Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise

by Christina Skye

  “Only because he is a fool. Do not worry.” Gabrielle held open the door. “Shall I go along for moral support?”

  “I’ll manage. All I have to do is tell the truth, after all.” Hope hesitated. “I don’t suppose you saw MacLeod when you were out?”

  “He was down at the stables feeding that great beast of his.” Jeffrey pulled on his heavy knit cap and looked questioningly at Hope. “I’ll fetch him if you like.”

  “There’s no need to bother him.” Hope lowered her head to hide the color that filled her cheeks. She remembered how she had awakened in his arms. Her hands had been fisted in his hair, the sheets shoved on the floor, and she had been draped over him like wrapping paper on a gift box.

  And he had been wide-awake, enjoying every sinful second of it.

  The rest didn’t bear remembering.

  Not in mixed company.

  “I should be able to handle Detective Sergeant Kipworth just fine. After all, it’s just a few questions,” she said firmly.

  James Kipworth was fit and ruddy, with long arms and pale green eyes that missed nothing. After showing Hope his ID, he declined a cup of tea and got swiftly to business. “You are not currently a suspect, Ms. O’Hara, but until I finish my inspection, I can say nothing more.”

  “Inspection?”

  He surveyed the sunny room. “A crime has been committed, and it is my job to follow every lead, Ms. O’Hara. You must understand the importance of that.”

  Hope hesitated. “But I still don’t understand why someone’s been sent all the way from Edinburgh.”

  “We have reason to believe the stolen brooch was resold there. That brings the case under our jurisdiction.” He fingered a row of books, frowning. “I suppose you’ve noticed that the phone lines are out.”

  “We just found out. I’m praying the weather clears by tomorrow.”

  The sergeant stared northward and shook his head. “Not much chance of that, I’d say. More snow is my guess. Two, even three days of it.”

  “I hope you’re wrong. Meanwhile, I expect you’ll need a place to stay. You won’t be getting through the mountains in this weather.”

  “A room would be most appreciated.” His eyes narrowed as he picked up some of the figures from MacLeod’s manger, now ensconced on Hope’s desk. “Do you collect old mangers, Ms. O’Hara?”

  “That one is only a replica, actually.”

  “Someone local, I understand.”

  Hope nodded but hesitated to say more, suddenly aware of a world of questions that threatened. What if he asked for MacLeod’s papers or proof of some identity? There would be nothing to show, and that would lead to even more questions.

  “Is something wrong, Ms. O’Hara?”

  “Er…no. I was just worrying about the weather.” She knew she was pale and turned away to conceal it.

  The officer set the figure carefully back in its place. “Whoever your carver is, he’s got a light hand.” Without pausing, he slid a small, dog-eared notebook from his front pocket and smiled broadly. “Now, perhaps you will show me where you first found the brooch.”

  There was no change in his voice, no break in his matter-of-fact manner.

  The man would be one killer interrogator, Hope realized. A person would be answering questions before he even heard them, blurting out secrets and confessing to crimes he never knew he’d committed. “It’s just down the hall.”

  “Fine, fine. After that, I’d like to have a look through the rooms.”

  “Rooms? I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll need to search everything, both public and private areas. Standard procedure, you know.” Beneath his calm tone, Hope detected a will of iron.

  She thought of the explanations to the guests, who would be rightfully upset at the intrusion. A current police investigation would hardly help her business. Hope frowned. “You don’t really think the thief is here, do you?”

  Beyond the leaded windows, more snow fell, heavy and silent, swept up in eddies by the wind.

  The detective sergeant opened his notebook and chuckled softly. “I believe that I am supposed to ask the questions, Ms. O’Hara. The sooner I do that, the sooner I can be on my way, which is what we both want.”

  Pages riffled and Kipworth cleared his throat. Hope hated the uneasiness uncoiling through the pit of her stomach.

  “I would like to start my examination after you answer a few questions.”

  “Of course.”

  The pale green eyes were deceptively keen as they flickered over the desk and bookshelves. “You were the one who found the brooch?”

