, part of the fourth Viscount’s dark legacy, it was whispered, a pact with the devil for his soul given centuries before. In return for that the roses bloomed far into winter and his family thrived.

  Ian hadn’t believed it of course, but the stories made for exciting tales late at night. The roses, like so much about this ancient house, carried ancient secrets. As a boy Ian had played here, one of the present Viscount Draycott’s closest friends. Sometimes he could have sworn there was a movement in an upstairs window or a wisp of trailing fog through the trees, on a day of clear sunlight.

  But they had no time for memories or history now. The woman in his arms had slumped again. She was breathing, but he was afraid—

  She came fully awake in a fury of flailing fists and broken coughing. Her slim body twisted and she hammered at his chest, her nails raking his neck. “Let me go!” She dug her knee into his ribs and then struck lower, aiming at his groin.

  Ian parried all her efforts without thinking. “Stop fighting, damn it. Tell me who you are? Why are you at Draycott Abbey?”

  Her breath came in long, painful bursts. “I need the police. I—I have to tell them. Nina—those men. “ She shuddered, one hand cupping her forehead. Ian saw more blood seep beneath her fingers, dark from the wound at the edge of her hairline. “I have to warn them—” she said in a raw voice.

  “What’s your name? Who is this person called Nina?”

  She shook her head, frenzy giving way to exhaustion. She stared in fear over his shoulder, up the slope. “Lights,” she whispered. “They found me. They’re coming…”

  “Who is coming?” Even as he spoke, Ian glanced back toward the woods. She was right. He saw a dim flash of lights, quickly extinguished.

  Someone else was hunting on Abbey grounds, it seemed.

  Something brushed his leg. Churchill had returned. Waiting for orders, the big dog paced beside him, glancing back toward the woods intently. “Track, Churchill. Track.” Ian made the order very clear. He didn’t tell the dog to hunt. He didn’t tell the dog to kill. Both of those things were possible, but now was simply for information.

  The woman still fought him, though her energy was nearly gone. “Who is Nina?” he repeated, trying to pull his nearly soaked tweed jacket around her shoulders.

  “Dead. They did it… I am next.”

  Her hands closed to fists. She drove them hard against his chest. “I have to—go.”

  Lightening flickered. Suddenly her hands loosened. She blinked, confused. “Where am I?”

  “At Draycott Abbey. But why are these people following you? What do they want?”

  Ian tried to keep his voice calm. Her behavior was beyond odd, and he didn’t like the fresh trail of blood welling from her forehead. Izzy should be here soon. Ian prayed that she had no deeper wounds than this cut on her head.

  She blinked at him in confusion. “Tell the Viscount that I tried. Tell him I said thank you—but there is no more hope left.”

  She closed her eyes, coughing. And when she looked at Ian, her face seemed to grow softer. “I waited,” she whispered. “I did all that I could. My father, the others—they put it to me clearly. I would marry or I would be thrown out. Only Adrian came to offer help. We heard nothing. There was no news from your regiment, no news from the captain of your ship. And still I waited. I hoped—“

  Her hand opened, trailing gently over his cheek in awed wonder. “How did you find me?” She coughed again, her body shaking. “And why did you have to come now, when it is too late to matter?”

  “We’ll get you warm again. Don’t try to talk.” The deep, aching sense of protectiveness struck him again. He didn’t know her, had never seen her, yet the urge to keep her safe drummed in every nerve and sinew of his body.

  A thousand questions burned through him, but Ian forced them down. They had to get inside. She was too weak, too cold. She coughed again and again, every movement driving her against him.

  He closed his eyes, feeling her slender legs, her slick, wet breasts. How long had it been since he felt this kind of desire?

  Centuries, a voice whispered.

  Behind him on the hill another light flashed briefly.

  Closer this time.

  Grimly Ian dug his phone from his pocket. He hit a pre-set number and waited impatiently.

  “Draycott Abbey.”

  “It’s Ian, Marston. Meet me by the back stables. Bring blankets. But before you do, check the library. Make certain there are no blankets or any sign of activity in that room. Nothing at all. Do you understand me?” There was no time to explain. Ian knew that the abbey’s impeccably trained butler would miss no detail.

  “I understand. Blankets. At the rear stables. But the room first.”

  “That’s right. There may be men coming up the drive. They may not even use the drive. They may walk. Do not open the door. Let no one inside. Be sure that all the security is operational.” Ian’s gaze leaped to the gravel drive as a car cruised over the hill from the Rye road. “A car just turned from the coast road. It must be Izzy Teague. He was expected tonight. Let him in, but no one else, Marston.”

  “Understood.” The abbey’s butler sounded as if they had been discussing flower arrangements for the next market fair.

  Ian rang off and started toward the stables, drawing his jacket closer around the woman in his arms. He watched the car race along the moat, lights flashing through the rain.

  And yet….

  Some instinct made him pull back into the shadows beside the bridge. He dug out his cell phone again, keyed in a new number.

  “Acme Pizza. Deliveries in twenty minutes or your money back.”

