Draycott Eternal: What Dreams May ComeSeason of Wishes

by Christina Skye

  His pulse hammered, echoing her own.

  Blindly, Gray dug her fingers into his hard shoulders, glorying in his instant stiffening, in the groan that tore from his lips.

  There beneath the moonlight, hunger flared between them like summer lightning, and Gray felt herself tossed like a leaf in the wind.

  She moaned restlessly, sliding closer against his hard thighs, which clenched like forged steel in response.

  Shivering, she felt the unmistakable thrust of his rock-hard arousal. Even then she could not pull away, could not forsake the heat she had discovered in his granite body.

  For that, too, was somehow familiar.

  “Damn and bloody blast!” Strangely enough, it was he who pulled free and stared down at her, scowling. “By the name of all the saints, woman—”

  He never finished. His eyes glittered down into the flushed beauty of her cheeks, the dazed depths of her eyes, bright with passion still.

  And as Adrian Draycott watched, a single tear squeezed free and inched slowly down Gray’s cheek.

  He cursed, his jaw clenching. Slowly his calloused finger rose to the salty bead.

  As if in a dream, Gray felt his hard hands anchor her cheeks, saw his face slant down.

  “I never meant…by God, I swear I never planned—”

  And then, slow and infinitely gentle, his lips covered that single tear and eased it onto his tongue. Dazed, Gray felt his lips close, felt him draw the bead into his mouth.

  In truth, she had no idea what had caused the tear. Not pain, of that there was no doubt. Nor did it stem from anger. Perhaps it was the sheer violence of the sensual discovery she’d just made.

  And then Gray had no time left for thinking.

  His lips tightened.

  Slowly, exquisitely, he drew her delicate skin tight, molding every captive inch with his teeth. Heart pounding, Gray swayed, feeling the dark force of his possession. A low moan tore from her throat.

  Heat.

  Need.

  Dear God, the unimaginable power of touching and being touched in such a way, as if the whole world began and ended in texture and sensation.

  Sweet heaven, she’d never imagined the reckless wonder of it, the wild, sweet splendor of it.

  She shivered, her nails digging into his neck.

  An eternity passed. Around them the abbey slept and the night hung still, caught in timeless dreams while an ancient, primal drama raged on beneath its weathered walls.

  Then, with one sleek tugging movement, Gray was free. Her intruder stood back, his eyes hooded, glittering.

  “I’ll not apologize, so don’t expect it. For you puzzle me sorely, woman. You raise too many questions for which I have no answers. But I’ll have my answers, every one. And until then, Gray Mackenzie, I leave you with something to remember me by. It has always been the punishment for stealing a Draycott rose.” His fingers swept her flushed cheek. “Here. Here you will wear my mark.”

  Overhead, ragged clouds ran before the moon. Gray shivered, realizing she was standing half-naked in the reckless, heated embrace of an utter stranger.

  “You arrogant, p-pigheaded—”

  His smile was the merest curve of brightness in his dark face. “Completely, I’m afraid. And yet at this moment, I could almost wish that—”

  Somewhere in the night a clock began to chime. Gray felt him stiffen.

  And then, with a faint rustle of the ferns along the bank, he was gone, loping across the little terrace and skirting the bridge to disappear into the shadows beyond.

  Even then, Gray did not move, shaken profoundly, feeling that a new person now occupied her body, a complete stranger.

  Blood leaped to her cheeks. She shivered, feeling as if the man stood before her still, his breath ragged, his body tense with need.

  Just as your own is, a mocking voice whispered.

  Dazed, she raised trembling fingers to her cheek and traced the flushed skin where his mouth had lingered only seconds before.

  Already, she could feel his mark rising.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SUNLIGHT SPILLED THROUGH the opened French doors. Gray yawned and burrowed back beneath the satin pillows, smiling drowsily.

  Roses. There had been roses.

  Her lips curved as she remembered her rich, heady dreams of the night before.

  Beacon fires burning in the darkness. A golden brooch with intertwined dragons.

  A cat with eyes of unblinking amber.

