Draycott Everlasting

by Christina Skye

  “So,” she whispered, “we’re talking about a kiss here? Just a kiss?”

  A muscle flashed at his jaw. “We’re talking about whatever you wish to give.”

  Clever man. “Why do I suspect you’re a killer negotiator, MacLeod?”

  “I have negotiated on several occasions.” Heat flickered in his eyes.

  His half smile set warning bells clanging. Hope was positive that this man’s diplomatic skills were top-notch. He had certainly managed to disarm her in a matter of hours.

  So he was throwing down the gauntlet, in this case almost literally. But it was cold out in the wretched shed, and some body heat would be useful.

  The knowledge did nothing to quell her uneasiness.

  Hope frowned. It had been several years since she’d had any real interest in a man. She had been too caught up in her uncle’s illness. Then had come the challenge of getting Glenbrae House on its feet.

  Now it appeared she was making up for lost time.

  MacLeod pulled her between his legs, which were warm and hard, indecently bare beneath the scrap of wool he wore belted in some sort of primitive kilt. Every movement sent little eddies of heat swirling up toward her heart.

  Her heart.

  This had nothing to do with her heart, Hope told herself. It was sheer tactile response. Simple hormonal overdrive.

  But her heart gave a small lurch when she looked down at MacLeod’s dark hair, glistening and damp against his shoulders. And when her gaze drifted to his eyes, she was trapped in their shifting silver depths. Then Hope made the greatest mistake of all.

  She looked at Ronan MacLeod’s mouth.

  And wished she hadn’t. Now she needed to know what he would do if she closed her eyes and skimmed her lips slowly over his.

  Just once. Just as a sort of test. It would be pleasant—even if the whole business was doomed to failure. Her dismal track record with men left little question of that.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he whispered. The words shivered like cool wind moving through a field of heather. They teased her skin, making her forget to breathe. “That you are not…good with men?”

  After a heartbeat she nodded.

  “I can show you this is wrong.”

  “Don’t bother.” She laughed shakily. “It would be a waste of time.” She shivered as he slid one finger along the curve of her lips. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Every word,” he said solemnly. Then his hand skimmed down her back.

  Her pulse jumped. “You’ve, uh, got a nice mouth, MacLeod,” she blurted. And a truly amazing body…

  “Not half so nice as yours. But I want to know something.”

  “What?”

  His eyes darkened. “How you taste.”

  Something twisted in Hope’s chest. Probably the effect of the cold and her recent bout of panic. Or maybe it was her lack of food this morning. All things considered, this had to be a perfectly natural physical response to a cluster of unrelated stimuli.

  MacLeod’s hand moved along the back of her jeans, and instantly all thoughts of unrelated stimuli soared out of her head.

  “This is not a good idea.”

  He made a low, ragged sound and pulled her closer. “But it is.” He frowned. “Do you dislike my touch?”

  “Not…exactly.” A colossal lie.

  “How long, Hope? How long since a man touched you this way?”

  She closed her eyes. Longer than I can remember. No, forever. Never with such gentle confidence.

  His lips closed on her finger and he drew her into the heat of his mouth, making Hope envision a joining that would bring nothing short of devastating pleasure.

  She felt a stab of panic. She wasn’t ready for devastating pleasure. She wasn’t even ready for moderate pleasure. She had never been good at relationships; couldn’t he see that? Life had entirely eroded that particular corner of her optimism. She had lost too many of the people she held dear to trust in relationships ever again.

  Now she was locked in a shed, fighting an old, ingrained panic. He should be appalled, repelled. Instead his eyes were glinting with barely hidden desire.

  “I think,” she said shakily, “that we need to talk. Something very strange is happening here.”

  “Is it?” His lips nibbled her fingers, closed hard, then moved in erotic ways.

  Hope swallowed. Why did this all feel so incredible? Touching a man had never turned her brain into oatmeal before.

  Until now. Until MacLeod.

  “What would move you to trust me?” he murmured.

