Draycott Eternal

by Christina Skye

  Firelight glinted on Ian’s face, shadowing his chin and cheek. “You might call it that, though it was composed long before kirk or cloister came to these hills,” he said gravely.

  “What does it mean?”

  His voice softened and drifted toward her in a lyrical cadence. “Blaze of sun, flare of moon, glow of fire and burn of lightning. Be you today my strengths.”

  “It’s lovely,” Jamee breathed.

  “There’s power in the words, so my mother always said.” He pushed away from the mantel. “You’d better rest. I’m hopeful we’ll have better winds with morning. Meanwhile, we’ll be fine in here.”

  The soft vowels lulled Jamee while she snuggled back into her blanket and tucked a corner of the lumpy sofa cushion beneath her arm. She wasn’t actually going to sleep, of course. She would daydream a little and think about Scottish sheep while she watched the glowing peat. Just for a moment or two…

  A moment later, her eyes fluttered shut.

  DARKNESS PRESSED BLACK and cold at the windows as Ian stirred the fire. Though several hours had passed, the fog had still not lifted. Nor had his mood.

  Jamee’s hair tumbled over the blanket as she tossed and turned in her sleep, one hand outstretched. At any moment, Ian expected her to gasp and push to her feet, clawing at her clothes in fear. What would he do then?

  He never should have accepted Adam Night’s offer. No amount of money would make up for a careless mistake that harmed a life. Why had he let the man persuade him, especially now?

  He squinted at the fire, studying the shifting shades of red and gold. There was no more blurring of his vision, thank God. His color perception seemed true enough. But how long would it stay that way?

  Quietly, he turned Jamee’s sweater and his trousers, then stretched them across a pole by the fire to dry. One of the tartan blankets was caught about his waist, pleated with a belt in a creditable imitation of the very first tartans worn by his Highland ancestors. Mel Gibson would have howled. Then again, Mel Gibson would never have gotten himself into such a ludicrous situation, Ian thought grimly.

  As the fog grew thicker, Ian slid his portable telephone from its case, but he was answered with static, not an uncommon occurrence in these remote areas. He replaced the wallet-size unit, then turned as Jamee mumbled sharply.

  “Ian?” She sat bolt upright. “Ian, are you there?” Her voice rose, edged with panic. She glanced down, then clutched the sheet to her chest with a sigh.

  Ian knew what that sigh meant and what had put the fear in her voice. “Right here,” he said calmly. “Sleep well?”

  She shoved back her hair, light winking and gleaming across the amber strands. “Not really. What time is it?”

  “Nearly ten.”

  “I slept that long?” She shifted, trying to peer out the window. “Has the fog lifted yet?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Ian looked away, ignoring how the light played over her bare shoulders. Trying to, at least.

  “I like the skirt.” She pointed at his makeshift kilt.

  “It’s called a tartan, woman.”

  “Very Braveheart. Mel Gibson would be jealous.” Jamee’s smile faded. “How do you know the fog is getting worse?”

  “Because I just checked.”

  “Maybe something has changed,” she said hopefully.

  “In two minutes? I doubt it. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

  “No.” Her voice fell. “I don’t usually sleep well.”

  Ian heard the unmistakable edge of tension in her voice, but knew he couldn’t betray his knowledge of the source. “Is something wrong?”

  She tugged the blanket about her shoulders and propped one elbow on her knee. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Ian heard her determination and wondered exactly what it cost her. Her memories couldn’t be pleasant ones.

  Not that his interest was personal. Jamee Night was his business now. Anything that affected her also affected his ability to protect her, and that included any problems she might be having.

  But he wasn’t thinking about problems or business as firelight gilded her expressive mouth and unbound hair. Muttering, he pulled a notepad onto his lap and began to write.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Writing.”

  “What kind of writing?”

  Ian flipped a page. “Nothing important.”

  Jamee’s blanket rustled. She hitched it back over one shoulder. “You can tell me.” She spoke quickly, as if searching for distraction. Any distraction. “Is it a novel? Poetry? A Ph.D. thesis on the evolution of Scottish sheep?”

