Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise

by Christina Skye

  “YOU’RE GOING TO COOK? Really, Daddy?” Genevieve stared with great round eyes at her father as he rolled up his sleeves and tested a cleaver.

  “Of course, I am, Duchess.” He bent down to tug her golden pigtail. “After all, everyone should know how to do a few tricks in a kitchen.” He caught up an apple from a basket, minced it into paper-thin slices, then handed one to his daughter, who was too amazed to speak.

  “I think I’ll try my hand at lion’s head soup.”

  “You going to catch a lion? Oh, I don’t think it would be nice to eat his head.”

  “Not a real lion’s head, Duchess. Something wonderful and tasty. The Chinese give everything poetic names, even their food.” He smiled. “Especially their food. And they have every right, because Chinese cuisine is the highest art form on this planet, mind you.”

  He searched through the commercial-size refrigerator and pulled out a handful of greens. Within seconds, neat, regular rows of vegetables filled the board in front of him.

  “When did you learn that, Daddy?”

  “When I had a great deal of time on my hands, Duchess.” He glanced at his wife. “In a faraway place called Thailand.”

  Kacey paled. “Oh, Nicky—”

  “Hush, love. It’s all forgotten now, all but the good parts.” He looked out at the snow, lost in a distant place and time. “There was an old cook there. He came from Szechwan and was a master with spices. The man could do amazing things with a knife.” The viscount carved two radishes into perfect roses, then presented them to his wife and daughter with a flourish.

  Genevieve’s eyes grew even wider. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “So are you, Daddy.”

  “I quite agree,” Kacey said huskily.

  Nicholas swept them into a long hug. “The luckiest man in the world, that’s what I am.” His voice was a bit unsteady as he set Genevieve on the wooden table. “Now for the bad news, troops.” He moved away and rubbed his jaw. “For Chinese food, the preparation is a killer. I’ll need four good hands. I don’t expect you know of any?”

  Genevieve wriggled with excitement. “I do, I do. Can I use the big knife?”

  Nicholas thought of the razor-sharp blade and felt his heart lurch. “Maybe the small knife. With a lot of supervision.”

  As he instructed his daughter, keeping one eye on the stove, something nagged at the back of his mind. There were factors at work here at Glenbrae House that Nicholas did not understand, and he could not quite accept that the fire had been an accident. There had been a striking amount of smoke for such a small area of actual damage.

  A coincidence?

  Nicholas didn’t think so. But why would someone go to the trouble of setting a fire that went nowhere?

  He frowned as he pounded a piece of ginger root to near oblivion. Jamee and Ian had been entirely right to call with their worries. His instinct told him something was not right here.

  A movement pulled his eye to the window. For a moment he thought he saw a gray shape move toward the loch, low and sleek.

  A cat?

  He blinked, and then the dark shape was gone. Only snow stretched over the courtyard and along the rocky slope.

  He must have imagined the cat.

  But the odd prickle of uneasiness did not leave him. Nicholas had a keen sense for people, an ability that had been tested in dozens of dark alleys and war-torn corners of the world. He had given that up when Kacey came into his life, but the old instincts still served him well.

  Within minutes he had sized up Ronan MacLeod as a man who could be trusted when the bullets began to fly. As soon as he finished cooking, he intended to track the Scotsman down for a long, detailed talk.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  AS SHE WALKED PAST the kitchen toward her office, Hope heard the sound of childish laughter. She closed her eyes on a stab of pain.

  Family. Belonging.

  Things she had had so little of in her life, yet they were the most important of all gifts. As Lady Draycott’s low laughter joined her daughter’s, something burned at Hope’s chest. How could she be jealous of a happy family?

  She buried the thought, appalled. Just because her own relations had been lost, she had no right to resent the joy of others. The Draycotts seemed linked by a special love, so strong at times it was nearly tangible.

  Maybe magical was a better word, Hope thought. But there would be no childish laughter for her. No sticky hands and cherub cheeks. Medical science had made vast advances, but they still couldn’t work miracles. She touched her stomach, trying to imagine the feel of a child growing there.