  And roses—roses everywhere, in every shape and color, their scent spilling out into the night.

  But they were only dreams, she told herself, stifling another yawn. In one fluid motion she stretched, then tossed back the covers and came to her feet.

  And there she went absolutely still, reeling as the full truth of the night returned. The hard truth of a man, brooding and reckless, driven by implacable need.

  The raw truth of her own wanton response.

  She, who had seemed fated to feel nothing. She, who was always distant, cool, detached.

  Grieving. For what, Gray was never quite sure.

  Her hands cupped her flaming cheeks. What in the name of heaven was happening to her? How could she possibly have—

  A faint movement shifted the coverlet. Looking down, Gray saw a sleek figure curled at the foot of her bed.

  It was the cat she’d seen last night, gray-furred with paws of black. The same cat who had trod so delicately across the terrace railing.

  His cat.

  Anger shot through her. Who was this infuriating man to invade her privacy, to thrust his pet upon her even while she slept, defenseless?

  Angrily, she jerked the pillow from the bed, sending her two architecture books crashing to the floor.

  The cat did not move.

  “Go! Shoo!”

  But the creature only inched down onto his paws and curled his tail around his haunches, his keen eyes never leaving Gray’s face.

  “Go, I said!” Gray waved her hands wildly.

  Still, the cat remained, content, unmoving, silkily alert.

  So he meant to be stubborn, did he?

  Grimly, Gray began to tug at the coverlet, wishing that it were the cat’s master she was dumping onto the floor instead.

  At that moment, she caught a glimpse of herself in the gilt-edged Regency mirror across the room. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair a wild cascade of auburn at her shoulders. During her restless sleep, the top buttons of her nightshirt had come free, revealing the shadowed softness of her breasts.

  She looked, in short, like a woman who’d just come from her lover’s bed, flushed with memories of sensual excess.

  Like a woman who’d enjoyed every wanton second of it.

  With a low cry, Gray stumbled backward, unable to tear her eyes from the image in the mirror.

  What in the name of heaven was happening to her? She was never so reckless, never so emotional.

  And what about the rest? a dark voice asked. What of the other thing he promised you?

  She inched forward, her pulse like thunder in her ears.

  The mark was just where she had known it would be, a faint pattern of raised skin where her captor had pressed a love-mark onto her cream cheek.

  His mark, given in wild, reckless passion.

  And oddly it looked like a perfect, dense-leaved rose.

  Gray stood, frozen, her gaze fixed upon the mirror. Behind her on the bed the great cat began to purr.

  “MORE EGGS, MISS? Or kippers, perhaps?”

  Marston was as cool as ever, dressed in a crisp navy blazer that fairly screamed Burberry. This morning, however, his formality was muted by neon-green running shoes that peeked out beneath sober gray flannels.

  Gray shook her head absently, not really listening. She had barely slept the night before and all through breakfast she’d toyed with her food. All she could do was stare out blindly at the roses climbing in riotous color across the abbey’s granite walls.

  The night had shaken her p
rofoundly.

  Even now, a thousand questions pressed at her, each one screaming for answers.

  But she had work to do, sketches to finish. She had absolutely no time for or interest in an arrogant, insufferable Englishman with more libido than sense!

  Gray set down her Limoges cup too forcefully, trying to shake off her distraction. She realized belatedly that Marston had asked her a question. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You slept well, I trust?”

  Gray frowned, twisting the fragile cup between her fingers. “Passably, but this deafening silence of yours is going to take some getting used to. In Philadelphia it’s never really quiet—not this quiet, anyway. There’s something…unsettling about so much silence.”

  Marston bent to refill her teacup, his sharp eyes flickering over her face.

  Had he noticed her distraction, the dark circles beneath her eyes? Gray wondered. And what of the other marks left from the night?

  Her fingers rose, tracing the bandage she had shoved over the telltale mark at her cheek. At the thought of that wild, savage kiss, fire swept across her face.

  Damn the man anyway!

