A Very Gothic Christmas

by Christine Feehan

  He scowled and tugged at the zipper, demanding that it obey. To her great relief, the zipper finally complied.

  Then he looked at her . . . really looked, his gaze drifting down her body, the barest hint of a smile tilting up the corners of his lips.

  “ ’Tis quite a sight ye make this morn, sweet witch.” His voice was a husky rumble that did strange things to her insides.

  “I was cold,” she said, trying to explain away her bulky and decidedly unappealing layers of clothing, which she had not merely donned for protection against the pervasive chill, but against hot blue eyes that seemed to bore into her as though seeing into her soul.

  “Had ye stayed in my bed last night, such a thing ’twould not have been an issue.” The remark was not an accusation, but rather an observation, one she had little doubt would have proven all too accurate.

  She had spent a good portion of the night thinking about him. Imagining herself lying beneath his solid frame, enveloped in his heat, staring up into those hypnotic eyes and getting lost—as she was doing at that very moment, which might explain why she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden banging on the front door.

  Her gaze shot to the door, where someone waited for her to answer the summons—someone she couldn’t allow to get a glimpse of Duncan, especially with his portrait looming directly behind him.

  “Hide.” She rushed out.

  He scowled. “I hide from no man.”

  “Think about it,” she said, trying to reason with him. “How would I explain you? I’m supposed to be here alone.” When he made no move to depart, she softly beseeched, “Please, Duncan.”

  He hesitated, looking none too happy. Then he nodded curtly and stepped away, blending into the deeply shadowed corridor.

  Rachel breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to the door, hoping she appeared at ease as she opened it, relieved when she saw who it was. “Good morning, Fergus.”

  “Mornin’,” he replied brusquely, his shoulders slumped against the cold and falling snow as he scrutinized her with squinted eyes that seemed to know she hid something. “Is there aught amiss?”

  “No,” she said a bit too quickly. “Why?”

  “Yer lookin’ peaked.”

  “I’m just a bit tired.”

  “Guess ye ain’t slept much, eh?”

  “The storm kept me awake.”

  “Told ye they was bad.”

  An understatement, Rachel thought, hugging herself as the cold, blustery wind blew around her, scattering snow at her feet.

  “I brought somethin’ for ye.” He stepped away and then reappeared with a lush pine tree.

  She blinked. “What’s that for?”

  “ ’Tis Christmas,” he said gruffly. “Thought ye should have yourself a tree. Cut it m’self right from Glengarren’s woods.”

  Despite Fergus’s somewhat intimidating personality, obviously there was a gentleness buried beneath his austere demeanor.

  Rachel knew she should be thanking him instead of staring at the tree with something akin to despondency, the words to tell him she didn’t want it on the tip of her tongue.

  But she couldn’t hurt his feelings like that. He had been making a nice gesture, and it would be wrong of her to throw his thoughtfulness back at him.

  “Thank you, Fergus,” she murmured. “That’s very sweet of you.” She moved back in the doorway and motioned him inside.

  The smell of pine and brisk air followed him into the house, little green needles dusting the foyer floor as he struggled with his burden.

  “I’ll just put it there in the library.”

  Rachel nodded and watched him walk away, glancing cautiously toward the shadows where Duncan had disappeared, unable to catch even the slightest glimpse of him in the gloom of the corridor. Was he still there?

  With a strange sense of unease, Rachel headed into the library, where Fergus was propping up the tree, his movements surprisingly efficient for a man with his disabilities.

  “Is this spot all right for ye?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.

  “It should be fine.”

  Fergus nodded and then brushed his hands off on his pants. “There should be some geegaws up in the attic. Them sparkly lights and hangin’ doodads—and also one of them things that holds up the tree.”

  “Do you have your tree up yet?”

  “Nope. Don’t got one. Most folks ’round here don’t celebrate Christmas. The Scots’ time for celebratin’ is Hogmanay, which is at the end of the month. But his lordship’s mother, ye see, was American, like yerself, and she wanted her children tae take part in the holiday, so she got all the fixin’s and would do the place up fancy every year.”

