Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise

by Christina Skye

  Bloody log.

  Bloody man.

  She was clutching her toe tenderly when Gabrielle opened the door behind her. “You are exercising, Hope?”

  “Exercising my right of free speech,” Hope said hoarsely. “You might want to cover your ears.”

  “Sit down by the fire and stop working,” Gabrielle ordered. “All day you run from room to room, starting one project and stopping in the middle to begin another. You make me exhausted just to watch.” Her eyes narrowed. “It is because of MacLeod, I think.”

  Hope turned back to her worktable. Pride made her cover her hurt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the way you look at him. The way you manage to be in the kitchen whenever he’s fixing the stove or helping Jeffrey. I am talking about how you feel.”

  “I find him very pleasant. He’s been helpful around the inn.”

  Gabrielle muttered an angry phrase in French. “Like children, both of you. Always so polite, always so distant. Just good friends?” She glared at Hope, her dark eyes burning. “And me, I am Charles de Gaulle.”

  Hope’s throat burned. Any moment her humiliating secret would tumble out. It was bad enough that she’d fallen for a man with no explainable past; now his rejection had opened old, unhealed wounds.

  But she refused to fall apart. Summoning her pride, she glared back at Gabrielle. “Just because you and Jeffrey are head over heels doesn’t mean that everyone has to be in love.” Hope regretted the words as soon as she had said them, but by then it was too late.

  Color swept through Gabrielle’s cheeks. “At least we admit the way we feel.”

  “Gabrielle, I didn’t mean—”

  The chef raised one hand. “It is your choice to act as you will. I speak only because I see how you frown, how you worry. No, do not answer. You must decide your life as you choose. No one else can give advice or make your decisions for you.” She frowned, putting a package on the loaded worktable. “And this comes to the kitchen. It must be for you. Perhaps a secret admirer.”

  Hope hesitated.

  “Open it,” Gabrielle urged.

  The plain brown paper shredded away beneath Hope’s fingers. Inside a simple box she found layers of fine tissue paper. Beneath the paper a slender column of silk tumbled free, butter-soft, the exact color of spring violets. Lace edged the tiny silk straps, and rosebuds dotted the hand-rolled hem. The low neckline would hint at shadowed skin, as exquisitely sensual as the long slit at one side.

  It would make a woman feel like a fairy princess; it would make a man think of nothing but taking it off.

  “Women would kill to receive such a gift,” Gabrielle whispered. “But who sent it? There is no card or name on the paper.”

  “Maybe it’s a mistake.”

  Gabrielle’s lips pursed. “For a mistake, it fits you perfectly.”

  Hope lifted the shimmering silk against her body, watching light play over the surface. A woman would wear such a gown to meet her lover. A bride would cherish such a gown for her honeymoon.

  “Me, I go back to work,” Gabrielle murmured. “Otherwise I will begin to be jealous.”

  As she closed the door behind her, Hope let the garment slide through her fingers. The package must have been delivered by mistake. It was probably meant for one of the visitors at the inn.

  Mistake or not, Hope couldn’t resist another touch. She let the shimmering purple folds fall against her body and closed her eyes, imagining the scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine.

  And a man. A man who had eyes for no one but her.

  A cool wind skimmed her shoulders as the door jerked open behind her.

  “I’ve found a tree. I have holly, too, so that you can—” The holly slid forgotten to the worktable as MacLeod took in the sight of Hope and her luminous purple gown. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,” he said tightly.

  Hope’s first instinct was to drop the gown, but something held her back. She saw that MacLeod’s cool, impassive mask had finally slipped. Friendly curiosity had vanished beneath something darker and much more personal.

  “What are you staring at?”

  He didn’t speak, circling slowly as he took his time looking at her. With any other man, Hope would have found such intense scrutiny intolerable.

  “MacLeod?” Hope’s fingers tightened on the fragile silk.

  “It is beautiful.” His voice was husky. “As are you.”

