Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise Read online

  A bloodcurdling scream erupted through Jeffrey’s carefully prepared audio system, and dim light played over the walls, outlining plumes of drifting smoke.

  “Glide,” Hope whispered, remembering Jeffrey’s instructions. She was supposed to be terrifying, unworldly, and all she felt like was an idiot. At the top of the landing, she raised her hand as another scream tore free from the audio system.

  Down below her, the tourists huddled closer.

  Praying she didn’t look as idiotic as she felt, Hope took four more steps along the stairs, then swept her arm and trailing sleeve over the banister. The lights dimmed, and she felt the fan kick in, fluttering the folds of her gown and lacy sleeves. At the same moment, a ghostly “head” separated from the back of her body and flew off through the air directly toward the German visitors.

  The tragic, beheaded ghost of Glenbrae House made its first official appearance, greeted by screams and gestures and a torrent of excited German.

  Hope was starting to believe the scheme might actually work when a cold draft played over the top of the stairs. She prayed that Banquo hadn’t found a new route of escape. If so, pandemonium would be unleashed any second.

  The lights flickered twice, and she realized Jeffrey was signaling her to continue to the bottom of the stairs, where she would regain her “head” as they had rehearsed.

  Hope looked back, but nothing moved in the gloom. No doubt Banquo was safe in his cage after all.

  Touching the banister, she found the piece of twine that Jeffrey had left, marking the spot where she was to stop. Exactly as planned, the ghostly head sailed back to her. She caught the mound of stuffed canvas, released it from its string, and tucked it under one arm while more otherworldly laughter echoed through the house.

  The Germans moved back toward the front door, then stampeded into the night.

  Jeffrey crowed in triumph. Gabrielle emerged from behind a sofa, clapping wildly. Both froze at the sight of Ronan MacLeod bent on one knee beside the window.

  “Make no move,” he said, reaching to the floor beside him. The bow shifted in his hands, its nocked arrow pointing upward. “Stay, you in the shadows.”

  He was here? He had stayed?

  Something snagged Hope’s skirt, throwing her sideways. As cold air gusted over her shoulders, she struck the banister and felt her gown rip cleanly in two.

  And then she was thrown forward into the shadows, where the steps rushed up in an angry blur to meet her.

  “HOPE.”

  A word. A voice that tried to reach her.

  The word came again, tense and angry. No, frightened now.

  She frowned, trying to open her eyes. Tried to sit up and failed.

  Hope.

  Her name, possibly. And someone moving, brushing her face.

  Wet. The taste of salt on her cheeks. Why was someone crying?

  Why was she crying?

  “Can you hear, mo cridhe?”

  She knew that voice. Knew its timbre and its swell, its velvet lilt and burr. “MacLeod?”

  “Aye.” The deep voice shook. “Gloria dei.”

  Was he speaking Latin or some other ancient tongue? Hope could not understand him. “Why…are you here?”

  “To annoy you.”

  She tried to laugh but couldn’t. All she knew was that he was close, his arms clenched tight around her. “I…fell,” she rasped.

  “So you did. A terrible ghost, you make.”

  The first, sweet sight of him stole her breath. His face was set in harsh lines of worry and there were scratches on his neck. His eyes burned like those in the ancient portrait.

  “My arm hurts and I think my head’s going to explode.”

  He laughed for the first time. “You would be far worse if we hadn’t pushed the pillows beneath to catch you. You’ve slept for a quarter of an hour already.”

  “You came back.” She touched the hard jaw, the sculpted cheekbone, loving each in turn. “Why?”

  “Because you needed me.”

  “But how did you know—”

  “Hush,” he whispered, his lips pressed to her face.

  Jeffrey cleared his throat and poked his head over MacLeod’s shoulder. “You okay, Hope? Great performance, but we could have done without that last bit of gymnastics on the stairs.”

  “So could I.” She tried to move, winced at the pain in her shoulder, and stayed exactly where she was. “What did our visitors think before they ran away?”

