Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise

by Christina Skye

  “I always trusted you, my love. Believing you was the problem.” She closed her eyes, arching as he savored the curve of her breast. “Oh, God, Ronan, when you do that, I forget everything.”

  She shoved at his belt, tugged at his shirt, beyond waiting or logic.

  Suddenly the door rattled behind them.

  “Is that you, Ms. O’Hara?”

  Hope stiffened. “Kipworth,” she whispered. “The police officer from Edinburgh.”

  “Shall I send him away?” MacLeod growled.

  “We can’t. It’s business.” Hope stared down helplessly. She was slanted over the desk, her sweater dangling from one shoulder.

  “Ms. O’Hara, are you in there?”

  “Tell him to go away,” MacLeod whispered.

  Hope cleared her throat. “Er—yes?”

  “So you are in there. I heard a loud noise up here, almost like something breaking. I was afraid something might have happened to you.”

  “I—I’m fine.”

  “Excellent. I have a few more questions to ask about the brooch.”

  “But I was just about to—”

  “Make love with a wild Scotsman,” MacLeod murmured, his lips savoring her taut breast.

  “Stop,” Hope said wildly.

  “Stop what?” the police officer called, outside in the hall.

  “Uh, I was about to stop—work. I was going to clean up. Take a bath.”

  “When will you be finished?”

  “An hour. No, two,” MacLeod said darkly as he stripped away her skirt and found a risqué lace triangle with delicate embroidered roses. “Dear sweet God,” he muttered. “Maybe never.” His hands were slow, masterful. By the time the lace slid free, Hope felt her brain beginning to dissolve.

  “Ms. O’Hara?” The doorknob rattled.

  “In…a while,” she managed to answer. “I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

  “But I’m afraid this is urgent, Ms. O’Hara. My questions cannot wait.”

  “Neither can I,” MacLeod whispered hoarsely.

  “I’ll call you. Find you,” Hope said. “After a bit. Until then—”

  “Go jump into the loch,” MacLeod finished grimly.

  “Meanwhile, you should go downstairs. Talk to Gabrielle.” She sighed as MacLeod’s shirt slid free and her hands savored warm, muscled skin. “I love you,” she whispered. “Adore you. Trust you.” Her lips curved. “And I want you madly, MacLeod. Did I make that plain enough?”

  MacLeod closed his eyes, his fingers digging into her shoulders.

  They barely noticed the footsteps moving back down the hall.

  Breathless and greedy, they stripped away the remaining clothes between them. His hands tightened. “Look at me, Hope. Watch me loving you.”

  “With greatest pleasure.”

  Against the desk, he set her, thigh to naked thigh. His breath was harsh, labored, as skin ground close and softness shifted.

  Desire flared, keener now that they knew each other’s pleasures. MacLeod shuddered, fighting for control. This time he wanted to see her, watch her pleasure flood through her eyes, hear her wild gasp of climax.

  “So, MacLeod,” Hope whispered. “How are my…amenities?”

  “Extraordinary,” he rasped. “Beyond description.” He cupped her hips, filling her with slow, maddening power that left them both giddy.

  “Is that good?”

  His hands tightened as he drew her back, his lips to her neck. “Definitely…five stars.”

  “Show me,” she whispered. “Now before I die.”

  He trapped her, possessed her. She arched blindly, closing around him, greedy for his heat. Hot and fast, he took her up, then up again, while her nails dug into his back and she gasped out his name.

  He filled his lungs with the scent of her, stored away the sound of her soft, breathless moans. He prayed the memories wouldn’t have to last him.

  Then MacLeod forgot everything else as he took her up one last time, then dragged her against him while he followed her down where nothing remained but love shimmering around them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SOMETHING DRIFTED OVER the floor. Idly Hope watched gray shadows spin across the rug.

  No doubt she was dreaming. After the things that Ronan had done to her in the past three hours, she expected that serious hallucinations were only to be expected. Lust did that to a person.

  No, love did that to a person, she thought.

  Her lips curved as the movement of the shadows over the rug made her think of Ronan’s eyes, shadowed with passion when he finally pulled her down onto the bed. And his mouth, that cocky, clever mouth that made her forget her own name.

