Draycott Everlasting

by Christina Skye

  In a moment he could bare the rest of her and draw another husky moan from her lips. He could make her laugh, then topple her headlong into darkest pleasure while he watched her, skin to skin.

  Heart to heart.

  MacLeod stilled, realizing he had never wanted a woman so badly.

  Why now? Why only with her?

  Hope’s eyes opened, the sun-washed green of a summer glen, and he tried to remember he was a knight. He reminded himself of honor and chivalry and oaths of pure, courtly love. But it was difficult when she shifted against him, all heat and yearning.

  In a moment they would be on the oak bench. And a moment later he would be buried inside her, teaching them both about dark worlds of shifting pleasure.

  He arched her back, coaxing her nipple to a greedy point. She filled his hands, filled his senses, filled his heart.

  Bodies met and need bolted. As he drank in her taste with hard, searching lips, she made a lost sound. Her fingers tugged at the soft hair on his chest, then angled lower, where the folds of wool gathered at his waist.

  His body tensed. “Dangerous, mo cridhe.”

  “No. Not dangerous enough.”

  MacLeod forgot the stable, forgot the date, forgot the horse eating contentedly a few feet away.

  Her sweater slid off her shoulders.

  But he would not have her, not the way his body demanded. The kittens meowed softly as he pulled her close and swept her onto the table, chest to chest, then stilled her protest with his lips.

  Heat grew. She made a restless sound and her head tilted back.

  For MacLeod there was nothing but her mouth, nothing but the heat they made together so perfectly.

  He fought for control even as he found her heat beneath her garment of soft wool. With expert hands, he slid aside lace and silk and moved within her, showing her about grace and aching beauty. “Feel this, Hope. Feel me wanting you. Wanting us.”

  His legs braced her, showing his desire. But his control did not waver.

  “Oh, God, I—can’t.” Her voice shook.

  “You can. You will.” Time, explanations, nothing mattered but this.

  He felt her stiffen, liquid against his hand. Her eyes closed as he eased farther, sheathed perfectly by her deepest heat.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered. And then he moved again, finding her hidden softness, showing her just how beautiful she was to him. How loved.

  Her back arched. Her hands dug into his back and she cried out his name. MacLeod closed his eyes as he felt her tense, then close around him in swift, hot tremors that left him cursing inside. Wanting inside.

  So close. So flawless.

  But all this could never be his.

  Somewhere above the loch a night bird cried in lonely protest, racing beneath the moon, and darkness enfolded the glen.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HER EYES OPENED TO HIS, hazed with desire. “What am I supposed to say?”

  “Nothing.” He traced the line of her cheek, smiling slightly.

  “That’s…it?”

  He nodded.

  She took a short, unsteady breath. Candlelight gilded her face and her expressive mouth. “So what happens now, Macleod?”

  “You tell me how beautiful you are. Because you are.”

  She swallowed. “But the rest. I mean, just now. You didn’t—”

  “No, I did not.” He touched her face, wishing he could hold her forever. “And I will not.” Though the movement was a sword cut at his heart, he eased away from her and smoothed her clothing.

  “You’re…going?”

  He nodded, turning away to gather his armor and leather.

  “You’re going now?”

  He did not answer.

  “Just like that?”

  “So you can remain hard. So we both can remain hard,” he added grimly.

  Hope felt something slide into her hands.

  “Keep them safe for me. They need…someone.”

  Hope looked down at the balls of fur wriggling against her skirt. She lifted the kittens to her face, fighting back a hundred questions.

  Because it was too late for questions. Now more than ever. He had to go. And she had to watch him.

  He led the horse to the door and blew out the single candle, now long guttered. Moonlight traced his cheeks with rough beauty as he turned. “Remember how it felt, mo cridhe. Remember when another man touches you and makes you taste paradise, as one surely will.” Moonlight touched his gauntlets, shoved beneath his arm, and Pegasus gave a hugging snort.

  “But…”

  Then he was gone.

  Hope watched without moving until she could see no more of him.

