Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise

by Christina Skye

  “Perhaps weakness was your greatest trick.”

  Sticks and gravel rattled at the window. The house creaked around them, rocked by lashing winds.

  Hope stared deep into his eyes, looking past the worry and the anger, willing him to believe her. “These things I have said are true. Hurting me won’t change that.”

  He looked down at his hands, now locked around her wrists. “Hurting you was not my purpose.” He closed his eyes, a shudder working through his body. “Nothing I do is as I plan. Why is it all so different?”

  “Different in what way?”

  He made an angry, impatient sound. “In every way. The colors are too bright. The smells are flat, too sweet. You have glass everywhere, too many books. And the colored walls…” He fought for control. Then, very gently, he ran his hands over her wrists. “I ask your forgiveness for any harm I have given. It shames me, and I will undertake penance for giving you pain.”

  He was deadly serious, Hope saw. “I’ll be fine. Just don’t plan on trying anything like that again.”

  Gravely he pulled his sword from its sheath and held it out to her. “If I do such a thing again, I order you to use my sword against me.”

  The man is serious, Hope thought. “You want me to—attack you?”

  “I will not oppose the blow. Deal with me as you must. If a man cannot wield control over himself, he is no more than a dog.”

  The conviction in his voice shook Hope. He would let her strike him down and never oppose her blow, if he thought himself at fault.

  Men weren’t supposed to act this way. There was something seriously wrong here.

  “Take the sword,” he ordered.

  Reluctantly she gripped the leather-wrapped hilt. As the stranger released his hold, the weapon nearly plunged from her fingers. “You didn’t tell me this thing weighed a ton!”

  “You will need two hands,” he said gravely, shaping her other hand around the hilt. “Hold it so.” He moved her fingers so that they lay tightly on the handle underneath his. “Now lift your arms together and swing in a free arc. That will give power to your movement.”

  Hope felt hysterical laughter rise in her throat.

  This couldn’t be happening. She was not standing in her hallway in the gray light of dawn, discussing sword technique with a man who looked like he could have given Braveheart Wallace fighting lessons.

  But the sword was cold and heavy in her fingers, all too real. So was the man’s body pressed against her side.

  “I—I’ll remember that. About using two hands.” She eased away from him and held out the sword.

  His dark brow rose. “You trust me?”

  Hope considered the question carefully. “No,” she said. “I know nothing about you.”

  His eyes hardened. “Then keep the sword.”

  “There is no need. For now, your eyes tell me all I need to know.”

  “Are you a seer to read them?”

  Hope stared at his well-used sword. “It doesn’t take a witch to read what’s in your eyes.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Pain. Confusion. And…fear.”

  His whole body stiffened. “I am a knight sworn to the cross. A knight does not know fear.”

  That strange talk of knights and honor again.

  Hope shrugged. “I know nothing of knights or what they said in public. But in the silence of the night, even a knight would be only a man. And there he would face his fears alone.”

  He took his sword from her and slid it into the leather sheath on his hip. “You speak of men. Have you known so many?”

  “A few.” Hope shrugged.

  His fingers opened, guiding her face back to his. “Finish.”

  “None of them was like you. You jumped the cliffs when I needed a rescuer. You…saved my life.”

  “I did no more than my duty.” He stared down at the mottled marks on Hope’s wrists, his jaw tense. “And then I did this. A knight may not bring pain to a woman. It was my vow, and I have broken it. Perhaps the stories about me are true.”

  “Stories?”

  “It is said that I have no heart beneath my steel. That I can be cut, but I do not bleed.”

  A terrible bleakness filled his eyes. Hope remembered the wounds across his back and shoulders and was certain he had known pain enough for twenty men.

  But if he had shed tears, it had been in solitude and in grim silence. He might be half crazy, but he was more of a hero than any man she had ever met before.

  She saw him run one hand over his knee and shift to his other leg. “Is your knee bothering you?”

