Above their heads the tarpaulin swept free and a four-foot section of packed reeds hurtled toward the ground. As the wind howled, a plank of solid oak flew past, grazing his head before it slammed into the beech trees beside the garden.
The rider cursed and kneed the horse away from the unstable roof, struggling to control the frightened mount.
Hope understood exactly how the horse was feeling. She sat rigid, aware of the stranger’s locked thighs and the hard hands clenched around her waist. Another plank spiraled past and she twisted, measuring the distance from the roof. More debris rattled down the high-sloped eaves, and the man behind her hissed out some kind of order.
Hope pointed toward the roof. “We’ve got to go,” she shouted. “That whole edge of the roof could collapse any second!”
Another section of reeds and oak gave way with an explosive crack.
Hope cried out in pain as wood chips pelted her forehead. The man in black gripped her shoulders, struggling to hold her upright while he calmed his skittish mount.
Consciousness came and went.
Dimly she felt the rider’s hands circle her shoulders and explore her cheek. Even that slight touch was an agony.
Hope swept his hand away, feeling consciousness blur. The cold ate into her, numbing body and mind.
Deeper she slid. Down and down again…
Finally, even the rider’s callused hands could not hold her back from the darkness.
RONAN MACLEOD SPURRED his horse toward the back of the house, cursing the rain that blocked his vision. Only by the back stone fence did he halt, sliding to the ground with the motionless woman still locked in his arms. He stumbled twice in the soft mud by the gate, with no light to guide him beyond the lightning that split the night sky.
But MacLeod did not expect to find light for his path. Candles were precious and not to be left burning in an unoccupied house.
He scanned the roof, frowning. In the darkness the slope seemed wrong.
But his mind was hardly clear, and his heart still raced from his miraculous escape over the cliffs. No doubt the change was a trick of the glen.
He frowned at Glenbrae House, rising tall and rugged against the rain-veiled slopes.
Home, he thought.
Even if something about it did seem strange. Maybe the windows. Maybe something more…
He looked down at the woman in his arms. An odd creature, she was. Her garment was bizarre and her scent was of no flower he had ever smelled before. Even her broken speech had made scant sense to his ear, not that he could hear against the fury of the storm while wood and thatch rained down in the hellish winds. His own strength was nearly spent, and his knee ached like a thousand demons from his mad race through the glen.
But even in his exhaustion, MacLeod realized there was something unnatural about the shrill keening of the wind. The hillside looked different, the trees bent low, whipping wildly. And they seemed more dense than they should be….
He shoved the thought from his mind. He had a life to save.
A woman’s.
When he had first seen her balanced on the roof in strange leggings and tight tunic, he had thought her a man grown. One touch of her soft thighs and rounded breasts had taught him the full measure of his mistake.
Aye, a woman. A creature of fire and spirit who balanced against the devil’s own wind while her hair tossed in soft folds around her ivory cheeks.
By the honor of St. Julian, what was the mad creature doing in men’s garments and scrambling on his roof in this mother of all storms? Was she there to cast some pagan spell against him?
He ducked as a branch whizzed past his head, sweeping all questions from his mind. MacLeod realized that he had two lives to save this night.
He staggered up the stone steps and pushed open Glenbrae House’s heavy oak door with his boot. The storm seemed to prey on his strength, challenging every fiber of his determination. Sweat beaded his brow as he inched through the darkness toward the stairs. He would need a place to settle the female in safety and help to undress her.
He shouted for his page, surprised when he heard no answer in the silent house. Where had the boy gone?
With his arms aching, he climbed the stairs in the tower. He would settle the female in his own bed.
And there he would sleep for a fortnight, the warrior thought wryly.
CHAPTER FOUR
“CAN YOU SEE ANYTHING?” Gabrielle hunched toward the windshield of Jeffrey’s small Mini. The wind drove clumps of grass and mud into the glass.
“Bloody little in this soup.” Jeffrey muttered an oath and rolled down his window to clear away a section of rose branches. “How much farther to the house?”
“Just beyond the next turn, I think, but everything looks so odd. There has never been such a storm all my weeks here.”
“A good thing, too. Buckle your seat belt,” Jeffrey said sharply as they slid down a muddy bank and the car tipped sideways.
Gabrielle obeyed, unable to shake the feeling that something about this storm was like no other.
SAFE, HOPE THOUGHT, caught in the netherworld between sleep and waking.
Something warm pressed at her chest. The sensation was extraordinarily pleasant, and she let her mind drift through waves of gentle heat. She was imagining busloads of wealthy, paying tourists when something tickled her nose and drew her slowly back to consciousness.
She opened her eyes to a dark room. Rain skittered down the windows.
She sat up groggily.
There was work to do, a roof to check. Just as soon as she could burrow out from beneath the warm covers and the man’s hand that cupped her shoulder.
Man’s hand?
Hope gave a strangled cry and went rigid.
It was no hallucination. There was a very definite male body sprawled on the bed beside her. A callused male palm lay curved over her shoulder.
She wriggled slightly and felt a counterpoint near her waist. Sweet heaven, the weight at her hip was a man’s thigh.
