Draycott Eternal

by Christina Skye

  The cat stirred at Jamee’s chest, suddenly restless. Jamee felt the same tingle of uneasiness. “Here?” she asked. “But this is some kind of ancient circle, a sacred place. We can’t just—”

  “We can and we will,” Ian growled, tugging her past three giant upright stones. “There’s a vault behind the capstone. Duncan and I discovered it when we camped here as boys one summer.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry, no one has used the old chamber for centuries. I only hope the inner stones haven’t fallen and blocked the entrance.”

  Jamee trailed him reluctantly past the ghostly stones, feeling like an intruder in this place of age and tangible power.

  Ian stopped before two massive verticals capped by a great horizontal slab of granite. “Here it is. The barrow entrance was just below this.” Ian’s voice faded as he crouched at the base of the huge stones.

  Jamee knelt beside him. “What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Any sort of hole. It may be overgrown with bracken by now.”

  As Jamee searched the cold stones, thorny shrubs dug at her fingers. If they didn’t find someplace to hide soon…

  “I think I found it. Help me clear away these weeds.”

  Twigs snapped. Ian cursed. Jamee felt him beside her, tugging at layers of dry vegetation. Abruptly, the dark outline of a hole appeared, cut into the mound beneath the capstone.

  “Is this a burial chamber?” Jamee felt a prickle at her neck. Once again she had the odd feeling they were not alone. “Do you feel that, Ian? That…sense of something not quite right?”

  “I feel it,” he said dryly. “Almost as if a band of bearded savages with stone axes is about to come charging over the hill. This place is probably three thousand years old. When Duncan and I found it, all the grave goods were gone except for a handful of copper beads. We were crushed because we had been hoping to find at least one thing that would make us famous. But no luck.” A clump of vegetation went flying over his shoulder. “There, that’s the last of the bracken. I’ll go first and check that the stones are stable inside.”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Jamee said before he could protest. “Give me a good Neolithic ghost over a modern-day kidnapper anytime.” One step behind Ian, she slid into the hole on her bottom and landed against a floor of damp earth.

  “Everything seems fine,” Ian announced after a careful search. “The outer columns are still intact and the walls are solid. I’ll pile the gorse back over the hole before I go.”

  “Go?” Jamee’s voice rose unsteadily. “Go where?”

  “The mist will cover any trace of the opening. Just sit tight and stay calm.”

  “Are you nuts? You can’t leave.” As Jamee spoke, the cat wriggled free of her tartan and jumped down to the ground. “Now you’ve frightened the cat, blast it.”

  Ian caught her cheek. “He’ll be fine. So will you,” he said gently. “I promise I won’t be any longer than I have to be.”

  Jamee stood stiffly, her breath coming in angry spurts. “You can’t go. They’re waiting right down the hill.”

  “That’s exactly where I’m headed,” he said. “Even if I can’t catch the bastards, I’m going to match up the odds a little.”

  Jamee’s fingers flattened on the cold stone. She expected to feel suffocating panic at the thought of staying alone in the dark. Instead her fear was for Ian. “They’ll be waiting for you. By now, they’ll know we escaped.”

  Ian cupped her cheek. “If you need me here, I’ll stay, though I’d rather take this chance to nail these men.”

  Jamee swallowed. He was right. She could endure an hour or two of darkness.

  She felt the cat press at her feet and lifted him into her arms. “Go on then. I’ll be fine here with my friend. Just don’t get yourself shot down there, understand?”

  His hand tightened for a moment. “I promise. Keep my side of the rock warm.” Then he vanished through the gorse.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE TWO MEN had moved closer to the cottage in the half hour since Ian had seen them last. One hunched behind the front door. In the light from the burning roof Ian made out a second figure crouched to the side of the rear entrance.

  Ian’s hands twitched, restless to cup the smooth grip of his well-worn Browning. He had been issued other weapons over the years, including a state-of-the-art 9 mm Glock with hollow-point bullets, but Ian had relied on the Browning in too many dark alleys to feel comfortable with anything else.

