Draycott Eternal

by Christina Skye

  “Nothing overt yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Is it possible for you to get a car through to the cottage?”

  Duncan sighed. “I’ll be on the way myself the instant it’s safe. But right now—well, it can’t be done. Not in this fog. And there’s no one closer than Dunraven, I’m afraid.”

  Ian rubbed the knot at his neck. “That’s what I thought. Can you at least check out any reports of problems in this area? We’ve seen lights up here in the fog.”

  “Three French climbers were fogged in on the slope of Fionn and rescue teams have been out tracking them. Damn dangerous—I was out with them all day yesterday. Could that be what you saw?”

  “Possibly, but I’m taking no chances.”

  Duncan read the subtle warning as Ian had meant him to. “I see. In that case, I’ll make a few calls and phone you.”

  “No, don’t do that,” Ian said sharply. “I’ll ring you back in several hours.”

  “Why the secrecy, man? If I’m going to help, I need more facts.”

  Ian scowled at the fog. “We’ll talk when I get to Dunraven, Duncan. Assuming that this bloody fog ever lifts.”

  “Sit tight, man. The weather is worst right where you are, along the north side of the bay.”

  After he rang off, Ian stood listening to the muted hiss of the wind down the glen and the soft pipe of a plover. As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, the clouds seethed around him, beautiful and lethal. He hoped that Duncan was right. Perhaps the pale gleam in the fog had been no more than the flash of climbers’ lights up on Fionn’s snowy slopes.

  Right. And he was the queen’s nephew.

  The prickle at his spine turned sharp, and Ian had learned never to ignore his instincts.

  IN THE CHILL HOURS before dawn, while mist layered the hill below the old cottage, the front door latch shuddered. The bolt quivered and the door crept inward, then halted as the bolt caught.

  Jamee stirred, one arm outstretched. Before the fire Ian slept on, dreaming of a pink-sand beach and the hot, white burn of the Southern Cross.

  Neither noticed the door close softly. Neither noticed the great gray cat that jumped onto the stone windowsill and sat motionless, fierce amber eyes sweeping the night.

  IAN AWOKE TO FIND the cottage lined by shadows, lit only by the soft glow of embers. He had no idea what had roused him. Jamee lay asleep on the sofa cushion, one leg emerging from beneath her blanket. Her sweater hung from the back of a chair, and her skirt dangled from the table. Something white and lacy was pooled in the middle of the floor.

  More lingerie.

  Ian felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  He reached for the soft lacy thing, which turned out to be some kind of a slip that fluttered to midthigh. The soft ruffles poured through his fingers in an erotic whisper that left his senses ajar.

  Fists clenched, he turned. Somehow he had to get Jamee dressed before she woke up and realized what had happened. She would cringe in embarrassment.

  He studied the scrap of lingerie in his hands and made a desperate compromise: this and nothing else. This, he just might be able to manage without waking her—and driving himself past the edge of sanity.

  Jamee rolled to her side, shoved away the tartan, and dropped one arm. She was totally naked, her golden skin draped in warm firelight. Ian’s jaw locked as he eased the silk over her head. Teeth clenched, he worked her hands through the straps, trying to force his gaze above her neck. She sighed softly and snuggled against him, the curve of her breast settling against his palm.

  Ian stiffened, slammed by a wave of heat. But he ignored the heavy pulse of need and lifted her head, then shoved the silk over her back and slid her blanket over her.

  Sweat coated his brow when he finished. His hands were shaking.

  Bloody fool, Glenlyle.

  He bolted out of reach before any other provocative body parts could tempt his touch. Let her think she had stripped down to the lingerie—or whatever the wisp of silk was called.

  Scowling, he inched past her, berating himself. As he leaned down to straighten his blanket, he paused. His senses suddenly focused on the window.

  A light flashed out in the fog. Out where no one but a fool would wander.

  Or someone desperate. Someone with kidnapping on his mind.

