Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise Page 13

  “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?”

  “Fine. Just fine.” She closed her eyes and drew in fresh air, spinning in a dizzy little circle. “It was cold in there. Too…narrow for comfort.”

  “But your face is bright red. You both look like you were just…” Jeffrey’s voice fell away as he saw MacLeod surreptitiously straighten his makeshift kilt.

  “We’re fine, Jeffrey. We just need to warm up.” Hope indulged in another steadying breath. “And then MacLeod needs some decent clothes before he freezes to death.”

  MacLeod’s brow rose. “What is amiss with my attire?”

  “Nothing, assuming you’re an extra in a big-budget Hollywood epic set in thirteenth-century Scotland. In fact, Mel Gibson would hire you on the spot.”

  “What is a—”

  Hope rolled her eyes. “Not again.” As they followed the winding path along the glen, she slanted a cocky glance at her visitor. “Make my day, MacLeod. Tell me how you just happen to know how to thatch a roof.”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER MacLeod stood scowling at his image.

  He had never seen a silvered mirror crafted so large, nor had he ever seen such a misbegotten pair of leggings. Both left him feeling damnably uncomfortable.

  Warily he inspected the strange metal teeth riding up over his manhood. “It is safe, this thing you call zipper?”

  Jeffrey cleared his throat. “It’s safe, MacLeod. Trust me. I wear jeans every day and I’ve never suffered any damage. Nothing permanent, that is.”

  MacLeod’s brow rose sharply.

  “Hey, just a joke.” Grinning, Jeffrey tossed a bundle across the room. “Here’s a pair of socks.”

  MacLeod studied the knitted tubes of wool, then worked them awkwardly over his feet, feeling more and more like a performer in a grotesque traveling circus. When he walked stiffly across the room, the things Jeffrey called jeans chafed at his thighs. They were tight and coarse. He would have preferred chain mail and an iron helmet any day.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have anything big enough to fit your feet.”

  “Nothing is needed. I will wear my own boots.” MacLeod shoved the sleeves of the black knitted tunic higher on his arms. “This thing, this…”

  “Sweater?”

  MacLeod nodded in no good humor. “The accursed garment binds too tight, choking me.” He jerked ruthlessly at the heavy wool turtleneck. “I will find my hauberk to wear. I need no hair shirts to strangle me.”

  Jeffrey blocked his path, looking uneasy. “Hope said to give you something warm. It’s going to be cold up there on the roof, and she’s…she’s worried about you.”

  “Then why does she attempt to bedevil me with these cursed leggings, metal teeth and a tube that clutches at my neck? I will freeze before I wear such malevolent devices!”

  “Keep them on for now, MacLeod. She’s got enough to worry about without adding you to her list,” Jeffrey said grimly.

  “What things has she to worry about?”

  “Business, for one.” Jeffrey shrugged. “If things don’t pick up around here, she’s going to lose Glenbrae House. From what I’ve heard, she’s sunk every penny piece into this place.”

  “But she is a wealthy woman. Only one of great status could purchase this demesne.”

  “I doubt Hope would call herself wealthy. Even the queen would have trouble keeping up with all the repairs this wreck demands. Hope had some money from her uncle when he died, but I don’t think it was as much as she’d expected. Taking care of Glenbrae House has drained her.”

  How was it possible? To purchase such a dwelling required a sizable competence. No, the man must be mistaken. Or perhaps it suited Hope to feign poverty.

  MacLeod frowned, rubbing the tight wool at his neck. “And she is not wed?”

  “Never married. Gabrielle says she’s not terribly…calm around men. She gets nervous, drops things, talks too much. Something hidden there, mark my words.”

  “Hidden?” MacLeod demanded. If some braying ass had hurt her, MacLeod would track him down and eviscerate him slowly.

  “Just a feeling I have. Being in the theater, you get a sense about people. Bloody have to, with all the raging egos around you. Oh, I could tell you stories….” He frowned, adjusting the mirror. “Those jeans don’t look half bad on you, MacLeod. A bit tight.” His frown deepened. “More than a bit, actually.”

  The Scotsman strode to the window, feeling the cloth chafe at his thighs. Cursed garments. Jeffrey wore the same kind of attire. Even the Frenchwoman wore a pair.

  Did the people of this blighted era have a dearth of tailors that they all dressed in such comfortless garb?

  “Tell me what you know of Hope.”

  Jeffrey’s brow rose. “Why should I? Are you interested for personal reasons?”

  MacLeod evaded the question. “Would someone wish to harm her?”

  “Hope?” Jeffrey looked shocked. “From what I’ve seen, the residents of Glenbrae consider her as some sort of surrogate daughter. If anything happened to her, they’d be devastated.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  “For no reason.” MacLeod shoved back the fragile curtain, and stared up the glen. The cliffs were hard, shrouded by ragged clouds about their gray heights. Standing in the quiet glen with sunlight on his face, MacLeod felt betrayed—betrayed by fate, by time.

  Perhaps even by his own heart.