  At any other time Ian might have smiled. But not now. “Teague, where are you?”

  “Just outside Winchelsea. It’s this damn storm.” Izzy’s voice was curt. “Power lines are down and there’s flooding everywhere.”

  “So you’re not at the abbey?” Ian’s eyes narrowed on the racing black car.

  “No. Ten minutes—maybe fifteen.”

  “Someone else just arrived. Black car, probably an Audi. Can’t make out the plates. I doubt that he’s come to taste the Christmas punch,” Ian said grimly.

  “Watch your back,” Izzy Teague said flatly. “I’ll make it in ten.”

  The line went dead.

  Pain woke her.

  Dimly Clair saw lights overhead, moving dizzily. She shuddered, her wet skin frozen and half numb.

  She moved restlessly and felt an arm grip her shoulder.

  “So you’re finally waking up. I’m glad for it. You took a fair soaking outside in the moat. Ian is taking care of everything, and I will have you tucked up before a fire with warm blankets in no time. Then maybe you would like something to eat? A nice broth with some Earl Grey tea? Perhaps my very special blueberry scones?”

  Heaven, Clair thought. When was the last time she’d had a proper meal? When was the last time they had fed her more than dry bread?

  She cleared her raw throat, blinking at the gray haired man in the black suit. “Who—who are you?”

  “I would be Marston, ma’am. I am the butler here at Draycott Abbey.�
��

  Butler.

  Draycott Abbey.

  Clair began to remember now. As the first memories returned, so did her urgent need to contact the police. “I have to make a call. The local police first. Please, help me. If you can drive me—or let me use your phone—“

  “Of course. Let’s get you tucked in first. We’re having a storm right now, so driving anywhere will be difficult, but I’m certain that Ian will help you arrange a phone call, as soon as he’s free.”

  Clair rubbed her throbbing forehead, feeling dry blood stick to her fingers. “It can’t wait. They will be meeting before Christmas. I—I have to contact the inspector in London.”

  She began to twist, but the old butler patted her shoulder calmly. “Don’t worry yourself. Everything will be fine. You will be safe here.”

  “No. I have to go. They will be coming after me—“

  The butler shook his head. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to drive anywhere, not tonight. The temperature has dropped, and we are bracing for an ice storm before morning. The police have warned everyone off the streets.”

  Clair closed her eyes, trying to think. She had hoped the storm would be her friend, concealing her tracks. Now she saw it would be her worst enemy.

  She blinked as the butler turned, climbing a marble stairway. “I can walk. My head hurts, but I’m feeling a little stronger.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it. Ian was most specific. You are to rest. I think you’ll like this room. It is one of Lady Draycott’s favorites.”

  Clair’s breath caught as he nudged open a door with his foot.

  Blush pink curtains of thick velvet hung beside towering windows. Antique carpets glowed on warm mahogany floors. A fire flickered below a carved stone mantelpiece.

  “It’s beautiful.” Clair was relieved to see the phone on the lacquer desk near the window. Meanwhile, the pounding in her forehead was growing worse. “Do you have some aspirin, Marston? Then I think I can rest.”

  “I will bring you everything you need. I’m sure Ian will be back to check on you soon. He has gone outside but he didn’t want you to be disturbed.”

  “I see. I’ll be fine here. Thank you again, Marston.”

  As soon as the butler closed the door, she darted to the phone. The number she needed was burned into her memory. She dialed quickly and waited.

  The inspector Clair needed to contact was out. She left a message on his voice mail, telling him that she was at Draycott Abbey and she had important information for him.

  But she left no details, not in an unsecured voice mail. She could not risk turning the information over to the wrong hands. As she hung up the phone, Clair’s shoulders slumped.

  She wanted to be done with this responsibility. She wanted to forget these men she had watched for weeks. She told herself that she had done the best possible under the circumstances.

  She had been tracked and watched so long that she could not begin to accept that the nightmare was finally over. Curling up on the bed, she closed her eyes and tugged a blanket over her shoulders, lulled by the sound of the rain at the windows.

  She tried to believe that she would be safe here. Finally, after so many long weeks.

  After so many long centuries, a voice whispered…

  She closed her eyes and slid down into dreams.

  Marston spread another blanket over the woman’s motionless body and then stirred the fire. He had brought tea and soup, but she was already asleep.

  Her drawn face made him shake his head. But now she was safe. No harm would come to her at the abbey. After a final glance at the room, he closed the door softly and moved outside. His chair was already waiting in the corridor. He sank down, keeping guard just as Ian had asked.

  The butler had asked no questions, but he was perfectly aware of what kind of work Nicholas Draycott did. And if his old friend Izzy Teague was venturing to the abbey in a storm like this, it could only mean one thing.

  A job of of deadly importance.

  So Marston would wait and watch. He was no longer a young man, but he knew things about the abbey that few people did. The air seemed cold, heavy with memories. Glancing down the hall to the Long Gallery, he thought he saw a flicker of light and the sudden movement of the velvet curtains.