  “They were delighted, so I gathered from my limited German. Wanted to know when the next show was. Son et lumière and all that.” Jeffrey shook his head. “We’ll be omitting that last part from the next performance, however.” He slanted a look at MacLeod. “But we could use your razzle-dazzle with the bow and arrow. Pretty amazing, MacLeod. Did you learn to handle that thing in the army or in the circus?”

  “Army,” came the flat answer. “A bow has its uses.”

  “Me, I’d take a rifle. But why did you shoot up the stairs?”

  MacLeod cradled Hope’s face. “I thought I saw something.”

  Hope remembered the wind that had gusted along the stairs and the blur of movement at her back. “You saw something, too?”

  MacLeod hushed her with one finger. “No more talk. You need to rest. And this time do not argue. I do not converse with ghosts or headless apparitions.” His lips curved. “Even one of such great beauty as you.”

  Snow hissed against the window as he settled Hope into her bed. The window was closed now, its metal latch locked, and MacLeod had made a quick search of the house. But he had found no sign of the intruder, and any further searches would have to wait until Hope slept.

  He smoothed the blue covers over her. “You must be wealthy to own silk for your bed.”

  “Not silk. An imitation.”

  His brow rose, but he did not question her. Already the room seemed less foreign, and the light that burned in its small dome was welcome. “Your head?”

  “Fine. Almost.” She smiled, still too pale.

  The bruise on her forehead made him scowl. “It hurts?”

  “Not much.”

  “Your shoulder?”

  “Only when I think about it.” She gave a laugh. “Which is every second. Stop scowling at me, MacLeod.”

  He sat beside her on the bed, easing one hand beneath her head, his relief shifting into something darker. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “I’m still here. So are you, though I told you to go. How did you know I needed you?”

  A perfect question. One she had every right to ask.

  But MacLeod wasn’t certain he could answer it himself.

  He thought about the scuff marks outside the back window and the lock that had pulled free, useless in his fingers. He thought about the shallow depressions in the snow beside the loch, marks that could have been left by a boat hastily beached. Whoever had broken into Glenbrae House could have come by water and left the same way, back into the night.

  Were those reasons for him to stay?

  Or were they simply excuses?

  MacLeod’s hands tightened, fisted against her soft sheets. “I want you, mo cridhe. About this, I will never lie. I want you now, here in this bed while the snow speaks against the window. I want your hands on me while you cry out in passion.” His mouth took hers with a slow hunger that left her panting. “I want your laughter, Hope. And then I want the feel of your skin while I make you forget any other man and any other passion,” he whispered hoarsely, nipping her chin, her throat and then her soft, full mouth.

  She traced his jaw. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

  “Everything.” He stood up slowly. “But I can’t have everything, can I? So I will have nothing.” He stared at the light. “How does it darken?”

  “Push the button.”

  After a moment he did, plunging the room into shadow.

  She turned to follow him with her gaze. “What am I going to do with you, Ronan MacLeod?”

&nbs
p; “Believe me,” he said. “Just—believe me. And maybe the trust will come after that.”

  Then he opened the door and left the room, though it was the hardest thing he had ever done, as man or as warrior. Outside he held the wood frame, his head bent.

  Trying to forget his honor and how much he wanted her.

  Follow your heart, Highlander.

  Now, before your time runs out, as ours did.

  Silently, he took his position beside the door. His body was tense, alert to any danger, and the bow not far from his feet.

  The King’s Wolf had returned to Glenbrae.

  PART THREE

  The Quest

  The ghost of Banquo

  No more to fear…

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Glenbrae House

  December

  IT WAS ALMOST CHRISTMAS, and Christmas was Hope’s favorite time of year.

  So what was wrong with her?

  She stared blindly at the clutter on her long pine worktable. Bright raffia bows decorated wreaths of fresh berries. Pinecones and cinnamon twigs were twined with velvet onto a circle of cypress sprigs, and the fragrance was heavenly. Behind her the fire hissed and popped, its glow touching the walls of her workroom overlooking the loch.

