Draycott Everlasting

by Christina Skye

  “Glenbrae…House.” He swept a piercing look through the room. The glass glinted, dark with rain, holding their reflections just above the trees dimly visible in the orchard. “I did not give you hire,” he said.

  No kidding. She wouldn’t work for this specimen in a thousand years.

  “Who has brought you here? Will? My bailiff?”

  Hope stared at him. The man was having real problems with his English. Maybe the bump on his head had done more damage than she’d realized. “Not anyone. And believe me, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “Nor have I seen you. But if you have hire at Glenbrae House, it is by my grace.”

  A strand of black hair curled over his forehead, just above an angry purple bruise. Hope realized the bruise had come in his effort to rescue her.

  Forget it, she told herself. She couldn’t afford to be generous or grateful when he was intent on taking advantage of her. “No one hired me,” she repeated. “I own this place.”

  His whole posture changed. “Glenbrae is mine by grant of the sovereign, with all wod-penny and chiminage. Mine.” The words were rough but unmistakable.

  His confidence unsettled her. Could her purchase have been a mistake? As an American, she was hardly an expert in the complexities of English entails and leaseholds. What if her lawyer had overlooked some technicality? Worse yet, what if someone else held prior right to the land?

  Impossible, she told herself.

  She took a long, slow breath. The man looked more disoriented than she’d thought. His body was rigid and his fingers were now clamped on her neck. She was going to have to set him straight about a few things.

  “Two things,” she muttered. “First of all, you’re—strangling me.”

  He frowned. “Strangle?” The keen eyes narrowed, and then he released her throat. But his hands settled tensely around the back of her neck.

  At least it was a start, Hope thought. “The second thing is a little more important. There’s one problem with what you just said about owning Glenbrae House. It’s already owned—by me. I hold clear deed and title, duly authorized by all relevant authorities. It may not be a royal grant, but I assure you it’s every bit as legal.”

  For an instant more confusion filled his eyes. “Show me this deed,” he growled.

  “With pleasure.” Hope smiled icily. “Just as soon as you take your hands off my neck.”

  He looked down at his clenched fingers, then shrugged and stepped back. “If you flee, I will track you.”

  “Don’t worry, buster, I’m not going anywhere.”

  He scowled. “Enough talk. Show me your right of ownership.”

  Hope fumed at his arrogance. “I’m supposed to prove ownership to a man who goes around dressed in armor and a sheet?”

  “My covering is called a surcoat.”

  “I’m so glad to know that. You must be a big hit on Halloween.

  “Halloween?”

  Hope shook her head. “Do you always dress like that?”

  “It is customary.”

  Customary where? she wondered. In the medieval fair where he worked as an entertainer? If so, why didn’t he just admit it?

  She moved to the door, careful to make no quick movements that might provoke him. Given his unpredictable moods, she couldn’t be too careful. “Forget the deed. My leaking roof is more important.”

  “Fetch your legal writ. Then I will see to the safety of the roof.”

  “I don’t recall asking for your help,” she said tightly.

  “It is well you did not, for you growl like a Bedouin rug dealer cursing his camel. You would keep any man with wits to ten paces.”

  “Where does that leave you?”

  “But I am not a Bedouin rug dealer,” he said calmly. “And you…interest me. Even if you are a witch.”

  “If I were a witch, you’d be a toad right now.” Hope took advantage of the distance between them to aim a fierce kick at his shin.

  He gave no notice that he felt anything.

  “Because you saved my life, I’ll feed you one hot meal. After that, you’re out of here.”

  “Out…here?”

  “Gone. Departed. Hasta la vista, baby.”

  “I am no infant.” His brow rose. “And where am I to go?”

  “That’s your problem. Go wherever you want. Home—or back to whatever fair it is you work at.”

  He slanted her an imperious glare. “I have seen fairs. They are noisy things of no interest to me.”

  Hope swallowed hard. When would Gabrielle and Jeffrey get back?