  He sighted, his pulse racing as he imagined how the first bullet would drop the man at the front door cold.

  But anger always lost the game. Emotion was a lapse no professional was allowed, and Ian knew that rule better than anyone. He had negotiated with the demented, the greedy and the idealogue using only the force of his mind. When it came time to act, Ian was the one the victim’s family and the police turned to because his plans were always based on cold, hard reason. Never on emotion.

  Until now.

  He looked down, furious to see that his hands were shaking.

  Because it was Jamee they were after, and that changed everything.

  Ian drew a ragged breath and inched closer, forcing himself to wait and watch and analyze as he had been trained to do. The man at the front was pushing six feet, dressed in black with a camouflage field jacket and paratrooper boots. Ian could see little of his face beneath a black knit cap. Keeping to the shadows, he worked his way toward the second man, who was huddled by the rear door. His hands tightened on his weapon as he thought about trying to pick them off in turn. But if he were hit, Jamee would be left alone, a certain target should Ian’s own bullets fail.

  No, it was too risky for Jamee.

  Ian inched downhill. A four-wheel drive vehicle was angled behind the three boulders. As he eased open the door, a pile of discarded soda cans shuddered and nearly toppled.

  Careless, as well as messy, he thought. But well financed and well supplied, judging by the shortwave radio and headphones lying on the seat next to a state-of-the-art satellite-navigation device.

  Ian disabled the navigation device, then tossed it back on the seat. At the least he could slow them down.

  A quick search through the glove compartment revealed two packs of Gitaine cigarettes, a screwdriver and a pack of matches. A length of rope jutting from beneath the passenger seat caught his eye. He shoved it in his pocket, along with a nearby scrap of paper, then edged back outside just as the roof of the cottage exploded in an angry orange storm, sending embers hissing down through the smoke.

  No more time.

  Ian crouched by the back tire and went to work. He was nearly done when a fuzzy pointed face butted his arm. Sheep. Two more trailed close by, bleating softly.

  Ian’s eyes narrowed. He calculated the distance to the cottage, then thumped the first sheep firmly on its hindquarters and watched with a smile as the trio charged wildly up the trail.

  No one would notice his own departure now, thanks to his noisy friends.

  WHAT WAS TAKING Ian so long? Jamee wondered. She crouched behind the stones at the entrance to the barrow. A half hour had to have passed since he’d left.

  Her eyes locked on the trail downhill, where light spilled against the receding fog. The muted crack of an explosion reminded her of Ian’s warning about the roof giving way.

  Shivering, she tugged the tartan closer around her shoulders.

  Nothing to do but wait. Try not to think…

  A cold wind cut over the hillside and gusted through the narrow opening. The temperature was dropping swiftly and she didn’t relish the thought of spending the rest of the night here. She glanced at her watch. Where was Ian? What would she do if—

  Jamee shook her head sharply, refusing to give in to the fear. But determined or not, as she hunched against the damp earth of the barrow, memories surged up out of the ragged hole of her past.

  Sharp voices.

  Footfalls in the night.

  The old Dre
am assailed her, dank with moldy leaves and the metallic taste of her own blood on her lips.

  Dimly, Jamee felt the cat press against her arm. Blackness yawned before her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as memories continued to flood out of the darkness. Every second, the line between past and present grew dimmer.

  Not again.

  Laughter rose around her, cold and mocking. Even the warm fur beneath Jamee’s fingers ceased to calm her.

  Close. Too close.

  A shadow surged out of the night.

  Jamee froze. “Stay back. You’re not getting me,” she rasped, twisting sideways.

  A rain of pebbles struck her feet. She tried to scream as hard hands locked over her mouth. The Dream, but more real than ever before…

  “Jamee, it’s me. You’re safe. They won’t find you here.”

  She shoved at the fingers, hearing the words but not understanding them.

  “It’s Ian, Jamee. You’re safe here. No one will find you now. Do you understand?”

  A long shudder shook her. “Safe.” She nodded slowly. “Ian?”