  Mist licked Ian’s face as he crept through the rear scullery door into the uneasy silence of the night. He slipped around the weathered stones to the front of the old cottage, watching for another telltale shimmer. Down the slope toward the road he saw a brief blur that might have been a shielded light—or simply his overtaxed imagination.

  Mist pressed around him. Wind hissed over the hill and a sheep bell jingled faintly in the distance.

  The light did not return.

  Ian crouched beside the cottage wall. Going down to investigate was out of the question. Jamee lay asleep inside the cottage, and her safety was his top priority. The trip wires were in place and all he could do was wait, hoping for some betraying movement or sound from the darkness.

  Five minutes.

  Ten. Fifteen. Only a curlew called over the lonely glen. Only the fog whispered over the rough stone walls.

  But Ian was a very patient man when he had to be. Crouching beside the bracken, he curled one hand around the pistol in his pocket. He would use it if he had to, as he’d used the weapon before.

  Thankfully, he’d been able to reach Duncan again at the castle. The fog still made traveling impossible, but now someone was monitoring the situation throughout the night. As soon as the weather changed, Duncan would head for the cottage like a shot. Ian hoped his backup field team from Security International would be equally ready to move from wherever they were waiting out the weather.

  Until then, stalemate.

  A dark form shot out of the mist.

  By instinct, Ian dropped to the ground. Long wings spread above him, carving the clouds in a rush of wind.

  Ian relaxed as he recognized the passing kestrel. He pushed forward, started to rise, then froze.

  Something rustled by his foot. He sensed a stirring in the mist and then the press of a warm body, purring softly. His hand met clean fur and a healthy, well-fed body. The cat was no stray, that was certain. Ian wondered how the creature had come to wander so far up the glen.

  “Well, now, you’re a brave fellow, rambling about in the night. Hunting, were you?”

  The cat pressed closer, nudging Ian’s palm.

  “Not too much to catch up here, I’m afraid. All the salmon are over by Dunraven. You might find a trout or two down in the stream though.”

  The cat purred more loudly.

  “Hungry? I know the feeling. A nice fat salmon sounds bloody fine to me, too.”

  The cat meowed. At the base of the hill the darkness guarded its secrets, giving Ian no reason to stay. He pushed to his feet with a last stroke along the cat’s back. “Happy hunting.”

  The bracken stirred as he made his way back to the cottage. He was getting better at negotiating in the darkness, thanks to this enforced stay in the fog. That particular ability would become very important in the coming months, Ian thought grimly.

  After checking that the windows were secure, Ian opened the rear door. The great cat padded past him for all the world as if he belonged inside.

  “Make yourself at home,” Ian said dryly.

  The gray head rose. Amber eyes blinked.

  Ian felt an odd pricking at the back of his neck. What was it about those eyes? Why did they seem too keen?

  Jamee was still asleep, one bare foot peeking from beneath her blanket. Ian eased down onto his makeshift bed while the cat curled regally on the warm hearth.

  “I’ve let in the monarch himself, it appears,” Ian muttered as he eased out of his jacket, then propped his hands under his head and stared at the peat glowing in the grate.

  A movement of dark fur drew his gaze to the hearth.

  Crazy, of course. But Ian could have sworn the cat
was watching him.

  SOMETHING BRUSHED Ian’s cheek. His eyes shot open and he braced himself for attack.

  Instead of an intruder he found Jamee sprawled over his chest, one warm thigh atop his. Her hand was open at his waist and her fingers were tracing restless circles over his bare chest.

  Ian’s body responded instantly. Blast it, what was he supposed to do now?

  The cat stretched gracefully by the hearth as Jamee murmured in her sleep. The damnably beautiful silk slip she was wearing hitched upward as she bent her leg around Ian’s hip. Then her knee rose, coming to rest at his groin. Threatening the last of his sanity.

  He cleared his throat, trying to wake her gently, but she sighed and burrowed closer, her hands tangled in the hair on his chest. His shirt was half unbuttoned and he had a good idea who had done it.

  Ian counted to ten, reminding himself that Jamee had no idea what she was doing. That she was a client. That he was a professional.

