His lips curved slightly. “For anything you want. Age is largely a state of mind, after all.”
“My father always said that.” She glimpsed a quiet town square where a decorated fir tree held place of honor before a church with half timbered walls. “He almost made me believe it.”
“Almost?”
Maggie shivered, suddenly aware that the temperature had dropped sharply since they’d left London. She didn’t want to talk about her father. “I try. Sometimes I slip.”
“Maybe we all do.” He nudged on the heater. “Why don’t you get some rest? There’s a blanket behind you if you need it, and we have another hour before we reach Rye. I’ll be sure to wake you.”
Maggie snuggled beneath the heavy tartan throw pulled from the narrow seat behind her. With the motor purring in her ears, she closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of speed, of flying through a corridor of trees toward some shadowy mystery she couldn’t yet fathom.
But for some reason she didn’t understand, the journey felt intensely…familiar.
Midnight.
Snow on a cold road. Wind that snapped the holly and jerked the twisted boughs of hazel.
‘Twas a night for mischief and harm, had she but noticed. Yet the slender woman in gray worsted saw nothing save the rutted road before her as she tugged at her cloak, willing the miles before her to close.
But they did not. The road snaked ahead, twisting and dark. Too late the full sense of her danger became clear.
She’d been a fool to sneak from the abbey against her father’s will—and even more of a fool to attempt to return alone across the windswept downs.
Well she knew of the smugglers who plied their desperate trade from here south to the white chalk coast. But until now she had never thought they could do her a scrap of harm.
Until now…
Behind her the wind growled, tossing up dirt and pebbles. Her vision blurred as she tugged her old cloak tighter and prayed she would soon be safe at the abbey with the leaded casement windows locked and barred against the wind growling off the channel.
A branch sailed past, striking her shoulder, but she pushed on over the dark rise. Brambles tugged at her long skirts, making her fight for every step. She had an hour more before the abbey’s high walls came into sight. And another quarter hour’s walk through the home wood after that…
And all for what?
Jewels. An hour of forbidden study with a master goldsmith from Amsterdam. But no jewels were worth this sort of danger.
The pounding of hoofbeats came in a sudden lull of the wind. Low and fast, they raced from the north. What traveler would be abroad on such a moonless night?
No casual traveler. Someone on a darker mission, a hunter in search of prey.
The hooves drummed close behind her now. Refusing to give way to panic, she caught up her dusty skirts and plunged into the deepest heart of the thicket, where no horse would dare to travel.
And no grim rider.
It was but a minute’s work to sweep her cloak over her head and sink down within the spikes. And there she waited, watching the dark road that led from Alfriston’s sleepy lanes.
In the end, they came not from Alfriston nor from the lonely coast. Over the downs they rode, across the barren hills dotted with skeletal trees. There were four men and four horses and they traveled at the gallop, like riders who knew well their way and equally well their prey.
Probably after a rich coach and a Londoner with gold sovereigns hidden within Moroccan leather panels. Not for someone like her. Her hands locked, trembling at her waist. Even if they looked, surely they would not see her here among the dark brambles.
The wind rose shrill over the low hills, carrying the rough end of a shout and words she did not understand.
In a sickening jolt of clarity, she realized these faceless men had but one prey.
Draycott’s daughter.
She curled into a tighter ball, certain now that she was hidden by the black branches. The horses neighed and plunged to a halt but a yard before her.
No move to betray her hiding place, she thought desperately. No small sound or yet a single breath. Wind-tossed sand and dry, broken gorse tickled her nose and burned her eyes. Still she did not move.
Slowly the brambles parted. A silver foil probed the branches. Her cloak was picked up and sent flying, like great black crow’s wings carried on the wind.
She huddled amid the dead boughs, revealed now, but never would she stoop to show her fear. Highborn, she was, carrying the blood of kings, and her pride was bred to nerve and bone. Daughter of a viscount. Keeper of England’s finest old abbey, though she cared little for the titles.