  Hope couldn’t answer. A hard ridge of male muscle lay outlined against her hip, and she realized exactly what it was.

  Heat shimmered. Hope was too honest to pretend she didn’t feel his effect on her keenly. But her bad track record loomed like a shadow. Cold, hard experience had taught her that she wasn’t cut out for casual intimacies. She didn’t know where to start, what to expect. Today’s man expected high performance and fast turnover: Hope was bad at both. The last man she had touched like this had pointed out her awkwardness very clearly, in words that continued to haunt her in bad moments.

  She had sworn off men after that. Swearing off had been easier than pretending. Somehow she had never missed the touch of flesh on flesh or the slow, hot brush of lips. Until now…

  But with MacLeod, the last thing she wanted was to be awkward or uncertain. Better to cut to the hard ending right now, she decided. It would save them both a great deal of unpleasantness.

  “I—I can’t, MacLeod.”

  “Can’t what?”

  “Do this. Touch you. Want you.”

  “But you do.” His lips curved. “Want me.”

  She didn’t even consider lying. “What woman wouldn’t? But this won’t work. I’m not…”

  Special. Beautiful. The stuff dreams are made of.

  “Not what?” he growled, his eyes narrowed with anger.

  “Anything special.”

  He cursed softly. “They told you this?”

  “Loud and clear.” Hope shrugged. “But I’d rather not go into details. It’s not an entirely pleasant subject, if you know what I mean.” She tried for a smile. Failed.

  “No, I do not know.”

  “I guess you wouldn’t. Women must stick to you like glue. And you hardly seem like the type to worry about…technical details. Performance statistics.” She swallowed as he kissed one eyelid, then the other. “I knew you weren’t listening.”

  “These men.” He frowned. “You believed them when they said you gave them no pleasure?”

  “At the time it was fairly obvious.”

  “How? They hit you? If so, I will—”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Not that. It was a look, a laugh. Simple but damning things.” Something twisted in Hope’s chest and she realized all the old wounds were still there, hidden but hurting. The depth of that hurt surprised her.

  “Explain this.”

  Hope sighed. “I wasn’t the high-performance ride they were looking for.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “They wanted speed and drama, MacLeod. They wanted flash and danger. Instead they got…me.”

  He muttered a rough phrase in Gaelic. “Whoever taught you that the lack was yours?”

  “Do you want a list?” she said, laughing unsteadily.

  “Fools,” he said harshly. “Few Scotsmen would be so witless. No MacLeod,” he added savagely.

  She had to laugh at that automatic Highland pride of his. “So MacLeod men make good lovers, do they?”

  His eyes glinted. “We could find out now.”

  Hope hid a smile. “What about MacLeod women?”

  “Their men are plagued with blissful smiles and far too little sleep. Sometimes they even die young.”

  “But what a way to go.” Hope’s smile faded as he pulled her onto his thighs. “Just a minute. What are you…”

  His lips brushed her hair. His thighs were warm, rigid bene
ath her.

  At that moment Hope discovered a sensual intensity that she had never suspected in herself, and the discovery was unsettling. Why only with this man did the textures of skin against skin leave her throat dry and her heart racing?

  He traced her cheek, moved his fingers through her hair. “For me to touch you is wrong, you say. Are you given to the Church?”

  “No.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are wed?”

  “No ring.” Hope held out her bare finger. “No husband.”

  “You are not pockmarked or missing your front teeth. Why has no man offered for you?” He sounded angry, angry for her.

  “I guess the right man never came along. A few of the wrong ones, but never the right one.”

  “Not of the Church, not diseased. Not a depraved female, are you?” His lips curved as he read her instant protest. “No, I thought not. I see no barriers.”

  “But there are. Dozens.” Hope closed her eyes as his fingers feathered over her cheek, reducing her neural matter to jelly. “Hundreds, probably.”

  He chuckled. “None that are important. You bewitch me. You confound me.”

