MacLeod kicked at the snow. “I cannot change what I am or what I have done. But there was no joy for me, if that is your question.”
The fir bough snapped beneath his fingers. Green needles rained down on the drifting snow like fallen blood.
“Honesty at last. An excellent start.” Adrian rubbed his hands briskly. “Now to work.”
“Go away, ghost. I am tired.” And I am afraid of believing in your dreams.
Adrian’s brow rose. “Leave just when you’re beginning to be interesting? Out of the question, man.” He stared off to the north, where the dark outline of a cottage lay faint against falling snow. “We have work to do.”
MacLeod’s brows snapped together in an angry line. “I am not staying. It is impossible. Do not torment me with impossible hopes.”
“Nothing is impossible to an open heart. Oh, the things I could tell you, Scotsman, the places I have been. Miracles, some would call them.” Adrian’s lips curved. “But you’re not impressed, are you? The Kings’ Wolf must have seen sights of his own.”
MacLeod shrugged, hating the lurch of excitement he had felt at the possibility of staying in this place, this time.
With Hope. Because without her, all would be dust and noise and empty laughter.
“Tell me about…possibilities, ghost.” He touched the tin star gently. “Tell me about things that are possible with an open heart.”
“Rather be in a kilt, would you?” Adrian’s eyes glinted. “That can be arranged, too.” He murmured softly to himself, sketched a figure in the air.
MacLeod flinched in shock to find himself stripped of his jeans and wrapped in a heavy wool tartan with a leather tunic covering his chest. “Pie Jesu, how did you—”
With a clang, a pair of metal gauntlets slammed down on the snow before him.
“Sold them, didn’t you? Had to buy things for Christmas. Oh, she’ll be in a rare fury at that, my boy. Especially when she sees what’s in that silver box of yours. Never try to understand a woman at Christmas, I warn you.”
“She won’t find out,” MacLeod said grimly. He took a step, enjoying the freedom of the heavy wool, but half expecting the kilt to disappear.
“Oh, it’s real enough, snatched off the display dummy in a darkened museum. Suits you, true enough. Women would swoon.” Adrian steepled his fingers. “Now I need to think, so leave me.”
His lace fluttered and grew pale.
“What are you planning, Draycott?”
“So now you say my name. Interested in spite of yourself, I think. And afraid to hope that there could be miracles at work tonight.”
MacLeod frowned. Life had taught him that hopes were useless deceptions meant to punish fools. Maybe he was afraid to believe anything else. “Nothing real can come of dreams.”
“You believe this?” Light glimmered around Adrian’s slowly fading head. “Learn to hope, MacLeod. Learn to dream. What you find may surprise even you.” His lace fluttered, exquisite as the drifting snow and as quickly fading. “Come, Gideon.”
The cat stood, meowed low.
Somewhere far over the lonely glens, church bells chimed twelve times, then once more, a pure, faint peal that hung long in the chilly air.
Then the sounds faded. White lace winked out abruptly, and black velvet was swallowed up by the night. The Scotsman was left alone in the snow, alone in the darkness.
He looked down, fingered the heavy wool, studied the paw prints that had vanished at the edge of a snowdrift. Most of all he stared at a little tin star, wondering about lost dreams and open hearts.
“SOMETHING’S WRONG.” Morwenna Wishwell paced anxiously, her eyes on the window. “There’s more snow than we usually have, and the wind is too strong.”
“Do stop worrying, Morwenna.” Perpetua tasted the stew steaming over the fire, added a pinch of bay and thyme, then nodded in satisfaction. “Perfect.”
Behind her the wind howled around the eaves. The door shook twice, then banged open, revealing a tall figure in velvet as dark as the night that seemed to enfold him.
Morwenna froze, one hand clutching her chest. “Pet, look. He…he’s found us.”
“Of course, my dear. Are you shocked that your meddling did not go undetected?” Adrian Draycott strode inside, with his black cape flapping about his shoulders.