  Hope drew a deep breath. Acrid air burned her throat.

  Smoke. No illusion this time, and no dramatic creation by Jeffrey. Glenbrae House was on fire.

  She threw back the covers just as the door slammed open.

  Grimly Ronan tossed her a heavy robe. “There’s smoke all along the stairs. You’ve got to go.”

  Shivering, Hope tugged on the robe and boots. “What about the others?”

  “Jeffrey and I are searching for them.” He pulled her against his chest, his mouth savage. Then with a curse he released her. “No time. It’s getting worse by the second.”

  Outside, the air was crisscrossed by dank ribbons of smoke, and the reality of their danger hit Hope like a blow. “We can’t let Glenbrae House burn. There’s so much history here, so much love.”

  “It won’t burn. I won’t let it,” he said grimly. “But first you must leave.” MacLeod guided her down the stairs through drifting smoke that made her eyes water.

  Smoke danced madly as they ran back toward the kitchen. “Where are w-we going?”

  “Outside through the back entrance. The roof will go if those flames catch hold. The clay I put in is no protection against this kind of fire.”

  Hope shuddered as MacLeod pushed her through the kitchen, shoved open the inner glass door, then closed it securely before opening the heavy outer barrier of wood.

  Gabrielle and Jeffrey were huddled in the center of the courtyard, arm in arm. Nicholas Draycott carried Genevieve on his broad shoulders. The girl was pale, trying not to show her fear as she clutched at her mother’s hand.

  Suddenly Genevieve stiffened. “Mr. G-Gibbs. He’s inside in the fire.” She struggled to slide down from her father’s back. “His fur will catch on fire. I’ve got to find him.”

  MacLeod turned, frowning. “Which room?”

  “The B-Blue Bedroom. On top of the dr-dresser, I think.”

  Dear God, he’s going back in for a stuffed animal. Hope caught MacLeod’s hand as Nicholas Draycott strode forward and said, “MacLeod, I can’t let you do this.”

  “You stay here and take care of your wife and daughter.”

  “It’s out of the question.”

  Genevieve’s voice cracked. “But, Daddy—”

  “No. I’ll buy you another Mr. Gibbs. A dozen of them, Vee. We can’t risk a man’s life for that.”

  The girl bit back a watery sob. “I guess…you’re right.”

  MacLeod clasped her hand hard, then turned. “Not just for the child. I saw something at the upper window just now.” His eyes hardened. “Someone could still be inside.”

  Hope turned. Dark clouds feathered through an open window near the roof. “But you can’t go back in.” She reached out for MacLeod, a thousand protests on her lips.

  All of them were too late. He was already gone.

  SMOKE COILED over the roof.

  Hope paced back and forth over the snow, watching for a single angry spark to leap to the thatch.

  One would be enough.

  One speck of flame and everything she owned would be lost.

  She barely heard the crunch of snow beside her. Detective Sergeant Kipworth cleared his throat, as if he was out of breath. “I just checked the rear window. The fire appears to be coming from the library.”

  Hope bit down a r
agged wave of panic. MacLeod had broken every rule of nature to cross time to find her, and she wasn’t going to lose him now. Even the precious book they had found inside the gargoyle meant nothing compared to losing MacLeod.

  “I can’t bear waiting. I’m going back in.”

  The officer clamped a restraining hand on her shoulder, studying her face. “You love that house, don’t you?”

  Hope nodded, feeling tears slide down her cheeks.

  “There’s nothing else that comes close, is there?”

  “Only one. Right up there.” Her eyes sought the upstairs window, watching for a hint of movement. Let him come. Please, God, let him come now.

  “There’s something you left inside?” The sergeant sounded worried.

  “Someone. A man who’s too honorable for his own blasted good.”

  Kipworth turned, following her gaze. For an instant a man’s tall body was outlined against the upper window. “I thought everyone was out.” Kipworth made an angry, impatient sound and turned his collar up around his face. “Bloody stupid fool.”

  He was still cursing as he strode back into the smoke-covered house.

  SECONDS CRAWLED BY, each marked by an eternity of agony. Where was he? Why didn’t he come?