  Rachel could only imagine how festive the castle must have once been, all decorated for Christmas, twinkling lights whisking away the shadows, brightly colored ornaments banishing the gray pall, red and white poinsettias enlivening the gloom of the foyer stairs, fresh garland twining around the sadly worn banister, the smell of pine and spices eclipsing the odor of damp mustiness, and a wreath with a big red velvet bow on the front door welcoming all visitors. It would have been a sight to behold.

  “The family used tae make a big deal outta it,” Fergus went on. “Stringin’ up rows of popcorn and them berries, and the kiddies would hang candy canes and dangle beribboned cookies from the tree limbs. ’Twas quite a fetchin’ picture, if I say so m’self.”

  “It sounds lovely.” And just hearing about it made Rachel’s heart ache for days that were gone forever.

  Fergus’s gaze dropped from hers then, and he shrugged. “I have me own selfish reasons for bringin’ ye the tree, what with this bein’ Glengarren’s last Christmas and all. It just seemed kinda like the thing tae do, if ye know what I mean.”

  Rachel essayed a gentle smile. “You did the right thing, Fergus,” she reassured him. And though it was the right thing for Glengarren, she didn’t know if it was the right thing for her.

  He gave her a quick nod. “Well, I’ll be goin’ then.” He shuffled toward the door, but then paused on the threshold, eyeing her. “Ye sure everything’s all right? Ain’t nothin’ strange happened tae ye since I left ye here alone?”

  More things than she cared to confide, Rachel thought. “No. I’m fine.”

  He made a low grunt. “Well, don’t say as I didn’t warn ye. There’s things about this old place that just ain’t right. No, not right a’tall. Ain’t seen nothin’ with me eyes, mind ye. ’Tis just a feelin’ I get, here, in the pit of me belly.”

  Rachel well understood that feeling. She rubbed her arms as a chill suddenly assailed her, her mind replaying the night before, hearing whispers, seeing the odd mist in the hallway.

  “Thanks for the warning,” she said. “I promise you’ll be the first to know if I encounter any problems.”

  “Well, all right, then. Good day tae ye.” He doffed his dusty hat and scuffled out the door, closing it soundly enough that the bang echoed in the far-reaching corridors.

  Rachel sighed, her gaze straying to the pine tree leaning against the wall next to the bay window, filling the room with its scent—a scent that brought back poignant memories of Christmases past, of long-ago days when she, like the MacGregor children, had strung popcorn for the tree.

  Closing her eyes, she backed out of the room, standing motionless in the hallway until the rise of emotion subsided. Then she glanced about, expecting Duncan to reappear; disgruntled, of course, because he had been forced to keep out of sight. But no sound came to her, no shadows shifted to reveal his brooding, beautiful face.

  Where was he?

  Rachel moved through the foyer, her feet whispering across the cold surface as she headed toward the darkened corridor where Duncan had retreated. Her eyes strained to see through the murky gloom. She called his name; the sound rebounded like a cry down a well.

  With faltering steps she continued on, the darkness swallowing her, as did the cold. She moved cautiously down the unfamiliar hall t
hat meandered like a maze, long-undisturbed dust rising with each step she took.

  Here the surroundings appeared older, the air mustier, cobwebs clinging tenaciously in the corners and along rotted moldings, jagged pieces of wood and broken sections of stone scattered on the floor, sad remnants of neglect and age. Clearly, no repairs had been done in this part of the house in generations.

  Rachel stopped abruptly as the air stirred against her. No draft. No place for air to get in. Yet it crept up her body inch by inch, touching her flesh here, there, crawling over her face . . . and then slowly, inescapably, shifting around her throat.

  Her hand flew to her neck, panic driving through her blood like an ice spike, as freezing and brutal as the air. Her rational mind was eclipsed by fear, by the certain knowledge that something threatened her—and that something was tightening around her throat.

  Rachel began to run blindly through the shadows, desperate to escape the terrifying presence that followed her. “Duncan!” she cried as the gloom of her ancient surroundings intensified, his name reverberating off the vaulted ceiling.

