A Bluefaced Leicester sheep wandered in from the meadow, rosemary sprigs matted in its thick fleece. “Now,” Jordan MacInnes said, refilling Nell’s glass of lemonade, “tell me about your man Dakota.”
There was a father’s clear curiosity in the question, along with the refusal to believe that any man was good enough for his daughter.
Nell cleared her throat. She didn’t have neat and tidy answers. She’d spoken to Dakota only twice since their climbing trip, and both calls had been short.
“It’s serious, then?”
All she could do was nod.
“About time,” her father said calmly.
Bolder now, the sheep moved across the patio to nuzzle her hand while Nell pulled out the captive rosemary stems gently. Her fingers tangled in the soft wool.
She raised her face to the liquid sunlight. Suddenly her life was full of possibilities.
She turned to look at her father. “You aren’t going to ask me what he does or what our plans are?”
“Why should I? The glow you have right now is answer enough. You need a good man in your life, Nell. And if Dakota doesn’t marry you, I’ll have to shoot him.”
Suddenly the two dogs raced down the gravel drive, barking wildly. A car motor whined, circling up from the highway.
Nell stood up quickly, trying to see past the banked roses. “I’d better go clean up. It’s been a long trip and I doubt I’d be good company for your visitors.”
She started to move away, but her father took her hand tightly. “I think this is someone you should see, my love.”
Footsteps crunched over the gravel, and one of the dogs shot over the low stone wall, tail wagging. Behind him Dakota Smith appeared, a travel bag over his shoulder, a bunch of freshly gathered lavender mounded in his arms. “So the secret’s out.” He nodded at Jordan MacInnes and then his gaze lingered on Nell’s face. “You look beautiful. And a little overwhelmed.”
“I am.” Nell took a shaky breath. “You and Nicholas planned this to protect him?”
“Draycott had the idea first.” Dakota dropped his bag and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Izzy and I helped put all the pieces together.” He reached out to shake her father’s hand. “Good to see you, sir. I’d say the cosmetic implants were a success. I wouldn’t have recognized you, which is the whole idea, of course.” He turned, prowling the room. “I like the Chinese clay horse. My uncle used to tell me how they were made, with running glazes and bodies so real you expected them to fly. I can see that he was right.”
“You know about Chinese ceramics?” Nell’s father sounded pleased by the possibility.
“Not much. Just that I like them.”
The housekeeper bustled in. “The tea is arranged outside, if you would like.”
Jordan MacInnes glanced out the back window and smiled. “I see that Izzy Teague has arrived and is already helping himself. Probably he’s charmed his way into samples of my best Bordeaux, as well. I’d better go check. No doubt you two have things to discuss anyway.” As he turned toward the kitchen, his movements were stiff and awkward, and Nell realized that he was in pain. For all his bravado the sickness must be growing worse.
How long did he have?
But she fought a sense of panic with the reminder that she’d had one wish granted, and that other miracles might be possible, too.
Find your grip.
Go forward.
The last thing her father would want was to see her cry.
“You okay?” Dakota’s hand brushed her cheek.
“Fine. Jet lag…and everything. You look good.” Their hands met, fingers curving together as if they’d been apart for only five minutes instead of almost three months.
“How about we go somewhere and talk?” Dakota said.
“Don’t leave on my account,” Jordan MacInnes called over his shoulder. “Izzy and I have work to do outside and we don’t want to be disturbed.”
“What kind of work?” Nell asked suspiciously.
“I’ve got a piece of art for him to return—anonymously of course.”
“These pieces?” Nell stared at the treasury of art around her.
“I’m afraid the Renoir will have to go.” He looked a little sad, then brightened. “All the rest are yours, Nell. All were purchased quite honestly, even if my name doesn’t appear on any documents. After the arrangements are made, Izzy and I are going to check the security system at the National Gallery loading dock. I’ve found a few weaknesses, and Izzy will see that they’re corrected. We’ll also implement some new procedures for tracking art between departments.” Jordan’s eyes narrowed, magnified by the thick glasses. “No one is going to carry out another theft at the National Gallery like the last one.” One eyebrow rose. “After all, the notorious Jordan MacInnes, the master thief who specialized in stealing Renaissance art, is dead. Or haven’t you two heard?”
