Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise Page 15

  The movement made Hope’s entire body tighten. She took a step backward, more angry at herself than him. “Forget about the water. I want answers.”

  “Answers were na what you wished of me before.” The Gaelic cadences were rough in his voice. “Outside by the loch, you were open to me, mo rùn. Open to all that you were feeling.”

  Hope swallowed. He wasn’t going to let her forget, was he? “That was then, and this is now.”

  “Is forgetting so easy for you?”

  Hope had not forgotten anything, but she wasn’t about to cave in to lust again. She couldn’t afford to. “I’ll survive.”

  Motionless, Ronan MacLeod watched the currents hiss and ripple. He marveled at hot water that ran from a metal hole with no fire, and lights that glowed from glass globes set on the walls. Miracles of her time, he thought, and she counted them for naught.

  By honor, in this age even bathing taxed his reason. He could never be comfortable here.

  And what of his suspicions? Once they were freed, he had immediately surveyed the area, but the two men in the shadows were gone. He could confide his suspicions, but he had no doubt they would be greeted with the same disbelief as the rest of his story.

  No, she would have no more explanations from him now. “It was a trick of the shadows. I imagined I saw a horse and rider among the trees.”

  “A horse and rider.” Hope drummed her fingers on the windowsill. “How come I saw nothing of this supposed horse and rider?”

  “Perhaps you are not so observant as I am.”

  But Hope was certain that MacLeod had been watching the cliffs, and it infuriated her that he would keep secrets affecting her inn. She glanced up, only to find him pulling his borrowed sweater over his head.

  The sweater hit the floor.

  “What are you d-doing?” she sputtered.

  His chest gleamed, dusted with dark hair. Every muscle was sculpted and hard. “Surely it is not customary to wear clothes while bathing? You wish to stay and observe me?” His dark brow arched. “That would be the second time.”

  Hope’s face flamed. “In your dreams, brother.”

  “I am not your brother, mo cridhe. We both know that full well.” His hands fell to the waist of his jeans.

  Outmaneuvered. Outclassed. Outwitted.

  Hope turned and slammed the door so hard that the wall rattled behind her. If a few of Gabrielle’s copper pots tumbled to the floor, it would still be worth it, she thought grimly.

  Her face was still fiery when she settled down in her study. For twenty minutes she sat grimly at her desk, mis-adding column after column of expenses. To her irritation, she found another file was missing, and when she tried to finish the text for an advertisement to appear in a regional travel magazine, all she came up with was a floor full of crumpled paper.

  She decided to give up on the ad and attacked a pile of bills. She would transfer Wyndgate’s funds the following day, but meanwhile she would have the pleasure of seeing a few creditors paid in full.

  When she was finally done, she glanced at her watch, shocked to see that almost two hours had passed. Was Wyndgate still busy with his inspection?

  She was about to go in search of him when her office door jerked open.

  MacLeod glared at her from the threshold, his hair slicked back, damp from his bath.

  His chest was bare and his face was a mask of anger.

  “Enough tricks, woman. You will come here now,” he rasped.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HOPE CROSSED HER ARMS and glared back at him. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?”

  “My mother died when I was four,” he said flatly. “And now you will come upstairs.” His voice was strained, every movement wooden.

  Hope didn’t care. “What if I don’t want to?”

  “Then you will regret it.”

  Her voice shook. “I guess you’re out of luck, buster. I’ve got work to do here, calls to make. And after that, I—”

  He hauled her to her feet and pushed her into the hall. “We will talk later.”

  Hope jerked free of his hand. “Right now. Why are you walking funny?”

  Color swept his hard, angled cheeks. “Upstairs. We will talk there.”

  Hope studied him suspiciously. Something was definitely wrong, but she saw that he wouldn’t say anything here. In stiff silence she followed him up the stairs to the bathroom, where steam still drifted through the air. She sat stiffly on the windowsill, trying not to notice the beads of moisture glistening on his broad chest. “Will this be suitable for our discussion, Your Royal Highness?”