  Something wet slid over Hope’s fingers. She realized she had scooped up a handful of snow, which was melting between her clenched fists. Her nails bit into her skin, but she barely felt the pain.

  Beside her, Genevieve stirred restlessly. “Where’s Mr. MacLeod, Mama?”

  “Inside, my love.” Kacey Draycott’s voice was strained. “He’ll be out as soon as he can.”

  “I want him to come.”

  “We all want him to come, Vee.”

  “I…I don’t need Mr. Gibbs and I’m sorry I sent Mr. MacLeod in. If he’s hurt, it will be all my fault.” Her voice broke. “I’ll make the policeman arrest me and put me in jail if anything happens to Mr. MacLeod. But then I’ll never see you and Daddy again…”

  “Hush, love. Mr. MacLeod went back in because it was right. He thought someone was still inside.”

  Smoke twisted out the upper window. Hope began to pace again, arms locked to her chest.

  Genevieve stiffened. “Did you see it, Mama?”

  “See what, love?”

  “The cat. It was Gideon, I’m sure of it. He was there by the window just before it closed. And I saw someone with him.”

  Hope peered through the trailing smoke. Sure enough, the window was closed now.

  Ronan. He had made it that far. God, why didn’t he hurry?

  Fear clamped hard over Hope’s chest. She could bear the agony no longer. She turned and started toward the door.

  Nicholas Draycott was there before her, his eyes harrowed but determined. “I can’t let you go in.”

  “I’m going. It’s my house and my life.”

  “And you can’t throw it away. You have family, friends—people who care about you.”

  Without Ronan, they would mean nothing. Hope pushed past the Englishman, gasping as he caught her wrist. She struggled fiercely, her eyes blurred by tears. “Let me go. I’m going back inside. If you try to hold me here, so help me, I’ll—”

  A door squeaked. Snow crunched. “You’ll do what, my shrew?” His laugh, shaky but alive, was broken by a cough.

  Hope reached him in a heartbeat. She ran her hands over his face, his neck, his shoulders, balanced between joy and tears. “You big, crazy fool.” She wrapped her arms around him and pulled his face down to hers.

  He tasted of salt and smoke—and blood. Hope gasped. “Your lip—Ronan, what happened?”

  “Couldn’t see in the smoke. I ran into a bookcase. You should see the books.” He cradled her wet cheeks, pulled her trembling hand to his mouth and kissed it fiercely. Abruptly he pulled away with a hard oath. “You’re bleeding. My God, your nails—”

  Hope closed her fingers, hiding her palm. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is you’re alive. We’ll start over if the roof burns, Ronan. We’ll find another house, another glen.” Though the thought wrung at her heart, Hope managed a shaky smile. “One where it never snows.”

  “That would be a grave loss, my love.” He traced the line of the last tear sliding down her cheek.

  “Excuse me.” They glanced down to see Genevieve tugging at MacLeod’s kilt. “I’m sorry I asked you to go in,” she said in a watery voice. “It was wrong. And I don’t even care that you didn’t get Mr. Gibbs.” She hiccupped, part of a sob that she couldn’t hold back. “Well, only a little.”

  MacLeod caught her small hand in his big one. “Only a little? I suppose he’ll understand. But you’d better explain to him yourself.” He patted his sleeve, then eased a lumpy shape from beneath one cuff.

  The furry head and body were instantly enveloped against Genevieve’s chest. “You found him!” She danced up and down, the worn bear clutched to her heart. “Mama, Daddy, he brought me back Mr. Gibbs!”

  Hope looked away, remembering when life had been simpler and a worn bear was the only thing in the world.

  She swallowed, hiding a watery sound of her own.

  Ronan MacLeod just couldn’t stop being a hero.

  THE AFTERNOON SUN peered thinly through gray clouds. Detective Sergeant Kipworth searched Hope’s library, examined the burned and smoky section of floor near the fireplace, and pronounced his belief that the cause was a defective flue. It had taken two unpleasant hours to brush, sweep and scrub away the soot, but the process revealed little serious damage. The flames had spread only to the surrounding columns near the fireplace. Except for a small section of singed rug and the acrid smell of smoke, the house was starting to return to order.

