Their sleep had been light, troubled. Waiting for Gordon’s next move. Expectancy crackling in the air as they held each other close.
But the night had passed uneventfully, without so much as a bump out of Gordon. And that, perhaps more than anything else, worried Rachel the most.
The house was too quiet, too still. She didn’t believe Gordon was gone. No. He was waiting. Watching. Anticipating the moment they let down their guard.
Then he would strike.
She tried to push the thought from her mind and remember her vow to live in the here and now. She would cherish every moment she and Duncan had together, holding those memories close to her heart.
Gripping her coffee cup, Rachel moved across the room to sit opposite Duncan at the table that was Uttered with the markings of breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, bacon.
“Good morning,” she murmured, leaning over to brush his lips, expecting a brief contact, but he pressed forward and deepened the kiss.
“Good morning, lady,” he returned in a husky caress when he eased back. “I missed having ye in my arms when I awoke.”
Rachel touched a finger to his lips, her smile changing, wanting to give way to the pain lingering inside her. “I missed being there.” But she had needed something to keep herself busy, something to hold back the specters circling her dreams.
His gaze grew concerned. “What is on your mind, love?”
Rachel could not tell him of her worries, her fears. She would not burden him with them. “I was just thinking about my home in Connecticut. Picturing the neighbors bustling about, getting ready for their families to arrive for Christmas, the smell of smoke wafting from the chimneys, children begging to open at least one present.”
“Ye give gifts tae each other?”
She nodded. “It’s a tradition.”
“Like your snowman?”
Rachel’s heart was warmed. He had remembered. “Yes . . . like my snowman.”
His expression sobered, his eyes delving into hers. “Do ye miss your home much?”
“No,” she murmured. “Wherever you are is home.”
He averted his gaze and said, “Would that I could take ye tae your real home, lady.”
The torment in his voice made her feel as though a mighty hand was squeezing her chest. His remark was a painful reminder that he could never leave Glengarren, that he was trapped forever within its borders—unless they found a way to return him to his own time. But she didn’t even know where to begin.
Forces far greater than both of them had brought him here, and something told her that only those forces could take him back.
Duncan rose from his chair and took her hand in his, bringing her to her feet before him. Then, without a word, he pulled her into his arms. She went willingly.
Perhaps he had sensed the turmoil in her, intuited her feelings, as he had done so adeptly from the moment they met. Or perhaps he simply needed to hold her as much as she needed to hold him.
His head dipped and her body tautened in anticipation of his kiss. It was slow and expert, carnal and wet, mouths merging, temperatures rising. He was methodical, and she melted under the sweet pressure and sensuality of his touch.
“Well, now . . . ain’t this cozy?”
Rachel started at the sound of a voice coming from the doorway. Her gaze quickly focused around the edge of Duncan’s shoulder. There she found Fergus standing on the threshold, watching them, his murky eyes glinting with far too much interest.
“I knocked, but I reckon ye didn’t hear me,” he said, his normally ruddy cheeks blanched by cold. Snow clung to his coat and hat, and slush covered his boots, dripping onto the floor in an ever-growing puddle. “Guess I know now why ye looked so uncomfortable when I stopped by the other day. Got yer hands full, I see.”
Unnerved by Fergus’s sudden appearance, Rachel moved around Duncan, standing squarely between the two men. “What are you doing here, Fergus?”
Without an invitation, Fergus moved into the room, leaving muddy tracks on the floor, his gaze narrowing on Duncan. Hardening. A feeling of unease swept through Rachel, and she wasn’t sure why.
While Fergus’s demeanor had never inspired a sense of conviviality, there was something about the look in his eyes that made wariness rise inside her.
Nothing about his expression hinted of surprise over finding her in a man’s arms—or that the man looked identical to the person depicted in the portrait in the foyer.
In some remote part of her consciousness, Rachel acknowledged that the strains of Christmas music on the radio had become a buzz of distorted electrical interference—short-circuited scratching, like a hundred stations colliding at once. Her disquiet redoubled. Something was not right.
“What are you doing here?” she repeated.
Finally Fergus drew his gaze from Duncan and set it on her. Rachel gasped at the impact of that solitary look, dark and fixed . . . and churning with some disturbing emotion, making her skin crawl and her body rigid with building fear.
She tried to shake off the slithering sensation working its way along her nerves, telling herself that Fergus had looked at her in such a manner from the start, that his demeanor had always been abrupt, sour.
But he had also worried about her, warning her about the strange goings-on in the castle and telling her to take care. Perhaps he was concerned now?
No, she thought. It was not concern that lit his eyes.
Her gaze shifted, moving down his body: his mouth with its normal grimace, his arm that was virtually useless, his step that had been more of a shuffle—changed somehow.
He edged closer, his lips drawing up in a semblance of a smile. “Guess I was wrong about ye,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“About ye being a nice lass, one in need of safeguarding. Seems ye’ve found yerself a protector. And by the looks of ye, I suspect he’s more than protecting ye.” His gaze raked down her body in a crude fashion, and he sniffed the air. “Ye got the smell of rut about ye.”
Rachel stared at him in disbelief, his words an unexpected slap. What was happening here? Why was he behaving in this manner?