  With only two weeks until Christmas, she had her hands full. Stockings of antique lace were ready to hang beneath the ornate mantel in the front salon. Silver foil birds decorated homespun baskets heaped high with dried lavender, rose petals and orange-clove pomander balls. Light, color and fragrance filled every room.

  Glenbrae was starting to feel like Christmas. Hope only wished she felt more in the mood for celebrating.

  It wasn’t because of any lack of business. For the past three weeks she had had a small but steady stream of visitors, beginning the night that the headless ghost made its first appearance. After that, word of Gabrielle’s cooking and the ghostly visitations had spread fast. Two German student groups stopped for brief stays, followed by a medieval choral society from the United States. A chance referral had brought honeymooning couples. For an added air of romance, Hope added scented pinecones to the fire burning in the largest suite, bubble bath in the sunny south-facing bathroom and tiers of votive candles. Chilled champagne in etched crystal goblets conferred the final touch of luxury.

  Right now Hope saw her most recent honeymooners holding hands on the rear terrace. Snow dusted the air and the wind held a chill, but neither seemed to notice, shoulder to shoulder in a lingering kiss.

  It was a storybook scene of beauty and romance.

  Somehow the sight only left her feeling lonely.

  Frowning, she twisted a length of gold ribbon through a pine wreath, then tacked on a fragile lace angel with foil wings. The wreath would sit on the mantel beside an arrangement of cut flowers. All she needed was the holly for the front door.

  She glanced outside, wondering why Jeffrey hadn’t returned from his mission to bring an armful of green sprigs. A man was striding along the old stone fence, the wind combing his long, dark hair.

  MacLeod.

  The collar of his leather jacket was turned up against the wind, and a huge fir tree was angled over one shoulder.

  Hope felt the hot little lurch that struck her whenever she saw him. To her absolute disgust, she was no more able to control her physical response to him than she had been four weeks earlier. He was still the most incredible man she had ever seen—and also the most irritating.

  She scowled, watching the tree sway on his shoulder. She had told him not to bother about a tree. She had made it clear that she and Jeffrey would choose one later that afternoon. As usual, he had paid no attention.

  Though the concept of cutting a tree and bringing it inside to decorate had at first seemed foreign to him, he had questioned Jeffrey, then vanished shortly after breakfast. Now Hope realized why.

  He had chosen a tree, then cut and hauled it back over steep, stony ground to the house. Hope could see him grinning like an idiot, with fir needles dusting his hair and shoulders.

  She wanted to hate the man. She wanted to close her heart to him.

  Ronan MacLeod made either thing impossible.

  Frowning, she concentrated on arranging pine boughs and fresh fruit around scented candles for the salon, appalled to see that her hands were trembling.

  Her vision blurred with tears. It was Christmas, blast it. She ought to be full of joy, looking forward to the peace of the season and the companionship of her new friends.

  But Hope was too honest to pretend. She knew the source of the tears that blocked her vision. She knew exactly what—or rather who—made her hands tremble.

  It was the tall man striding up the glen with the tree over his back. It was the sight of his cocky grin when they argued, which was too often. It was the sadness that crept into his eyes whenever he thought she wasn’t looking.

  Over the past weeks he had examined, questioned and explored everything he had come in contact with. He had poked into every corner of Glenbrae House with a focused intelligence that was almost frightening. He had borrowed books from Hope, studied maps and old prints and had even gone into the village library to scan their volumes. He didn’t seem to have a particular question to be answered: instead, every detail of his life here at Glenbrae seemed to baffle and intrigue him.

  He might almost have been a man coming awake from a long sleep, or a child dizzy with exploring new toys. Whether Hope liked it or not, his excitement was contagious. One day he grilled Gabrielle from dawn to dusk about current French culture. The next day he interrogated Jeffrey about England’s political structure.