  He shrugged. “It is an old and familiar pain.”

  Hope wanted to laugh, but there was nothing to mock. There was no bravado in his speech, only simple truth, coupled with a disturbing resignation.

  He hurt, she realized, and he hurt often. It was no more than what he expected of life. In his eyes, his endurance entitled him to no special respect.

  Hope wasn’t sure whether he deserved a medal or a referral to a good psychiatrist.

  She was about to ask more about his knee when a door opened at the back of the house and footsteps echoed up the stairwell.

  Her rescuer went very still. “Who enters without permission? Your maidservant?”

  Hope blinked. “I have no maidservant.”

  “Stay here,” he ordered. “I will see to the intruders.” He drew his sword and moved toward the stairs.

  The crazy man was going off to fight on her behalf, Hope realized. With a gasp, she ran after him. His sword could do serious damage from weight alone.

  When she reached the stairs, Jeffrey was staring down the battered blade of the broadsword.

  “Halt or I drop you where you stand.”

  “I give up. I’ll say uncle or anything else you want.” Jeffrey raised his hands. When he saw Hope, he gave a weak smile. “Tell him the natives are friendly, will you?”

  “You can put down your sword.” Hope bit back a ragged laugh, giddy at the absurdity of the whole scene. “This is one of my friends.”

  “A friend? Is he your lover?”

  “What?”

  “Lover,” MacLeod said impatiently. “Does he share your bed?”

  “What makes you think you can ask—”

  Glowering, Hope’s rescuer closed in on Jeffrey, sword leveled. “What say you to my question?”

  “Er—lover? No way.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Jeffrey,” Hope muttered.

  The young man’s face flamed. “That is—We’re not—Of course, I didn’t mean to say that I don’t think you’re—”

  MacLeod made a sound of disgust. “Are you one of the bailiff’s men?” he demanded. “Or were you sent by Roulfe of Montaine? I should never have trusted him after he stole my horse in Genoa.”

  “Never been to Genoa,” Jeffrey said quickly.

  “You dress surpassing strange.” He brushed his sword over Jeffrey’s torn blue jeans and dripping blue anorak. “Are you jester to a troupe of traveling players?”

  Hope sighed. “Just let him past, will you? Can’t you see he’s soaked?”

  “So I have seen. Why?” MacLeod demanded suspiciously.

  “I heard a noise outside. When I went to check, I found the tarpaulin dangling from a branch next to my window.”

  “Tar-pau-lin?” MacLeod repeated.

  Jeffrey shot a questioning look at Hope.

  “There seem to be some gaps in Mr. MacLeod’s memory,” she explained.

  Gaps at least big enough to drive a tank through.

  “My memory is sound,” MacLeod said.

  Hope ran a hand through her tousled hair. “He’s convinced that Glenbrae House is his.”

  “And so it is,” the stranger said stiffly. “Glenbrae and all the demesne lands around it.”

  “We’re still debating that particular point,” Hope murmured to Jeffrey. “In appreciation of his help, I’ve promised him a hot meal. Then he’s on his way home.�
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  “This is my home.”

  Jeffrey’s brow rose. “Uh-oooh,” he said slowly. “But how could he be—”

  “You can vouch for this man’s loyalty?” MacLeod demanded suddenly.

  “Of course. He’s my friend.”

  “But not your lover?”

  “That’s still none of your business.”

  “The answer’s no,” Jeffrey said decisively. “Definitely not lovers.”

  From somewhere below them came the clatter of pans. The aroma of brewing coffee drifted up the stairs.

  “Truce.” Hope waved an imaginary flag. “No more arguing until after breakfast.”

  “You will all come and eat now,” Gabrielle called from the kitchen. “There is oatmeal, nice fat sausages and the buns with cinnamon icing. The electricity runs again, thank the good Lord.”

  Jeffrey headed for the stairs at a trot. Hope looked at MacLeod. “Well?”