With a growl, Duncan started toward Fergus. “Retract your words, old man, or I’ll retract your teeth.”
Rachel threw out her arm to stop him. “Don’t hurt him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Oh, I know, all right,” he said. “I ain’t so old that I can’t appreciate the lure of a woman’s willing body, eager and panting, ready tae be mounted by the biggest stallion.” He moved farther into the room, an odd gracefulness belying his crippled leg and damaged arm. “Sinners,” he hissed.
She watched in horror as he grabbed a butcher knife from the countertop, his expression twisted into a grotesque caricature as he focused his glinting eyes on Duncan.
“Stop this!” she cried as he started toward them.
“Away, harlot!” He waved the knife at her. “I’ll deal with ye next.”
Duncan tried to push her to the side, but Rachel held fast to his arms. “No! He’s an old man!”
“Stand aside, woman!” Duncan ordered.
Without warning, Fergus lunged. The knife sizzled through the air, missing her arm by mere inches, catching Duncan instead as he shoved her away, sending her spinning to the floor.
She scrambled back against the wall as the men squared off. A scream burst from her lips as Fergus jabbed the knife in her direction, taunting her before whisking it back toward Duncan with dizzying speed.
With a smile that froze her blood, he swung the knife in a wide arc toward Duncan, his intent clear. Duncan jumped back at the last moment, his escape thwarted by a chair that crashed against the table, sending dishes clattering to the floor.
The blade slashed toward his chest and missed. Fergus thrust again, whipping the knife from side to side so the keen blade sang and flashed like a lightning spear.
Duncan dodged each attempt and grabbed the toppled chair, heaving it up above
his head, preparing to hurl it at Fergus, whose eyes widened in alarm, as though sanity had suddenly returned to him.
“Duncan, no!” The sound of her cry was scattered, lost amid the piercing cacophony of the radio interference that blasted in her ears.
Duncan tossed the chair aside. The moment he did, Fergus thrust again. Duncan backhanded the old man’s arm with a force that sent the knife flying through the air.
Fergus teetered back, his legs suddenly as disjointed as a wooden puppet—his arms swinging bonelessly, and yet the expression on his face was one of smirking, hollow-eyed amusement.
Merciful God, she had seen that lifeless stare before!
In the next instant, Fergus collapsed, sank to the floor in a heap of limbs and snow-sodden clothes, his battered hat tumbling near Rachel’s feet where she huddled against the wall, shock shooting threads of numbness through her.
Then came the laughter—maniacal, soulless. Evil. It crashed against the walls with a power that shattered dishes and filled Rachel’s head with excruciating pain.
Suddenly Gordon stood in the doorway, flesh and blood, as vibrant in that eternal moment as Duncan, who had planted himself firmly between her and the leering spirit, prepared to wage war to protect her.
“Ye think ye and your whore have power tae deny me my revenge, MacGregor?” Gordon boomed, his voice reverberating through the room. “Ye’ll not stop me this time. Your damnable soul is mine! And when I’m done with ye”—he pointed a finger at Rachel—“I’ll have her soul as well.”
With his laughter echoing in their ears, he vanished.
In shock, Rachel stared at the spot where the man had just been standing, expecting him to reappear and finish what he had started.
He had been as human as she and Duncan; his threat very real—a threat he was more than capable of seeing through to its conclusion.
The sound of a pained groan brought Rachel’s senses alive, her gaze jerking back to the figure lying prostrate on the floor, looking pale as death. Fergus.
Rachel scrambled over to him. His mouth gaped open and his cloudy eyes stared at the ceiling. “Oh, God,” she said in a horrified whisper, lifting his head and cradling it in her lap. “Fergus?”
He stirred and groaned again, momentarily gasping for breath, the air rattling around in his lungs like a pre-death exhalation.
Then, abruptly, the wheezing subsided and he calmed, lying there so still that Rachel believed he had passed away in her arms.
A moment later he moved, gradually turning his glazed, unblinking eyes to hers and reaching up with a shaking, trembling hand to clutch at her arm.
“Wh-what happened, mistress?”
“Don’t try to speak—”
“Was it another stroke?”
A sob caught in Rachel’s throat as the reality of what had just happened sank into her, crawling through her veins like slow poison.
She looked up to find Duncan looming, his eyes nearly black from the rage that had so recently consumed him . . . yet there was no mistaking the concern and the terror he felt for her safety.
She gave him a barely perceptible nod, letting him know she was fine, before trying to put a smile on her face for Fergus. “What do you remember?”
“Knocking on the front door. No one answered, so I got worried.”
Relief flooded her. He didn’t know. “How do you feel?”
“Odd,” he said, his grizzled brow creasing. “There’s naught a pain tae mewl over.”
Rachel’s gaze flicked to Duncan, knowing the same thoughts were cycling through both their minds; that the situation had grown more dire, that they had to get Fergus out of there.
Duncan’s troubled gaze held hers for a long moment before he slipped into the shadowed corner of the room, keeping out of sight as Fergus grew more alert.
“How did I come tae be in the kitchen?” Fergus asked, blinking in confusion as he finally noted his surroundings.