  Then, like a sleepwalker, she stumbled back to the house, past Gabrielle and up the hall. She did not bother to shove away her tears as she skirted the brooding portrait hidden in the night’s gloom, where it stood firm guard over Glenbrae’s ancient secrets.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SOMETHING WAS WRONG.

  The floor creaked and a door moved. Was it Ronan?

  Hope lay in bed and listened to the wind and the dozen sounds of a settling old house. But there was no echo of a man’s footsteps or his booming laugh.

  Beside her the telephone pealed shrilly. After wrestling with the cord and knocking off all her pillows, she managed to find the receiver. “H’llo?”

  “Where is it?”

  Hope gazed blearily at the luminous face of the clock beside her bed. It was 1:32 in the morning. Wind tapped at the window, and outside the sky was black. “Mr. Wyndgate?”

  “That’s right. I want to know where the bloody thing is.”

  Hope stifled a yawn and sat up groggily. “Where what is?”

  “The brooch, of course.” The collector’s voice was very close to a shout. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. I placed the brooch in a box and drove directly back here to my country house. I dined and had a short walk, then settled down to work. But then I found that both the brooch and box were gone.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I should think it’s quite clear, Ms. O’Hara. No one else but you knew about that piece.”

  Hope watched lightning crackle against gray banks of clouds. “Why would someone steal the brooch?”

  “I would hardly steal from myself, Ms. O’Hara. I have a shattered exterior window and a door that did not damage itself. Did you find a better offer and decide to send someone to steal the brooch back?” he hissed.

  Hope straightened slowly, fighting waves of sleep and confusion. “I haven’t seen the wolf since you left here this afternoon.”

  “Can you explain why nothing else was removed? Why did they know exactly what to look for?”

  Hope didn’t feel up to explaining anything. The man must be crazy. It was the middle of the night. She was still caught in a dream of cutting gray eyes and a haunting, angular face. She already felt guilty for the sale she had made, though it had been necessary in order to keep Glenbrae House solvent. “This is pure nonsense,” she said firmly. “I don’t have your brooch, and I certainly didn’t pay anyone to steal it from you.”

  “Be very careful about what you say, Ms. O’Hara, because you’re going to have to prove every word in court. You’ve pocketed a great deal of my money, paid to you in good faith, and I have your signature on a bill of sale. Police do not look kindly on this sort of arranged theft.”

  Lightning streaked through the sky. Something cracked and skittered down the roof.

  Arranged theft? Now he had crossed the line.

  Hope’s fingers clenched on the receiver. “And if you say much more, you’re going to be facing a slander suit.”

  Cold laughter filled the line. “Indeed? I think that you’re lying. I also think that you’re going to be very, very sorry that you tangled with me, Ms. O’Hara.”

  The line went dead.

  Hope’s hands trembled as she hung up the phone. The accusations were preposterous, she told herself. No police i
nvestigation would turn up any evidence that she had been involved in stealing the brooch. In spite of that, the collector’s accusations left her distinctly uneasy. If someone had wanted the silver wolf enough to steal it, no one was safe until the thief was found.

  “WINSTON WYNDGATE paid you how much?” Gabrielle dropped the whisk she was using to make breakfast.

  “Twenty-five thousand pounds,” Hope repeated, toying with a piece of toast. “He said it was a very fine piece.”

  Gabrielle looked stunned. “It must be solid platinum to be worth that kind of money.”

  “Not platinum. Some kind of hammered silver, I think. But the piece has historical significance and it’s very old.”

  “It must be as old as Methuselah to be worth that much to a cheapskate like Wyndgate.”

  “Winston Wyndgate, the antiques collector?” Jeffrey ambled into the kitchen and fished a piece of featherlight crepe from Gabrielle’s pan, then sighed. “You outdo yourself again, Gabrielle.”

  “Enough flattery. Sit down and eat before my crepes are ruined.”

  Jeffrey seemed fascinated by the color that filled Gabrielle’s face, but he said nothing as he slid behind the oak table. “I’ve heard of Wyndgate. He’s a regular hawk when it comes to fine antiques. You can be sure that if he offered that much, your piece was worth even more.” He tugged at his hair, leaving it more untidy than ever. “I know a silversmith in Rye, an old friend of the family. Would you like me to get his opinion?”