  MacLeod’s child.

  Her hands clenched. How much she wanted that. He deserved to have a son with his keen eyes, or a daughter with his willful mouth.

  She fought down a wave of regret and walked to her desk, pouring a cup of tea with trembling fingers. She hadn’t thought about having a family for months. Not since she had come to the glen, in fact. Glenbrae had worked its special magic upon her, sweeping her up with vistas of high hills and endless sky.

  So why was she thinking about family now?

  Because of a man in a kilt. A man with a cocky grin whose child she yearned to hold at her breast.

  The cup shook in her fingers, spilling hot tea over her. Fool, she thought. There was no point in wondering if Ronan’s child would have his father’s dark curls and eyes like a Highland sky at dawn. But sweet longing poured through her, and Hope’s fingers closed over her hollow stomach, aching to feel new life taking shape.

  Tears blurred her vision and somewhere a phone rang shrilly. Hope frowned, wondering why the phone on her desk remained silent. When she lifted the receiver, there was no sound. Another thing to repair.

  She walked to the front hall and picked up the extension there. She heard a quick click, followed by static. “Hello?”

  More static, muffled this time.

  “Hello, can you hear me?”

  Another click, then silence. “Hello?” Hope repeated.

  The phone lines had been going on and off for hours. As soon as repair crews fixed one line, another toppled, victim of the heavy snow. Not for the first time, Hope wished she had invested in a cellular phone. Now, she would have to find out what was wrong with the extension in her office.

  Banquo swooped down from the rafters as she walked back to her office. “Thunder and rain. Thunder and rain.”

  How Hope wished. Outside snow covered glen and cliff, white drift upon white drift. “Wrong stage directions, Banquo. Turn the page.”

  “Turn the page,” he rasped. “Turn the page.”

  Hope held out a piece of apple from her mostly uneaten lunch. He gobbled the treat greedily, then rippled his gray plumage. “The moon is down,” he cried. “Something evil this way comes.”

  Suddenly her eyes narrowed. “Banquo, is that poetry you’re spouting at me or is it Shakespeare?” She thought of the yellowing pages discovered sealed in oilskin. Had Banquo somehow known about that precious manuscript, perhaps even learned his poetry from someone who had delighted in reciting Shakespeare? But why would anyone seal a priceless folio inside an old gargoyle?

  The black eyes glittered as the bird shredded another slice of apple.

  Now that the idea had been planted, Hope couldn’t forget Banquo’s shrill warning. “Something evil this way comes.” If Wyndgate’s report was correct, a thief was once more at work and no one was safe.

  She jumped at the sound of sudden footsteps. Two callused hands circled her waist and swung her high into the air.

  “Ronan! You’ll give me cardiac arrest.”

  “Nay, lass, not cardiac arrest. What I’ll give you is sweet. Torturingly slow.” He brought her slowly down against him, letting her feel the instant effect on him.

  Hope’s eyes widened. “Ronan, you’re—”

  “Of course I am, lass. A sorry man I would be if the touch of you didn’t leave me rock-hard and in acute pain.”

  “But we just—It was only a
few hours ago that you—” She flushed.

  “Aye, so it was. But that was then,” he muttered, bracing one hip against her desk and driving his hands deep into her hair. Then he whispered an erotic suggestion that stole her breath.

  “We can’t,” Hope said. “Can we? I mean, here?”

  “I was never a very patient man, lass. I’m willing to try if you are.” He grinned as his knuckles brushed the curve of her breast, drawing her gasp.

  “But—”

  “Why not?” he said huskily. “There’s a door, isn’t there?”

  There had to be some good reason, Hope thought as his hands shifted. She looked at her desk, imagining the scene he had suggested and feeling her cheeks burn. “I’ll think of a reason why not in a minute. Just as soon as you stop manhandling my body.”

  His smile was pure sin. “I much enjoy manhandling your body, lass. It’s so responsive. And you make such remarkable little sounds when I—”

  “Sounds? I do not.” Hope shivered as he brushed the inside of her thigh.

  “Just like that one.”