“Stop hounding my sister.” Perpetua blocked his way. “A bully, that’s all you ever were, Adrian Draycott. You don’t scare me a whit.”
“No, I don’t, do I? Always had the spine of ten men, my dear.” His eyes darkened. “But this time you have gone too far. You’re dealing with a man, not some shivering rodent out of your garden.”
“He knows,” Morwenna whispered, white-faced.
“Of course I know,” Adrian thundered. “You’ve dragged a poor mortal across the centuries to do your bidding. Don’t try to deny it.” He crossed his arms, glaring at Morwenna.
Perpetua stood her ground. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about Ronan MacLeod.”
Perpetua hid her dismay with a sniff. “What was done was done by all of us, three as one. And you’ll cool that sharp tone of yours or you’ll leave this instant, Adrian Draycott. I’ll see to that.”
Adrian glared.
Perpetua glared back.
The fire hissed in the grate. Orange flames shot up the chimney.
Adrian began to laugh, a low rumble that climbed up his chest and filled the whole room. “As I live and breathe, you three have made a rare mess this time.”
“You neither live nor breathe,” Perpetua corrected irritably. “And we need none of your interference.”
“No?” Adrian slid off his cape and held his hands out before the fire. “Cold as death out there. Shouldn’t wonder if this glen was haunted. Now, start at the beginning and leave out nothing. Some of that stew would be nice, too, for I’ll need my wits clear about me tonight. No one ever made a stew as fine as you, Perpetua, my dear.”
The woman in the shawl glared at him. “And no man ever knew his way around a compliment half so smoothly as you did.”
Adrian raised one hand. “Enough bickering. Our battle’s gone on long enough. Maybe together we can find a way through this muddle. You’re certain of the danger?”
Perpetua nodded reluctantly.
“That settles it. I won’t have my mortal wards put in danger. I am with you in this, like it or not.” He stared into the fire, his face a play of light and shadows, irritation and regret. “It’s time we put the past to rest. Lives were lost and good men died.”
Morwenna made a soft, broken sound and shoved one hand to her mouth.
“I’ve said I’m sorry, blast it. The choice wasn’t mine, nor was the execution of it. It’s what men do, how they live their life. War is in the blood.”
“And they died for a few dreams, hunted down like animals,” Perpetua said.
Adrian ran a hand across his brow. “It was…wrong. But they wouldn’t have listened, no matter what I said. Glory can be a heady wine, especially to a Scotsman.” He straightened his shoulders. “We’re wasting time. There is work before us.” He took a chair before the fire and raised one brow. “Well, what are you waiting for? Do you have any care for those you’ve meddled with?”
With an irritated sigh, Perpetua sat opposite him, followed by Honoria. Finally Morwenna followed, her face very pale.
Adrian settled back in his chair, hands held to the fire. “Now, tell me how you began. Leave out no word or detail. And then you had best pray that we are all very canny.” His silver eyes gleamed as an owl called from the high woods. “For something is most definitely afoot in the night.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
GLENBRAE’S HIGH CLIFFS, usually angry and flat, were draped in silver. Winter stretched rich and silent, painting the glen an unbroken sweep of white.
Hope rubbed a haze of mist from the window, telling herself she wasn’t waiting for MacLeod’s quick step in the hall or the cli
ck of his hand at the doorknob. She wasn’t waiting for his crooked smile and heart-stopping laugh.
Angrily she shoved back her hair. She was not going to lose her head over a handsome-as-sin soldier with gaping holes in his past.
With a sigh she rested her forehead against the cold window. Who was she trying to fool? She was losing her head—had already lost it. She was already his, caught by bonds deeper than words or logic. And tonight by the snow-covered fir tree she had been well on the way to showing him just how much he meant to her.
She paced restlessly, remembering his laughter.
Ah, God, his wonderful, callused hands.
If not for the arrival of their late guests, he would have taken her there in the snow, and Hope would not have denied him. There in the night, only skin and pulse and heat had mattered. There was rare gentleness in the man, no matter what dark warnings he repeated. She knew he would not have hurt her.