“Out with you!” The words were harsh with foreign tones.
She glared. She locked her body in angry protest. Move she would not.
“Hast you ears? Come out or you’ll touch this fine steel.
Trembling, tossed between fury and terror, she rose from her bower, her hair spilling moon-silver about her shoulders. “And you shall hang from a high rope, coward. My father will see to it—you and all the miserable dogs that bark at your feet. “
A flash of bright cloth. The drum of a curse in a tongue far older than Norman French or Saxon English.
The foil rose to probe her shoulder. There it remained with silent, capable menace.
She gave no thought to fear. Not to fear had she been bred, a Draycott daughter.
“If it’s gold and treasures you seek, then great fools you are. I’ve nothing of worth for you. No sovereigns, no trinkets. Not even a simple crucifix of sandalwood or ivory.
The foil brushed back one silver-pale strand. Tall and unsmiling, the leader of the band moved close, grimmest of the four. “Naught of treasure, you say?” His laugh was hard as Sussex iron forged by night on the dark hills. “Naught of worth ?” His laughter churned above the wind, setting the horses to a restless dance. “But I have you, my bonny lass. You with hands of silver and fingers of magic. ’Tis yourself I’ll take to ride before me this night. “
They knew she thought wildly. Her name. Her family. Every detail about her.
She struggled to understand, to shape some angry defense. But there was no time. Cold ropes covered her wrists and a smoky length of rough wool bound her arms.
“I’ll fight you. You’ll rue the day you swept me to your saddle,” she shrieked. “You’ll never hold me. Not you or any other!”
And then the patterned wool blocked her mouth. She was tossed up before the leader’s saddle, caught like a chicken trussed as the grim band pounded north by night, just as they had come.
Panic swept through her.
Rain tinged the cold air and ropes bit at her wrists as she threw herself from the terror and the darkness, a scream on her lips. “Never! You’ll not hold me. Neither you,” she gasped, “nor any other!”
Outside the window, oak trees rustled in a gentle wind and clouds sailed like stately galleons across the sky. No storm. No rain.
A dream.
She sat up slowly. Only a dream, Maggie told herself, trying to fight the tremors at her chest.
A motor sputtered to silence. Hard hands touched her face briefly, then pulled away.
“Maggie, what is it?”
For a moment she had the oddest sense of another face and another night. Of horses wild before the wind and wool that smelled of peat and heather.
She looked down, frowning at her fingers buried in the folds of the old tartan. No doubt that had been the source of her fears and foolish dreaming. Just a piece of cloth that had triggered some imagined scene from history.
“Maggie?” Jared touched her chin, and his eyes seemed to darken at the slight contact. “What’s amiss then?”
For an instant, another world was before her. Enormous and complete it hung, vibrating in the rough slide of his voice.
Then it vanished. And she was Maggie, only Maggie. And he was but Jared—powerful, inscrutable.
She swallowed. “It w
as a—dream. Just a dream.”
“You screamed. You nearly put your fist through the window.”
“I told you it was just a dream.”” She stared at the tartan, then wadded it up and shoved it behind her. “You didn’t have to stop.”
“I preferred that to us landing in a ditch.”
“Well, I’m over it now, whatever it was, so we’d better go.” She couldn’t bear being close to him, feeling the hard scrutiny of his eyes. “How much farther is it?”
“About twenty minutes. But we’ll stop for dinner in Rye first.”
Maggie sat back stiffly. “It’s kind of you to ask, but would you mind if we forgo dinner? The jet lag must have caught up with me, because I’m suddenly exhausted. All I want to do is curl up in a warm bed.”
After a slight hesitation, he nodded. The motor sputtered, then purred back to life.
Maggie turned away, avoiding his keen eyes, uncomfortably aware of his concern and the nearness of their bodies even as she told herself she was nothing of the sort.
