Draycott Everlasting

by Christina Skye

  “Well, well, she loves you above the book. Lucky man.” Kipworth stumbled over the drifting snow. “Now, stop talking to yourself and put down that bow. Then get over here where I can see you.”

  MacLeod sank to one knee in the snow, only inches from his dropped quiver. “I will place it here.”

  “Of course you will. It’s too late for any more heroics, MacLeod.” Kipworth laughed raggedly. “I have no more need for you now that Ms. O’Hara has so kindly agreed to tell me where the folio is hidden.” His pistol found a new target. “I suggest you choose your next words carefully, because they are going to be your last.”

  “No.” Hope dug at her feet, then flung snow wildly at Kipworth, who cursed, temporarily blinded.

  Three muffled shots burst the night’s silence, snapping white powder over the slope. Kipworth’s next bullet raked across Hope’s hand, drawing blood. The ground blurred beneath her feet in a searing wave of pain.

  Afterward, she would always wonder if the next moments were dream or delirium.

  She heard the cry of a cat as a dark shape soared, striking Kipworth’s back. At the same instant Hope could have sworn she saw a man in lace and black velvet glide before her, blocking Kipworth’s next wild volley. But who was he?

  She looked wildly for MacLeod and saw him on the ground, struggling with Kipworth for the pistol.

  “He’s yours then, Scotsman.” Hope heard the words faintly, as if in a dream. Dear Lord, was she hallucinating from hypothermia? “I shall see to the woman’s safety in your stead, though she has done a most impressive job on her own.”

  Another bullet hissed over the snow. As Hope watched in amazement, the metal oval rocked from side to side, then stopped cold to drift in midair.

  “Excellent,” came another whisper at her ear. “It appears I still have the touch.” Lace seemed to ripple around a man’s hand outlined before her in the darkness. Then the bullet twisted sharply, rocketing back toward the man who had just fired it.

  Wyndgate’s accomplice swore loudly, caught beneath MacLeod in the snow. His gun pitched up and down. “I’ll hit her again, I swear it.” He cursed as the bullet slammed back down the muzzle and exploded.

  The gun went flying from his fingers. “My hand, it’s burning—” Kipworth groaned in pain as the cat climbed over his prone shoulders, teeth bared at his face.

  “Well done, Gideon. The same for you, Scotsman. Now, let’s be done with this loathsome jackal, shall we?”

  Hope heard the male voice clearly this time. But it appeared to be coming from the empty space beside her shoulder. “Who are you?” she whispered.

  All along the slope, wind rose in angry spirals. White powder blanketed the night as Kipworth was dragged to his feet by a force that Hope could neither see nor feel.

  “S-stop,” he shouted, flailing wildly at the darkness around him. “L-let me go and I’ll forget the folio. I’ll forget everything if—”

  Abruptly he was hoisted upward, his feet dangling above the ground. Then he flew headfirst into a snowdrift.

  MacLeod started after him. “I wasn’t done with him yet.”

  “No more time,” the voice answered. “She’s frozen through and needs to be tucked in before a roaring fire. You both do. Don’t be bloodthirsty, Scotsman. This is no time for that excessive honor of yours.”

  Hope squeezed her eyes shut. The ground seemed to sway. “R-Ronan.”

  She felt MacLeod grip her shoulders. “Let me see your hand.”

  “No need. You came,” she said raggedly.

  “Always.” He cradled her icy cheeks and kissed her fiercely. “Can you walk back? I’ll carry you if you can’t.”

  Hope gave a shaky laugh. “I can manage. Just get me away from here.”

  As she spoke, a motor whined in the darkness and Kipworth lumbered out of the snowbank, his eyes wearing a look of sheer terror. “You can’t do this to me.” His arms flailed blindly. “G-ghosts don’t exist.”

  Low, diabolical laughter rang through the night, rising to a chilling crescendo as phosphorescent light played over the slope.

  “You don’t f-frighten me, do you hear?” Kipworth plunged off into the night, trailed by invisible hands that seemed to jerk him from side to side like a rag doll.

  Or maybe Hope was simply dreaming.

  She rubbed her eyes. “Did I imagine what I just saw?”