A very naked thigh, by the feel of it.
Heat filled her cheeks as she tried to break the intimacy of the touch. Get a grip, O’Hara. It’s just a man’s body. There has to be some perfectly logical explanation for how he got here.
Her hair fell slick and damp against her neck. Suddenly it all came back to her—the climb to the roof, the storm…her fall into a stranger’s arms. Her unknown rescuer must have carried her inside after she blacked out.
Probably he had been exhausted himself and had passed out on her bed immediately after.
A distant bolt of lightning illuminated the room, giving Hope her first real glimpse of the body sprawled against hers. A pale scar slashed across his right temple, and dark hair framed a face full of shadows. Long lashes lay in dark curves against his cheek, softening the lines of his angular face.
He seemed totally comfortable in her bed, sleeping beneath the eaves while the storm growled. She could almost feel his exhaustion as his chest rose and fell.
She had needed a miracle several hours ago. His appearance had been an answer to her prayers. But where had he come from, and what was she supposed to do with him now?
He slept on, oblivious to her intense scrutiny, muttering occasionally beneath the down covers. As thunder hammered over the roof, he slid closer to Hope. One hand hitched around her waist, hot and heavy.
Definitely time to leave, she thought.
As she inched away from him, one of her stuffed pigs gave a loud oink, but the stranger gave no sign of waking. He must have been exhausted long before he reached the edge of her roof. By the look of it, nothing short of cannon fire would wake him.
Something cold and wet trickled down Hope’s forehead, and she reached up, feeling the solid outline of a metal glove. A gauntlet?
She frowned at the antique contraption lying just above her pillow, dripping rusty water onto her best moiré coverlet.
What sort of man galloped around at midnight in a medieval costume�
�especially during a gale? Whoever he was, she wasn’t about to have her first real conversation with him while he lay thigh to thigh beside her on the bed.
As she struggled to sit up, her sweater tugged tight, caught somewhere beneath her rescuer’s waist, the culprit a row of metal prongs at one side of his ribs. Hope eased her fingers beneath his chest and tried to work her way free.
Murmuring, he flung his arm sideways. Hope winced as his fingers opened at her throat. His touch softened as he traced her shoulder and then moved to cup the swell of her breast.
Rescuer or not, enough was enough.
Slowly his fingers opened in sensual exploration, tracing her breast through the wool sweater. He muttered a sound of approval. Hope twisted sideways and managed to wriggle free of his exploring fingers. But she got no farther, held tight by the devilish row of metal prongs.
Scowling, she searched for a pocket, hoping to find a wallet or personal identification buried beneath his bizarre archaic costume. But when she worked her hand beneath the stiff, nubby fabric, she found neither pockets nor wallets. There was no glint of a watch at his wrist nor any sort of jewelry.
Hope glared at his inert form. If the man hadn’t been sleeping so deeply, utterly lost to the world, she might have been panicked by the intimate pressure of his hard body. As it was, all she felt was growing irritation at her inability to pull free. The offending prongs holding her sweater were bent and uneven, covering some sort of metal plate which he wore beneath his long black tunic.
She didn’t want to meet his dresser, she decided wryly, working her sweater up and down over the curved pieces of metal.
But to no avail. She was caught fast. Blast the man and blast the storm! She needed to check on the roof.
He shifted against the pillow and her worn pig grinned, caught beneath his broad cheek. Desperate, Hope closed her eyes and gave one last tug.
This time she pulled free—along with most of her sleeve, sliced through by the sharp metal studs. Hope scowled, watching her best mohair sweater self-destruct cleanly from wrist to shoulder. The man was going to pay for that, she swore, rising to her feet.
Quickly she stripped off her damp jeans and the remnants of her sweater, keeping one wary eye on the stranger in her bed, then pulled on dry jeans and a champagne-colored cashmere sweater.
Rescue or not, if the man ruined this sweater, she’d boot him right back out into the rain.
As lightning flickered in the distance, she stared at the stranger who had leaped the cliffs, charged through the storm, and saved her life. A man of action, a man of little fear, she thought, studying the rise and fall of his chest. He curled one big palm around her old toy and slid it closer to his cheek.
A crooked grin played over her lips at that simple movement. It was hard to be afraid of someone who was cuddling up with a toy pig.
An unexpected sense of protectiveness swept over her. That worn and frayed pig had been a gift from her uncle on her twelfth birthday, the year before her parents’ death.
The hero pig, her uncle had called the battered creature.
The hero in her bed looked almost as battered, Hope decided. Moonlight played over the scar snaking along his right brow, and the line of his jaw was softened now in sleep, but the power of his callused hands was proof enough that he lived by his strength.
The clock on the desk read 3:45 a.m. as Hope crept toward the old armoire by the window and tried the telephone. As she had feared, the storm had downed the wires. It might be hours before service was restored, and she wasn’t going to spend the time cuddled in her bed with a complete stranger.
She searched the armoire until she found a flashlight, which she covered with a lacy camisole to filter its light, then made her way in silence toward the door.
Gabrielle and Jeffrey should be back by now. She would bring them with her as backup when she woke her rescuer. Then she would ask him a few questions and decide whether he would be staying or leaving.