  “Right here. I’m going to let go.” Ian’s hands eased from her mouth. “We’ll be fine, I swear it. We have to be very quiet for a bit, that’s all.”

  “Quiet.” Jamee swallowed. “It was quiet then, too.” She couldn’t see Ian’s face in the darkness. Suddenly it was crucial that she see him. “It’s too dark here. Too quiet. Those men might be—”

  “Jamee, the past is not going to be repeated. You won’t be taken, do you hear me?” Ian anchored her face. “I won’t let it happen. Listen to me. Believe me.”

  “I…wish I could.” Her hands trembled, locked against her waist.

  “Then start now, because I’m not going away. I’m sticking with you, Jamee, all the way to the end,” he said hoarsely. “Now, get that tartan wrapped tighter. You’re shivering like a leaf.”

  Shivering? She hadn’t even noticed.

  “I’ve covered the opening and it’s completely invisible. Everything will be fine now.”

  Jamee bit back a ragged laugh. Fine? Oh, how she wished.

  But fine meant no nightmares. Fine meant not waking up covered with sweat from terror. Fine meant falling asleep and knowing you would be in the same place in the morning instead of halfway across the room with your clothes scattered in a wild tangle while you fought unbearable memories.

  Suddenly Jamee felt too tired to pretend. For the first time in years, she needed someone to lean on, someone she could be honest with. “Oh, God, how I wish, Ian. I just want to be normal. To cross a street and not have to look over my shoulder, wondering who’s behind me, waiting for their chance.”

  Ian covered her lips with his finger. “That’s what I’m here for—so you don’t have to worry. Believe me, I’m damn good at what I do, Jamee.”

  “I believe that.” Smiling sadly, Jamee touched the furrows in his brow. “Maybe that’s why I trust you so much. You already feel comfortable here.” She pressed at her chest. “Familiar. Like an old part of my life.”

  “Come here.” As Ian pulled her against him, Jamee felt something break inside her. Her knees gave way and she hugged his shoulders while dry sobs shook her.

  With a curse he sank to the floor, cradling her in his lap and whispering soft Gaelic words.

  Words that comforted and soothed. Words that adored.

  Jamee made a broken sound and tangled her hands in his hair. “Talk to me, Ian. Say more of those lovely things. Maybe the old words have the power to keep my memories at bay.”

  This time when Ian spoke, there was English, too, words that told Jamee how brave she was, how beautiful and stubborn and irritating and downright wonderful. As he spoke, his hands smoothed her cheeks and his lips brushed her eyelids.

  Without any warning desire burst through her, immense and wordless. Jamee shivered, her nerves stretched to breaking. She needed Ian. She needed to feel his skin slide against hers and his hands clenched around her in passion.

  But what then? Would she become another statistic in someone’s medical textbook? Was her desire as he’d said, a simple case of dependence brought on by stress, a delusion that would be forgotten within hours?

  Jamee’s hands dug into Ian’s shoulders.

  “You’re freezing. Hold me as if you mean it,” he said gruffly, slipping the tartan around her shoulders.

  Wind whistled past the entrance, rustling dried heather and eddies of dirt. Jamee heard her heartbeat pounding in her head. “You saw them, didn’t you? Down at the cottage.”

  Ian’s hands tightened. “I saw them.”

  “Tell me.” Jamee straightened her shoulders, trying to read Ian’s face in the darkness. “I need to know, Ian. Faceless is worse, because they become monsters I can’t defeat. And I have to win. Somehow,” she whispered.

  “There were two of them,” Ian said flatly. “In their thirties, I’d guess. They were waiting by both doors. Thank God we got out when we did.”

  Jamee tried to think clearly. His hard body cradled beneath the thick wool. Every touch seduced; every movement of his hands kindled fresh heat.

  She closed her eyes and shut away the need. “Something else is bothering you.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Tell me, Ian. I have a right to know.”

  He muttered a curse and gripped her tightly. “They were well financed and well briefed. They knew we were alone. They were following us from the cliffs. It means, Jamee, that they know more than they should.”