  There was nothing for him here. He would never belong or adjust in this time. Meanwhile, his restless bond with Hope would grow, chipping away at his logic and honor until one day or one quiet, silver night he would take her against him in relentless need. And she would be willing beneath him, MacLeod knew. It would be heat and storm, a dark heaven of the senses when their bodies joined.

  But nothing more. What had he to offer a woman of her time? He could not even be certain he would exist in this time on the morrow.

  He had lost all reason in the stone shed. He had wanted her badly, so badly that the differences between them had faded.

  MacLeod felt a pressure at his chest, remembering her vulnerability when he had touched her. The magic between them passed his logic and understanding. But her fears were not for him to resolve, nor was her heart for him to claim. He had duties back in his own time. He had to find a way to go home.

  Meanwhile, his instincts were too honed from years of war to doubt that danger surrounded her. There had been someone watching in the woods. Almost certainly they had thrown the iron bolt in the shed.

  Had they meant to drive her from Glenbrae? Or was their intent to do her physical harm?

  The possibility made him curse.

  Twenty-four hours, he decided grimly. One day from rise of sun to rise of sun, he would give her. If there was real danger here, he was certain he would find it within that time.

  He watched the clouds shredded to
wisps by the dark, serried cliffs. Twenty-four hours, then he would be gone, tracing his path back up to the windy heights the same way he had come. Whatever power had brought him might still be there, waiting for his return.

  If so, he would find it. Then he would make his way home, back to the age where he belonged.

  And he would not look back, MacLeod swore.

  “Ready to rock and roll?” Jeffrey dug out heavy wool gloves for both of them. “The roof awaits. But first the boss wants to see you.”

  More words that MacLeod did not understand. He shrugged, telling himself that the words did not matter. He would repair her roof and give her the passage of one day. Guarding the rest of her life was not his duty.

  MacLeod was almost successful in believing it.

  “HERE WE ARE, boss.” Jeffrey pushed open the door to Hope’s study with a grin.

  Hope waved her hand as she finished a phone conversation with Winston Wyndgate, an art dealer she’d contacted right after discovering the silver brooch. It was a toss-up which was more important—trying to sell the brooch she’d found or getting her roof patched.

  She glanced up as she rang off, only to find all words dying on her lips as MacLeod strode through the sunlight and into the room.

  He was spare, all muscle, and taller than she had remembered. His soft black sweater was bunched up at his powerful forearms. And below…

  Hope took a sharp breath. Below, every amazing inch was visible, framed in the snug, well-worn jeans that Jeffrey had loaned him. It was fortunate that the fabric was soft with age and wear; otherwise they would have split down every seam.

  Hope tried to keep her gaze above his waist, and failed. It was apparent that Jeffrey was a size or two smaller than MacLeod—especially in the most significant areas.

  Hope turned away, struggling for composure. She refused to think about how MacLeod looked. What had happened in the fishing shed was finished, a temporary bout of insanity caused by her overstressed brain. It was not going to happen again.

  Not ever, Hope swore.

  “It’s the best I could do on short notice,” Jeffrey explained. “What do you think?”

  She made her voice cool and professional. “Thank you for loaning Mr. MacLeod a pair of jeans, Jeffrey. They appear to fit…adequately.”

  MacLeod muttered darkly, tried to shove his hand into a pocket, and failed. Hope tried not to notice how the movement strained the already taut fabric over his remarkable anatomy. Cursing silently, she forced her expression to remain absolutely calm.

  He was going to have to see that she was unreachable, untouchable. A perfectly calm and collected twentieth-century female. “Are you two going out to work on the roof now?”

  “Right after we find some work boots for MacLeod. He’ll need them on the roof. I remembered I might have a pair of boots out in the Mini. With luck, they won’t be too tight.”

  MacLeod turned toward the door, and Hope couldn’t avoid the snug, tight outline of his backside, hugged lovingly by the faded denim.

  She made a low, strangled sound as need sang through her blood in the most appalling way.

  “You okay, Hope?” Jeffrey stared at her.

  “Sure. Fine.” She smiled airily as she picked up her accounting ledger. “What could be more fun than paying bills? I was just about to go through some receipts and—” Her voice caught as her leg struck her sixteenth-century mahogany writing table.

  She nearly toppled onto her face.

  So much for being cool, sane and levelheaded. Summoning her dignity, she struggled to her feet. So what if there was no prettiness to his hard frame and she knew from personal experience that there was no fat anywhere on his body? And if the scars on his back were a further testament to hard living and fighting in dangerous trouble spots of the world, what did it matter to her?

  Yes, a man like MacLeod might make a lesser woman swoon.

  But not Hope O’Hara. She had her own inn, her own business and her own life. And if luck was with her, she’d soon have a little extra money from the sale of the historic brooch she’d discovered beside the stairs. She was going to snap out of this mental haze right now.

  “Hope?”

  She could handle these strange feelings, Hope told herself firmly. She wasn’t a silly girl.

  “Hope?” Jeffrey waved one hand up and down. “Earth to Mars?”