  Hope swallowed, remembering that night on the stairs. It seemed like a century ago. Everything had changed since MacLeod had come to Glenbrae.

  Or maybe it was simply that she had changed. Suddenly she had someone to laugh with, someone to plan and share with.

  “Ms. O’Hara?”

  “Sorry. What did you say?

  “I was asking about the brooch.” He closed his notebook with a snap. “Why don’t you show me exactly where you found it.”

  GABRIELLE PEEKED INTO Hope’s office an hour later, her expression wary. “Should I swing my heaviest pan and knock him senseless?”

  Hope rubbed the knot of muscles throbbing at her neck. “No need. He was nice enough. He’ll be looking through the inn, starting with the public rooms. After that he’ll be checking the guest rooms and living quarters.”

  “He suspects us?”

  Hope tried to bank her own angry sense of violation. “He’s simply being thorough, Gabrielle. The brooch was very valuable for historical reasons, Wyndgate is an important man, and he paid me a lot of money for it. I expect he’s put more than a little pressure on the police to produce the thief.” She smiled bitterly. “If there are any clues here, Detective Sergeant Kipworth means to find them. He reminds me of a hungry dog with a very big bone.”

  “The kitchen, too?”

  “The kitchen, too.”

  “If that man lays a finger on my cassoulet, I will give him a word or two. I won’t have my dinner ruined, investigation or no investigation.”

  “It’s his job.” Hope winced as her muscles tightened painfully. “We all need to cooperate as much as possible.”

  “Police.” Gabrielle blew out a hard stream of air. “I knew one in Paris. He arranged for expensive cars to be stolen so that he could find them.”

  Hope massaged her forehead and watched snow swirl over the leaded window. “What happened to him?”

  “Promoted in three months, he was. The evening papers called him a hero.” Gabrielle sniffed and flipped one hand. “Police.”

  “ARE YOU SURE you won’t come with us?” Jeffrey stamped his snowy feet on the edge of the carpet. “Perpetua particularly wanted to see you.”

  “I can’t leave now, Jeffrey. There are a thousand things to do here.”

  Jeffrey frowned. “Is something bothering you, Hope? I mean, besides the fact that you’re running out of food and in the middle of a police investigation.” He gave a dry laugh. “As if that isn’t enough.”

  “I’m fine, Jeffrey.”

  “If MacLeod has done something or bothered you, I’ll call him out. Even if he can tear me into little pieces.”

  Hope’s lips curved at the image of hand-to-hand combat at Glenbrae House’s front courtyard. Very medieval, she decided, and that was entirely appropriate. But there was nothing wrong that a week’s sleep, a delivery of food and a closed police investigation wouldn’t cure.

  The officer’s questions had just left her feeling edgy and all too aware of MacLeod’s peculiar situation. His silent presence was starting to grate on Hope’s nerves, and the threat of more bad weather only added to her uneasiness.

  It was just as well that MacLeod was busying himself in the stable. He had hinted about a secret to be completed before Christmas, and no amount of wheedling would dig any more details out of him.

  Hope touched her cheeks, sensitive from being thoroughly manhand
led during their long hours of lovemaking. She wished he would come back. She wanted the man, not his gifts. She wanted to hear his cocky laugh and feel his callused hands.

  Laughter trailed through the hall as Lady Draycott and her daughter raced around the corner. Miss Vee was bundled into a bright parka, her eyes full of excitement.

  “Off to the Wishwells for lunch, are you?”

  Genevieve nodded, wriggling with barely contained energy. “Mr. Gibbs is coming, too. He loves the snow.” She pulled the bear from beneath her parka, revealing a brilliant fuchsia sweater and matching knit beret. “See?”

  “Very dashing,” Hope agreed.

  “I hope the snow won’t stop until we get there. Miss Morwenna said I could eat stew and pet the cats. They have three, did you know?”

  Hope smiled. “I don’t think you need to worry about the snow melting away anytime soon.”