  She froze in her tracks, her heart slamming against her ribs and cold sweat rising to her face. The echo that had come back to her had not been her voice . . . but a deep masculine knell—as jeering as it was menacing.

  Rachel forced her rigid legs to move, then move faster, every nerve in her body standing on end as the pressure around her throat increased.

  She struggled to breathe—stumbling forward, all her attention centered on the dim rays of light that suddenly appeared ahead.

  Frantic, she burst from the corridor and into the cavernous, charred ruin of the decimated east wing, with its blackened walls and rafters that yawned around her and above her like the exposed bones of some mammoth beast.

  She spotted him then—Duncan, standing amid the rubble of what had once been part of his home. The pressure increased around her throat, leaving her unable to call his name.

  She dropped to her knees, struggling for air, trying to pry away unseen hands, her eyes widening as a funnel of wind and odd white vapor whirled before her, whipping up dust that appeared to take form.

  Duncan turned then, his eyes shockingly blue against his blanched face. For an instant their gazes locked through the roiling haze—then a roar—howling, ear-splitting, coming from nowhere and everywhere—ripped through the air, the force hurling Duncan backward into the wall, the sound of her name on his lips the last thing she heard before unconsciousness engulfed her.

  chapter

  6

  HE CARRIED HER TO THE library, to the fireplace, where the flames banished the cold. Still, he held her secure in his arms as he sat down in front of the hearth, smoothing the hair from her brow. His fingers trembled, and he released a shaky breath.

  “Lady,” he whispered. “How do ye fare?”

  Gazing into his concerned eyes, Rachel did her best to shake off the icy shock and fear that had numbed her the last few minutes.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured, her voice sounding raspy. “What about you?” She reached up to smooth her fingers over a cut along his cheek.

  He took her hand in his and gently kissed her palm. “ ’Tis a scratch.” His eyes held hers, somber, sorrowful. “Had anything happened tae ye, lass . . .”

  She gave him a gentle smile. “Don’t worry. I’m stronger than I look.” Her vow did not seem to appease him. She could feel the tension in his body, his distress almost palpable. Never had a man looked at her in such a way, as if his very world would collapse if she had been hurt. “What happened in there?”

  He shook his head. “I know not.”

  “Duncan . . .”

  “Aye, lass. I sense what troubles ye.”

  “Then I didn’t imagine it? There was something—”

  “Aye.”

  “But it can’t be. I don’t believe in spirits, malevolent or otherwise.”

  “Nor I. But neither would I have believed that this thing that has transpired with me could have happened.”

  Rachel didn’t want to think that Duncan’s appearance and whatever had just taken place could be connected, though strange, frightening things had begun happening shortly after his arrival.

  “Perhaps it was a freak wind?” she said, searching for an explanation. “Like the voice I heard. The wind through the corridors and rafters often sounds human.”

  “Perhaps,” he said without conviction, tension bracketing his mouth.

  He stood up and carried her over to the couch, where he laid her down, his gentleness bordering on reverence, touching a place in Rachel she long believed cold and remote.

  He began to pace, and in moments his anger was back, swirling around him as turbulently as the wind that had brought them both to their knees.

  As she watched him rake a hand through his hair, his face stamped by frustration, she tried desperately to convince herself that what had transpired in the east wing had been brought on by fear when she couldn’t find him, panic closing off her throat rather than an invisible hand.

  And perhaps Duncan had stumbled back into the wall instead of some force throwing him into it. Fear could easily shroud the truth, blur the mind.

  And she had been afraid . . . afraid of losing him. When he had not appeared after she called his name repeatedly, she began to think that he was gone—disappeared into the mist, never to be seen again—that perhaps everything she had experienced thus far had not been real but rather her unconscious mind wanting something so desperately it was willing to bring her fantasies to life.

  Yet she couldn’t quite dispel the feeling that strange forces were at work here. The same forces that had brought Duncan to her. Hadn’t Fergus told her that Glengarren was more than it appeared to be?