CLOUDS BRUSHED an endless azure sky over fields of lavender, while two unruly dogs herded a dozen Leicester sheep. Nell savored the color and motion as she walked with Dakota’s arm around her shoulders.
At the center of everything was her father, back in the flesh, striding through the sunlight to joke with his housekeeper and argue with Izzy, presiding over all with generosity and wit. Watching him, Nell finally began to accept that she wasn’t dreaming.
Which left only the small problem of her own future to be resolved.
Before she could bring up the subject, Dakota’s palm moved up her bare arm and slid into the disordered strands at her neck. “I’m glad you know, Nell. I don’t need to tell you that this secret has to stay between us.”
Nell nodded, realizing how far Dakota and his friend had gone out on a limb to orchestrate the “death” in Scotland, creating her father’s new identity. “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling him down for a hard, fast kiss that left her toes curling.
“Don’t thank me yet, honey. We still have things to discuss.” He pulled her under the shade of a towering linden tree, yellow-white blooms spilling down around them.
“I’m listening.” Nell wished she could read his face.
“Your homeless friend from San Francisco sends his regards. Izzy and I found a group home run by a Vietnam Vet, and he’s doing great there.”
“Thank you.” It was hard to talk for the lump in her throat. “Now I know he’ll be safe.”
“No problem. He’s one tough guy. He kept telling us how he could have used you when they stormed Hue. I told him he was probably right.” Leaning down, Dakota brushed linden blossoms from Nell’s hair. “We didn’t finish our talk up in the mountains. It’s time to do that now.”
Nell’s heart fluttered.
Find your grip.
Move forward.
“What did you have in mind?” She ran a hand along his shoulder. “I can make suggestions if you want them.” She felt his heat and the play of muscles beneath his cotton shirt, then the sharp slam of his heart. She imagined the tiger, stirring on his muscled arm, coming to life.
“I’ll give you my list first.” He opened her hand, slipped something over her finger. “A vow, a promise. Two rings. This one belonged to my mother.” The ring felt warm on Nell’s finger, sliding into place. “Marry me, Nell. I promise to make you smile. I promise I’ll guard your dreams. Your face will be home, wherever we are. All the rest we can make up as we go along.”
Nell traced his mouth with her finger, seeing flashes of their future. She let the warmth of belonging flow over her, awed that fate had brought them together.
“I haven’t heard a yes yet.” Dakota frowned at her. “I haven’t even heard a maybe. Now would be a good time for either, honey.”
The man sounded just a little nervous. Since he was never nervous, Nell decided to savor the moment. “I’m thinking.”
“Take your time.” He glanced down at his watch. “You have about twenty more seconds until I start playing hardball.”
“Then I’ll give you my list. One, we’ll go climbing tog
ether.”
“As often as possible.”
“And we’ll go back to Draycott Abbey again soon. Nicholas has a Constable that may need restoration work, and he wants me to have a look.”
“I’d consider it a pleasure. There’s something about the place that leaves you with questions. It’s the light or the age—or both.”
Nell knew exactly what he meant. The abbey rooms had a unique mix of light and shadows, marked by a distracting sense of movement just out of the corner of your eye. Probably it came from the play of light through antique, handmade glass used in the mullioned windows. At least, Nell told herself the phenomenon had a solid, physical source. It had to be explainable and scientific. She simply didn’t believe in ghosts.
On the other hand, Draycott would be a prime candidate to change her mind.
Her hands circled Dakota’s neck. “I keep wondering about that night you arrived in the rain. You said there was something wrong with your vision.”
“I remember.”
“Did you figure out what it was?” Nell knew his vision was special. She’d seen him measuring precise holds at the abbey when there was barely enough light for her to see. Any man who could do that had abilities far beyond what she’d consider normal.