  Kacey Draycott helped her daughter tuck Mr. Gibbs into a safe pocket. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you about those figures in the manger. They are remarkably like a set of rare chess pieces I saw in Paris several years ago. Mid-thirteenth century or thereabouts. I remember them because that style of carving in the round is unique. You are certain yours are only reproductions?” Kacey Draycott frowned. “If those are authentic, they would be worth a great deal of money. I could suggest a reputable dealer. Several museums would probably be interested in bidding, too.”

  Thirteenth century.

  Hope watched wet snow slip down the window. Sounds filled her head. Of course, the style was thirteenth century. That was exactly when MacLeod had learned it. “You’re certain of the date?” Hope said softly.

  “Near enough. I’d put it around the Fourth Crusade. Medieval weapons are my real specialty, but I’ve built up a collection of folk sculpture over the years. I rather covet those pieces myself, but I doubt I could afford them.” Her eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it, they would be about the same period as that lovely cross you’re wearing.”

  The cross he had given her. The cross she had promised to wear always.

  Hope had a sudden image of Ronan MacLeod, angry and disoriented the night of his arrival in the storm. He had insisted that Glenbrae House was wrong, the rooms were wrong, the furniture was wrong. That the date she gave him was impossible.

  Thirteenth century.

  Hope’s scalp prickled as the enormity of their miracle struck her. By all laws of nature, they never should have met.

  She thought of a man swept through a fold in time, forever lost to his own world. He had come seven hundred years to find her, against all logic and all odds. Hope swore she would make him happy. Most of all she would love him, driving away the hell of a thousand battles that still shadowed his gray eyes.

  “Look, Mama, someone’s coming.” Genevieve Draycott ran to the window. “He’s all covered with snow and he’s wearing a kilt. Aren’t his legs cold?”

  “I expect he’s used to it, my love.”

  “It’s Mr. MacLeod, isn’t it?”

  “I think you’re right, Miss Vee.”

  Hope swallowed, feeling her pulse kick sharply. Desire was one thing in the sultry darkness while hormones ran amok. But in the daylight, reason prevailed.

  Maybe he’d changed his mind.

  Maybe he already regretted everything.

  Parkas rustled. “Can we go say hello, Mama? I want to see his kilt.”

  “Most women would,” Kacey murmured.

  Hope heard laughter and the stamp of boots, then the sound of a door closing. Greetings flashed back and forth, pleasantries exchanged as if from a great distance.

  And then she was swept up against Ronan’s chest, locked in a kiss that could have sizzled graphite.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “LOOK, MAMA, THEY’RE kissing again.”

  “So I see, my love.”

  Genevieve considered for a moment. “Is that how grownups make babies?”

  Kacey Draycott cleared her throat. “Not exactly, Vee.”

  “Sarah’s nanny told her that babies come on milk day and the delivery man leaves them off, but I don’t believe it.”

  “That’s very wise of you.”

  “So where do they come from?”

  Silence spun out.

  “Mama, why do you look so funny?”

  “I think, my love, that we should leave them alone while you and I…go discuss some things.”

  Dimly Hope heard a door shut. Over the hammering in her head she felt a cold draft slice through the room.

  Reason returned. “Ronan, that was awful.”

  His brow arched. “Then I’ll try again.”

  “No, not how you kissed. I mean the timing. It was terribly rude of us. Now you’ve chased them away.”

  “Nonsense. Lady Draycott appears to be a woman who can handle anything. And her daughter could probably charm the growl from a tiger.”

  Hope frowned down at his neck. There were two faint red lines running from his ear to his shoulder. “Did I do that?”

  “Among other things.” MacLeod laughed. “I’ll be glad to reveal the extent of the damage upstairs.”

  “Upstairs? We can’t. Ronan, where are you taking me?”

  “Upstairs.” His hands locked around her. “For a survey of your amenities, Ms. O’Hara. As a prospective guest, I’ll need to check your inn thoroughly.” His eyes darkened. “We’ll inspect the private rooms. Test the beds.”

  “We can’t. It’s the middle of the morning.” Hope took a shaky breath. Dear Lord, there was a detective roaming around already. “When you didn’t come back, I thought you might already be regretting this….”

  He stopped, studying her face. “Regret loving you? No man could be so foolish, my heart. Is that what all this protesting is about?”