  “That depends,” MacLeod said slowly, “on what you just saw.”

  The whine of the car motor grew louder as she started to demand a straight answer. Strange, how heavy her arms were and how very cold the world had become. She peered over the hill, watching snow swirl up around her, white and silent.

  Two car lights flared. “My head…I don’t think I can…” Hope saw the dark outline of Nicholas Draycott’s Land Rover loom over the snow, then blur before her eyes. “M-maybe you will have to carry me,” she whispered.

  The last thing she felt was MacLeod’s arms closing hard around her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  DAWN STREAKED THE eastern cliff as Hope paced anxiously in the corridor outside Ronan’s room. Even bundled in double layers of heavy woolens, she still felt cold. But her mind was sharp, entirely focused on the man beyond the closed door, the man who had insisted on carrying her through the snow to Nicholas Draycott’s car.

  The drive back to Glenbrae House remained a blur to Hope. She had slipped in and out of consciousness. All she remembered clearly was Ronan’s hands. Ronan’s warmth. Ronan’s ragged Gaelic words of endearment.

  The Wishwells had been waiting when the Land Rover finally reached the house, and with them was an elderly doctor who had been visiting Archibald Brown. Hope never questioned what had brought her neighbors to Glenbrae House. She had been too busy worrying about the man she loved.

  “What’s taking the doctor so long?”

  Gabrielle put a hand on her shoulder. “Your Scotsman is tough, Hope. He’ll be fine.”

  “Will he?” Hope whispered. “There was blood everywhere, Gabrielle. But he kept walking and baiting Kipworth. He was trying to draw his attention away from me.” She choked at the memory of Ronan’s blood staining the white snow as the two men struggled wildly for the pistol. “It’s my fault,” she said raggedly. “It was me Kipworth wanted, not Ronan.” Hope slid one hand onto the door and let her head sink against the cold wood. “He wanted something I had. A very precious book. Only I didn’t know I had it, not until it was too late.”

  “Stop this,” Gabrielle said tightly. “You can’t possibly blame yourself for what Kipworth did.”

  “I have to. If not for me, right now Ronan would be out in the stable feeding that great horse or stealing slices out of your fudge.” Hope’s voice broke. “And if he doesn’t…make it—”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “I have to, Gabrielle. After all this time, after all the people I’ve lost, I found a hero one night during a storm. And now I might lose him.” She made a broken sound and her fingers clenched white on the door frame.

  “Your hero will be back stealing my fudge in a week,” Gabrielle said, though her own voice was husky with tears. “And he’ll be arguing with you sooner than that.”

  “I’d gladly let him win,” Hope whispered. “I’d never disagree with him ever again, if only…” Her hands locked at her middle. “What’s taking so long?”

  “There are tests to be done. An examination.”

  “The doctor would tell me if…if Ronan weren’t going to…” Hope swallowed hard, swaying.

  “Sit down before you fall down,” Gabrielle ordered. “Let the doctor do his work. He’s very experienced, according to Archibald Brown.”

  “You’re right,” Hope said. “I have to believe. I won’t let him die. He doesn’t have the slightest chance of getting away from me ever again.”

  With a creak, the door opened. Instantly Hope spun around, her hands clenched. An elderly man in worn tweeds strode out, rubbing his neck.

  “Doctor, how i
s he?”

  “Strangest white blood count I’ve yet to see. And I could swear the braw lad had ne’er glimpsed the sight of a needle before.”

  “Will he—” Hope took a breath. “Doctor, is he going to—”

  He rubbed his jaw, frowning. “Ms. O’Hara?”

  Hope nodded blindly, expecting the worst.

  “Five minutes, and na a second more, lass. Puir man’s lost a deal of blood and needs his rest.”

  The words seemed to echo hollowly as if from a great distance. “Rest? You mean he’s not going to—”

  “Die?” The doctor patted her arm. “Ach, good Lord, no. The man is as strong as an ox, provided he stays off his feet and under those blankets. He seemed intent on ripping out his IV and charging off in search of you if I didn’t promise to send you in immediately.”

  Hope brushed at her wet cheeks and pushed open the door, then froze.