  This wasn’t what his bloody body was trying to make it seem.

  The cat sat up delicately and licked one paw.

  No help there.

  Ian coughed again, trying to tug down his shirt and cut off the contact. Jamee merely snuggled closer.

  Sometimes the hard way was the only way. He slid a strand of her hair over the sensitive skin above her lip. She muttered and batted at her nose, then turned to her other side, still sprawled atop his chest. Her knee moved between his thighs, triggering graphic fantasies.

  Ian smothered a curse. If he didn’t wake her in a matter of seconds, he was going to die or do something inexcusable.

  The cat’s ears pricked forward and he licked his other paw with meticulous care.

  The inexcusable option was becoming ever more appealing when Jamee suddenly sat bolt upright. Her hands stabbed at his stomach, making Ian grunt.

  She gave no sign of noticing. “I sent the order last week,” she rasped. Her leg shifted and her elbow dug into his side. “Three mohair for Paris and ten in lace open weave.”

  She tried to rise. Her knee moved straight toward Ian’s groin.

  He jerked sideways just in time. “Dammit, Jamee—”

  “Of course. All-natural dyes, just as you wanted. Four pink and two gold.”

  “Jamee, can you hear me?”

  Her head cocked. “The line is very bad. I can’t hear you.”

  Ian sighed, realizing she was still asleep. He was trying to ease out from beneath her when she blinked twice and looked around her. “Comprenez-vous? Hello?”

  Her voice trailed away. She frowned down at her thigh riding atop Ian’s leg. At her fingers open on his chest. “What am I doing?”

  “Sending textiles to France, as far as I can make out,” Ian said hoarsely.

  Her elbow dug into his ribs as she tugged down her slip as far as it would go. The motion brought her hand across Ian’s groin.

  She froze. Her face turned beet-red.

  Obviously she was aware of his physical response. Only someone in a coma could have failed to notice.

  “I—I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know how I came to do that.” She gnawed at her lip. “I did do that, didn’t I?”

  Ian nodded stiffly, trying to find a comfortable position. Knowing it was impossible.

  “I was asleep?” she probed tentatively.

  Ian nodded, easing sideways.

  “I was all over you.” She swallowed hard. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Forget it. I enjoy pain,” Ian said dryly. “It builds moral fiber.”

  Fresh color swept her cheeks. “Pain. Oh. You mean, as in…” Her gaze slanted downward, then instantly fled upward.

  “As in,” Ian said hoarsely, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “At least you’re making progress with your problem.”

  “Currently, my only problem seems to be keeping my hands off you.” Jamee looked down at the whispery slide of silk riding up her thighs, her eyes filled with relief. “At least I kept this on. But I think getting dressed would be in order.”

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” Ian said lazily. “I’m getting used to the pain.”

  Again color filled Jamee’s face.

  “Your shirt’s open. Did I do that?”

  Ian shrugged.

  “Wonderful. I didn’t take off my clothes. I tried to take off yours instead.”

  “Apparently I didn’t put up much of a fight,” Ian said coolly. “So forget about it.”

  “I wish I could.” She bit her lip and looked at the hearth, where the cat lay curled in a ball. “We have a visitor, I see.”

  “The great thing followed me in as if he owned the place. A damn odd place to find a stray, too.”

  “Maybe he’s lost.” She pushed upright, only to gasp in pain as her hair wrapped around a button on Ian’s open shirt.

  “Hold still,” he said gruffly. “You’re caught.” His hands molded her waist, then opened, exploring when he should have been freeing.

  God, the last thing he wanted to do was free her.

  “Ian.” Her voice was breathless. “I wish—That is, my hair…”

  “Is lovely. Full of a dozen shades of red. And it smells like roses.”

  “Bergamot and tea roses. I blend the scent myself,” Jamee said shakily.

  “You should sell it. You’d make a fortune.” His hands eased over the sheer silk, warm with the heat of her body.

  “Your hands,” she said raggedly. “They’re—”

  “Trembling. I know.” Ian challenged her to look away as he slid his fingers into her hair. It was only for a moment, he told himself. He could stop when he had to.