  Hope shrugged. “Maybe.” She felt the lurch of her heart and the rising heat of him at her hip. “Ronan, you’re—”

  He gave her a slow, dark smile. “So I am. It appears to happen whenever I’m around you.”

  He carried her into his room and set her down by the window. Sunlight filtered over her flushed cheeks. “You’re wearing my gift.” He touched the silver cross gently, then turned to close the door. As he did, his foot struck something beside the window.

  Hope heard the crack of shattering porcelain. She winced at the sight of her oldest blue and white vase in pieces on the floor. Beside it lay the ugly weathered gargoyle that MacLeod had brought in from the stable. Now a crack ran through the stone from end to end.

  “Forgive me for the vase,” MacLeod muttered. “Someone must have moved it since last night. Now I’ve ruined your statue.”

  “Wait,” Hope said, frowning. “There’s something inside it, Ronan.” She brushed away chips of stone and broken pottery, tugging at a layer of heavy plastic folded inside the carving.

  A flat rectangular form emerged, dusted with dirt and stone powder. Ronan peered over her shoulder, rubbing his heel. “What is it?”

  “Some kind of book, I think.” Hope eased yellowed pages out from beneath an oilskin covering. “Very old, by the look of it.” Then her fingers stilled. “It—it can’t be.”

  “Can’t be what?” MacLeod sank down beside her.

  “Look at those handwritten letters.” Hope drew a low breath. “Look at the script and those margin notes. It’s Macbeth,” she whispered reverently.

  “I have heard of this lord who killed his king. He was a villain. Why write about such a man and such an unnatural crime?”

  Hope ran a finger gently over the old pages, feeling excitement race through her. “Because evil was to be a warning to others. Look at this.” She pointed to the next page. “‘Newly corrected by W. Shakespeare.’” Her hands shook as she laid the pages on her lap. “Shakespeare himself,” she repeated. “The date says 1616.”

  “It is valuable, then?”

  “Valuable beyond price,” Hope breathed. “My uncle always believed that Macbeth was the most disputed of Shakespeare’s plays.
He was convinced that Shakespeare abbreviated the play himself, and then his version was corrupted by others. If this is real and a genuine work, corrected by the playwright himself…” She looked up. “We’ll have to find Jeffrey. Drama is his specialty. He’ll know if it’s real.” She started to rise, but MacLeod held her still.

  “Are you certain you should do that?” His eyes were hard. “If this is so precious, maybe it would be better not to mention it to anyone else.”

  “You think Jeffrey…”

  MacLeod rubbed his neck. “I don’t know. I only think it would be better to wait.”

  “I don’t like this. Not any of it,” Hope said angrily. “You make me suspect everyone.”

  “Even me?” MacLeod slid the book back into its hiding place, frowning. “My own arrival has been anything but a normal one. This all may be a great and cunning plan by me to confound you, seduce you and steal this precious manuscript.”

  “Are you quite finished?” Hope said dryly.

  “Mmm.”

  She drew him around to face her and ran a finger along his jaw. “Idiot. As if I suspected you. Any criminal with half a brain could concoct a better story than the one you told me, MacLeod. Being flung through time? Then swept back again by the force of touching his own portrait?”

  He caught her hand, his eyes hard. “You believe me?”

  “Always and absolutely. I’m only sorry it took me so long.”

  The tension seemed to slide out of his shoulders. He murmured something in Gaelic, lifting her to her feet. “I want you, Hope. Past controlling. If you don’t want that, then tell me now and I’ll go swim in an icy loch.” He sniffed. “For all the good it will do.”

  “Stop giving me orders,” Hope whispered, her fingers busy tugging at his shirt.

  Sunlight glinted over the floor as MacLeod shoved the door shut with his foot, not breaking the searing kiss even then. The lock clicked shut behind them.

  Hope blinked, caught between his hard thighs with a fine rosewood desk behind her. His heat was unmistakable. “Here?” she said shakily.

  “I’m not at all certain we would make it to the bed.” His mouth traced hot spirals along her neck as her sweater slid free and hit the floor. “The knowledge that you trust me…”