Dakota seemed to choose his words carefully. “Not entirely. That’s why I’d like to go back. Izzy has some theories. I won’t bore you with the details, but they factor in stress and jet lag, combined with sudden changes in humidity. I’d like to see if he’s right—or if there’s something more we should consider.”
Nell sensed the possibility was more important than he indicated. But she didn’t ask him for more explanations. If there were things he could tell her, he would.
“I’ll talk to Draycott about a date.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Sometime after our honeymoon, assuming you give me an answer before I start sweating.”
Nell smiled slowly. “You know my answer. You have my heart and my future. I’ll even throw in free climbing lessons.”
Dakota’s face eased into a grin. He raised her hand and studied the ring that glinted in the sunlight. Then he brought her palm to his chest and turned, looking at the blue valley that stretched beneath them.
He seemed content, Nell thought. Relaxed as she rarely had seen him.
“Izzy tells me there’s some spectacular climbing around here.” His arms circled her waist. “I’m ready when you are.”
Nell’s heart was pounding. “How many days do you have?”
“Five. Enough to get drunk on your father’s excellent champagne. Enough to climb all morning and eat olives in the hot afternoon. Enough to get married.” When he turned, his eyes were like fire inside smoky glass. “Marry me, Nell. Marry me today or tomorrow. In fact, marry me every day I’m here, so we can have the honeymoon all over again.”
Up the hill they heard Izzy and her father arguing companionably about wiring schematics and alarm systems. Then Jordan’s voice boomed through the sudden silence. “I want grandkids, blast it. Hurry up, you two.”
Nell flushed. “Let’s go find someplace without two arguing busybodies.”
The scent of lavender spilled through the air as they walked through the afternoon sunlight.
THEY WERE MARRIED in the little church at the bottom of the valley. The mayor was able to waive the usual residency interval, thanks to Izzy’s prearrangements. Nell wore a dress of vintage silk noile with a spray of pink roses.
Dakota was the handsomest man she’d ever seen.
Nicholas Draycott came for the wedding, along with two of Dakota’s friends, the same big men that Nell remembered seeing briefly in Scotland. They teased Dakota for thinking that a mountain-climbing trip was any kind of proper honeymoon, but Nell told them it suited her perfectly. Half the village turned out to share almond buttercream cake, then toasted with vintage champagne and danced to her father’s Edith Piaf records.
Then it was time to go.
Dakota pulled up on a dusty Triumph motorcycle with well-filled saddlebags, prepared for a trip wandering through Provence.
Jordan watched them go, looking thoughtful and unusually quiet.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be in good hands.” Izzy crossed his arms. “Dakota’s a good man.”
“I’m certain of it. Otherwise I would have done everything to stop her. Not that I would have succeeded. My daughter is as stubborn as I am.” As the motorcycle disappeared, he held out a glass of champagne to Izzy. “I must say, Bujune Okambe seemed more irritable than usual when I saw him last in Scotland. And his voice seemed deeper than I remember. I don’t suppose you could explain that, could you?”
“Haven’t got a clue.” Izzy sipped his champagne and watched the sun set. “The man’s a terror. So is that long-legged daughter of his.”
Jordan’s eyes narrowed. “Every man in the room was mesmerized by her, as I recall.”
“Not me,” Izzy said curtly.
“Of course not. You were too busy trying to keep that pistol hidden inside the wheelchair. But you did manage his accent beautifully. He’s still in the hospital, I take it?”
“He’s recovering. I doubt he’ll hear about the impersonation. If he does, Marie will tackle the fallout.” He frowned and then finished his champagne. “Enough about Okambe and his irritating daughter. I’ve got some schematics I want to show you. My people were pleased with your suggestions, and they have some questions for me to ask you.”
“Ask away. It’s the least I can do.”
Within minutes the two were hunched over Izzy’s notebook, studying new wiring schematics meant for the Freer Gallery.
Draycott Abbey
THE HILLS ABOVE the moat were red in the fading sunlight. Somewhere an animal slid behind the banked roses of Draycott Abbey’s east face, hunting silently.