  How did he reduce her brain to oatmeal within nanoseconds of contact? It was criminal.

  She stood up swiftly, smoothing down her skirt. Someone had to set ground rules or they would be in bed all day.

  Hope chewed on her lip. They would set times, places. They would discuss the subject in a calm, logical fashion and reach an agreement about suitable choices. Hope was all set to explain this to MacLeod when he caught her lower lip in his teeth and nipped it gently.

  Her careful plans fled. She slid her palms over his chest, delighting in his instant shudder.

  “Nay, wait. This is important.” Slowly he pulled a package from behind his back. “Merry Christmas, lass of my heart,” he said huskily.

  “Ronan, you shouldn’t have.” Hope shredded away the fragile paper, bright with golden cherubs.

  “I hope it pleases you.”

  The paper fell away, and her fingers melted over whiteness as soft as a dream. It was a sweater, angora and silk and clearly costly. “But how, Ronan?” Her eyes widened. “You sold your sword to buy this, didn’t you?”

  He looked affronted. “Nay, ne’er that, lass.”

  “Your horse?”

  “Ach, as if I would part with Pegasus.” He shook his head firmly.

  “Your gauntlets.”

  He shrugged, giving a guilty smile. “I have no need of them.”

  “But they’re priceless, Ronan. Historical artifacts with vast educational value. Museums would kill to—”

  “Be quiet, my little shrew. It’s almost Christmas, and Christmas is a time for giving to the ones you love.”

  “Oh, Ronan, it’s beautiful,” she whispered. “So soft.”

  “I was hoping you would try it on for me. But after that, I warn you, it’s going off. Slowly.” His eyes narrowed, promising pure sin. “Now look at the rest.”

  With an effort Hope forced her gaze away from that lovely mouth, trying not to remember how much pleasure it could give. “There’s more?” She lifted the paper and three more things fell onto the desk. A hat, full and soft, to hug her dark hair. A scarf, long and fluffy, almost as warm as his hands. A third thing equally soft.

  “Mittens?”

  His dark brow rose. “For the snowball fight I’m going to have with you later today. It’s all-out war, I warn you. No rules, no fouls, no limits. And when we’re done, I’ll make love to you the same way.”

  Hope swallowed. She couldn’t afford to think about it or she would never get any work done. “Go. Gabrielle and Jeffrey are sick and I’ve got a thousand things to finish here.”

  MacLeod stiffened. “What sort of illness?”

  “Some sort of flu, Jeffrey thinks.”

  He stared at her intently. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine, MacLeod. It’s something fast and devastating, according to Jeffrey. Just temporarily debilitating.”

  “Flu, you call it?”

  Hope remembered she was dealing with a resident of the thirteenth century. “Fever, accompanied by rumblings in the stomach. General unpleasantness. Hell when it’s going on, but over soon enough.”

  “Ah, that.” MacLeod nodded. “Flu,” he repeated. Hope knew he was storing the word for the future.

  He spread his fingers over her wrist. “How is your pulse?”

  Hope sighed. “Racing. And it has nothing to do with the flu.”

  A grin crooked his lips. “Perhaps I can find a way to make it race even harder.”

  “Go, MacLeod.”

  He didn’t move. “Why is no one else showing the effects of this…flu?”

  “Maybe they took vitamins. Maybe no one was exposed besides Jeffrey and Gabrielle. Science still can’t explain who gets sick and who doesn’t.” Hope stared at him uneasily. “You don’t think it was…”

  He averted his gaze, toying with the scarf. “Did I say such a thing? Too suspicious, you are, lass.” He slid the fluffy wool around her neck and knotted it jauntily over one shoulder. “And you have the habit of thinking too much when I am touching you.”

  Hope closed her eyes as his hands slid urgently over her breasts. She was appalled to realize how much she wanted him and how easy it was for him to distract her. “You—you’re going to have to go, MacLeod. Now while I have some semblance of my mind left.”

  “I very much like the parts that are left, lass.”

  “Only because you’re a hulking chauvinist.”

  “That would be an insult?”