  Hope realized just how lucky she was. In a period building like Glenbrae House, fire could have raced through every room. She would have to clean the linens and air out all the rooms, but the damage could have been far greater.

  Maybe she had a guardian angel or two after all.

  With a sigh, Hope looked at her watch. Two o’clock. She sniffed the air, wondering why she didn’t smell the rich fragrance of Gabrielle’s cassoulet.

  A moment later her cook wobbled into the room, her face ashen. “I am very sorry. I try, truly I do. But I just can’t—” She gasped. Her body went rigid and she raced from the room.

  “Gabrielle, what’s wrong?”

  “She’s sick. So am I.” Jeffrey tottered over to a chair. “Stomach, if you know what I mean. It’s hit both of us bloody hard. She keeps moaning that she has to cook, but she can barely stand up.”

  “Gabrielle’s never sick.” Hope stared anxiously down the hall. “Oh, heaven, the doctor won’t be able to get through the snow.”

  “It’s nothing mortal.” Jeffrey gave a weak grin and eased his chin carefully onto his hands as if it might break. “The headache is the worst part. Feels like bits of glass shifting around behind your eyes.” His voice was soft but firm. “We’ll be fine. It’s probably one of those twenty-four-hour things.” When he wavered to his feet, the dark circles beneath his eyes were unmistakable. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back upstairs and check on Gabrielle. Then I plan to sleep for about four decades.” He rubbed his forehead with shaky fingers. “That is, if you can spare me.”

  Hope couldn’t, of course, but she wouldn’t tell him that. “We’ll be just fine. Go up and rest. But shouldn’t I go check on Gabrielle?”

  “I advise against it. She hates being sick, hates being waited on. Very nasty temper.” Jeffrey wandered out with one hand to his head, his skin the color of old oatmeal. “Better leave her to me.”

  Nicholas Draycott stood outside the door, watching Jeffrey lumber upstairs. “Something wrong?” He shifted an armful of logs against his chest, smearing his immaculate tweed jacket with wood shavings.

  “Oh, Lord, I forgot about the logs. I’d better go—”

  He blocked her way. “You’ll do no such thing. I can manage a few logs quite nicely. MacLeod already took the rest up.”
He gave Hope a quick, measuring look. “I rather like the man. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t miss much either. He seems quite keen on you, too, not that it’s any of my business.”

  Hope colored slightly, noticing the glint of humor in Lord Draycott’s eyes. “I expect you don’t miss much either, Lord Draycott.”

  “Nicholas, please. One can’t be formal with a pile of logs in hand.”

  Hope chuckled. “I see why Genevieve is smart as a whip. Not that your wife isn’t just as sharp.”

  “Sharp at what?” Kacey Draycott clumped to the door with a smile and a pile of logs. Her cheeks were brilliant red, snow dusted her hair, and she looked, Hope decided, absolutely lovely.

  “Just about everything, my love.” Nicholas frowned. “And I told you not to carry those logs inside. Ronan and I will take care of it.”

  “Men.” Kacey blew a strand of snowy hair off her forehead. “They always have to be heroes. As if a woman can’t balance a few logs.”

  “Where shall we take them, Mama?” Genevieve appeared, red-cheeked like her mother and equally delighted to be carrying three tiny logs of her own. “Upstairs or into the kitchen?”

  Nicholas sighed. “Outgunned and outnumbered, as usual. I think I’d better slink off to the kitchen myself. It appears that you are in need of a cook, Ms. O’Hara.”

  “Cook?” Hope stared, speechless. The earl’s usually tidy hair was all awry and his tweed jacket was getting dirtier by the second. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly let you.”

  “You can if you want to eat,” he said reasonably.

  Kacey smiled at her husband. “He’s a wonderful chef, Ms. O’Hara. You won’t be sorry. Nicholas gets far too few chances to cook these days since his lion of a butler considers it beneath the dignity of a viscount to sully his hands in the kitchen. Now, you just stay there and rest. We’ll take charge of everything.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.”

  Hope stared, speechless, as her three guests filed out. She had a moment of sympathy for Nicholas Draycott, feeling very much outgunned and outnumbered herself.