  Hope was feeling altogether too bewitched and confounded herself. “We don’t trust each other. We certainly don’t understand each other. Sometimes I doubt we’re even speaking the same language.” She blew out a puff of air. “And there’s that other small problem. I’m from the twentieth century and you say you’re from the thirteenth.”

  “So I am.”

  “You see? You say something like that and expect me to believe you? You may as well tell me pigs can fly and men have never walked on the moon.”

  “The moon?” A muscle moved at his jaw. “Men have walked there?”

  Hope closed her eyes. He was doing it again—confusing her, tempting her, making her think he might actually be telling the truth. “You are not from the thirteenth century, MacLeod. You can’t be.”

  He stiffened. “But I am.”

  “And you did not get flung down into this glen by some mysterious action of magic or fate.”

  A frown cut down his forehead. “I did.”

  So they were right back where they started from, Hope thought bleakly. “So much for trust.”

  “Look at me.” His hand moved over her shoulder and tightened. “Look at me and really see me. Do you think I want to be here in this time? Do you think I like to be thought a fool or a liar?” His shoulder sank back against the rough wall.

  Hope shivered. She didn’t believe him. Couldn’t believe him. But she couldn’t bear to see him so lost and angry either.

  She laid one hand on his rigid shoulder, feeling the muscles stretched taut beneath. “Maybe…we should meet halfway.”

  “And where would that be?” he said bitterly. “Somewhere in the seventeenth century?”

  “Ronan, listen—”

  “No, you listen. I did not choose to come here, Hope O’Hara. I did not choose to find you. But I have. And now I will not pretend that you do not stir me, goad me.” His eyes darkened. “Of all the women, all the places, that I should find you here…in my own glen, seven centuries into my future…” His muscles clenched. “Do not tell me it would be bad between us. Joining our bodies would be heaven itself.” His eyes hardened. “I would make most certain of that.”

  Hope shivered at the rough desire in his voice. She had a sudden image of his body sliding deep and hard into hers. He would be demanding, thorough, ruthlessly patient.

  God help her, Hope wanted all that.

  He stared at the locked door, his eyes grim. “And I would show you so, were the choice mine. Here and now, I would take you as mine, while the touch was hot and sweet for us both.”

  Hot and sweet.

  His.

  Hope swallowed, swept with need, wanting to trust him. It had been too long since she had trusted another person.

  Finally she had found a hero, a man of real honor. And who expected she would find him right here in distant, sleepy Glenbrae?

  He stared at her, his eyes masked. “But there are things you must know. I am hated, feared. I have done things that shame me sorely.”

  “There must have been a reason.”

  He laughed bitterly. “Out of obedience to a man who values nothing and no one. And because power, once tasted, is a hard thing to forgo.”

  She looked at him in confusion, uncertain what he was trying to explain.

  He made a harsh sound. “It matters not,” he said. “War and betrayal are simply words to you. We share nothing save our love for this house. So why do I think only of this?” His fingers opened over her breasts. Her response was instant, as aroused skin tightened beneath his searching touch. Time seemed to burn.

  To crawl.

  Dimly, through the sudden hammering of her heart, Hope heard a sound above her. She blinked, fighting off the pull of his eyes, trapped in shifting waves of need.

  A handful of pebbles rained down from the ceiling. One struck her head and a dozen more hit the flagstone floor like distant gunshots.

  MacLeod turned and cursed as he saw a dark shadow plunge through the roof hole and hurtle down toward them.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DOWN FROM THE CEILING, Banquo shot through the air, a blur of noise and gray feathers. “Come, thick night!” he cried. “Come, thick night!”

  Hope blinked, feeling reality crash down. What was she thinking of? What had come over her usual logic and calm practicality?

  Looking down, she saw her sweater hitched below the curve of her breasts. With a strangled oath she wrenched it down, while MacLeod watched, his eyes glinting.

  She gnawed at her lip. “About what just happened. It’s—done. Finished.” She crossed her arms at her waist. “It…can’t happen again. Ever.”

  He made no answer, but the look in his eyes could have scored granite.