  Ian hid a smile. “Go back to sleep, Jamee.”

  “I told you, I wasn’t really sleeping.”

  “Then go back to whatever it was you were doing.”

  “I was thinking.” Jamee’s blanket rustled again. “I thought I saw a strange light back there on the cliff. At first I thought it was another car. But now I think it was them.”

  “Them?” Was she aware she might be followed? Had Adam let something slip about the possibility of another kidnap attempt? “You mean, someone you saw on the cliffs?”

  “No, I mean, aliens.” She spoke very deliberately, watching for his reaction.

  Ian blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

  “They’re here, you know.” She hunched forward conspiratorially. “All around us.”

  “Illegal aliens? You mean people from Albania and Argentina?”

  “I mean, people from a whole lot farther than that.” Jamee studied the fire, her face grave.

  “Like Australia?”

  “No, like the Horsehead Nebula.”

  Ian frowned, his writing forgotten. She couldn’t be serious. “Fascinating theory,” he muttered.

  “Oh, it’s no theory.” Jamee wiggled closer. “There’s all sorts of concrete proof, from records of thousands of alien abductions to implants of strange technology. Even crop circles. They’ve been here for decades, maybe for centuries, but our governments don’t want us to know.” She gave a disgusted sigh. “Sheesh, where have you been for the last decade, McCall?”

  Ian slapped down his pen and met her gaze. “Living a nice, logical life, Ms. Night.”

  “With your head buried in the sand? I can see I’m going to have to take you on a vacation to Area Fifty-one,” she said firmly.

  Ian blinked again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Unbelievable. The biggest government cover-up of the century and the man’s never even heard of it.” She shook her head. “Wait until I tell you about the cow mutilations,” she said, turning so quickly that her blanket gaped.

  Ian forced his gaze away from the long arch of her creamy neck. “Now, just a minute—”

  Abruptly her hair spilled forward, distracting him. She yanked the pad from his lap. “Got it!” Jamee danced to the other side of the room, scanning his lines of handwritten text. “Scottish castle, fifteenth century. Grade One listed, in a peaceful setting with full views of the Outer Isles. Remnants of moat intact.” She looked up, frowning. “What does that mean?”

  “Give me those papers.” Ian spoke with soft menace as he pushed to his feet.

  Jamee pulled the pages out of reach and picked up where she had left off. “One thousand acres, including salmon stream and grouse hunting. Sweep netting rights. Grouse shooting, deer stalking and loch fishing.” She lowered the pad and stared at him. “This sounds like a real-estate description.”

  Ian made another grab for his papers. Jamee twisted away, ignoring him. “Working hatchery, deer larder. Separate stone-built farmhouse and five estate cottages. One thousand forty-one ewes and fifty-six cows.” She tilted her head. “Do you write travel guides?”

  “No, I do not,” he growled.

  Jamee stayed carefully out of range. “Then what is this?”

  “Something that is none of your business.” He was coldly precise in his fury, watching for his moment to strike.

  “Touchy, aren�
�t we?”

  Ian lunged. He pinned her to the wall with one arm across her waist while he grabbed for his papers. The contact brought them flush, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.

  The peat in the fireplace whispered. Jamee’s body stilled, her eyes filled with amber light. She flushed as his thigh wedged between hers. “One thousand forty-one eyes?”

  He didn’t move, didn’t smile.

  She swallowed. “That was supposed to be a joke, McCall,” she said unsteadily. “A joke—as in laughter. Because if we don’t laugh,” she said softly, “in a few seconds we’re going to do something very…stupid.”

  Stupid was far too polite for the thoughts Ian was having. He made a rough sound, staring at his hands buried in her hair and his thigh braced between hers. Her blanket had slipped again, revealing too much creamy skin.

