Draycott Everlasting

by Christina Skye

  He stared down. She was all flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes. She looked…

  Dazed. Overwhelmed.

  He heard her small moan, but the sheen of desire in her eyes told MacLeod the whimper came from pleasure, not fear.

  It was her hands that caught his face and drew him back to her. And it was she who made a broken sound of need when his lips opened over hers again.

  She tasted like the cider his mother had prepared when he was a boy, a blend of fruit, heather and a dozen subtle herbs. The result was just as smooth, just as flawless.

  MacLeod didn’t move, lost in the sliding textures of the kiss. She moved beneath him, their breaths mingling as his fingers sifted through her smooth hair. Desire left him dizzy as her mouth trembled, opening to his tongue.

  He nearly took her then, there beside the icy loch with her odd clothes in shreds beneath them. God knew he wanted to.

  Except for the first time in his adult life, Ronan MacLeod had tasted tenderness from a woman, and it shocked him. This woman did not fear him or goad him to violence. She baited him, confused him, intrigued him—but as a complete equal.

  The realization stunned him.

  Time staggered. All the world seemed to halt while the air thickened, heavy with the need that rose between them.

  MacLeod had never needed a woman before. A warrior needed a battle horse, a sword and armor, but not a woman. Conquests had been simple, uncomplicated bouts of heat and skin, meant only to dim the fire of physical urges. No woman had ever asked for more from him. No woman had ever dared.

  But this one would. Already she leaned into his touch and smoothed the old marks on his back with her soft fingers. Yes, this woman would want answers and honor and a lifetime of touching. She would ask for nothing less than his very soul.

  And MacLeod sensed he would blindly give it to her.

  He lowered his head and took her mouth again, this time with exquisite skill. He used all the knowledge learned with the wrong women, praying that he pleased her well. Somehow, pleasing Hope O’Hara had become infinitely more important than satisfying his own desires.

  With a sigh, she moved against him, pliant and strong. Her response left MacLeod dizzy and utterly disarmed. Blindly he traced the arch of her lower lip and the velvet of her mouth, storing away every detail.

  Caught in the intensity of the kiss, he forgot the need to balance his weight on his good knee. Suddenly pain burned up his thigh and his muscles locked.

  He bit off a curse, loath to break the contact when the feel of her was still so new. But pain flared anew, jolting up his leg. MacLeod knew what came next would be far worse.

  “You’re sheet-white, MacLeod.” Hope laughed unsteadily. “I’ve never known my kiss to do that before.”

  How wrong she was. Her kiss could sway kings and topple empires, he thought. She could strike fire and work the grandest miracles.

  Maybe she already had. He was not a man who had expected to find tenderness in a woman’s touch, yet here he had found tenderness and more.

  Miracles and more.

  He lifted her chin slowly, surprised at his own gentleness. The King’s Wolf was not a gentle man. In truth, he was a killer on three continents.

  And yet he touched this one woman as if she were as fragile as the Venetian glass globe on her desk. He found he could do nothing else.

  A stab of pain pulled him back to his senses. He gritted his teeth, swaying slightly.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” The concern in her eyes was unmistakable.

  Struck by fresh waves of pain, he tried to pull away, but Hope slid a hand around his waist.

  MacLeod muttered an oath and stepped back, but she was right behind him, her fingers digging into his waist. “What are you doing, woman?”

  “I’m helping you.”

  “I need no help,” he said through gritted teeth while claws of fire tore up his leg. But MacLeod refused to heed them. Stiffly he pushed at her hands. “I am simply cold.”

  “Stop being so damned macho, will you? Anyone can see that you’re in real pain. You can barely stand up.”

  “I can stand. I can also walk unaided.”

  “Yeah, right. If you ask me, that medieval-knight routine is getting old.”

  Through his pain, her words struck him dumb.

  Was this all his honor amounted to, words tossed casually from her lips and dismissed? Could she not see it was all he knew—his very life?