  Suddenly her eyes narrowed on Marston’s back. “Are you—the only one here? That is—” Blast it, how was she to phrase this? “I mean, the abbey must require a large staff, but I’ve seen no others about.”

  The butler straightened, staring out over the moat. “Oh, at one time there must have been well over a hundred working here. In more recent years, Edward, the last viscount, employed a staff of thirty or so. But now, what with government regulations and the crippling inheritance taxes…” Marston sighed. “Ah, well, now there’s only myself, miss, though Lord Draycott has others in when the need arises.”

  Gray swirled the tea idly in her cup. “But the grounds are so extensive. There are the formal gardens, the maze, the moat and all those lovely roses. Surely you can’t manage all that.”

  Marston unbent so far as to smile slightly. “Indeed not. Not that his lordship wouldn’t set me at it if I showed the slightest aptitude. You see, a rose sees me coming and immediately withers—which suits me just fine, for I’ve no patience with greenery, no patience at all. No, his lordship has a professional in to care for the grounds. A nice enough chap, although he seems a bit on the quiet side. Brewer, his name is.”

  Gray’s fingers tightened on the fine porcelain saucer. “He—he lives nearby?”

  “Brewer? Down by the main road, as a matter of fact. There’s an old cottage there, and I understand he’s done wonders with repairing the thatched roof and flower beds.” A crease appeared between Marston’s brows. “I heard he’s taken his daughter and gone abroad for a holiday. He has relatives in the south of France, I think.”

  Gray stared out at the rose-covered wall, trying to make sense of this new information. “Well, he’s back now.” She flushed faintly. “I passed him yesterday on the way in.”

  For a moment, Gray considered telling Marston the rest of the night’s happenings, but in the end she decided not to. Some things were better left unmentioned. No, she would just push the whole wretched business from her mind. Besides, she could handle the insufferable caretaker on her own if she had to.

  “Ah, well.” Marston shrugged. “He must have returned, in that case. Jolly well time, too, what with the roses in high bloom and the weirs to be tended.”

  Gray swallowed. “His daughter—and his wife—live there, too?”

  “Oh, he’s no wife, not now. Widower, he is. No, there’s just the two of them.”

  “What about the cat?”

  Marston stiffened. “Cat?”

  “The great gray thing that follows him about.”

  “You—you saw it?” Marston looked shocked.

  Whatever was wrong with the man? “I more than saw him—I touched him, too. He was prowling about the terrace last night. The impudent creature even snuck into my room and spent the night curled up on my bed.”

  Marston made a strangled sound that might have been a cough or a gasp. “Did it—were the cat’s paws black?”

  “That’s the one,” Gray said, starting to grow impatient. “But why—”

  “The ghost.” Marston’s voice was low and very soft. “The ghost and that infernal cat of his.”

  “Ghost?” Gray felt tendrils of fear brush her neck. Abruptly, she remembered Kacey’s letter. Along with a moat and a priceless art collection, the abbey also has a resident ghost.

  But that was impossible, of course. There had to be a simple explanation. “The cat was every bit as real as I am, Marston. And as for this ghost Kacey mentioned, don’t you find that a little bit hard to swallow in this day and age? I mean, we’ve put men on the moon, after all. We’ve split the atom. We’ve…we’ve invented panty hose. Nonsmudge mascara!” she concluded triumphantly, setting down her cup with a decisive click. “No, the cat was simply a stray, looking for a warm meal and a soft berth for the night.”

  Marston nodded slowly, folding and unfolding a napkin. “Yes…of course, you’re right. These cats do come nosing about occasionally. The moat’s full of fish, after all.” He dropped the napkin, nodding resolutely. “Yes, a stray, that’s what it was.” A moment later, he looked up at Gray, his lips pursed. “Just the same, if the cat bothers you, keep the French doors closed. Which might be a good idea anyway, considering…” His gaze wandered off to the moat.

  “Considering what?” Gray prompted impatiently.

  “What? Oh, yes, well, old places such as this seem…seem unpredictable somehow. They have hidden corners, extra shadows that appear when you least expect them. They…play tricks on you.” The butler looked grave for a moment, then shrugged.