  “I know that you saved my life on the way up here,” Jamee said huskily. “And all I did was act angry.” She glanced down at the pad locked between their bodies, but Ian thought she was seeing something else entirely. Something that wasn’t pleasant. “I’m sorry for that. Being angry was easier than…” She shook her head, shivering. “What I mean is, I should have been thanking you.”

  “There was no need,” Ian said hoarsely. “I was in the right place at the right time. Simple luck, that’s all.”

  She tilted her head and studied his face. The force of her gaze made Ian wish they weren’t nearly so close.

  “I’ve never been a believer in simple luck.”

  Ian took a sharp breath and pulled the papers out of her suddenly unresisting fingers, trying not to notice her pallor. Shadows played through her indigo eyes and suddenly the memory of Adam Night’s video unreeled in Ian’s mind.

  What was he doing? This woman was plagued by nightmares, haunted by memories of men who had torn away her freedom and her dignity. He had no right to touch her or crowd her in any way.

  Unfortunately, his body did not quite agree.

  “Ian,” she whispered.

  He felt the words as her breath feathered his neck. He was fascinated by the sound of his name sliding off her lips. He wanted to hear her say it again.

  Slowly. Huskily.

  Paper tore beneath his fingers. “Jamee, I—”

  A scratching sound came from the rear of the cottage. Jamee stiffened, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. “What was that?”

  Ian frowned. “It could have been the wind.”

  The sound came again, low and hollow, like large nails dragged across metal.

  “That was not the wind.”

  “No, it damned well wasn’t.” Ian reached for his jacket pocket and felt the comforting outline of his pistol. He had no intention of drawing it in front of Jamee, of course. Not unless absolutely necessary.

  Silently he picked up the heavy iron poker. Something soft bumped his shoulder as he moved toward the door. He turned to find Jamee only inches behind him. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m coming with you,” she whispered.

  Ian scowled. He didn’t have time to argue with her, not at a time like this. “You’re staying,” he ordered.

  “I’m coming. You might need help.”

  Muttering a string of Gaelic that would have made his mother wash out his mouth with charcoal, Ian anchored the poker in his right hand and yanked open the door.

  Darkness seemed to swallow the faint light of the peat fire.

  Something rustled close to the ground.

  “Come out where I can see you, before I shoot.” He itched to cradle his handgun, but experience had taught him that firearms limited one’s choices. He would protect Jamee any way it took, but no bullets would fly until he knew exactly what he was facing.

  The rustling ceased, sucked up by the damp mist. Jamee inched closer. “What now?” she whispered.

  “Will you be quiet?” Ian raised the poker and inched forward into the mist. “This is the last time I’m going to ask. Who’s there?”

  Silence stretched around them.

  Ian took another step, and Jamee was right behind him. “They’re not coming out.”

  Ian glared at the darkness. “On the count of ten I start firing randomly.” He pulled out his penknife and scraped the metal of the door handle. It wouldn’t fool a ballistics expert, but to anyone else it would sound as if he were reloading. “One. Two.”

  Jamee was pressed against his back. “Ian…”

  “Four. Five…”

  Silence, long and heavy.

  “Eight. Nine.” Ian’s hand slid into his pocket and cradled the cold barrel of his pistol. Frowning, he eased the safety free. What kind of professional would make a move in this kind of fog? It made no sense. “Ten. My patience is done. I’m coming after you.”

  Something rustled in the darkness and Ian heard a faint scrape of metal. A pistol being readied? “Go back inside,” he ordered, shielding Jamee with his body.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Not alone.”

  Ian heard the break in her voice and for a moment his decision wavered. “I can’t let you go. It’s too dangerous.”

  Her eyes darkened. “I won’t get in your way. Besides,” she said uncertainly, “you can’t really be expecting trouble. Not out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’m always expecting trouble,” Ian muttered, striding into the mist, careful to keep his body squarely in front of Jamee’s.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IAN VANISHED after taking two steps. There was no sound, no shape, only a clinging veil of clouds, which swallowed him up instantly.

  “Ian, wait!” Jamee surged after him, her heart pounding.

  A hand circled her wrist. “I told you to stay inside.”