But loving him might. Touching him tonight had made that clear.
Hope had survived many things in her life, an awkward adolescence, losing her family members one by one, and near bankruptcy. But she wasn’t certain that she could survive Ronan MacLeod. He could be gone tomorrow in the morning mist, just as he had warned.
She lowered her head, arms locked at her knees while angry tears pricked behind her eyelids. Blast him for coming just when she was getting her life in order. Damn him for making her want more, for seeing dreams that only he could make real.
Hope rubbed her head, thinking of his manger and the figures carved with such exquisite skill. The project must have taken him weeks. What kind of man carved a manger in this day and age?
A man with a granite code of honor.
A man who would always choose his own road.
She thought of her desk, crowded with bills and menus. Only yesterday a fax had confirmed the upcoming visit of Detective Sergeant James Kipworth. If the snow continued, there would be calls to make, plans to change, extra food to lay in. At their present rate, they would run out of eggs and milk in four days, and fresh produce in five. That left her with—
Nothing.
Her brain simply shut down, numbers and plans forgotten. Outside, snow whispered against the window like the voices of those she had lost in her life. Everyone Hope had loved most had died, first her parents and then her great, noisy uncle, a man she had been certain would outlive her by decades.
All she had were a few letters and a trunk full of faded photographs. Greece in autumn, Paris in spring, Minnesota in July. But memories didn’t keep you warm. Hope had discovered that after one too many haunted dawns. Even Gabrielle, Jeffrey, the Wishwells and Archibald Brown, dear friends one and all, couldn’t fill the void in her wounded heart.
It just wasn’t the same.
Hope had always prided herself on her pragmatism and her ability to take care of herself. Now Ronan MacLeod slammed into her life and left her wanting a hard shoulder to lean on. The knowledge of her slowly unraveling independence left Hope terrified.
She didn’t want to need him.
She certainly didn’t want to love him.
Her shoulders bowed as strain and exhaustion took their toll. With firelight dancing around her, she closed her eyes, slipping into the dark wells where dreams began.
Why doesn’t he come…?
THE SNOW FELL ON, silent and pure, waves of white against the dark sky. MacLeod circled the house, waiting for the sharp prick of danger between his shoulder blades, an instinct that had saved him on a dozen bloody battlefields.
But nothing moved in the night. No warning tightened his chest. Tonight the greatest danger lay inside Glenbrae, where one high, dark window mocked him. He thought of Hope. Pacing, asleep, waiting. Dressed in lace or sheerest silk.
The woman he loved.
The man MacLeod had been, hardened soldier and inveterate wanderer, urged him to find her there in the darkness and take her as he would have in the snow, fast and desperate. In the darkness there would be no time for questions or honor.
No time…
And time was the question, wasn’t it? The person MacLeod had become was all too aware that taking would be only the beginning. With the heat of their bodies they would forge new dreams and a future that MacLeod barely dared to imagine.
He slid a hand across his brow, struck by a wave of exhaustion. His leg ached and the cold bit into his bones, but he did not move toward the silent house and the high, dark window beneath the roof.
Honor held him still. Honor made his hands fist as snow hissed over the heavy thatch. Hope had needed a miracle on the night he’d been brought here. She needed someone still to share the burdens of this beautiful, demanding house.
What she had was MacLeod, although he wasn’t sure if his appearance in this time was a miracle or a curse for her.
Only time would tell.
Meanwhile, flawed or not, he was the only warrior she had.
HOPE HEARD THE WATER running next door and jerked upright. She hadn’t been sound asleep, merely drowsing before the fire with her legs tucked beneath her and a tartan thrown across her shoulders for warmth.
She’d been waiting for MacLeod, waiting for what had seemed like hours. Maybe even lifetimes. That would explain the instant familiarity she had felt with him.
But she wasn’t going to get caught up in philosophical dilemmas. Tonight was a night for being practical.
And for being desperate.