  “There is much that confuses me,” Duncan said, moving to stand in front of the fire, his troubled gaze fixed on the lapping flames.

  Rachel rose unsteadily to her feet, her knees still weak and her head aching. She longed to console Duncan. But, more than that, she wanted him to hold her again. Those few minutes his arms had been around her, comforting and warm, had infused her with a sense of security she had not felt in a long time.

  This blue-eyed Highlander, whose starkly beautiful mien now resembled more a lost child than a heroic warrior, had filled an empty space in her heart.

  He released a burdened sigh and ran a hand over his brow. “I am weary.”

  Instinctively, Rachel touched his cheek. His flesh was chilled, though the fire in the hearth cast enough heat into the room to make her clothing feeling uncomfortably warm.

  A fresh surge of fear assailed her. Something was different. She couldn’t put her finger on the variance, but something had changed, some alteration in his appearance, as if a vivid oil painting, like the one of him in the foyer, had diffused to watercolor.

  He turned his cheek into her hand, and closed his eyes. “I am glad ye were not hurt. ’Twould grieve me much were ye tae suffer.”

  Rachel’s heart missed a beat at the gentleness she detected in his voice, and the sincerity in his words. “Duncan . . .” His name was a plea.

  He opened his eyes, and a gasp lodged in her throat. His piercing blue eyes were as faded as a winter sky, the color nearly drained from them.

  Then he blinked, and his eyes appeared normal again. Rachel stood rooted to the spot, stunned and shaken. Could what she had seen been a trick of the light? A temporal illusion brought about by the flickering flames and her overstressed mind?

  Her questions drifted to the background as Duncan ever so lightly touched his fingertip to her bottom lip, gently smoothing the callused pad across her suddenly sensitive mouth.

  The contact was as jarring as it was seductive; that this battle-scarred warrior, whose very presence denoted power and danger, could evoke such tenderness in a touch, left her weak . . . and aching for him.

  His mouth curved into a sensual invitation, a promise of pleasure she could only imagine. To feel those lips on her own. To
experience the full measure of that soul-melding she knew only with him, a heightened awareness that dug into every fiber of her being, would be bliss.

  The need to press her mouth to his nearly overwhelmed her. Made her tremble. She felt her lids grow slumberous, her body languid.

  “Rachel,” he whispered, his breath fanning her cheek, teasing a tendril of hair, blowing into her very heart and lodging there.

  Everything inside her focused on him, tunneled solely on this moment, a second of eternity that seemed to have been building for a lifetime, waiting . . . waiting.

  Then, without warning, he stepped away, leaving a cold chill in his wake, and a haunting despair to take up residence inside her.

  She opened her eyes to find him standing with his back to her, his head bowed, his body rigid. For long moments they stayed frozen in time, silent, torn, grief and need clashing in an inner battle before pieces of her began to quietly shatter.

  She turned away from him—and from the turmoil in her heart, fleeing on silent feet back to the sanctuary of her room, back to the familiar demon of loneliness.

  THE BLIZZARD STARTED that afternoon.

  Rachel hugged herself as she stared out her window into ever-darkening skies, watching the snow that had continued unabated for most of the day, covering the ground in a thick blanket of white, weighing down tree limbs and layering the rooftops of the sleepy town in the distance, the inhabitants oblivious to the turmoil and despair residing on its very perimeter.

  The snow collected in deep drifts along the castle walls and painted the windowpanes in a complex veil of ice crystals as the wind moaned its plaintive song.

  Rachel sighed wearily and sat down before her bedroom hearth, the logs crackling, spewing orange and blue flames, black wisps of ash ascending the chimney.

  She was dressed for bed; flannel pajamas she was glad to have packed. Though her body was tired, her heart was too sore and her mind too involved in troubling thoughts for sleep to come easily this night.

  She wrapped a hand around her mother’s antique locket, having not removed it from around her neck since her mothers death. The locket was Rachel’s solitary comfort, her last vestige of the life she had once known.