  Gray found herself wondering just what sort of tricks Marston was talking about. But the butler was already busying himself with the tea things, and his somber expression did not invite further questioning. “Will you be requiring anything else, Ms. Mackenzie?”

  “Gray.”

  “I beg you pardon?”

  “Gray. Call me Gray, please. Whenever you say ‘Ms. Mackenzie,’ I look around expecting to see my mother.”

  Marston’s eyes crinkled. “Very well, miss—er, Gray. It was just the same with the viscountess, as I recall.” The butler’s veneer of formality slipped away for a moment. When he bent back to his work, his lips were curved in a secret smile.

  Ghosts! Gray thought angrily. No doubt it suited that insufferable gardener to see such a story circulated. All to protect his precious roses, no doubt! Lazy, that’s what the man was. Probably hadn’t done a decent day’s work in his life! And that cat of his was most likely purchased to enhance the effect.

  Well, I’m not about to be cowed so easily, Gray swore. And this is one handyman who will soon have a few lessons coming!

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, sketch pad in hand, Gray edged along the far side of the moat, searching for the best angle to capture the abbey’s massive walls.

  The problem, she soon decided, was not which wall or which angle but how she was going to choose from the wealth of magnificent possibilities.

  She tried angle after angle, composition after composition, until the ground at her feet was littered with crumpled paper. Again and again she attacked the rough, textured sheets she favored, only to cast down another effort in disgust.

  Wrong and wrong again! Something was still eluding her.

  Squinting, Gray looked across the moat at the south tower. Yes, that area was particularly bothersome. No matter how she varied contour lines and tone values, she couldn’t seem to capture the effect of those sheer, curving walls.

  Muttering beneath her breath, she flung down another aborted effort and held up her charcoal pencil, sighting the crenellated roof of the tower. Yes, the proportions at the top were inconsistent, as if the tower had been built in stages, to different plans.

  But Gray meant to stay right where she was until she got the elusive tower down on paper at last.

  SUNSHINE SHIMMERED off the moat, bouncing fro
m the high, mullioned gallery windows. Seconds trickled into minutes and then hours.

  Hunching her shoulders, Gray studied the weathered battlements, trying to concentrate. Passing bees droned noisily in the climbing roses and the moat murmured from some hidden, spring-fed corner. With every passing second, she found it harder and harder to focus on her work.

  Even now, the scene fought her, always slightly out of kilter, the perspective wrong.

  She squinted up at the corner tower, half-expecting to see an ominous, ghostly figure loom out from behind a merlon.

  But nothing moved in the hazy midday heat. The tower was empty.

  Of course it’s empty, Mackenzie! Were you expecting to see the abbey’s so-called ghost?

  Muttering angrily, Gray snapped her pad open to a fresh sheet and sent charcoal slashing against fiber.

  But with every stroke the abbey’s surfaces seemed to shift infinitesimally, as if to deny Gray the solidity she sought.

  And somehow, between the droning of the bees and the whisper of the wind, Gray found herself nodding, slipping back to an earlier age.

  An age of dreams.

  An age when armor flashed and destriers pawed the ground into raw furrows.

  “Heat stroke,” she muttered, jerking upright and ripping off another half-finished sheet. A second later, a misshapen ball of paper struck the wall. “Jet lag! Maybe even incipient senility!”

  Frowning, Gray sat back against the sun-warmed wall. Her charcoal pencil hissed as it sped back and forth over the vellum sketch sheet. Against the paper weathered stone walls took shape, followed by a bank of mullioned windows, and finally the haze of the moat and the dark home wood beyond.

  This one was good. Gray could feel the surging emotion, the intensity of vision that went far beyond mortar, stone and plaster.

  All great buildings had an inner intensity, of course. And it was Gray’s singular skill to be able to unveil that central essence and render it on paper in grays and black.

  At that moment, peace descended upon Gray, a peace such as she hadn’t known for years. For five years, to be exact. The day she’d discovered about Matt.