Draycott Eternal: What Dreams May ComeSeason of Wishes Page 15

  “Dressed,” Adrian said coldly, “in what way?”

  “All satin and lace. Very impressive, especially the boots. But it’s just not…helpful. I mean, anyone would think you were some kind of hallucination rather than a spirit sent to assist them.”

  The smoke positively boiled around Adrian’s head. “So I am a hallucination, am I?” He seemed to expand, his shadow growing longer. “Let us see how it feels when a hallucination pitches you to the ground.”

  Gideon meowed once, low and sharp.

  Adrian looked down, frowning. “You know this…this creature, Gideon?”

  Terence smiled as he crossed the roof. “Oh, we’ve met before.” He bent and stroked the cat’s smooth fur, and with each movement, light flickered from his hands. “Your friend helped me out when I was in the process of making a complete mess of my last assignment.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Adrian said crossly. Then he froze. “Wait one minute. Him? You helped him, Gideon? I refuse to believe it.”

  The cat blinked, purring beneath Terence Night’s stroking fingers.

  “Traitor.”

  Terence glanced up. “Helps you, too, does he? You must be very lucky, for this fellow is special. Gideon, is that your name?”

  The cat blinked. His amber eyes burned with pure, restless light.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” When Terence Night laughed, the sound was also image, pinks and greens and perfect blues shimmering over the old granite. “I could use your help again,” he said ruefully. “This one is important. I’m frightened because it’s someone I love, and I couldn’t bear to bungle things. I left so much undone when I died. So much unsaid, especially to Jamee.” He sighed. After giving the cat a final stroke, he stood up. “Now I’ve been sent, and I don’t know why. I only know that she needs me.”

  Adrian’s brow rose. “Your sister?”

  “Jamee. She always knew how to cut through our worries and find a way to make us laugh, all of us.”

  “How many of you are there?” Adrian asked warily.

  “I have three brothers. All still alive,” he explained quickly, seeing Adrian’s frown. “They won’t be around to bother you. At least I don’t think they will.”

  Adrian studied the great cat purring by Terence’s leg. “So I have no choice, is that it?” He toyed with the lace at his cuff, his eyes narrowed. “There was something about those men who came to visit Nicholas today. I’m beginning to wish I had listened more carefully. But then Gray and I had to visit Lyon’s Leap after the rabbits were caught in the weir.”

  When Adrian turned, he saw Terence Night begin to shimmer and fade. “What are you doing now, you incompetent? Hasn’t anyone taught you how to hold your shape?”

  “Something…wrong,” Terence said unsteadily. “Got to find Jamee.”

  “Wait,” Adrian commanded. “You’re not ready to help anyone yet. In fact, your inexperience is utterly appalling. Since Gideon insists, I suppose I might be able to give you some assistance.”

  “…Appreciate…advice. Later.” With a last burst of color, Terence Night’s image blinked away into darkness.

  “Damned fool. He should have let me help him.”

  Gideon’s tail flicked from side to side.

  “He’ll be back, you say?” Adrian turned, sniffing the air. “What is that peculiar smell? Something sweet—like chocolate.” He shrugged and smoothed his elegant black waistcoat as lights swept over the abbey’s winding drive. “I hear them, too, Gideon. Let us be gone.” White lace fluttered. “Ritual demands that we be on hand for the arrival of our guests.”

  Behind him, the great cat uncoiled. His amber eyes fixed unblinkingly on the road twisting over the dark landscape, while Adrian’s tall form shimmered, then vanished in the mist.

  “Gideon, where the devil are you?”

  The cat’s tail ached as laughter spilled into the silence. Purring softly, he flicked one ear, then followed Adrian, melting away into a beautiful chimney of solid, four-hundred-year-old granite.

  THE SEA WIND ROSE in salty gusts, brushing Jamee Night’s long braid onto her shoulder. She stood at the end of the small jetty and drew a long breath of air sharp with salt and sea and the fish loaded onto nearby boats. She shivered, cold yet more than cold. Hungry for the wildness that rang from the brooding hills and sang from the restless sea. She could see now why her father had loved this place, why his heart had never found deep roots anywhere else but in his native Scotland.