“Tell me who called.” Kacey Draycott studied her husband’s tense face in the shadows that filled the quiet study. A clock ticked softly beside a wreath of holly and painted gilt apples. In the two hours since Jared and Maggie Kincade’s departure, there had been four phone calls.
Nicholas frowned, facing the window. “Someone in Whitehall.”
“There’s something wrong. That’s why you wanted Maggie at the abbey so soon.”
“Never could fool you, could I? Not even that first day in the stables when I was so certain you were a reporter.”
Kacey touched his shoulder. “Don’t try to change the subject, my love. It involves Maggie, doesn’t it?”
After long seconds, the viscount nodded. “There’s been some news of Daniel Kincade….”
“Maggie’s father?”
Nicholas nodded. “A routine surveillance camera in the Singapore airport turned up the picture of someone who looked damned similar. The same thing happened in Sri Lanka, near an outbound flight to England.”
“What are you saying, Nicholas?”
He took a hard breath. “That Maggie’s father might not be dead after all. And it is entirely possible that he’s headed toward London as we speak.”
MAGGIE STARED UP AT THE ABBEY’S GREAT GRAY WALLS, stark in the darkness.
Moonlight dusted the high parapets and glinted over hundreds of tiny mullioned windows. Maybe you should pinch yourself, she thought wryly. Or maybe you should just sit back and enjoy the ride.
There was only one problem: Maggie had never been one for sitting back and enjoying anything. Life had taught her that pleasures were usually short and generally jerked away just when you started to enjoy them. Now she stayed on her guard, watching and seldom committing herself.
It was safer that way.
Jared took the bags from the car as she turned to sit on a jagged boulder that overlooked the sweep of the moat and the dark woods beyond. Against her better judgment, she relaxed, letting the beauty of the night slip into her soul. “Exactly how old is the abbey?”
“A Norman ancestor first claimed these hills through a grant from William himself. Since then a Draycott has always held this quiet corner of England for King and Crown.” The Scotsman’s lips curved. “Of course there was that period when the house fell into the hands of a zealous religious order that required a strict vow of silence. The only sounds to be heard here then were tolling bells.”
“I wondered if it had actually been an abbey.”
“Absolutely. The monks were hard workers and built all the high, vaulted ceilings you see through the house. The current structure was completed around 1255. Cromwell’s men were all set to demolish it four centuries later, but one of Nicholas’s wily ancestors managed to convince them that it was a bad idea. In the 1790s more reconstruction was begun.” Moonlight played over Jared’s face as he studied the imposing walls. “It truly is an amazing place. Three wars have been planned here. Four American presidents have stayed here. Two British monarchs have honeymooned here.” Mist trailed across the parapets, flowing white around the shapes of carved animals.
“I’m impressed.” Maggie looked up at the dark walls. “There’s probably even a ghost or two hovering around the back corridors.”
“So it has been said.”
A cold wind played over her neck. “You’re kidding.” She studied his face uncertainly. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid not. Actually, he’s seen on quite a regular basis by visiting tourists. But you’re shivering. Let’s get you inside.”
Maggie didn’t move. She fancied she could feel those ghosts now, lingering around her. In the same way, she could feel the love of generations of Draycotts who had cared for this beautiful old structure.
Too much imagination, she decided.
She should have been delirious with happiness, but she wasn’t. As usual, the nagging uncertainty had returned. Soon she would have to smile and perform, digging deep and remembering a thousand details that her father had taught her. Perfection was expected of Daniel Kincade’s only child.
Did she have it in her?
Maggie watched a pair of swans glide over the moat’s restless currents. She had a centuries-old necklace to repair using authentic period materials. Then she had to diagram the process exactly, explaining each step in terms that any amateur could understand. That was daunting enough. After that came the task of completing her own designs for the Abbey Jewels collection.
No, she wasn’t smug or delirious; she was terrified.