  “Do you think so?” Some demon made Hope smile beneath lowered lashes. “It’s for sleeping in.” She stroked the silk along her body.

  Heat filled his eyes. “So you were planning to sleep?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d get around to it sometime.” The husky tone of Hope’s voice suggested she might get around to more important things first. “It’s an early Christmas gift.”

  MacLeod’s hand tightened on the corner of the table. “A gift?”

  “From a very close…friend.” Let him chew on that.

  “How close?” He wasn’t friendly and impersonal now. He wasn’t cool and confident. His shoulders were stiff and a pulse was beating visibly at his jaw.

  Hope liked the sight. She strolled closer, letting the gown ripple, letting him imagine how it would fit with nothing beneath. “Maybe that’s none of your business.” Her lips curved as she reached up to tug a sprig of holly from his hair.

  Oh, he was angry. She could see the storm in his silver-gray eyes. Maybe they were finally getting somewhere. Hope suddenly remembered their conversation when they were locked in the shed.

  You don’t have to look at me that way…as if I was fire and you were frozen.

  Perhaps it is so.

  She wanted to see that same look in his eyes now. “Jealous?”

  Heat snapped white-hot between them. His hands locked over her wrists. “Should I be?”

  “No fair. I asked first.”

  “Life is often unfair. So answer. Do you wear this for another man?”

  Hope tilted her head back, studying his face. “That’s confidential information.”

  His hands slipped up her arms. “Maybe I could find out.”

  “Maybe you could.” This time the challenge was hers.

  She saw it register in his eyes. Anger and something else shimmered for a moment, and then both were carefully banked.

  When he stepped back, his expression was unreadable. “It is the wrong time.” His callused hands were surprisingly gentle as he pulled a piece of lace from her hair.

  Hope’s heart jackknifed at his touch. She swung away from him and jammed the gown angrily back into its box.

  He didn’t matter a bit in her life. If he left tomorrow, it would make no difference to her.

  But when Hope looked down, she saw that she had wired a pair of scissors into the middle of her wreath.

  Just perfect.

  MacLeod picked up the evergreen by the door and slid it over his shoulder, laughing softly.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “I’m not quite sure. Perhaps it is you. Perhaps it is this beautiful house you’ve made here.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps it is simply the idea of Christmas.” He looked down at the gown in its plain box. “I’ll remember.”

  “You’ll remember what?”

  “Everything.”

  Hope glared at him, wondering what he would remember but too proud to ask. “I don’t have anything to remember.”

  For a moment darkness filled his eyes. “For some people that would be a blessing. Now I will go to arrange your tree.” His broad muscles flexed as he turned.

  “Oh, MacLeod.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t expect any Christmas gifts from me,” Hope said sweetly.

  “None were expected.” He glanced at the box that held the gown, and grinned lazily. “By all honor, the sight of you and that gown were gift enough.”

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Hope stared down at a second brown paper package lying o
n her bed. Jeffrey had brought up this one from the back terrace. Like the first, this one was also unaddressed, but for Hope’s name scrawled on the front.

  She spent the next fifteen minutes straightening the linen closet and trying to convince herself she had no interest in seeing what was inside the brown paper, but finally curiosity won out.

  Carefully she shook the package and listened for a telltale rattle, but heard only a whisper of fabric.

  Common sense sailed out the window. She tore into the brown wrapping, shredding it away in one stroke. Tissue paper emerged, bright with gilded angels. Then Hope went very still as the tissue paper parted.

  It was lace, what there was of it. It was white and frothy, every woman’s secret fantasy. A low, square neck fell to a tight, pleated bodice crowned with fluttering sleeves. The skirt was knee-length, elegant and full, layers and layers of it.

  Hope held one hand behind the fragile fabric. It would lure and seduce, all magic, hinting at what was—or wasn’t—worn beneath.

  It would delight any woman who wore it and torment any man who saw it.