  He shrugged. “I will eat. Then there are questions to be answered.”

  Hope looked at his sole garment, a broad length of wool belted around his waist and tossed over one shoulder. “Aren’t you going to change?”

  “To change what?”

  Hope tried not to look at his legs—and failed. “Your clothes.”

  His brow rose. “What need have I for that? When I fight, I wear my armor. If not, I wear this.”

  “Fine, fine. Let’s just eat.”

  As she followed him down the stairs, every movement stirred the planes of muscle beneath his wind-burned skin. There was beauty to his strength and a grace to his powerful stride.

  He turned and saw her staring. “Why do you look at me?”

  Hope swallowed. “Your back—the marks. How did you get them?”

  He shrugged. “A warrior fights.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Something glinted in his eyes. “It is all the answer I choose to give.”

  But MacLeod halted at the kitchen door, frowning. He seemed to be fighting for composure as his gaze flickered from one corner of the room to another. He fingered his sword, staring at the single lamp that burned near the window. “By all the saints, what chaos have you brought to my house?”

  “Now, wait just a minute,” Hope snapped, as she sat at the table.

  He ignored her, studying Gabrielle warily. “You are the maidservant here? What is the year?” he demanded.

  She poured a cup of coffee and held it out to him. “Try this. My coffee will restore your memory,” she said sympathetically.

  He took an experimental sip and his face twisted in a grimace. “What manner of poison do you give me to drink?”

  “Double hazelnut espresso.”

  “Have you no good ale when a man breaks his fast?”

  Gabrielle simply stared.

  “No matter. What year is it?”

  Gabrielle looked at Hope. “Is this a game he plays?”

  “No game,” MacLeod said, deadly serious. His eyes were locked on the lamp glowing beneath the window. “Unless it is a game from a nightmare. Tell me the year.”

  “It’s 1998, of course.”

  A muscle moved at his jaw. Otherwise he stood rigid, frozen.

  Reeling inside.

  Again that impossible number. They changed his house, and then they set out to becloud his brain. Even the drink they gave him carried the bitter hint of poison.

  MacLeod saw their lips moving but could not understand their meaning. They spoke in blurred sounds that were almost a foreign tongue.

  “I am going out.” At least in the fresh air he could think clearly. It was dangerous to stay inside any longer. The room held too much color and heat, too much light from a globe where no light should come.

  Hope pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’ll go with you.”

  “There is no need.”

  “You’ll get lost. You’re in no shape to be wandering around alone.”

  He could not have her following him. The turmoil inside him was not for others to share.

  He schooled his face to a glare. “I need to wash, woman. Do you mean to follow me even there?”

  Color filled her cheeks. It only made her more beautiful, MacLeod thought bleakly.

  “No.” She looked away. “Of course not. But you’ll need soap, a towel. But we have a perfectly good shower inside.”

  The Scotsman turned away. The concern in her voice hurt him more than anything else. He had never known concern from a woman, never experienced uncomplicated human tenderness. It had been heat and anger and rough conquest on both sides, never tenderness and concern.

  Now he heard both in her voice. Now, when they could mean nothing to him.

  They made his breath tighten. They made him want her as he had wanted no other woman, spy or not.

  He cursed softly, moving to the door. The cold water would check his passion and clear his head.

  Maybe then he would find some answers.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MACLEOD STRODE THROUGH the glen, half blind.

  Around him the trees whispered, their dark leaves hung with beads of rain. But he did not notice. Only at the edge of the meadow did he stop and draw a shuddering breath.

  The air was heavy with the tang of pine sap and heather. Even that smell seemed wrong, with an edge of something he could not name. He stared at the glen, really seeing it for the first time. Pie Jesu, the changes were legion. Why had he not noticed them before?

  There should be no roses in a dark tangle at the base of the slope. There should be no neat plots of climbing beans and green herbs beyond the kitchen wall. To the north, where mist clung to the dim cliffs, the trees were too thick and the path was set at the wrong angle. Mounds of stones rose where no stones had lain, and new hedges ran in neat, clipped rows.