But she straightened her shoulders and studied the trees beyond her. She would succeed with her newest designs. She already had two works in mind, the first a delicate silver tree inset with pave diamond fruit, the other a moat of bronze carrying swans of hammered platinum. Even now the graceful shapes whispered softly, beckoning her to begin the painstaking work of construction.
Jared put down the last of the suitcases. “Is something wrong?”
“Not really.” She crossed her arms, shivering as tendrils of mist brushed the moat. “I was just thinking of two designs I have planned. Already I can see a dozen more. There really must be some kind of magic at work in this place.”
“Everyone who comes here says that.” Jared studied the distant trees, gray with mist. “And yet everyone feels the magic in a different way.”
“What about you?”
He shrugged. “All the usual, I’m afraid. Grand mental panoramas of knights on horseback and arrogant statesmen who struggled to hold this place of beauty and keep its future safe.” He gave a dry laugh. “Everyone experiences a different vision of the abbey’s past, and some people seem to be affected more deeply than others. I’ll give you the grand tour tomorrow if you like, but I think we’d better go inside now.” He studied the dark slope of the woods, then turned south to the curving gravel drive.
“Did you see something out there?”
He shook his head. “Only shadows. Are you certain you aren’t hungry? I can produce a tolerable omelet when required.”
“There’s no need.” Maggie stifled a yawn. “Sleep is number one on my list of priorities at the moment.” She pushed to her feet. “Tomorrow I might take you up on that offer, however.”
She held out her hands, framing a bar of moonlight. There was something strangely personal about the silence that wound through the darkness now. Nothing moved in the woods, and even the air was still. Almost as if the house was waiting for her.
The hair prickled at Maggie’s neck. For the space of a heartbeat she had the disorienting feeling that she had been here before, on a night when the moon slid low and darkness reigned at the dead of midwinter.
In that cold moment of awareness, Maggie felt the shadows press close.
Almost like memories.
And that’s about as idiotic as it gets, she thought angrily.
Mist touched her face. Overhead a layer of clouds ran before the icy curve of the moon. Jared picked
up the suitcases and Maggie followed, almost without conscious thought. They climbed slowly, crossing the broad steps scattered with the first dead leaves of winter. As Jared pushed open the oak door, Maggie fought the uncomfortable sensation that someone—or something—was watching them.
Draycott Abbey lay still in the moonlight. Its stone towers and twisting chimneys rose dark as dreams atop the Sussex hills.
Up on a small balcony, Jared stood watching a pair of swans crisscross the moat. He knew he should fall into bed and try for a few hours of sleep. The house was utterly quiet now, and the light in Maggie Kincade’s room had gone off hours ago.
At the mere thought of her, his body tightened with acute awareness. He remembered the smell of her perfume in the car and her restless, broken breaming. Then her terror as she’d flung out her arms in sleep, nearly catapulting them into a ditch.
He hadn’t accepted her answers in the car or her attempts at calm. She had looked sheet-white in the moonlight and shaken to the core.
Her emotional well-being is hardly your problem, he told himself. But his painful awareness of her was. The prickling sensitivity that had caught him by surprise in New York had become worse. He could sense her presence and her mood across a noisy room in a way that was becoming damned uncomfortable. Even a chance brush of their fingers left him sweaty, his heart kicking in his chest.
Since his return from Thailand he’d tried to control these unwanted forays into other people’s thoughts. This was different. Nothing matched what he felt around Maggie Kincade. The closest comparison was a sheet of wind driving straight off the sea and knocking him broadside.
Ever since their departure from London, he had been asking himself why. Had he met her somewhere before, perhaps in a museum or a quiet shop when she’d visited England? Had some previous encounter triggered this damnable sense of familiarity he had about her?
Impossible. Had he met her before he would have remembered every detail, every gesture on that expressive face.
His fingers closed over the chill curves of the wrought iron balcony. The why of it didn’t matter. All that mattered was this electric awareness that surfaced all too often, slowing his responses and shattering his ability to assess threats. Jared knew just how dangerous that could be.
The Perfect Gift Page 8