  Hope played with the delicate coral ribbon threaded through the fitted bodice and felt her heart melt. It was perfect, absolutely perfect. She touched the delicate patterns, aching to put the gown on, but her clock told her there was no time.

  Like it or not, Winston Wyndgate was expected any moment. She’d let him search her house twice, which had revealed neither the brooch nor any documents of historical value. He had grudgingly dropped his harassment about the missing brooch.

  But Hope still sensed his suspicion centered on her. Only when the brooch was found would she be entirely cleared.

  As the clock struck three, a sleek black BMW raced up the drive at fever pitch. Trust Wyndgate not to be late.

  She lowered the gown back into its simple package, letting the lace slide through her fingers. After Wyndgate left, there would be carols and a tree-decorating ceremony.

  Hope sighed.

  The gown—and its mysterious donor—would have to wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WINSTON WYNDGATE’S waistcoat of paisley silk gleamed beneath finely tailored tweeds. His cuff links were of antique silver and his shirt was of Irish linen. But it was the happy smile on his face that made Hope truly uneasy.

  Gabrielle had shown him to a sunny room that overlooked the back lawns. Hope did not offer her hand when she entered.

  “My dear girl, how healthy you look. Your Christmas decorations are superb.” He raised his arms in a dramatic gesture like a seasoned lawyer working on a jury.

  Hope was not about to be manipulated by a man who harassed and threatened her. “I’m glad you enjoy them.” She took a seat by the back window. “But I doubt you came all this way to discuss Glenbrae’s decorations.”

  Wyndgate rested his arm comfortably on the mantel, every inch at ease. “No, of course not. And I will come to the point, for you must be very busy this time of year.” His eyes narrowed. “With your inn finally full, you’re no doubt beginning to make a nice return on your investment.” The sunlight glinted on his silver hair. “And I’m sure, like myself, you wish to see this unpleasant situation with the brooch resolved.”

  Hope frowned, waiting for him to get to the point.

  “To that end I’ve hired a private investigator to find the brooch. He’s a good man, CID background and awards commendations. I’ve worked with him on several cases of art theft, which is why I particularly wanted him for the job.”

  Hope stiffened. What was Wyndgate getting at?

  He toyed with an herb basket on the mantel. “Charming, quite charming. Now, where was I? Oh yes, Beresford. Just last week he came up with an interesting discovery. Quiet as this area of the Highlands would appear, it has not always been so. According to his report, twenty-five years ago there was a string of robberies here in Glenbrae and the surrounding villages. This area was a haven for blue bloods then—salmon fishing, grouse hunting and sport of all kinds. Problem was, they refused to leave their valuables at home. Jewelry, period rifles and whatever baubles were at hand—nothing was safe. Not even the books in their libraries.”

  Hope frowned. “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  The collector drummed his fingers lightly on the mantelpiece. “Beresford has reason to believe that the robberies have begun again.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. We’ve had no problems here. No one in Glenbrae has.”

  “None that have been made public,” Wyndgate murmured. “Usually these things are hushed up by the insurance companies. Theft is bad for corporate morale, you know. Shareholders worry about their investments.”

  “You think that the same person stole the brooch? If so, why would he wait twenty-five years to start stealing again?”

  Wyndgate steepled his fingers. “Haven’t got a clue, I’m afraid. I’ve taken the information to the authorities, of course. Someone should be coming up to speak with you within the next week. They’ve assigned a man by the name of Kipworth, Detective Sergeant James A.”

  Hope pushed to her feet. “I’ll be delighted to speak with Detective Sergeant Kipworth, of course. And now if there’s nothing else…”

  “No, nothing.” Wyndgate’s eyes narrowed. “I thought I would stay over for a day or two in the village. Poke about myself, if you see what I mean. Thought I’d take some pictures of the stairwell for my records. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Hope shrugged. It’s a free country.

  But his presence unsettled her. She couldn’t be comfortable until the brooch was found, and both of them knew it. “I wish you good luck, but I doubt you’ll find much. If any village is the picture of order and tranquility, Glenbrae is it.”