Perfectly logical, she decided.
Well satisfied, she smiled and reached for the door latch.
She was still smiling when something spun her backward and pinned her hard against the wall.
CHAPTER FIVE
HIS EYES SNAPPED WITH fury. Hope could feel the muscles standing rigid on his forearms.
“Wh-what do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.
His hands tightened. Hope felt cold metal against her neck.
That’s what you get for letting a stranger into your bed, she thought wildly. Death by strangulation with a medieval metal gauntlet.
Who would ever believe it?
“Listen, friend, there are two brawny men downstairs,” she lied breathlessly. “In five seconds I’m going to shout for them to come up here and turn you into tuna salad.”
He looked at her mouth, frowned, looked again. “Shout?” The sound was low and rough.
“That’s right, shout.” The man could barely talk, Hope thought. Come to think of it, her own throat wasn’t feeling so good. Probably they were both coming down with a fever after being trapped out in the rain.
She shoved away any thought of compassion. It was fortunate that this man had been on hand to save her life, but if he expected something extra for his chivalry, like time in her bed, he was going to be sorely disappointed. “Well?”
He didn’t move.
Hope kicked at his knee. “Let me go.”
He sidestepped coolly.
“N-now.” Fear raced, making her heart pump. If he heard the break in her voice or saw the pallor of her cheeks, he gave no sign of it.
Hope shoved angrily at his chest, but the motion was as useful as cobwebs hitting granite. In all honesty, the man didn’t seem violent or intent on robbery. He simply looked angry and confused.
Not that Hope was about to take any chances.
“You can let go now.”
No movement.
“You’re hurting me.”
His hands loosened, but he remained in front of her, an unshakable wall of chain mail and muscle between her and the door.
Hope stiffened as his hand slid onto her hip. “That’s one bad idea, Galahad.” Her hands clenched on the flashlight. As a weapon, it had limited value, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight.
His hand closed over the flashlight. Frowning, he pulled the gray metal handle from her fingers and studied the tool suspiciously.
What was going on? Hope thought irritably. The man looked as if he had never used a flashlight before.
The handle jerked as he brushed a button and sent a powerful beam through the darkness. With an incomprehensible curse he dropped the flashlight and glared as it rolled across the floor, then ricocheted off a chair leg.
Correction, Hope thought. The man looked as if he had never seen a flashlight before.
She glowered as the glass face shattered at her feet. Being around this man was getting expensive.
“That flashlight cost a lot of money,” she snapped, shoving vainly at his rigid arm.
No answer.
Hope gritted his teeth. The man was starting to make her seriously nervous—and he didn’t appear to understand a word she said.
“You might enjoy acting out captor-captive fantasies, but I don’t find the idea particularly entertaining. Where did you get that costume, by the way? Wide World of Wrestling?”
Still no answer. Hope shoved at his hands. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will. I’m a fifth-degree black belt,” she lied again.
He didn’t exactly grovel in fright. In fact, his face registered no emotion whatsoever.
“Scram, will you? I’ve got work to do.”
His jaw tensed. Something flickered in those keen, loch-gray eyes. “Work?”
Did he think that the floors cleaned themselves after a rainstorm? “Work, as in manual labor. Right at the top is checking the eaves—provided I still have any eaves left to check.”
“Eaves?”
“The place where I nearly broke m
y neck when I fell in the rain.” Nobody’s memory could be that bad, Hope thought. Maybe he was high on drugs.
Just my luck, she thought miserably. She’d asked for a hero and instead she’d gotten a drug addict. “Eaves. As in roof.” She pointed over their heads, making one last attempt to communicate.
“Ah. Roof.” He pointed to the ceiling, too. “Up there.” He touched her damp hair. “You are not a man.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
At least he seemed to speak English. Still, Hope decided that the sooner he left, the better. Her bedroom was beginning to feel decidedly cramped, and the hard thigh crowding her hip didn’t add to her comfort.
“Give me some space, here.” She shoved at him with her bent knee, but only managed to slap their bodies together. She winced as a metal prong jabbed her thigh. “Ouch! That circus costume of yours is dangerous.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Hope didn’t want to know what it was. He looked even more angry and confused than before.
“Listen, I’m going downstairs to work. I don’t suggest you try to stop me.” Would stomping on his instep work? she wondered.
“You perform…work here?” This time the words were rough but audible. He seemed to have a heavy accent that Hope couldn’t place.
French? German?
“Of course. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m a wimp. Right now I need to see how much of the attic is buried beneath rainwater,” she said grimly.
“Why?”
Hope counted silently to five. “Because this is my house, Jack. Taking care of it is part of my job description.”
“My name is not Jack.” Belatedly her last words seemed to register. A frown cut across his brow. “Your…house?”
“That’s right. Do you have a problem with that?”
“You…work in this house?” he said slowly.
“Not this house, my house,” Hope corrected. “At Glenbrae House I pay the bills and hire the help. I even wash the windows when necessary. Someone’s got to keep this beautiful old wreck in one piece.”
Draycott Everlasting Page 5