  It’s real, yet none of it looks real, Jamee thought. She drank in the green, girding mountains while blue water flashed on three sides of the great bay. Mist coiled idly, paling the colors, drawing shadows on a landscape that looked too perfect to be real.

  A little drunk with the beauty around her, she approached a man testing a line at the end of the pier. “Excuse me…”

  The man looked at her but he did not speak.

  “I’m looking for this place.” Feeling foolish, Jamee held out a photograph. “Cliffs above the ocean.”

  If the old Scotsman thought this a strange request, he did not show it. He fingered the bamboo pole gently, lost in thought.

  “Do you know how to get there?” Jamee prodded.

  “Aye.” The cool eyes swept her face before returning to the sea.

  “Then—can you tell me where it is?”

  “I can that, miss.”

  Jamee tottered between irritation and amusement. She had come four thousand miles in the last three days, the last hundred in ceaseless rain over very bad roads. She wasn’t ready for the Zen treatment, especially not in Scotland. “Will you tell me?”

  He looked at her again, his teeth working the worn old pipe clamped between his lips. “I might, that.”

  Jamee waited. She was learning that a different sense of time set the pace of life here in the shadow of dark and timeless mountains by the sea.

  “Not an easy drive to get to those cliffs.” The fisherman stared off where squall lines darkened the west. “Rain soon. Mist first.” He sniffed the air. “A bad day for driving.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Will you now?” The question was as impersonal as the sea that frothed and sucked at the uneven boards of the jetty beneath them.

  Jamee shrugged. “I always have before.”

  That, too, the fisherman digested in silence as he gently trolled his line. “West, it is. Along the Dunraven road.” Gray arms of mist rose up, clinging to his chest and drifting over his weathered face. “Take the first fork beyond Treshnish, then watch for the rocks of Fionn. Shaped like bread loaves, they are. That will find you on the right road.” His keen eyes narrowed. “If you still wish to go, that is.”

  “I do. Most certainly.”

  He seemed to hesitate before adding, “You won’t wish to drive that way in the darkness, miss. Not with the road being what it is.”

  Jamee carefully eased the worn photo back into her pocket. “I’ll manage. I’m driving on to Dunraven Castle afterward. It’s not far, I think.”

  “Not far. Aye, on some days.” The man’s keen gaze ranged over the restless water. “On others it might take forever.”

  Jamee shoved the heavy braid back over her shoulder. “In that case, I’d better be going,” she said briskly.

  The Scotsman turned his back to the biting wind. “Dunraven Castle is a very fine place. Listen for the piper in the mist.”

  “Piper?”

  “Some do say as his ghostly tune welcomes any fair lass to the castle.” His lips pulled at his smokeless pipe. “If maid she be.” He might have hidden a smile.

  “I thank you for your directions. And for the record, I do not believe in ghosts.”

  “Do you not?”

  “No,” Jamee said flatly. “There’s only death, nothing after. We believe in ghosts to make ourselves feel better.” Pain filled her chest as she remembered the howl of sirens, the flare of lights and the flat stare of curious strangers. Then the officer, sad and tryi
ng not to show it. I’m afraid…there’s been an accident, Jamesina.

  First her parents. Then Terence.

  “Something troubles you?”

  Jamee’s memories were cold, as clinging as the mist. “I’d better be going.”

  “Watch for Treshnish and the dark stones beyond.”

  It could have been a soft warning that came on the music of his voice. But Jamee didn’t believe in ghosts or in warnings. That was why she was always moving, always drifting, always running away from what she couldn’t bear to remember.

  As the salty wind ruffled her hair, she wondered if maybe she had forgotten how to stay.

  THREE PHONES RANG simultaneously as a box of lace gloves flew through the air. A wheeled frame with a dozen organza gowns rumbled over Dunraven Castle’s polished marble floor.

  “Fax for you, Kara! And don’t forget you have two calls from New York on hold.”

  “Ah’ll be wiff you aff foon aff I can,” the editor of New Bride magazine mumbled, her mouth full of pins. Auburn curls spilled riotously over her shoulders as she bent over an exquisite brocade gown with a draped train of douppioni silk. A cut-velvet rose tumbled from the pleated waist, dragging a trail of lace along with it.