Because tonight she was going to put them both out of their misery.
She took a long look in the antique cheval glass by the door. Her hair glowed, sleek and glossy, a smooth cap around her pale face. The gown from her anonymous donor spilled around her slender body, all lace and satin rosebuds. It clung, it hinted, it teased, as seductive as she’d imagined.
Time to go.
The tartan hit the floor. Her heart was hammering and there was a wild streak of color in her cheeks.
Fear, she told herself. Raw fear.
Head high, she pushed open the door to MacLeod’s adjoining room. All was in darkness except for the gilt patterns cast by a dying fire. The air held a hint of steam from the open bathroom door.
Hope’s bare feet made no sound as she crossed the room. Though her hands were trembling, she wouldn’t turn back. She had found her dream tonight by the little manger and the tin star. Now she was going to reach out and make the dream come true.
The door opened without a sound. She could see Ronan behind the shower door, forearms to the wall, head lowered beneath a biting stream of spray. The exhaustion in his broad shoulders almost made Hope turn away.
Almost.
She took a deep breath and raised her chin. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she swept back the heavy glass door. “Three things, MacLeod. And don’t interrupt me.”
“What are you doing in here?” He lunged for a towel, but Hope blocked his hand, terrified if she didn’t finish, the words would never come.
“Don’t interrupt, just listen.” She shoved back her hair, and there was no way she could know how vulnerable the gesture made her look. The single light frosted her skin, all hollows and curves, though she could not know that either. “First, this.” She pointed to the froth of lace draping her body. “Is this from you? Did you send it here?”
His surprise was genuine. “It was not my gift.”
“I thought not. Two, did you mean what you said tonight by the manger? Did you really…want me?”
His head bowed. Hope began to suspect the exhaustion she had seen was regret and the tension of some internal battle he was fighting.
He took a harsh breath. “Go away, Hope.”
“After you answer me.”
His eyes clouded with anger. “I wanted you. I still do,” he said grimly. “In my present state, that’s all too obvious. Contrary to what your experts say, cold water is of no help in this situation.”
Hope looked down and felt her legs melt. That tall, lean body glistened, slick with water
, all ridged muscles and angry control. Even as he stood with his side to her, Hope saw the hard inches arrowing from a nest of dark hair, testimony to the battle he was waging—and losing.
“You see now?”
“What am I supposed to see? That you’re a man and not a machine? That some things even you can’t control?” Hope reached past and shut off the water. She wasn’t going to back down now—and she wouldn’t let him back down either.
She held out her hand, relieved that it shook only a little. “Here.”
He stared down at the small packet resting on her palm. “A Christmas gift? There was no need.”
Hope stared at him. “Take it, MacLeod. And don’t pretend you don’t know what it is or why I’m offering it.” Color filled her cheeks as he lifted the small foiled square. “I haven’t had a lot of experience with these things, but I know what’s right.”
She waited for recognition, for the rebuff that would crush her. Her uneasiness grew, racing into panic. “Well, say something.”
He stared at the packet. Frowning, he turned it back and forth in his fingers.
With every passing second, Hope’s willpower fled. She was making a fine mess of this. What had made her think she could carry it off? Where men were concerned, her life had always been a complete disaster.
“What kind of experience do you lack?”
Surely he didn’t expect details. She wasn’t about to make a litany of her bungled relationships, not when she had worked so hard to forget them.
“Give that to me.” She lunged for his hand, but MacLeod pulled away, frowning. She spun nervously, bolting for the door.
Her cheeks flamed as MacLeod trapped her against the wall. His body was rigid with demand, but his hands were surprisingly gentle. “Talk to me, Hope.”
“I don’t walk to talk. I wanted to s-seduce you, damn it, but I’ve changed my mind. L-let me go,” she blurted, awash in embarrassment. Why was it things like this never happened in the movies? There was simply a knowing glance, a soulful smile, then a swift cut to beautiful bodies moving in perfect symmetry.
Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise Page 25