  “Er, fine. Of course. Whatever you want, Jeffrey. Just bring back two bottles of wine and three cartons of eggs, okay?”

  Jeffrey slanted a measuring look at MacLeod. “Eggs?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And wine?”

  Hope frowned. “Is something wrong with that?”

  “Nothing at all. Provided I can find wine and eggs in the boot of my car,” Jeffrey muttered.

  Hope rubbed her hands briskly, barely hearing Jeffrey. She was feeling better by the minute. She would manage just fine. Lust was no more than a memory now.

  She could handle one hunk in a kilt named Ronan MacLeod.

  ONE HOUR LATER, Hope wasn’t so sure she could manage breathing unassisted.

  Nothing had gone right after the men went out to work on the damaged roof. First the oven had begun to smoke, sending oily clouds billowing through the manor house. Terrified, Banquo had dive-bombed the kitchen table, toppling two racks of Gabrielle’s favorite copper pots and shattering a shelf of china. When that domestic crisis was finally quelled and Banquo was safely ensconced on a pedestal in the sunny front study, Hope fled to the haven of an old chintz armchair in her office to prepare herself for her meeting with Mr. Wyndgate.

  Propping her feet on an unmatched ottoman, she considered her ticklish financial situation.

  With luck she would get enough for the brooch to pay her most pressing debts. But there was still an outstanding tax bill from her uncle’s estate, and without a significant upturn in business, the future was far from rosy.

  With a sigh, she massaged a knot at her neck as Banquo flew into the room. “It could be worse, right, Banquo?”

  The bird stared back at her with keen, predatory intensity. “Thunder and lightning,” he rasped.

  “Not today, I hope. The radio says we’re due for clear weather.”

  “The greatest is behind,” the parrot wheezed, busy preening his gray feathers.

  Hope gave up trying to understand the bird and moved back to the antique writing table, which doubled as her desk. Right now its elegant polished top was half covered with letters and bills. She picked up the telephone and dialed the first number on her notepad, absently noting the papers by her hand.

  Then she frowned. There should have been a ledger of winter tax records beneath her glass paperweight. And what had happened to her two last telephone statements? She hated to think she had become careless with all the financial stress in the past two weeks.

  A cool voice cut onto the line. “Elizabethan Tours.”

  Frowning, Hope focused on her sales pitch. Glenbrae House had history, magic and an impeccable period restoration, all of which should make it attractive to travelers. She reminded herself of those facts as she launched into her presentation, outlining the uniqueness of the inn. When she was done, she held her breath, trying to be optimistic.

  The manager of the tour company sounded bored. “Glenbrae House, you say? I don’t recognize the name. I presume you have all the standard amenities? Tennis courts, both clay and tournament quality. Championship golf and in-room television. Room service, valet, same-day laundry.” She rattled off the conditions like pistol fire. “Our guests expect the very highest accommodations.”

  “The tennis courts are not completed,” Hope lied, “but we have some lovely hiking countryside, a pristine loch and a very historic view of—”

  “Hiking?” The woman gave a tight little laugh. “My dear Ms. O’Hara, you’ll have to come up with something better than hiking. Our travelers expect the very best.”

  Hope gripped the phone and tried desperately to stay calm. Glenbrae Ho
use’s future depended on it. “I’m afraid that we can’t offer golfing or tennis here at Glenbrae, but we do have salmon fishing in season. We’re also planning some period festivities for Christmas. Possibly a medieval costumed event.”

  “What about spa facilities and circuit-training equipment? Yoga? Meditation therapy? Nutritional counseling?”

  “Well, our chef can—”

  “Do you have them or don’t you, Ms. O’Hara?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then I’m afraid that your establishment is not up to our standards,” the woman said curtly. “In fact, now I remember a recent report we received that mentioned your property. There were some major problems indicated.” Papers rustled. “Yes, it appears there was inadequate plumbing and a complaint about the cooking. You may be certain we will not be booking anything at Glenbrae House.”

  Hope stared at the phone in disbelief as the line clicked dead in her hands.

  Plumbing problems? Cooking complaints? Was this some sort of sick joke? The headache she had been nursing suddenly raged into a full-blown migraine.

  Despite her discomfort, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to make three more calls to other tour agencies. In each case, the answer was the same. Glenbrae House, though it might have some quaint scrap of historical interest, was just not up to luxury standards. Those agencies, too, recalled recent information about the unreliable quality of its accommodations.

  It had to be a mistake, Hope thought. There must be another hotel with a similar name. Glenbarra? Glenblair?

  But her agitated call to the Scottish Tourist Board revealed the unthinkable. Glenbrae House had been removed from their listings. They could not recommend an establishment with improper plumbing and questionable cuisine, as indicated by several recent complaints.

  Finished.

  Ruined.

  Hope sank back against the back of the chair and put down the telephone. Brooch or not, there would be no guests through established referrals. If she wanted to survive, she was going to have to attract visitors some other way.

  Maybe she could hold a press conference and gallop naked down Glenbrae’s High Street.