  Kara Fitzgerald MacKinnon, wife of the sixth laird of Dunraven, said a very unladylike phrase and pulled out the last pin, stabbing her finger in the process. “On second thought, Megan, maybe you’d better take that last call for me.”

  An American with a frank smile and a million freckles, Kara’s assistant answered the phone calmly, as if she were well-used to this sort of chaos. “Dunraven Castle. May I help you?”

  Another box flew past and Megan ducked easily. “Of course. One moment, please.” She covered the phone. “It’s for Duncan. Is he still in the study?”

  Kara frowned at the chaos of silk and lace around her. “I think he’s taken refuge as far away as possible, which might be in the middle of the ocean. I can’t say I blame him. The poor man had no idea what he was getting into when he married me.”

  A tall figure in the bright shades of the MacKinnon tartan strode into the ballroom, his kilt swirling about his powerful legs. “Aye, a terrrrrible great surprise it was to yer puir husband,” the laird of Dunraven said in a booming brogue. “But dinna hope ye’ll escape from him now, lassie.” He caught his wife about the waist and whirled her up into the air, delighting in the way her face flamed.

  Her bare feet flapped like small, quick fish. “Duncan, please!”

  “Please what, lass? Dinna tell me you’re wishing to take another break already. That makes three today,” he said in mock dismay.

  The flush in Kara’s cheeks deepened and the laird’s dark eyes twinkled as he lowered her to the ground. Frowning, he touched her face. “You’re working too hard, Kara Fitzgerald. I will not have it.”

  “Only three more days, Duncan. Four at the outside, I promise.”

  “Until then, you’ll rest. I will not have a word of protest.” He raised his voice. “Do you hear that, Megan? You, too, Hidoshi?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Kara’s hardworking assistant and her staff photographer said in unison.

  Megan held out the phone. “I believe this call is for you.”

  The MacKinnon’s black brows rose sharply. “Someone is calling for me? I thought the world had forgotten that anyone besides the famous American bridal consultant lived here at Dunraven.”

  Megan chuckled. “As if anyone could forget Dunraven’s magnificent laird.” She slanted him a provocative look as she handed him the phone. “Especially when he’s wearing such a cute little skirt.”

  “That’s kilt to you, Megan O’Hara.” Ignoring her cheeky smile, he raised the phone to his ear. “This is the laird of Dunraven,” Duncan thundered. He ducked as another box sailed through the air, barely missing his broad shoulder.

  “Duncan, I’m glad I caught you in.”

  “Ian?” Duncan’s lips curved. “Where are you, man? It sounds like Tibet with all that static.”

  “I’m calling from the car. I’m about to get on the ferry. I’ve a favor to ask.”

  “Whatever it is, the answer is yes, you know that.”

  “I thought I might come and spend several days at Dunraven. Nice and quiet up there, is it?”

  Duncan looked about him at the chaos of lace gloves, open jewelry boxes and photographic equipment. Electric wires crisscrossed the floor and four female models huddled in the corner before a rack of bridal gowns, listening to the enthusiastic directions of a Japanese-American photographer whose hair was currently streaked green and bright purple. “Quiet, you say?” He smiled cockily. “Not exactly. But you’re still welcome.”

  “Thank you, Duncan. We should be there before dusk.”

  “Be careful on the coast road. It looks like fog is setting in.” Suddenly Duncan frowned. “We? Are you traveling with someone?” He barely noticed as one of the reed-thin models calmly peeled off her silk camisole.

  “I’m planning to pick someone up on the way, but I’ll explain later. It’s…rather complicated.”

  “It’s business, you mean.” Another layer of silk sailed through the air. Duncan beat a hasty retreat, cordless telephone in hand. “Kara and I will be delighted to see you. The truth is, I’d be glad of some more male company up here.”