  “I will manage alone, as I have always managed before,” he said darkly.

  “This time you have someone to help you.” She slid her arm farther around his waist. “Anyone who wasn’t so busy being an idiot could see that.”

  “Are you naming me an idiot, madam?”

  She smiled faintly. “I expect I am.”

  In spite of his pain, his mouth took on an answering grin. No other woman would dare say such a thing to the King’s Wolf. Hope O’Hara had no idea of her danger.

  It pleased MacLeod intensely that she did not.

  He eased more of his weight onto her shoulder, expecting a protest, but he heard none. Her hands were warm and surprisingly strong and the warm brush of her hip at his thigh was almost enough to make him forget his pain.

  “You don’t have to hold back, you know. I can take more of your weight.”

  “Then we would both be on the ground.”

  “Are you calling me a weakling?”

  “Nothing of the sort. You have an exceptional strength. For a woman, that is.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Gloria Steinem would have you for breakfast.”

  He studied her curiously. “What is a Gloriasteinem?”

  She shook her head. “Forget it. Just forget it.”

  “Then tell me what manner of sport you pursue. Hawking? Hunting?”

  She strained to hold him upright. “Try jogging. Four miles every day.”

  “Jogging? What manner of sport is that?”

  “Running. You slam one foot ahead of the other and make loud, panting noises.”

  His brow furrowed. “Running from whom?”

  “Oh, you’re good, MacLeod. You’re very good.” She pressed closer, taking more of his weight.

  The touch of her made his head spin. “I do not understand you.” By honor, he was forgetting everything but the feel of her body sliding against his. How did she rob him of his wits like this?

  “I don’t understand either,” she muttered. “But we have to get back into the house before we’re both soaked. Only a complete idiot would go swimming in late November.”

  His brow rose. “I was wrong before.”

  They tottered up the bank, shoulder to shoulder. “Wrong about what?”

  “You do not argue like a Bedouin with his camel. You are far worse. You would frighten even a Saracen with your tongue.”

  As she struggled beneath his weight, Hope hid a smile. She realized she enjoyed arguing with Ronan MacLeod. There had been no one to argue with since her uncle had died three years before.

  Dermot O’Hara had opened a whole new world to her when she was thirteen. Desperately trying to come to grips with the trauma of losing her parents and the roller-coaster onset of teenage years, she had swung between tears and withdrawal. When all of his other efforts had failed, her uncle had teased her to wrath. They had traded insults and ingenious threats nonstop for nearly an hour and then Hope had collapsed into wild laughter.

  Everything had changed between them after that. Before they were strangers. Afterward they were family.

  Her uncle had taught her the value of a good argument and its two unshakable rules: no hitting below the belt and no harboring grudges later.

  Too few people knew how to argue properly. It wasn’t a matter of temper, after all. Good arguing required wit, patience. Panache.

  Hope was starting to think MacLeod just might make a decent sparring partner once he got over this little delusion that he had been shot out of the thirteenth century.

  Assuming she
could keep her eyes off that gorgeous body of his.

  “So, MacLeod, how long have you had this problem?”

  “What problem?”

  “The problem with your leg, of course.”

  He shrugged. “Long enough.”

  “Was it some kind of accident?”

  “No.”

  “Then what did this to you?”

  His jaw hardened. “Men did.”

  “Men. That’s all you’re going to say?”

  He gave another shrug.

  “Is getting answers out of you always like pulling teeth? I have news for you, there’s nothing shameful about having an old injury.”

  MacLeod could not agree. Weakness shamed any knight. To discuss such weaknesses was unthinkable, even with a woman.

  Especially with a woman.

  He drew an irritated breath, looking at the dense woods just below the cliffs. “It happened up there.” Memories flashed in his head: shouting and the glint of metal. Cries of fury that turned to screams. Dark and heavy, the images churned up inside him.