  “It’s too late,” Hope said tiredly. “The King’s Wolf is gone, and I, for one, am glad of it.” She tried not to remember that MacLeod was also gone.

  She had slept badly, worse than badly, her dreams haunted by images of border raiders, shouting Highlanders, and a warrior in a black cloak who had died centuries before. The bang of loose shutters had done nothing to help settle her rest.

  Nor did the knowledge that her enigmatic visitor was gone.

  Money or not, Hope cursed the instant that she had found the old brooch. It had brought her nothing but uneasiness and bleak dreams. And of Ronan MacLeod, she refused to think anything at all.

  THAT EVENING at half past five the Glenbrae Investment Club came to order.

  Within twelve minutes, eight stocks had been sold, four new stocks had been purchased, and over ten thousand pounds had changed hands. The air was tense, the room was noisy, and every one of the white-haired club members was in seventh heaven.

  Morwenna Wishwell pounded the polished wooden desk with her gavel, but no one in the disorderly group seemed to pay the slightest attention. Tables rang with the pounding of fists, and white heads shook as elderly ladies and gentlemen threw themselves into the debate over the next stock predicted to skyrocket.

  A slender woman in exquisite pearls and paisley sniffed loudly. “I don’t care what you say. Fidelity Fund is the one to watch.”

  “Ach, rubbish.” Archibald Brown, the Wishwells’ nearest neighbor, waved his half-filled teacup, managing to spill a very fine Keemun brew over his muted tweed jacket. “’Tis RK Telephone for me.”

  “What about that new biotech company?” A woman with shining white hair sat forward enthusiastically. “I hear they are injecting growth genes in clogged arteries and making new blood vessels for heart patients.”

  “Biotech?” Archibald Brown sniffed. “All fine talk, ye know it as well as I, Samantha. It takes years for human trials.”

  Morwenna wielded her gavel again. “Has anyone checked the Toronto Stock Exchange Index today?” Somehow she managed to be heard among the clamor.

  A frail old gentleman with wire-rim glasses and glowing cheeks raised a file in unsteady fingers. “I’ve got the papers here. Primary reports are over there by the coffee cake. I say we should go for oil and gas and forget the Koreans.”

  “You’ll na put money of mine into the energy sector, man,” Archibald thundered. “Bound to fail. Rising costs, that’s all you’ll see there.”

  “Bound to fail, is it?” the man with the glasses demanded, pushing from his seat.

  As the two gentlemen prepared to square off, Morwenna intervened once more. “Stop that, you two. Fighting solves nothing, which I’ve told both of you since you were in short pants. Now, settle down and behave so we can analyze the profit margins according to our agenda.”

  From the doorway, Hope watched. She kept listening foolishly for a sound on the stair or a low, rough laugh from the courtyard. But Ronan MacLeod was gone, his horse and armor with him.

  She told herself she didn’t care.

  And she knew it was a lie.

  With a sigh, she forced her thoughts back to her guests. Every meeting of the Glenbrae Investment Club was a theatrical event that tottered on the edge of chaos. The members took fiercely personal interest in every stock or mutual fund bought and sold, and they were quick to express their scorn for weak choices. The group’s varied backgrounds in politics, international trade and military duty gave them broad expertise, which they built upon at every meeting.

  She turned to see Gabrielle carrying in a platter with blue corn bread and her special three-alarm black bean soup spiced with Tabasco sauce.

  “Just in time.” Hope managed a smile. “They’re fighting again.”

  “This will stop them. It is hard to fight on a full stomach, so my mother always said.”

  “Especially when your mouth is on fire,” Jeffrey added, carrying in two huge pitchers of steaming spiced cider.

  “You’ve outdone yourself yet again, Gabrielle.” Hope closed her eyes, inhaling the fragrance of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves.

  “It is nothing. A bit of this, a pinch of that. Of course, the green chiles and fresh cilantro were not so easy to find, but I have my ways.” She raised her shoulders in an expressive Gallic shrug.