  MacLeod lay in bed, framed by the glow of a table lamp. He was too pale, his features tight with pain he would be far too stubborn to admit.

  His eyes opened as Hope sank into the chair beside the bed and took his hand gently in hers. “Someone told me there was a hero in here,” she said. “I wanted to thank him, you see, because he saved my life.”

  MacLeod’s fingers tightened. “Not a hero.” His voice was rough. “I wasn’t fast enough. You almost died tonight, mo rùn. I should have known. I should have felt it the first moment you were in danger from Kipworth.”

  Hope felt tears burn at her eyes. Maybe this was what loving someone meant. Maybe love made you want to give and give, and somehow you always wanted to give more.

  “Stop it, MacLeod. You kept me from dying tonight. Kipworth—or whatever his real name is—would have made certain there were no witnesses when he was done. I’m alive because of you, and don’t you forget it,” she said fiercely. “That makes twice now, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  His eyes burned over her face. There was the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. “Are you…keeping score now, mo rùn?”

  Hope smiled tremulously. “Keeping track. Just like someone else I know. Someone who’s arrogant and stubborn and who I—I couldn’t possibly live without.”

  Her voice fell away as their hands locked tightly and Ronan slowly drew her down against his good shoulder. Hope felt some of her terror fade, though she knew it would be months before she could forget the sight of Kipworth’s face and the sound of his wild laughter.

  The door opened a crack and the doctor peered in, frowning. “I am sorry to interrupt, but I have three men out here demanding to give blood to my patient. I keep telling them that he doesn’t need blood, but they refuse to go away.”

  The door opened wider, revealing Jeffrey and Nicholas Draycott. Behind them stood Kacey Draycott and Ian and Jamee McCall, all looking very anxious. “Are you satisfied now?” the doctor asked crisply, hiding a smile. “As I told you, the man will be fine. All he needs is IV liquids and some rest.”

  “If you’re quite certain,” Nicholas said slowly.

  He was convinced by the sight of Hope’s blinding smile just before the doctor eased the door shut. The viscount turned and saw Ian and Jamee McCall staring at him. “It’s a long story,” he said. “Let’s go find some of Gabrielle’s cappuccino and I’ll start at the beginning. It all began with the book which Wyndgate stole, probably about eight years ago.”

  Jamee hung back, staring at the closed door and worrying about her friend. “She’s happy with him? Really happy, Nicholas? She’s had so much pain in her life and so many losses…”

  Her husband, the twelfth laird of Glenlyle, slid an arm around her shoulders. Together they waited for Nicholas’s answer.

  “I think,” the viscount said slowly, “that if those two people hadn’t been born in the same century, they still would have managed to find a way to be together. They were meant for each other, if you ask me. Ronan MacLeod seems to know every corner and shadow in this old house. In fact, if it weren’t impossible, I’d almost say he had to have seen it built.” He turned away, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll tell you more after I check on Kipworth and that bastard he was working for.”

  “Wyndgate, you mean?”

  “That’s the one. I found him going through Hope’s desk when I got back.” Nicholas Draycott smiled coldly. “I decided they both deserved a nice long stay out in the fishing shed, where I gather Kipworth had locked Hope and Ronan in several weeks ago. No heat out there, of course. Before I threw the bolt, I confiscated their coats just to keep them in a properly penitent state of mind. Given this snow, they might have quite a wait until they’re taken into official custody.” Draycott’s smile grew. “I’m determined to find out the rest of the story of this Macbeth folio and exactly how Wyndgate arranged its theft. Possibly we can…persuade him to give us all the details before the police arrive.”

  Ian’s hands closed to fists. “Why don’t we both go have a look at them?” He stared outside at the gleaming snow. “But there’s one thing I still don’t understand. I could swear I saw a cat when we drove up. There were prints leading over the snow, but they simply vanished beside the Christmas tree.”

  “Maybe you can explain that to me, too,” Nicholas’s wife said as she slid an arm around her husband’s waist.

  But before Nicholas could answer, they heard the sound of husky laughter beyond the door, then a muffled protest and the creak of the bed.

  Nicholas cleared his throat, hiding a smile.