  “No.” She stood rigid against his back. The clouds were suffocating, pressing down on her. Dammit, she wouldn’t shiver. She wouldn’t let herself remember. It was fog, water vapor, and nothing more. Not like then, when she was locked inside a closet with no room to move. “Ian,” she said tightly, “I want to go with you. I need to go.”

  “Bloody hell. Come on then.” Holding her wrist, Ian strode forward.

  “Wasn’t that a light?” Jamee asked warily, pointing past his shoulder.

  “Where?”

  “To the right.” Her voice fell. “Ian, I think someone’s out there.”

  “Stay close, dammit. And be quiet.”

  The ground angled up sharply, crossing a patch of bare rock. Jamee realized Ian was heading straight toward the light.

  Why a light out here? she wondered. Was someone else lost in the fog? If so, why were Ian’s hands so tense? Wouldn’t a lost traveler be shouting for assistance?

  As they moved beyond the light from the cottage into unrelenting darkness, Jamee finally acknowledged what she had suspected for long minutes now. Ian was acting as if he expected danger. He was also acting like someone fully prepared to deal with that danger.

  She didn’t like the conclusion she was reaching. “Ian, I—”

  “Shh.”

  Something rustled in the darkness. Suddenly Jamee was very glad of his hand on her wrist.

  He took another cautious step. His boots scraped against a ridge of stone.

  Something damp brushed past Jamee’s legs and she yelped.

  The fog parted to reveal a sheep, which bleated in fright and charged into Ian, who stumbled forward with a curse. A bell clattered as the bleating animal lurched off into the fog.

  “Ian, it was just a sheep.” Jamee’s only answer was the sudden splash of water. “Ian, where are you?”

  He caught her outstretched hand. “Right here.”

  “You’re soaked!”

  “I took a wrong turn and landed in the creek.” Ian’s teeth were chattering as he stared into the fog, his jaw taut. There had been a light out there, on a slope where no light should be. He had seen its flicker again just before he’d tripped over that wretched sheep. Fortunately, Jamee seemed to have missed the second occurrence. “Let’s get back.” If there wa
s one person outside, there could be others, and he wanted Jamee under cover where he could protect her.

  He pushed Jamee through the door and bolted it, then took their trousers down from the pole before the fire. “These are dry.” He tossed over her clothes.

  Jamee stood stiffly. “You were worried by that light, weren’t you?”

  Ian avoided her gaze.

  “And you knew what you were doing out there.”

  Ian shrugged.

  “Answer my question.”

  “Would you mind turning around first?”

  “Why?”

  Ian’s hands slid to his belt. “Because I want to change.”

  Jamee glanced lower and saw his hand on his belt. “Oh.” Blushing, she turned her back to him, then yanked on her sweater and stepped into her well-worn jeans. “There was something out there. I saw it.”

  Ian pulled on his dry pants, cursing silently. He wasn’t about to reveal his suspicions without a lot more evidence. “A sheep,” he said tightly.

  “No, before that. I saw a flash of light back toward the cliffs.”

  Ian found a dry sweater, and the heavy, oiled wool warmed him immediately, taking some of the tension from his shoulders. “Just a sheep.”

  “I didn’t realize sheep carried lights,” she snapped.

  “Jamee, you could have imagined the light.”

  When she spun around, her face was pale. “But I didn’t imagine the look on your face. You were worried, Ian. I want to know why.”

  She deserved more than lies, he thought angrily. But her brother had made the rules, and Ian had foolishly agreed to them. “I have a suspicious nature. Too much time spent living in cities, I suppose.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What exactly do you do in those cities?”

  Ian shrugged. “This and that.”

  “I think you’re a police officer,” Jamee said accusingly. “I want a straight answer. Are you with the police or aren’t you?”

  Ian slid on his belt. “No.”

  Not a lie. Not quite. Most of his work was with the government or private security groups.

  Jamee glared at him. “Then why do you keep looking at the windows every few minutes? Why have you gotten up to check the door twice since we came in?”