  Just a trick of his eyesight, an illusion of the shadows, Marston thought. Just another one of the abbey’s little tricks. He had often seen such odd movements in the Long Gallery, near Adrian Draycott’s imposing portrait.

  Over the years, the abbey butler had seen many strange things when the moon was high, and tonight some instinct whispered for him to keep all his senses alert. With grave eyes, he studied the closed doors of the silent corridor. Reaching down, he felt the reassuring outline of the heavy metal flask filled with steaming Earl Grey tea. It was a special blend made exclusively for the Draycott family, as it had been done for centuries, since the family first had tea holdings in Kashmir.

  Marston savored the bracing brew. But his real comfort came in the weight of the heavy metal flask. He was not too old to use it as a weapon should the need arise.

  The thought made him smile grimly as the wind snarled and rain hammered at the windows.

  No one would get past him tonight.

  Ian’s leg was hurting again, but that was not why he stopped at the base of the long marble staircase. He listened to the howl of the wind, impatient for Izzy Teague to arrive. He was worried about the woman upstairs, and he needed answers. More that that, he had to know how to explain the odd sense of connection he had felt between them outside in the rain.

  Angry at his tangled thoughts, Ian muttered under his breath, staring at the black car parked at the base of the abbey’s steps. The men had rung the doorbell twice already.

  Ian could delay no longer. Something was wrong. All his field experience and training urged him to caution.

  Acting on instinct, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed quickly.

  A man answered on the second ring. In the background Ian heard laughter and the click of glasses, along with the sound of caroling voices. “MacKay here.”

  “Sinclair. Sorry to bother you, Calan. It sounds as if you’re busy.”

  “Just a small group of my wife’s friends. The second bottle of champagne is opened, or we wouldn’t dare begin to sing. But you didn’t call to critique our carols, I think.” The man at the other end of the line moved the phone, and Ian heard a door close. The sounds of singing faded away. “That’s better. Now we can talk. I doubt you’ve called for an invitation to Christmas dinner, so how can I help you?”

  Calan was one of Ian’s oldest friends. As boys he and Ian had clattered around Draycott Abbey, dreaming of lion hunting and mountain climbing as they raced across the abbey grounds with their friend, the young viscount.

  But Calan had never discussed his boyhood. Over time, Nicholas and Ian had come to understand that Calan was not like other boys. Not like other men.

  And because of those dark and unusual skills, Ian had to ask a favor of his old friend now. “There’s a problem here. I don’t know exactly what it means, but my instincts are on red alert. I hate to bother you but—“

  “It will only take me a few minutes to get there. You were right to phone me, Ian. Especially now, while the viscount and his family are away.” Calan hesitated. “Am I to assume I should keep a low profile? No noise.”

  “That would be correct.”

  “And I should be prepared for a possible attack?”

  “I’m afraid so. Izzy Teague is on his way. But right now, I have unexpected guests. Somehow they made their way through the security at the main gate. That can hardly be an accident.” Ian chose his words carefully. “Earlier tonight, I found a woman in the rain. She was wounded, disoriented. The pieces still don’t match up, but the fact that I’m having visitors now.…”

  “Understood. I should be there in fifteen minutes. I’ll have a look. Don’t expect to see me until I’m ready to be seen,” Calan said grimly. “S
urprise can be a most useful tool. On a night like this, neither man nor beast should be afoot. The hunting should be good.”

  Ian heard the soft laugh. Memories of other nights and other strange things drifted through his mind. He was glad that Calan MacKay was no enemy. Ian was glad too for the hunting skills that his old friend had taught him and Nicholas. That stealth and strength of vision had more than once saved Ian’s life and the life of the royal family he protected.

  “Thank you, Calan.”

  “No need. Keep your eyes to the hill and your face to the wind. You’ll see me before you hear me.”

  The line went dead.

  Calan was gifted with abilities that even now Ian could not completely understand. It was Calan’s skill to blend into the darkness and hunt by stealth and strength, a creature of night itself. Only twice had Ian seen his old friend change. The sight of that dim creature he became had left Ian more than a little unnerved.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Ian smoothed a hand over the outline of his Berretta, tucked in the back of his waistband where it could be easily reached. He looked out at the front steps.

  Two shapes stood outlined against the night, flanking the door.

  Wind gusted down the stairway and icy fingers brushed his neck in warning. He had a sudden, unmistakable sense of memories, as if a friend whispered at his ear of lies and loss.

  Of love betrayed…

  Once again they come.

  Watch the night. Watch your back well, old friend.

  The doorbell rang again, and Ian shrugged away a strange sense of disorientation, as if he was caught in two different times. In two different bodies.

  Tonight you would do well to keep your wits about you, the old house seemed to whisper. Tonight you will hunt, and the prize will be far beyond what you expect.

  Ian paid no attention to the strange fancies of a dark, cold house. He was a man now, with too much experience and too little hope. So his fingers rested lightly on the Berretta as he walked to open the heavy oak door.