  When a guest produced a portable CD player with an album by Enya, MacLeod was transfixed. The pounding bass of contemporary Celtic fusion bands made his eyes twinkle and his toes tap. Hope actually caught him gyrating beneath borrowed headphones while he added a section of new mortar to the kitchen wall.

  She had already decided on her Christmas gift to him: a handheld video game with the noisiest games available. She could hardly wait to see his face.

  Assuming he was still here when Christmas dawned.

  Judging by his behavior, there was nothing to hold him. To Hope’s chagrin, everything had changed since that night in the stables almost four weeks before. Oh, he had been friendly and helpful. He had tackled the tiniest repairs and the grittiest problem.

  But he hadn’t touched her once. He hadn’t even looked at her measuringly or given a sign that he found her remotely attractive. They might as well have been siblings.

  Or strangers.

  That was exactly what she wanted, wasn’t it? There was nothing between the two of them. He said no more about himself than was absolutely necessary, keeping his past life and his future plans a mystery. He absorbed everything and confided nothing.

  Stubborn, impossible man.

  “Merry Christmas,” Hope whispered to the air, tying damask bows around the first of four silk-covered hatboxes to be arranged beneath the Christmas tree. Blindly she reached for another box, thankful for the work that had kept her sane and preoccupied.

  But work didn’t occupy the nights. In the darkness she remembered things that were better forgotten. It didn’t help that MacLeod slept in the room next to her. She heard every mutter and every creak of the bed, all too close—but a thousand miles away.

  Did she trust him?

  Absolutely, Hope admitted. He was unfailingly patient, disgustingly gentle. His kittens liked nothing more than to tumble all over him and lick his face in abject adoration.

  They were females, Hope had discovered. No doubt that explained it.

  But her second question was far harder. Did she believe him?

  She stared through the French doors, remembering how he had raced out of the storm. She replayed the sight of his great horse as it performed impossibly fine movements to Ronan’s slightest command. A crusading knight would have such a horse as that. A traveler from the thirteenth century would have shown Ronan’s initial shock and fe
ar, followed by the same enthusiastic curiosity about every detail of modern life.

  The pine wreath snapped beneath Hope’s fingers. If she had allowed herself to confront the question, the answer would have been yes, she did believe his story, outrageous and impossible as it was. There was a rock-hard vein of honor to the man and an old-fashioned streak of chivalry that could not be denied.

  Yes, he could well be exactly what he said, a knight torn out of the late thirteenth century.

  As always, Hope felt a lurch of panic at the thought. Probably it was she who was narrow-minded and confused. Perhaps her twentieth-century mentality simply could not accept the magical possibilities that his presence here implied.

  Because Hope was neither a philosopher nor a physicist, her answer was simply to avoid the question. She accepted Ronan for what he was: a man of strength and honor, a sturdy right arm and a source of desperately needed help.

  So what if he occasionally stumbled over contemporary slang or missed every movie reference? So what if he stared at a telephone as if it were an instrument of the devil? She had concerns that were far more painful.

  It was no use trying to pretend Ronan MacLeod hadn’t touched her heart. She was aware of him every second of every day, whether he was helping Gabrielle nurse the old wood-burning stove or showing Jeffrey how to whittle a bird out of fine-grained elm wood. Hope even knew how he slept, disdaining the soft bed to curl on a mound of blankets in the middle of the floor.

  She enjoyed his company. She loved the sound of his low, musical accent and the boom of his laughter through the hallways. He was forthright and intent, his smile open and friendly.

  And that was exactly the problem.

  Hope realized she wanted far more than friendship, and it was painfully clear that she had misunderstood his initial interest. Dazed and disoriented after the storm, he must have reached out to the nearest person, namely her. Now that he was adjusting to life at Glenbrae, his guard was restored, and all their earlier intimacy was forgotten.

  With an angry sound, Hope kicked a log that had tumbled from the wicker basket near the fireplace. In the process she struck an iron poker and pain shot up her leg.