  She thought of the small, battery-operated stun gun tucked in a drawer in the kitchen. Her uncle had insisted she take it on her first backpacking trip through Provence as a college student. Hope had only needed it once, when a drunken pair of American football players had decided it would be amusing to toss her fully clothed into the Seine.

  In the end she had talked her way out of that confrontation. She would talk her way out of this one, too.

  Then rescue or not, it was goodbye, knight errant.

  The deed was exactly where Hope had left it, hidden inside a wall safe in her study. She might be naive, but she wasn’t totally stupid, and she didn’t keep her important papers lying around for someone to snatch.

  The stranger watched curiously as she removed her fireproof protective metal document box and carried it to her desk.

  Light brushed the peach moiré walls with warmth from floor to beamed ceiling, but there was little else to see. Hope had moved all her antiques to the guest rooms, keeping for herself only a simple pine desk flanked by high bookshelves.

  His breath caught as he turned to study the walls. “So many books,” he whispered.

  Hope shrugged. “I like to read. It’s not exactly a crime.”

  “Most unusual.” He moved to the wall, frowning. “You are a cloistered woman?”

  “A what?”

  He spoke slowly, as if answering a child. “A female of God, wedded to the church.”

  Hope had a sudden inspiration. “I might be.” Maybe that would keep him from inflicting any more bodily harm.

  “Only in the cloisters or at court have I seen so many volumes in one place.” He ran his fingers gently over the spines. “These are religious books that you read?”

  Couldn’t he tell? “Let’s say they’re a—a mix. The Church encourages broad-mindedness these days.”

  “Indeed. Shakes-peare. Ag-a-tha Christie. Tom Cl-ancy.” He read the words in slow, halting tones.

  Hope wondered how he could stumble over such famous names. The man would have to be from Mars not to have heard of Tom Clancy.

  His fingers moved with gentle reverence down row after row, and then he turned back to her. “You have added these books.” It was almost an accusation.

  “Some of them. A few were here when I came.” Hope shrugged. “There’s not much else to do for recreation in Glenbrae.”

  He traced the scarred pine surface of her desk, then raised a fragile Venetian glass paperweight to the candle. “How come you by this?”

  Why was he so surprised? It was hardly a priceless antique. “It was a gift, if you must know.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “From the king, was it?”

  He must have meant the queen, not that it mattered. Hope had never been any closer to royalty than a quick taxi ride around the gardens at Windsor. “Not from the king, the queen or the thane of Cawdor.”

  “You know the thane?” He looked shocked.

  Hope sighed. “Not in this lifetime. And that gift you’re holding came from Venice. A friend brought it back for me.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “Venice.” He pronounced the word in four lyric syllables. “Truly a place of water and song. Flowers everywhere, and such color that a man might think he is dead and reborn in heaven as a saint.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “To heaven?”

  “No, to Venice.”

  He shrugged, his g
aze locked on the globe. Light refracted onto his face in blocks of color as he shifted the glass gently between his big hands. Each movement was impossibly careful, impossibly sad.

  What had happened to him in Venice?

  Hope could not tear her gaze away as haunting memories swept across his face.

  Forget it, she told herself. Compassion could get a woman into a load of trouble these days. The man was probably wanted for wife beating or three counts of homicide. If not, then he was certifiable.

  Either way, the sooner she got him out of her house, the better. “Turn around,” she said flatly.

  His black brow climbed. “Turn away? Why should I do this?”

  “Do you have to question everything I say?”

  “It is my right,” he said coldly.

  Not that again, Hope thought. “I’m waiting,” she said pointedly.

  “Why am I to turn?”

  “Because there is a code for the lock. I’m not about to let you or anyone else know what the numbers are.”

  “Code?”

  He could play dumb, but she wasn’t buying it. When he didn’t move, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Every minute you wait, more rain comes flooding through the roof.”