  Banquo circled the room twice, then alighted on Hope’s shoulder, looking very pleased with himself. Hope took a deep breath, delighted to have a distraction. “Banquo, you dear thing, how did you find us?”

  “Fair is foul,” the bird rasped. “Fair is foul.”

  “The creature truly talks?”

  “And talks and talks.” Hope managed a laugh. “Morning, noon and most of the night. A regular orator, aren’t you?” She stroked the bird’s long feathers. “How did you find us? Did Jeffrey send you?”

  The parrot fluffed his plumage. “Foul is fair,” he called. “Foul is fair.”

  MacLeod snorted. “He speaks without sense.”

  “That’s Banquo, all poetry and no substance. Just like several politicians I could name.” Hope pushed to her feet and jiggled the door handle. “Jeffrey, you can open the door now.”

  No response.

  She frowned at Banquo. “Where are they?”

  The bird preened on her shoulder. “The greatest is behind.”

  “Don’t tell me you escaped again.” Hope’s frown deepened. “Do they even know you’re gone?”

  “Nothing but what is not,” came the shrill answer.

  With a sigh, Hope turned to MacLeod. “This is no rescue after all, I’m afraid. The crazy bird disappears for a day or two, then comes soaring back as if nothing had happened. We’ve never found out where he goes. Just my luck that he’d do it now.”

  She made a tight, angry sound and moved back her hair impatiently. Her hands were shaking. She felt cold and hollow inside again. Why didn’t anyone come?

  “Hope.” It was a single word, a simple breath of sound, but the rough tenderness in the word made her head turn.

  “I know I’m safe, and I know the walls probably won’t cave in. But knowing doesn’t seem to help.” She locked her arms across her chest, watching his face. “You…you don’t have to look at me that way,” she whispered.

  “What way?”

  “As if I was fire and you were frozen.”

  “Perhaps it is so.”

  Hope swallowed, trapped by the heat in his eyes. “You weren’
t listening to me.”

  “I heard each word you said.” His slow, patient look told her that the explanations made no difference to him. He would accept only what he wished to accept.

  Outside, the metal bolt shook. The door rattled noisily. “Is anyone in there?”

  Hope started to answer, but MacLeod pressed a hand over her mouth. “Wait,” he said softly.

  The door shook again. “Hello in there?”

  “Is it your friend Jeffrey?”

  Hope nodded, her response muffled by MacLeod’s fingers.

  It was MacLeod who answered. “Aye, it is us, Jeffrey. We are locked within.”

  “Thank God we found you.” The door latch vibrated. “But this damned bolt is shoved tight. It’s going to take me a minute or two….”

  MacLeod let his fingers fall from Hope’s mouth.

  “What kind of trick was that?” Her face was white with anger.

  “No trick,” he said coolly. “It was best to determine who was outside before answering.”

  “Best for whom? Are you hiding from someone? If I have a criminal staying on my property, I damned well want to know it.”

  “Do you always curse in this way?”

  Hope snorted. “Only around you.”

  “You need feel no alarm. I have committed no crimes.”

  Hope glared at him, her fury unabated. She was still glaring when the bolt slid free and sunlight poured into the room.

  Jeffrey bounded inside. “Thank heaven. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.” He looked sharply from one to the other. “What are you doing out here, Hope?” He stared at MacLeod. “With him?”

  “We were locked in.” Hope took a jerky breath and started toward the door.

  Sunlight spilled over the weathered slope. Freedom. Open spaces.

  “Locked in? How?”

  Outside she dragged a shaky hand through her hair. “The door slammed shut and somehow the bolt fell. Probably from the wind.”

  “The wind?” Jeffrey looked unconvinced. “That’s an oak door and a solid steel bolt. It would take more than the wind to—”

  MacLeod cut in curtly. “We will answer questions later. Let her go to the fire. Can you not see she is stiff with cold?”

  “You do look a bit odd, Hope.” Jeffrey followed her outside, frowning. “Are you all right?”