  Hope couldn’t help but smile. “You catch on fast, don’t you?”

  “Not fast enough,” he said gravely. “Otherwise, we would not be here talking.”

  Hope prayed for willpower. “Go, MacLeod. As it is, I’ve let guests carry in logs and take over making dinner.”

  “Lord Draycott seems very handy with a knife. You made a good choice.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “No? Should you choose someone who can’t cook?”

  “You don’t understand, MacLeod. Guests don’t cook. English lords definitely don’t head to the kitchen to toss together a few courses.”

  “But they should. And you, sweet lass, should stop worrying if they do.”

  “I’m good at worrying. Which reminds me…” Hope closed her door, reached into a locked lower desk drawer, and removed the precious folio, still wrapped in its oilskin pouch. “I think you should put this someplace safe. After that fire…I know it was an accident, but I don’t feel this should stay in here.” Some instinct warned her that nowhere in the house was safe. A professional thief would be able to crack any code or lock, and it would be easy enough for him to find the folio then. Hope chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. “I was thinking the fishing shed might be a good spot, until we can make better arrangements.”

  MacLeod watched her, grave and unmoving. “You trust me with this? Something you deem valuable beyond gold and jewels?”

  “Of course. I trust you with that and with my heart as well.” True, she realized. She knew no reservations. The man inspired total and complete trust. That was the thing about heroes—from the thirteenth or any other century.

  “You choose your time, so you do, lass. You say such a thing and expect me to leave.”

  Hope managed to ignore the heat in his eyes and took a step back. “Yes, I do. Because you’re a grade A, certifiable hero, MacLeod, like it or not.”

  He muttered harshly. As he slid the folio beneath his leather jacket, Hope expected that the Gaelic phrases were none too kind. “I’ll find a sound place for your precious document, never worry.” His eyes glinted, full of sensual challenge. “But I will expect an ample reward. I’ll see you wearing my gift—and not a bit more.”

  Hope swallowed. “Go on, you great, hulking Scot. Otherwise I will get no work done here.”

  “Then I’ll find my own sad way to the stable. At least my fine horse knows the true worth of a man’s love.”

  He was lau
ghing as the door closed. For some reason the sun seemed to leave the room with his going.

  Hope sighed and she scrubbed her face with her hands. She took a sip of her tea, cold now and bitter from the long steeping. At least it would clear her head.

  She paid three bills and made a list of linens that had to be replaced. Her next task was retrieving a very old book of Chinese recipes from the library. Nicholas Draycott had been excited when she’d mentioned the old volume, and since he was presently engaged in cooking a gourmet Chinese meal, Hope decided the least she could do was make the book a gift to him.

  A sudden wave of exhaustion hit her. Rubbing her neck, she tried to think where she had put the slender volume. A current of air drifted over her neck and she watched the chintz curtains flutter.

  Of course.

  She remembered now.

  Pale sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting weak light over the rows of leather bindings and hand-tooled letters. To Hope, the library had been one of the best discoveries about Glenbrae House. Stepping into a room rich with good leather, old paper and printer’s ink never failed to raise her spirits. No doubt books were in her blood, the legacy of her uncle, who had spent his life collecting rare works and fine first editions.

  Frowning, she scanned the nearby rows. Shakespeare. Walter de la Mare. Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, in all his scandalous glory.

  The next case contained three shelves of maps and a section of classic children’s books, which were Hope’s favorites. Finally, at the back of the room, half hidden by a thick velvet curtain, she found the trunk with old cookbooks.

  Cooking in Provence. Cooking in Venice. Cooking in the Seven Seas. Blast it, where was the Chinese volume?

  Muttering, she knelt on the floor, examining a pile of books that had fallen at the back of a shelf. Without warning a wave of dizziness struck her, making her stomach lurch.

  Food, she thought. Breakfast had been half a piece of toast that morning. She had planned to take a break for lunch, but had never found the time to eat it. As soon as she had the book, she would snitch something from Lord Draycott. Even now delicious scents emanated from the kitchen.

  She sank onto the floor, pulling the top books onto her lap.