  He seemed to consider her words. Thunder rolled outside and he ran a hand across his forehead. Sweat covered his brow as he swayed back against the wall, his hand moving down to cup his right knee.

  “Are you all right?”

  He stiffened, all trace of confusion vanished. Though he was pale, his features were implacable. “I will turn away,” he said imperiously. “You may have your secrets—for now.” When he moved, Hope saw that he favored his left leg.

  “Be quick, for I grow impatient,” he growled, his back turned.

  She had the strange impression this was the first time he had ever obeyed an order.

  Quickly, she dialed her code, then removed a parchment wrapped in a velvet bag. “You can turn around now.” She held out her deed. “Look for yourself. Everything’s in order, right down to the seal.”

  He studied the parchment warily, frowning over the red wax seal. Or maybe it was the language of the document that bothered him. Hope had had more trouble than she cared to admit when she’d tried to decipher the flowing, archaic script.

  His finger slid across the page. “The language is most strange.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Why would I wish to?”

  Hope sighed as he continued to read. His face cast a shadow across the parchment.

  Abruptly he raised his head. “What sort of joke is this?”

  Hope was fast losing all her patience with these nonsensical questions. “No joke, Galahad. Believe it.”

  “I believe nothing. Who are you truly, a spy sent to watch the village? One of the bailiff’s hirelings? Or are you sent by a local coven?” He made the quick, wary sign of the cross as he spoke.

  Hope had had enough of his interrogation. “I’m Hope O’Hara, just as the document says. I’m still waiting to know who you are.”

  “I am Ronan MacLeod.” He seemed to be waiting for her reaction.

  “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

  “I am a knight of St. Julian, liege of Glenbrae House and all its lands. Others have different names for my position.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  His jaw hardened. “Some call me the King’s Wolf.”

  A wave of cold air swept over Hope’s shoulders.

  Hope thought of the hard-faced warrior who stared down from the shadows of the stairwell, silent and eternal guardian of Glenbrae House. On his shoulder had been an animal form.

  A wolf?

  As dim light poured around him, Hope felt an eerie sense of recognition. Yes, there was a definite resemblance, even by the flickering light of her candle.

  His name was MacLeod. Was he a distant descendant, someone who carried the blood of Glenbrae’s ancient guardian? Or was he born from muddled bloodlines, through an illegitimacy hidden centuries before? Either possibility would explain his possessiveness about the house, she realized.

  But not his weird style of clothing.

  The sense of déjà vu persisted, gathering force. A tingling crept up her spine, as if she had walked into a mystery greater than her understanding. The howl of the wind and the rain slashing at the window only added to her strange sense of being caught out of place and time.

  Yes, the resemblance was uncanny. The original frescoed image was blurred with age, but the jaw was nearly identical. And those eyes had the same cocky, arrogant glint…

  Get a grip, Hope thought in disgust. The King’s Wolf died centuries ago. And if he were still alive, he would hardly be the kind of fellow you’d want to meet for friendly conversation—especially if it involved a land dispute.

  According to her limited knowledge of Scottish history, most Scotsmen solved such disputes with their hands—or with a sword.

  Whether he was a descendant or not, Hope wasn’t going to argue with the man. She was too exhausted to argue—and he was in no fit shape himself, judging by his pallor. His shoulder was braced against the door frame, and she realized he was fighting to stay on his feet.

  Then again, maybe the title he had used was hereditary. “Is that title you mentioned passed down from father to son?”

  “I have no son,” he said gravely. “The title is mine, as anyone in Glenbrae will tell you.”

  Hope shook her head in disbelief. “You expect me to believe that you own this house and its lands?”

  “I care not what you wish to believe, woman.” He closed his eyes for a second, breathing heavily. When his eyes opened, they showed the strain of his effort to stay upright.

  Perhaps the head wound was serious. Perhaps he would keel over right in front of her, Hope thought uneasily.

  Before she could answer, he held out the deed, scowling. “You will explain this to me now.” He tapped the lines at the bottom of the page.