  As he did, there was a scuffling noise in the front hallway. A short man with wild gray hair and snow dusting his jacket burst inside and glared up the stairs. “Where is that bounder Wyndgate? By God, when I get my hands on the man—”

  He went very still as sunlight struck the group of people starting down the stairway. He seemed to struggle for control, his jaw working hard as he looked down the line. His gaze stopped on Jeffrey. “It was truly the Macbeth, wasn’t it? The lost folio stolen eight years ago from the British Library?”

  For a moment no one answered. All watched in embarrassed shock as he sank slowly onto the lowest step, his face in his hands. “I should have known he couldn’t be trusted. I should have stopped him as soon as I suspected he was offering stolen property.”

  “Father?” Jeffrey’s voice was high and tight as he moved forward. “You were Wyndgate’s buyer?” He made a sharp movement with his hand. “You’ve done some low things before, but never that low.”

  Nicholas Draycott cleared his throat uneasily at the sight of what appeared to be a private family altercation. “You’re Jeffrey Balford? Son of Lord Balford?”

  “I don’t choose to use that name. My father and I haven’t seen eye to eye on my choice of a career, you see. Or on anything else.” Jeffrey scowled. “We went our separate ways a long time ago.”

  Lord Balford sat up stiffly. “I only wanted what was best for you, Jeffrey. What your mother would have wanted.”

  “Rubbish. You wanted what was best for you. What would make you look powerful and important among your friends. I don’t care a whit about finances and banking. You know that and have always known it.”

  His father passed a hand over his eyes. “Maybe I did want it for me. And I’m sorry, Jeffrey. It seems I’ve made a great many mistakes where you’re concerned. But…I’ve missed you.”

  Jeffrey stood stiff and still, looking angry and confused, yet at the same time intensely vulnerable. “Maybe it’s too late for apologies.”

  “I hope not. When Wyndgate came to me about this folio, I never knew what he was dabbling in. But it’s brought me to you.” He stood slowly, looking uncomfortable. “I’m not going away until we talk. Really talk, the way we should have done long ago.” His voice broke. “After your mother…”

  The silence drew out. Jeffrey stared hard at the corner of his shoe, then looked at his father. “I suppose we could try. But first, meet Gabrielle.” He caught Gabrielle’s hand and tugged her forward. “She’s the woman I love and we’re to be m
arried. Don’t even think of trying to argue with me about it,” he added fiercely.

  Lord Balford looked at the two of them and smiled ruefully. “So I’m to gain a daughter-in-law.” He took Gabrielle’s hand. “I always knew that Christmas was a lucky time of year. Now I have not one but two people to welcome into my life.”

  “You don’t oppose us?” Gabrielle asked softly.

  He gave an unsteady laugh. “Jeffrey has finally stood on his feet and made a commitment to a career—and to the person he loves. How can I disapprove of that?” He took their hands in his. “Besides, my friend Archibald gave me a slice of your rum mocha velvet cake, and my first taste convinced me I had died and gone to paradise. You are a true artist, young woman, and it would be my very great pleasure to see that you receive all the recognition and support that you deserve.”

  Jeffrey grinned.

  Gabrielle blushed.

  Nicholas Draycott chuckled. “All in all, a fitting finale. It seems that MacLeod is healing rapidly, and another old wound is to be healed. It’s not precisely from Macbeth, but still, all’s well that ends well.” Grinning broadly, he took his wife’s arm and headed for the kitchen. “Actually, I think we should let Wyndgate and his friend suffer out in the fishing shed a bit longer. Cappuccino and scones, anyone? Or perhaps you’d prefer some exceptional Chinese cuisine.” He grinned at his wife. “Since Gabrielle is going to be busy getting acquainted with her new father-in-law, I might as well take over in the kitchen.”

  EPILOGUE

  Draycott Abbey

  Southeastern England

  Late spring

  THREE WHITE-HAIRED ladies stood in the spring sunlight, studying the high gray walls covered with climbing roses.

  “It looks just the same,” Morwenna whispered. “A house full of secrets. A house that will last forever.”

  “Not forever,” Perpetua said. “But near enough.”

  They walked in silence over the grassy slopes. “We’ll need a car. Someone’s bound to ask how we got here,” Honoria reminded her sisters.