“I don’t know,” she lied. She could not let him in on what had just transpired, that he had been the human vessel for a madman who wanted her and Duncan dead. Would he even believe her if she tried to explain? “I think I ought to get you to a doctor.”
He frowned and shook his head, touching a finger to his temple. “The old noggin feels fine. Won’t be the first time I’ve lost my way since I had the stroke. I suspect it won’t be the last.”
With her help, he rose to his feet, swaying slightly before finding his balance. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, concerned.
“Nothin’ that a stiff shot of whiskey won’t cure.” He patted her hand in a fatherly gesture that seemed foreign to his nature. “Don’t ye worry none. These old bones have got life in them yet.” He bent to retrieve his hat from the floor and Rachel hurriedly swept it up for him. He nodded his thanks and jammed it on his head. “Sorry tae be troublin’ ye. Good day tae ye now.”
“Take care of yourself, Fergus,” Rachel murmured, watching him leave, the trepidation quivering inside her . . . as well as the certain knowledge that this would be the last time she ever saw him.
AS DUSK FELL, so did an impending sense of doom.
Rachel hovered in front of the library fireplace, staring into the flames.
Waiting.
The warmth of the fire did not touch her. The cold had settled in her heart and would not leave.
Since Fergus’s departure that morning, she had felt as though she were in a holding pattern, her every sense on alert for the next appearance of Gordon—and he would appear, of that she had no doubt.
He had shown them that he could dwell within the living world and outside of it, proven his strength, let them know there was nowhere to hide.
“Here, lady. Drink this.”
Rachel turned to find Duncan standing next to her, a glass of warm brandy in his hand. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking the glass from him, rolling it between her palms before putting the drink to her lips.
The liquor slid smoothly down her throat, creating a calming effect inside her, taking the edge off her harrowed nerves.
She watched Duncan over the rim, his gaze unwavering, as though silently coaxing her to finish every drop, which she eagerly did.
“Better?” he said, taking the empty glass from her hand and putting it on top of the mantel.
“Much,” she replied. “Thank you.”
They stood there for a moment, eyes locked, time holding still. Rachel ached for him to make love to her, to help her forget whatever darkness was irrevocably closing around them like an unbreakable web.
She wanted to feel his hardness slide in and out of her, to let her know they were both still alive. The urgency grew with each passing hour.
The only thing that halted her from reaching out and taking what she wanted . . . was Duncan. It seemed as though he was pulling away from her, withdrawing, as if he knew something she didn’t. She sensed the change in the very air around them.
She was losing him, and she could do nothing to stop it, nothing but feel the pain escalating inside her and stand helplessly by while it ravaged her.
He took her hand in his. “Come. I want tae show ye something.” He drew her away from the fire, across the room to the bay window. “Look outside.”
“Duncan . . .”
“Just look, lady. There’s something for you.”
Taking a deep breath, Rachel glanced out the window and caught sight of what he spoke of. Tears immediately sprang to her eyes. She faced him, words of love and gratitude clogging in her throat.
Consternation etched his brow when he noted her expression. “Why do ye cry, lass? I only thought tae make ye smile.” He shook his head. “Damn me. I was wrong. I’ll get rid of it.”
He tried to walk around her, but she took hold of his arm, stopping him. “Duncan . . .”
“Rachel, sweet lass . . . don’t weep so.”
“I . . . I can’t help myself. You . . . you made me a snowman.”
“Aye,” he said softly, ta
king a lock of her hair between his fingers. “I thought it would make ye happy.”
“It does,” she wept.
“ ‘Twas my gift tae ye . . . for Christmas. Ye said people give presents tae their loved ones. I had nothing else of import tae give ye . . . besides my heart.”
“Oh, Duncan . . .” She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close, as if she never intended to let him go. “Don’t you know you have given me everything I could ever want?”
“If it were in my power tae give ye the world, I would do so willingly.”
For long minutes, they held each other. Then Rachel murmured, “Thank you for the snowman. It’s beautiful.”
His response was a gentle brushing of his lips across her forehead. Then he pulled her tight against his chest once more, the colored lights reflecting off the windowpanes and bathing them in soft hues of red and blue and gold.
“I don’t have a present for you,” she said, looking up into his handsome face.
“I need nothing but you.”
“You have me. Always.” She leaned up on tiptoe and kissed him.
His eyes had darkened with desire by the time the kiss ended. Rachel responded to that look, and yet she wanted to give him more than just her body.
She realized then that there was one thing she could give him, one item she possessed that meant everything to her, encompassed all the love she had ever known in her life.
Her mother’s locket.
With a sense of rightness, she reached behind her neck and undid the clasp, letting the cool metal slide into her palm. She stared down at it, thinking about all the comfort it had given her, how the little picture of herself that nestled within the locket had once been so cherished by her mother.
This was the only thing Rachel had left of her parents, her solitary connection to them, and yet, she knew that if they were looking down on her in that moment, they would understand what she had to do.
Taking Duncan’s hand in hers, she turned it palm up, letting the locket flow from her hand into his and curling his fingers around it.
A Very Gothic Christmas Page 32