  “Explain what?”

  “The number written here.” His eyes burned, half in confusion and half in anger. “What does this mean, one-nine-nine-eight?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  HOPE JUST STARED AT HIM, fighting a sense of sharp uneasiness. “Exactly what it says. 1998.”

  “But what does this mean?” he snapped.

  “It means the year.” Sweat mottled his brow. Hope wondered if he was about to lose consciousness.

  “No more lies!” he thundered. “By St. Julian, it is the reign of our sovereign lord, King Edward. As well you know.”

  Hope’s pulse hammered. Edward, as king? Prince Charles certainly wasn’t going to like hearing that. Was this some clumsy joke?

  Lightning flashed, rattling the tiny, leaded windowpanes. For one ghostly instant Hope saw the trees bent flat against the darkness, their boughs like skeletal fingers before the wind.

  But the stranger did not notice. He stood frozen, his fists locked over his strange tunic while his pallor increased by the second.

  Hope took a step away from him. The expression on his face frightened her almost as much as his wild accusations. “Just calm down. I hate to be the one to tell you, but this Edward you’re talking about is dead.” Hope’s history was weak, but she knew that much.

  His hand plunged to his side and came up empty. Hope recalled seeing a dark bundle beside the bed. He must have left the sword beside him as he slept.

  “Dead? When?”

  She did a rough calculation. “I’d say about seven hundred years ago.”

  RONAN MACLEOD FELT his whole mind scream. What was she doing in his house? Was she a spy, a witch or a madwoman?

  He frowned down at the document in his hands.

  The year was 1998? Seven centuries into a future he could not even imagine? No, her words were impossible.

  The script blurred before him as he fought a wave of exhaustion. The storm had drained all his energy and he could barely stand. But he dared reveal no weakness before this
cunning spy. He had seen the vermilion tents of Sultan al-Ashraf Khalil stretched across the plain of Samaria, bright as blood. He had watched the Saracens storm Acre, raze the great towers, and run down terrified women. Nothing could blot the pain of those hellish nightmares.

  In his soul he’d known only hard penance would bring him solace after his years of forced loyalty to a hated English king. Still, he had saved his village and all its people from the sword. Their safety had been the price of his unwilling service, though by the king’s order, none could know this. After the life he had led, what pain could being branded a traitor hold for him?

  But this night’s adventure strained his very reason. By St. Swithin and St. Julian, had he lost his immortal soul or simply lost his reason?

  Even now this woman’s beauty tasked him, a torment to his senses. There had been no woman for too long.

  “A lie,” he growled, closing his free hand around her neck. “The date—tell it to me now.”

  She trembled. It pleased him that she finally recognized her danger. He did not relish harrowing women and children, but he vowed to have this trickery ended.

  She shoved at his hands. “Let me go, you oaf.”

  “Not until I have the truth from you.”

  “What part of twentieth-century English don’t you understand? The year is one-nine-nine-eight. Two years away from the new millennium.”

  Her moss-green eyes glinted as she strained against him, and MacLeod cursed, twisting to avoid hurting her. But he would not release her. Not until her answers were believable.

  But even as he made his resolve, her volatile eyes continued to haunt him. She shoved and fought, sputtering like no woman MacLeod had ever known, argumentative as a drunken cloth merchant. And what manner of clothes were these exotic things she wore? Soft, sleek leggings hugged her slender thighs, making his breath gather in his chest like a hot desert wind.

  In disgust, MacLeod felt his body harden. Even her scent seduced him, an unfamiliar blend of cinnamon and wildflowers.

  He looked away, cursing his desire. She was a spy—or worse. Her beauty was part of her treachery. The date she gave was a joke from a jester’s tale. No mortal could gallop through time and leap centuries in a heartbeat. Either she was sent by the bailiff to report on Glenbrae’s new laird, or she was part of some new scheme of Edward’s, meant to test MacLeod’s loyalty.