  “You remember what they say about judging books by their covers, Miss O’Hara.” Wyndgate turned at the doorway. “Meanwhile, I suggest that you be careful. Glenbrae is not the haven of tranquility you believe it to be. I suggest you consider locking your doors. And of course, don’t trust any strangers.

  DON’T TRUST ANY STRANGERS.

  Hope tried to shrug off Wyndgate’s warning as she dressed for the night’s festivities. There was nothing suspicious going on in Glenbrae. If so, she would have known it.

  In spite of that, Wyndgate’s last words left her uneasy.

  She looked in the mirror and straightened the silk ribbon in her hair, a perfect match to her long tartan skirt. Her red satin blouse added the color she needed. Something bright. Something happy.

  Something that would distract her from the depression that seemed to be growing all day.

  She had invited Archibald Brown and the Wishwell sisters tonight, along with the quieter members of the Investment Club. Having the whole group would have been too dangerous to her breakable ornaments. After the guests finished trimming the Christmas tree, they would sing carols before the blazing fire. Then Gabrielle would usher in an assortment of traditional desserts, from mincemeat pies to lemon curd cake and syllabubs. Even now the exact menu was a closely guarded secret.

  Hope tried to summon up a proper sense of gaiety for her first Christmas at Glenbrae. Outside, snow feathered down and the glen lay blue-gray in the grip of twilight. All was quiet, mountains and loch caught in a veil of unbroken peace.

  Only she seemed to be restless and uneasy.

  She squared her shoulders, refusing to dwell on the things she had lost. She had made wonderful friends, and tonight was her way of thanking them for their inspiration and encouragement. They expected her to be happy, and so she would.

  In fact, she was going to smile her way through the evening if it killed her.

  “BUT IT STILL makes no sense. Why do you cut down a tree and carry the whole thing inside rather than just one log?” MacLeod frowned at Jeffrey, who was struggling to lift a bulky oak log onto his shoulder in response to Hope’s request for firewood to last the evening.

  “Because it takes the whole tree to hold the ornaments.”

  “Ornamen
ts?”

  “Decorations. Shiny bells and glittery stars.” Jeffrey grunted as he dropped the log. “Things to make you happy and remind you this is the season for giving. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a Christmas tree before.”

  MacLeod shrugged. Over the past weeks he had learned to guard his answers carefully, for fear of giving away the truth of his past. As a result, each day he tottered between excitement and savage frustration. There were too many things to learn, too many mistakes that could expose him.

  He had no reason to believe anyone would accept his story as the truth. From the books he had skimmed and the television he had seen, MacLeod had discovered the twentieth century to be a time as wary as his own. People were easily frightened by anything that could not be explained by the normal rules of their science.

  And he certainly could not be explained.

  If he wasn’t careful, he would be declared mad and be strapped into one of those tight canvas jackets he had seen on a late-night movie.

  “A Christmas tree? Not that I can remember,” he said cautiously.

  “Foul luck,” Jeffrey said sympathetically. “My parents were never big on sentiment, but at least they saw to a tree for us every year.” He frowned at the pile of logs. “You’ll enjoy tonight. Hope’s been planning this for days now.” He grunted, trying vainly to lift another log.

  MacLeod pulled it free and dropped it effortlessly on the pile already cradled in his arms.

  “Show-off.” Jeffrey sniffed, studying him intently. “So, MacLeod, is there something going on between the two of you?”

  “Going…on?”

  “Don’t give me that icy look. I’ve seen the two of you together. Hope used to shimmer whenever you were around. Her eyes positively caught fire. But now she never smiles. Come to think of it, neither do you.”

  MacLeod shouldered the last pieces of wood, shoved the shed door shut with his foot, and started up the path toward the inn. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said tensely.

  “And I’m the Pope,” Jeffrey muttered.

  MacLeod’s brow rose. “You do not look like any pope that I have ever seen.”