  He did not want to remember. Not any of it.

  The wind had risen, sending whitecaps across the water, and thanks to their contact, the woman was nearly as damp as he was. He felt her shiver. They would have to find a way out of the wind soon, assuming he could still walk.

  “Talk to me, MacLeod.”

  He gritted his teeth and forced his legs over the rocky slope. He didn’t want to talk. He certainly didn’t want to remember. He had been an angry, confused boy when he’d left this glen, and the memories still hurt.

  “I’m waiting.”

  He didn’t mean to answer her, but somehow the words slid out. “They came before dawn, and there was no chance for us. Not even time for running, though my father would never have considered such a course.”

  “You were attacked?” she repeated uncertainly.

  “I was twelve that summer.” His jaw clenched and he felt the old bleak waves of fury. “Only a few of the MacLeod men were here. The rest had gone north for a wedding, something the cursed Sassenachs seemed to know full well.” Suddenly his eyes hardened. “You are English?”

  “Not me. I’m American. Yankee born and bred.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “America. You know, that big country across the ocean. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago.”

  He frowned, waiting for her to say words that made sense.

  “The Boston tea party and no taxation without representation?” She sighed. “Let’s just say that we’re the ones who fought England and won.”

  “You did?” MacLeod was genuinely impressed. “How?”

  “Stop trying to change the subject. What happened to you next?”

  He struggled up the rocky slope, each step a torment. “More of the same,” he said stonily.

  “More of the same what?”

  “Fighting. Bleeding. Dying.” He took a hard breath. “After their killing was done, they took my sisters.” He stared at the mist drifting in a chill plume above the hills. “An English crossbow slit my knee that day.”

  She gasped. “So English soldiers…did this to you?”

  “They enjoyed seeing me hobbled, but not dead. Killing me would have taken away their pleasure.”

  “But what good were you to them wounded?”

  “I was sport. Young prey, better than any stag.” He laughed once, a short, flat sound. “Besides, there was no time for healing. We were on the march before dusk, while the village still burned behind us.”

  “Why didn’t you call someone to help?”

  Call? No one would have heard. No one was left to hear. Clearly she understood nothing. Perhaps there was no more war in her time. “You are certain you are not English?”

  “Absolutely. Now tell me what you did next.”

  “I could do nothing. It was war, and I was taken for Edward’s army.”

  She came to a dead halt, frowning. “Edward?” she repeated softly. “As in King Edward? But that was…centuries ago.”

  “So you have told me.”

  MacLeod’s eyes narrowed on the dense trees above the stone fence. Light flickered for a moment, then winked out. A moment later he saw two shapes moving dimly in the shadows.

  Not cattle.

  Not deer.

  For the past five minutes they had moved as he moved, keeping equal distance but never revealing themselves.

  Only men did that. And such men were no friends.

  “Are you expecting travelers at Glenbrae?”

  “Maybe some German students due tomorrow later in the day. And there is a club meeting scheduled at the house. No one else.” She frowned. “Why?”

  “No matter.” He could not tell her they were being watched, stalked like deer from the forest. She would only think it more of his mad imaginings. At the moment, his greatest concern was seeing her safely back to the house.

  Maybe it was English soldiers who stalked them, he thought grimly. Were he alone, he would have enjoyed the hunt. But not when protecting her was his first duty.

  He cursed himself for staying so long in the loch. Her safety was his only duty now. As a knight, he had sworn to protect all women.

  Hope stared at him. Maybe it was her theta waves run amok. Maybe it was just her hormones. For whatever reason, she was actually starting to believe the man. And that was dangerous when she had too many problems of her own.

  They were crossing a mound of boulders when she felt him falter. She looked down and saw that his leg was rigid. With every step the muscles above his knee knotted, straining beneath the skin. He had to be in agony.

  She stopped short. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I will endure.”

  “Endure? You can’t keep going on that leg. We’ll just stop here until you—”

  “Not here.”