  “Where do those people get their energy?” Jeffrey said. “They’ve been arguing for nearly two hours without a break. Even the lady with the gavel knows more about mutual funds than my father, and that’s supposed to be his specialty.”

  “Oh? Does he work in London?” Hope asked casually.

  “He used to.”

  “But, Jeffrey, you never told me your father was an important man of finances!” Gabrielle put a hand on his arm. “You must go in and join them. They are always thrilled to have new members.”

  His face reddened. “I don’t care a whit about bonds and markets. I had enough of that from my father, morning to night.” He charged past Gabrielle, pitchers clinking and cider sloshing.

  “They don’t seem to be on the best of terms.” Hope frowned. “I wonder if his father knows where Jeffrey is.”

  “Or if he cares. What father would not want to know where his son is? Me, I think I will find him and tell him.” Gabrielle stared after Jeffrey, a look of fierce protectiveness in her eyes.

  “I don’t know, Gabrielle. Jeffrey was very adamant that he wanted nothing to do with his father. He might not thank you for interfering.”

  “Pfft. As if I care for any thanks. His father should know,” she said firmly. “On the day that I met him, Jeffrey had not eaten for three days. Three days,” she repeated. “In fact, I would like to tell this so important man of finances a thing or two about his duty as a father.”

  “But how will you find him?”

  Gabrielle smiled darkly. “Me, I have many sources.”

  Hope didn’t doubt it for a second. She only prayed that Gabrielle’s interference would not make things worse.

  Jeffrey charged out of the sitting room, his hands empty, his face blazing red.

  Gavel in hand, Morwenna Wishwell stared after him. “I’m afraid it’s something Archibald said. It seemed innocent enough at the time. He merely remarked that the boy looked the spitting image of an old friend of his in London, someone he knew in his World War Two days. Your friend looked extremely upset and then he just charged off. Shall I go and have a talk with him?”

  “Better let him cool down,” Hope said. “Apparently he and his father are not on
the best of terms.”

  “Poor unhappy soul.” Morwenna moved closer. “But tell me, Miss O’Hara, have you had any unexpected visitors here?” Her bright eyes glinted with curiosity.

  “One.” Hope frowned. “A man arrived here two nights ago. He saved my life, actually.” She looked away, trying not to remember.

  The lady’s sharp eyes widened. “Did he indeed?”

  “If he hadn’t come by when he did, I’d have broken my neck.”

  The old woman clapped her hands in excitement. “So it worked. Our calculations were correct.”

  “Calculations?”

  “Oh, nothing, my dear.” Morwenna gripped Hope’s arm. “Tell me what he’s like.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.” Hope swallowed. “He left yesterday.”

  Morwenna’s two sisters emerged from the noisy room to join them. Morwenna grasped Perpetua’s hand. “We did it, Pet,” she said excitedly. “He’s come. But now he’s left us, Hope says. Why would he—”

  “Hush,” her sister said softly.

  “But—”

  Perpetua gently but firmly patted her palm. “We don’t want to bore Miss O’Hara. It appears she has other things to worry about. As usual, the gentlemen have gone through all the food and they’re back to fighting again.”

  Hope gave a slow, distracted nod. “I’ll get the chocolate mocha pound cake.”

  “But what was his name?” Morwenna demanded.

  “MacLeod. Ronan MacLeod.”

  A little sigh emerged from the three sisters in unison. “MacLeod,” Perpetua said slowly. “The name sounds familiar. I wonder if he was related to the Portree MacLeods by any chance.”

  “But why did he go?” Morwenna persisted.

  “Because it was best. For both of us,” Hope whispered.

  “Oh dear, they’re fighting again.” Honoria tugged at Hope’s hands, pointing to the meeting room. “Talk to them, Miss O’Hara. Tell them you’ll send them home without any cake if they don’t behave.”

  Hope sighed as Archibald Brown delivered a resounding left hook to his opponent, who looked perfectly delighted to answer in kind. Two chairs toppled and a tweed jacket went flying.