  “Do you jest, woman? I am a knight, not a king.”

  “Funny, but you act like a king often enough.”

  “And what word describes your own comportment?” He kicked the door shut behind him with his foot, and Hope could have sworn she saw him wince.

  “Self-protection,” she said grimly. “All right, what’s so important it couldn’t wait?”

  “This foul infidel’s device. Why do you attempt to emasculate me?”

  Hope blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  He gripped the waist of his jeans and glared in disgust at the zipper. “This,” he hissed.

  It appeared to be caught.

  Caught over a very significant portion of his anatomy.

  “As you see, it does not move. You will fix it now, witch.”

  Hope looked down, her cheeks reddening. His zipper. It was caught. That was a man thing. Surely he couldn’t expect her to help him.

  “Just pull on the zipper,” she said unsteadily.

  “Do you think I have not tried, woman?” He tugged the tight jeans upward, and his face stiffened with pain. “No wonder the men of your time are unnatural in their courtship. They are all unmanned by this execrable device with metal teeth.”

  Hope tottered between hysterical laughter and raw embarrassment. After all, MacLeod did appear to be in genuine pain. She had no choice but to help him.

  Inspiration struck. “I’ll get Jeffrey.” She started for the door, only to feel her wrist seized tightly.

  “You will show me yourself. I will have no man pawing over my nether parts.”

  “But you’ll let me?” Hope said breathlessly.

  Heat shimmered in his eyes, a mix of racing anger and darker desire. “Only because you will treat them more cordially. Someday they will have use to you.”

  “Dream on,” she snapped.

  “Were the choice mine, we would be lovers, Hope O’Hara.”

  Her pulse skittered at the image. “I take back what I said before, MacLeod. Your ego is even bigger than Siberia.”

  “I know not what a Siberia is, or an ego is, but I know how you felt when I touched you. You trembled. Small sounds tumbled from your lips.”

  “That was a mistake.”

  “There is no dishonesty at such a time. Your body spoke clearly even if you cannot.”

  Hope refused to continue the conversation. Desperate to change the subject, she looked down, seized his waistband and pulled at the zipper.

  He bit back a sound of pain. “Be gentle, woman.”

  “I can’t just reach in and—”

  “You will have to,” he said raggedly. “The accursed thing will not move for me. It is an enigma beyond the most learned theologian. Do something,” he said in a strangled voice.

  Carefully Hope eased the zipper up and down. Nothing happened.

  Stuck tight, just as he had said. Meanwhile, MacLeod’s face was turning pale.

  She bit her lip, thinking frantically. She didn’t have a great deal of experience in the zipper department. She had never helped a man undress before. She had never even watched a man undress before.

  This reminder of her inexperience only added to her uneasiness.

  “Why do you not do something?”

  “I’m thinking, okay?” Hope glared at the soft denim. The zipper was caught midway, with the opening stretched
in a tight V. If his jeans hadn’t been so tight in the first place, none of this would have happened.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t blame him for that.

  She pushed the zipper together, trying to work the metal handle upward. The only result was his muttered curse.

  “Sorry.”

  “Finish it,” he thundered.

  “I’m trying. If you’d stop moving, it might help.”

  “I would stop moving,” he said grimly, “if you would stop trying to sever me into pieces.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Hope hissed. “It’s the zipper. You’re too…big.”

  “Soon I will not be.”

  Hope’s hands shook on the taut denim, distended with the shape of his body. She thought about cutting the legs up the side, but doubted that Jeffrey had any others.

  No, she would have to find a way that didn’t sacrifice the jeans. That meant covert operations. Deep, covert operations.

  She clutched stiffly at his waist. “Don’t move.”

  His muscles tightened, but he said nothing. His body was absolutely motionless as she eased one finger beneath the zipper. She made a strangled sound as she felt warm skin.

  Hard, warm skin.

  In the tight place, the suggestion of erect muscle left her breathless and largely incompetent. “Stop moving.”