  JAMEE SHIVERED, eyeing her flimsy T-shirt in disgust and shoving the rental car’s heater another notch higher. She had come straight from Java via Edinburgh, and her wardrobe was not exactly adequate for the damp Highland wind. Her father had told her long bedtime stories of the wild seas and lonely moors of his native Scotland, but no story could have prepared her for the changing light and the wind that gusted up without warning.

  She still wasn’t quite sure what she was doing here, driving on a narrow, winding road at the very edge of the British Isles where an unbroken expanse of water shimmered a dozen shades of blue. In fact, Jamee wasn’t entirely certain what she was doing anywhere. For the last two years since her brother’s death, she had more or less existed, hurrying from one day to the next, one job to the next and one country to the next. She had made a habit of not knowing where the next month would find her.

  Maybe because she was afraid of losing another person she loved. Losing her parents had been devastating. Losing her beloved eccentric brother had been almost more than she could bear.

  She stopped the car. Her head sank down against the steering wheel and she blinked back tears.

  It was then that Jamee saw the sharply notched coast stretching before her. A silver cove beckoned to her left, its heather-clad cliffs remarkably similar to those in the photograph on the seat beside her. She glanced down at the mass of roses, a memorial to her lost parents, who had loved these wild shores. Jamee had come today to say her final goodbyes.

  Clouds draped the hills and streaked the road as she stepped on the accelerator. The fisherman had been right, she realized. The drive would be treacherous at the best of times. It didn’t help that she still hadn’t caught the hang of driving on the left.

  High in the distance the sun broke through the clouds. Bars of light glistened on the slate roofs and round towers of a castle of fairy-tale beauty. Dunraven, Jamee knew. Recognizing the turrets from her parents’ description.

  Seeing a turnoff, she pulled over along the coast. The sea stretched before her, dotted with green islands and seabirds rocking like tiny boats.

  This curving shoreline was the spot her parents had described so lovingly, a quiet cliff found during their second honeymoon, which they had spent at Dunraven Castle. Her father had said this spot felt like the end of the world, a place to face your very soul.

  Jamee hoped she would do the same here. It was time to let go of the shadows that had haunted her since her parents’ sudden death on a lonely road in Nova Scotia. Maybe it was time to start thinking about cutting back her travel and staying home for a while.

  “You were right, Da,” she whispered. “It’s like the very end of the wo
rld here.” A plover cut through the sky and sailed toward the open sea. Then there was only mist again, only water and ever-changing light. Nothing but cliffs and sand wherever she looked. “I can see why you two never forgot this place.”

  Jamee knew her parents couldn’t hear her, of course. The belief in ghosts was something to soothe the living, not placate the dead. But they had made her promise to visit Dunraven one day. They had assured her the visit would be unforgettable.

  They were right.

  Roses in hand, Jamee made her way toward the row of boulders at the spine of the cliff. “I know you will like the roses. These are Souvenir de Malmaison, the largest I could find this time of year. It took a bit of doing.” Jamee didn’t feel odd talking to herself. The silent cliffs seemed to invite quiet monologue.

  She brushed away a tear. “Lord, how I miss you two. Terence, too. Probably every hour of every day. Adam, Will and Bennett have been wonderful, of course. Too wonderful, I sometimes think. They’re trying to help, but they won’t let me make my own mistakes.”

  She frowned at a long-stemmed bloom. Cold mist clung to her cinnamon-colored hair as she tossed the first flower out to sea. End over end it sailed, a flash of red against the mist before it hit the churning waves. “Tell them I need to make my own mistakes. Tell them I need to breathe. Tell them not to worry about me so much,” she whispered as the wind ruffled her cheeks like the brush of spectral fingers.

  A fishing boat steamed away to the north as the roses fell one by one, rocking on the sea. With each one, Jamee felt another layer of sadness fade, releasing the dark grief that had gripped her since she had learned of her parents’ death. “I know Terence is with you now. I’m glad about that. Tell him…I love him. I wish I could have said goodbye.”

  Jamee had a sudden vision of her parents, their eyes shining, their arms looped at each other’s waists. Their love had been unshakable. Jamee doubted she would ever know a pale imitation of such emotion.

  Out went her last rose. Crimson petals tore free in the wind and whirled in a mad circle, then scattered at her feet.