  Briefed. The word slammed through Jamee’s head, causing a new kind of cold to grip her. “Then you’re saying it’s someone close to me. Someone who knew my schedule and my destination.”

  “I’m saying it’s possible. And I don’t like the idea,” Ian muttered.

  Jamee didn’t like it, either. She wanted to scream and fight, but there was no one to fight. So she held on to Ian, her only source of stability in a world turned upside down, a world where she could trust no one, not even those closest to her.

  “So, Scotsman,” she said with a shaky laugh, “don’t you ever have any good news?”

  Ian rested her face against his chest and slid his hands into her hair. “Don’t you ever lose your sense of humor?”

  “Only when I’m deprived of my morning coffee.”

  “I can see I’m going to have to teach you the merits of a good Darjeeling,” Ian said. “For the record, here’s the good news. The fog is lifting.”

  “And the bad news?” she asked.

  “Tonight you get to sleep with me.”

  Jamee sighed, burrowing closer against Ian’s broad chest. “That’s not bad news at all. The bad news is that sleeping is all we’ll do.” She raised her head. “It is, isn’t it?”

  Ian muttered darkly. “It is.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” She eased her head back down on his shoulder and five minutes later, she was asleep, sprawled over his chest. By then, her hands were wedged beneath his sweater, pressed against his naked skin.

  Ian knew when she relaxed, knew when she finally slept. Even though every breath brought him fresh pain, he didn’t move beneath her. Her soft thighs fit so snugly against his rising erection that he had to concentrate on staying motionless.

  But he didn’t pull away. The feel of her body was too precious in spite of his fevered reaction.

  Carefully, he eased the cellular phone from his pocket and dialed Dunraven Castle.

  “MacKinnon here.”

  “You appear to have had a little accident with the crofter’s cottage, my friend.”

  “Ian? Are you and Jamee—”

  “Fine. I can’t say the same for the cottage, unfortunately. Any hope of getting a car up here?”

  “Within the hour, I hope. The fog is lifting as we speak. Where are you now?”

  Ian gave terse directions. “Remember the night we found the barrow?”

  “Of course, it’s right at the top of the—”

  “That’
s the place,” Ian interrupted. “No need to announce it to the whole world, however.” Jamee murmured once, and Ian slid a hand over her shoulder, soothing her. “Send some men after us as soon as you can. We might have been followed here,” Ian explained grimly. “I can hold them off for a while, but I’d prefer not to.”

  “Understood. Sit tight,” Duncan snapped, than rang off.

  Ian sank back. Two hours until dawn. So little time—and yet in some ways, an eternity. He whispered Jamee’s name as his hands slid through the warm silk of her hair. He would hold back the past for her until dawn. He would help her fight her dark memories.

  For the last hours of the night, Jamee would sleep without shadows.

  DAWN FILTERED SLOWLY over the brown hills, shadowing the solitary ring of stones. At the top of the pass a golden plover soared on the high currents, oblivious to the landmarks left by ancient men. The last tendrils of mist ebbed to the high peaks as the sun burst free.

  Jamee winced as her knee struck a rim of stone. She sat up stiffly. The tartan was draped over her legs. She was alone in the barrow and the fog was completely gone.

  Ian was gone, too.

  In the pale daylight, the chamber seemed small and unremarkable, its shadows hiding no terrors. Jamee shoved away the bracken and heather covering the narrow hole, then pushed outside, blinking in the pinkish light. Before her the high hills rolled implacably away toward stone cliffs and the girding sea. The charred roof of the cottage sent plumes of smoke trailing against the sky, but the memory of the dangers of the night faded before the peace of the landscape, where green lay upon green in a dozen shades that Jamee knew would haunt her dreams.

  It was a beautiful place. A desolate place, filled with shadows of a restless past. Ghosts might well walk here—if Jamee had believed in them, which she did not.

  Did Ian feel these same stirrings? She thought of an old castle somewhere to the north, circled by a river and ancient hills. How could he sell such a part of his heritage?

  Something rumbled beneath Jamee’s feet. A car, coming fast. Maybe more than one car.