  His pulse kicked sharply as color filled her cheeks. “God, don’t blush again. I’m in serious danger already.”

  Her eyes widened as she moved against his thighs, where his arousal was unmistakable. “But before, you said that you—that we—”

  “To hell with what I said.” His hand slid along her hair and gently freed it from the button. Then his fingers splayed open around her slender waist as he pulled her against him. “Does this frighten you?”

  “No,” Jamee said slowly. “I feel restless. A little dizzy. More than a little dizzy, actually.” Her brow furrowed. “Is it supposed to feel like that?”

  “It’s supposed to feel however it feels, Jamee. Sometimes it’s wrong to bring your preconceptions into this.”

  She smiled. “The idle rich don’t use words like preconception. I doubt they’re this nice, either.”

  “Pay attention, woman,” Ian said huskily. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

  “So am I. I’ve always wished…” Her voice broke. “Any second, I expect the fear to kick in. But it hasn’t, Ian. Not with you. It’s some kind of miracle how I feel around you.”

  Her honesty stunned him to immobility. “Jamee…you don’t have to…”

  “I know I don’t.” She tilted her head. Smiled slowly. Opened her hands on his shirt. “A kiss would probably be in order about now, McCall.”

  Ian swallowed. Her hips moved. He felt as if he’d been kicked by a horse. “A kiss?”

  “You know, that thing two people do with their mouths. Preferably hot and slow.”

  “I know damned well what a kiss is,” he said hoarsely. The kiss wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Jamee’s lips were the color of ripe plums and if he kissed her, he’d never be able to stop. She’d be naked before the fire, her slip in shreds, and he’d be buried inside her before either of them knew it.

  “Just one.” Her head tilted. “What could be so dangerous about one little kiss, Lord Glenlyle?”

  Ian found out a heartbeat later when he grasped the back of her neck, urged her head down and touched her mouth with his.

  The room tilted crazily.

  She sat very still. Waiting to panic, he realized. He slid his lips from side to side over hers with gentle pressure. Her mouth softened, her breath coming in faint puffs.

  “Frightened?” he murmured.

&nbs
p; She leaned closer. Her fingers eased beneath his collar. “Umm.”

  “Jamee, tell me if you want—”

  “I do.” Her lips feathered open beneath his. “Very, very much.”

  The room took another sudden lurch as her tongue brushed his. Ian was glad he was lying down.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” she said gravely. Her hands circled his neck. Gently, she caught his lip between her teeth.

  Ian bit back a groan, slammed by heat that gave new meaning to the word pain. But he didn’t move, didn’t strain, capture or take. The moment was hers, the control in her hands.

  God knew, he wasn’t in control.

  She savored her power, savored him, learning the textures of his mouth and what it meant for a man’s strength to be held rigidly in check.

  Finally she pulled away and drew a hard breath. “You didn’t move.”

  “No.” His voice was husky.

  Her eyes widened. “You were waiting…for me?”

  The test had been for them both. Jamee had passed. It was his own control Ian was worrying about.

  She studied his mouth. “You didn’t tell me that this kind of thing could be so pleasant, McCall.”

  Ian struggled for sanity. For the strength to push her away. “Jamee, what you’re feeling is hormones, pure and simple. It means nothing. These things often happen during forced confinement.”

  “Not to me, they don’t.” Her eyes glistened. “Never to me.”

  “Never?”

  “Not even with my ex-fiancé. Our relationship was pretty much platonic.”

  “Then he was a bloody fool,” Ian said harshly. “A woman like you needs more than stability and normalcy. You deserve adventure and excitement. A little recklessness.” He looked at the fire to keep from staring at her face. Her shoulders. Her softly rounded breasts. “Dammit, you’ve got your whole life in front of you. Go rent a white house on a Greek island. Sail the South Pacific and camp out on a pink sand beach in Thailand. Make love under the Southern Cross.”

  “I have,” she said. “All except for the last part.” She shrugged. “But you know all about that. Why I haven’t.”