  “And why not?”

  MacLeod scanned the rocky bank and the small stone house up the slope. “What is that place?” He pointed awkwardly.

  “A shed for local fisherman. They store their gear inside when the salmon are running. But—”

  “It will do.” He hobbled forward.

  “Do for what?”

  “A place to rest.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me, MacLeod?”

  Up the hills the shadows moved again, slinking within the greater darkness of the forest, and MacLeod felt another cold stab of warning.

  They were exposed, undefended. There was no time for argument or negotiation. “We will go up there.”

  “I’m staying right here,” Hope said firmly. “We’ll wait until you feel better.”

  “Not here.” He pulled her the last steps up the hill toward the rough building, then shoved open the door and sank down on an uneven pine bench. His face was rigid with pain as he turned away to rub his knee.

  His thigh was an agony of rebelling muscles in need of rest and blessed heat. But there was no time for rest. Every instinct warned that the woman was in danger.

  Was this why he had been brought to her time?

  He worked one hand down his knee in stony silence. Even then he kept an eye on the open doorway, watching for any unexpected movement.

  “Did anyone ever tell you that your ego is roughly the size of Siberia?”

  “No.” He had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Consider yourself told.” She sat beside him and brushed away his fingers. “Now, stop fighting.”

  He could never stop fighting, MacLeod thought. It was nearly all he knew. He flinched at her touch, though her hands were light. Each movement was a dangerous distraction that made him soft, and life had taught him that any softness was dangerous.

  “Relax,” she ordered as her hands slid over his leg.

  He shifted slightly so that he had a clear view of the open doorway and the slope beyond. From here he could see any movement in the trees.

  He forced back a groan of pleasure at the slide of her hands. Too warm.
Too soft. A man could drown in such softness. “Arguing with you is like arguing with a Vatican prelate.”

  “A pretty compliment, Mr. MacLeod.”

  “It was no compliment, I assure you.” Against all his efforts, a sigh hissed between his teeth. She was skilled in her touch. Already some of his pain had left him. Much more and he would be a boneless mass of no use for anything. “You have worked as a healer?”

  “My uncle was ill at the end of his life.” Hope frowned. “It was a slow and painful way to die. Massages were the only thing that gave him any relief.”

  “He was fortunate that your hands are gentle.”

  “I only wish I could have done more.” Her voice wavered. “All I could do was watch him fade away. Every day I lost a little more of him, but he never complained, not once.” She blinked hard. “I don’t know how we got onto this topic.”

  “You loved him greatly.”

  “Everyone did. I’d lost my parents years before, and I was so sure Uncle Dermot would live forever.” She smiled sadly. “He was always so busy, so noisy. He could fill a room all by himself. And he taught me everything I know about books.”

  “Books? He was a monkish man, your uncle?”

  “Hardly. He liked nothing more than a fine cognac and a big cigar. Endless arguments, we had over that, especially when his heart began to show the strain. And how he loved his collections. Fine leather, smoothed by centuries of hands, was worth more than diamonds, he said. Fragile pages were treasures beyond all price.” Her eyes rose, gazing at something seen only in her memory. “He could tell you everything about inks and papers. He could talk for hours about stitching and binding, folios and first editions. He was a genius at details. And yet at the end, after his last stroke, he couldn’t see anything,” she said bitterly.

  “Death is seldom at a time of our choosing. At least he died in the company of someone he loved. A man could do worse.” MacLeod thought of fellow soldiers fallen far from home, with no one to mourn or mark their graves.

  Yes, a man could do far worse.

  He sank back against the wall, watching the open doorway.

  “Have you had a doctor look at your leg?”

  “A leech?” He grimaced. “All they know is how to spill blood and mutter learned phrases into their beards. In Jerusalem, Damascus and Venice, they said the same thing. Nothing could be done.” He groaned with pleasure as her fingers worked the knotted muscles.