Nicholas Draycott and his wife and daughter did not notice, busy making plans to travel to London for a quick visit. Even Marston, the abbey’s meticulous and all-seeing butler, was too busy to notice.
But the figure that stood in the shadow of the stone parapets watched his beloved roses move, noting the gray shape that followed the wall and vanished into the shadows of twilight.
When the cat appeared at his feet a few minutes later, Adrian Draycott looked pleased. “Restless, are you? Bored? I see, you’ve nothing to do.” The abbey ghost studied the growing shadows over the home wood. “Enjoy your boredom, my friend. I intend to do so. I have every hope that the curse has been shifted now that the Italian’s art has found its way to safe haven in a museum. Anywhere but here.”
Somewhere a bird cried out in the darkness.
The cat listened, its powerful body tense.
“Yes, go to your hunting. I’ll occupy myself in my own memories tonight. I’ve a mind to look through the old notebook again.”
At his feet the cat’s eyes gleamed.
“Of course it’s in a safe place. No one will find it until I choose for it to be found.”
The cat’s long tail flicked from side to side.
“No, I won’t be lonely. There’s no need to keep me company.”
The cat stretched lazily, then vanished into the shadows on the roof. As the moon rose from the horizon, the abbey ghost turned, lace fluttering at a phantom cuff. Wind stirred the last of the season’s roses, the perfume like a dream of summer’s richness.
His roses. His gift to this old house he had always loved, not wisely but too well.
A single star glittered to the southeast, somewhere over France.
The ghost of Draycott Abbey smiled at a vision of uncanny joy and promise, savoring the knowledge of a job well done.
AUTHOR NOTE
I hoped you enjoyed your time with Nell and Dakota. I am certain that their adventures are just beginning!
Do you love old houses with mullioned windows? Weathered stone walls where the sense of history is as heavy as a physical touch? Maybe you’ve even visited castles that echo with age and phantom sounds. If so, you’ll fe
el right at home at Draycott Abbey, with its shadowed rooms overhung with fragrant roses. One day on a visit to England, the swans on the moat floated into my mind, followed in short order by the imperious guardian ghost and his faithful cat Gideon.
There are more secrets to come in this place of magic and beauty.
To read more about Draycott Abbey, I’d suggest starting with the first novella, “Enchantment,” after twelve years finally available again as a reprint in The Draycott Legacy: Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (Toronto: HQN Books, 2007). This novella begins the Draycott Abbey series with the story of Nicholas Draycott—and the abbey’s brooding ghost, Adrian. Follow up with Adrian’s haunting story in “What Dreams May Come.” This long-out-of-print novella appears in a special compendium edition entitled Draycott Eternal, available in early 2008.
If you’d like a signed bookplate to go with your book, please drop me a note at bookplates@christinaskye. com. If you have a reading group, let me know and I’ll send you special materials for your group.
I’m frequently asked if my books have to be read in order. Definitely not! Each book is written to stand alone, and all stories are self-contained. But if you choose to read all the Draycott Abbey books in order of their publication, here is the sequence:
Hour of the Rose
Bridge of Dreams
Bride of the Mist
Key to Forever
Season of Wishes
Christmas Knight
The Perfect Gift
Enjoy! And be sure to visit www.draycottabbey.com for new abbey videos, interviews, travelogues and sketches of new stories in the making. (Warning—Adrian is already into new trouble!)
I know you’ll be interested in art crime after meeting Nell’s father! For a closer look at the shadowy world of art theft, read Museum of the Missing: A History of Art Theft by Simon Houpt (Toronto: Madison Press, 2006). Stolen Masterpiece Tracker by legendary FBI art theft investigator Thomas McShane (Fort Lee, New Jersey: Barricade, 2006) is a memoir of an undercover agent who successfully tracked down stolen Rembrandts and van Goghs for almost four decades. Jonathan Harr’s The Lost Painting: The Quest for a Caravaggio Masterpiece (New York: Random House, 2005) traces the complex detective work required to recover missing art.
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