  “I have not moved.”

  “Then stop breathing,” she snapped. Inching lower, she felt pressure against her fingers. She looked up, startled. “You’re not wearing anything underneath these.” It was an accusation, not a question.

  “I donned them just as your friend Jeffrey gave them to me,” MacLeod said in a stony voice. “Braies and chausses would not accord beneath.”

  “You’re not wearing anything else? There’s only—” A second later the question became immaterial as Hope made full contact with the area in question. Flushing crimson, she shoved at the zipper tab, desperate to be finished. “Stand still.”

  Her pulse was hammering, and her hands trembled as they explored the forbidden terrain beneath the locked zipper. She tried not to think about what she was touching.

  “I would stand still if you were more careful with your hands,” MacLeod said grimly.

  “There’s not exactly a lot of room to maneuver in, Einstein.”

  “If you do much more of what you are doing, I shall be dead like your Einstein anyway, so nothing will matter.”

  Hope’s cheeks were flaming. The wretched zipper still didn’t budge. Throwing caution to the winds, she sank to one knee before him.

  MacLeod went very still. “What are you doing?”

  “Major surgery. Keep quiet and don’t move.” Carefully she slid her hand lower. Something prevented her progress. Something warm and hard.

  Her gaze shot upward and locked on MacLeod’s face. “You are—”

  “Of course I am,” he said tightly. “What do you imagine when I can feel your hands against me?”

  Hope closed her eyes and offered a desperate prayer for divine intervention. Then she pulled the denim fabric away from MacLeod’s body and gave one sharp, swift jerk.

  To her shock, the zipper came free with a muffled hiss. Instantly she took a step backward, resolutely ignoring the gaping jeans.

  MacLeod stood unmoving. His eyes were closed, his hands locked in fists at his sides.

  “Are you…all right?”

  No answer.

  “Oh, God, I hope I didn’t—”

  “No, you did not, but only by God’s mercy. Now go away, woman. I would choose to be alone when I commence my imprecations. By all the saints, if you do not kill me one way, you will certainly kill me another.”

  “Curse away to your heart’s content. I’ve got, er, work to finish, calls to make. I’ll be gone for hours, probably.”

  His eyes opened and fixed on her face. “It will take far more than hours for me to forget the feel of your hands.”

  Hope turned and fled, unable to bear the hard challenge in his eyes and the way her heart lurched in response.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Banquo flew past her head, then settled on her arm. Hope sank down on the bottom step, stroking the soft gray feathers. “What’s happening to me, Banquo? When am I going to get some control around him?”

  “When the battle’s lost and won,” the parrot crooned.

  “I can’t wait that long.” Hope gave a weary sigh. “First the brooch, now this impossible man.” She closed her eyes, feeling her hands shake. “I don’t have time for him, for what he makes me feel. I know there’s the roof to finish, but…” She frowned. “Yes, maybe it would be better if he left.”

  The bird’s gray feathers ruffled and then stilled. “That will be ere the set of sun.”

  “Banquo, what are you talking about? Where is Winston Wyndgate, by the way?”

  The bird soared. “Upon the heath. Anon!” With a low cackle, he flew down the corridor toward the kitchen, leaving Hope to stare after him with narrowed eyes.

  Another mystery.

  Just what she didn’t need.

  “BUT SHE NEEDS HIM, Perpetua.”

  Morwenna stood at the window of the tidy cottage. Sunlight crowned her snow-white head and a bright red shawl covered her frail shoulders. “She doesn’t realize it yet, but she will.”

  Her sister sighed. “I hope they don’t murder each other before they decide things.”

  “We knew they were both strong-willed. Without that, where would the challenge be?”

  “I wonder if I’m getting too old for these challenges,” Perpetua muttered, sinking into the handmade rocker before the fire.

  Without being stirred, the flames kindled. Heat grew, filling the room.

  “Ah, that’s better.” Perpetua closed her eyes on a sigh.