  Nothing as he remembered.

  Not the land. Not the house.

  MacLeod raised an unsteady hand to the weathered stone fence beside him. Thank the saints, this was the same. He had helped to raise these stones as a boy of eight, and he still remembered that day of woodsmoke and laughter, the sweat and tall tales that always came when MacLeod men gathered together to work. Yes, the fence stood unchanged, as if it had been raised only yesterday.

  But it had not been yesterday. Seven centuries and half a lifetime had passed since he had been an innocent boy of eight.

  His mind howled in outrage.

  It could not be. It could not….

  Yet how could he deny the strange shifting of earth and sky during the storm? How could he deny the truth of what he saw right now, familiar stones, familiar loch, yet all of it so completely wrong?

  His hands clenched on the rough stone. The pain would harden him against the questions he could no longer escape.

  MacLeod thought of all the changes he had seen inside the house: books that nestled in every corner instead of hidden safely away in locked chests. Bits of paper left lying about as if they were not precious materials. Finally, he thought of the stair rope strung on the wrong side of the entry tower and the kitchen filled with strange metals, colored baskets and too-bright fabrics.

  Wrong. All wrong.

  In the light of day there was no escaping the dark truth.

  He leaned against the stone fence and drove his fists against his eyes as if pain could chase away his questions. But the mocking images remained, proof unshakable that what he feared was true.

  Time changed. Time broken. His world…

  Gone.

  He sank blindly to one knee. What spell had cast him into this strange future? By whose hand had he been brought to this time?

  He had no answers.

  His jaw hardened as he drew his sword, trusted companion over so many years. With the sun glinting along the great blade, he drove the steel into the earth, fighting to understand what lay around him.

  The year was 1998.

  Centuries had fled past in a blur, wars fought and kingdoms lost. The treachery and intrigue of his age were now no more than wo
rds in dusty old books, like those lining Hope O’Hara’s shelves. In this age other wars were fought and other campaigns planned, in which he had no part.

  Time come and time gone.

  The changes of this new world battered at MacLeod’s mind. If it was true, he was finally free. His forced loyalty to the hated English king was at an end. Edward and all his court were no more. He had heard all his life about witchcraft and magic, but what conjurer could manage such vast changes?

  MacLeod bowed his head, touching his forehead to the cold silver of the sword’s pommel. There in the glen he struggled to understand, struggled to hold on to some shred of the only world he had known.

  But emptiness and a killing sense of loss lay around him. Tiny beads of rain brushed his face while the pungent smells of autumn drifted. And in that moment of reeling shock, death seemed welcome.

  But death would be no release. His father had taught him that.

  MacLeod stood slowly. His shoulders straightened. He remembered Angus MacLeod’s face when the English had marched through the glen. Even while the old man lay half dead after battle, hate and pain had forged his eyes to beaten steel. “There will be a purpose in their coming,” he had whispered while death yawned before him. “Go with them. Learn their ways and their strange tongue. Listen and mark well all their secrets. Then return home. That will be your purpose today. Not more death.”

  The old warrior had died then. Edward’s brutish soldiers had found Ronan hunched over his father’s lifeless body. In spite of his father’s words, the boy of twelve had bitten back tears and fought like a man. More than a few scars on his back bore old testimony to his rage against the English invaders.

  But in the end Ronan had failed. There had been no hope of victory in that icy glen. Bloody and defeated, bound by ropes and steel, he had done as his father bade and gone with his enemies. There had been no choice.

  “What purpose do you hold for me in this?” he whispered now to the God he had served so well in the East. But God seemed lost to him here, where mist veiled the trackless hills. Perhaps God had forgotten all about him.

  Down the glen, the wind seemed to carry his words through the tall pines. For a second Ronan almost imagined the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder and the sad, cruel keening of the pipes.