  “But something is worrying me, Pet. There’s something we didn’t count on,” Morwenna mused.

  “She has no husband and he has no wife. What other problem could there be?”

  The fire blazed, hissing and popping in the grate. “I don’t know. It’s—gone blank since MacLeod came, and I can’t see the way I should. Maybe his coming took more out of me than I knew.” Morwenna traced the mist her breath left against the window, drew a line of graceful symbols, and smiled as snowflakes appeared out of nowhere to drift over the green glen. “Almost Christmas. I love Christmas.”

  “Will you please stop making it snow, Morwenna? We’ll have enough of the white stuff soon enough. And it’s not Christmas yet.”

  “But I love snow,” the woman at the window said softly. “I love how it smells on the air and how the tiny flakes cling to my skin. It makes me remember when I was young.” She touched the shawl about her shoulders gently. “When I was beautiful and so much in love…”

  Behind her, Perpetua rose. Silently she crossed the room and laid her hand on her sister’s shoulder. They stood at the window, staring out into the first, dancing flakes of snow that veiled the glen. For a moment there might have been the skirl of pipes in the air. There might have been a flash of color, bright, bonny tartan on braw young men riding down toward the loch.

  Riding down to war.

  For a long time the two women stood at the window, neither speaking….

  Both lost in memories soft as new-fallen snow.

  On the far side of the loch an eagle shot from the trees. Dead leaves spun up in a gray vortex, driven by the wind.

  There was a flicker of movement beyond the shore, as if from some hidden form caught beneath the heavy woods. Another bird took startled fright.

  But when the clouds sailed free and the sun returned, there was no more motion, no more trace of frightened animals.

  Only the loch moved, capped with smooth crests. Undisturbed, it rippled on, as old as the dark Highland hills.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  GLENBRAE HOUSE WAS silent, shadowed in the Highlands’ early twilight. Clouds of gold and trailing lavender banked the cliffs, but inside, all was still, from weathered eaves to the old tower sta
irs.

  And it was there at the base of the stairs that MacLeod saw the painting. A mere wisp of color, ghostlike in the dusk.

  A man in trailing hauberk, chain mail and long gauntlets. A man with regret in his eyes and too much fighting in his face.

  Himself.

  Who had captured his likeness here by the first turning of the stair? Who had seen beyond his habitual mask to the darkness of his wary heart?

  But it was his image; of that, he had no doubt. The gauntlets were his own, crafted at the hand of a singularly skilled armorer of fine Bordeaux steel. Each rivet was clear, down to the leather straps at the cuff and fingers.

  Him.

  In that moment MacLeod realized he was part of this house, part of this remote glen. Perhaps his contribution had been greater than he knew.

  History, he reminded himself. The ancient past.

  It was his future he contemplated now. How could he leave the way he’d planned? Honor dictated that he stay as long as Hope O’Hara was in danger.

  But duty demanded that he go, returning to his time and the people who also needed him. If he stayed longer and his invisible bonds with this twentieth-century female grew stronger…

  He bit back a curse. Once again he felt betrayed, a man lost, turned out of his own time. He wondered if the face in the fresco showed the same angry marks of betrayal that lay upon his soul.

  The final beams of daylight filtered through the hall, touching the image on the wall. MacLeod saw the sadness in the eyes, the stiff arrogance in the shoulders.

  Did he look so? Had he worn his past so clearly about him?

  He lifted his hand, half expecting to feel his own flesh and blood caught there upon the wall.

  But the half-light played strange tricks, and MacLeod could have sworn his fingers met no obstacle, passing senseless deep into stone.

  Into the cold depths of his own heart.

  He pulled his fingers back with a muffled curse. There were too many tricks in this place, too many devices to make a man question his logic.

  Intent on his own image, he did not hear the light step behind him or the soft chuckle.

  “Most impressive, is he not?” Gabrielle stood beside him, studying the ghostly fresco. “A man who knows too much of war and far too little of things that truly matter.”