Draycott Everlasting Read online

  Morwenna’s fingers moved restlessly. “He’s as hard as the steel of that weathered broadsword he values more than life. And the things he’s done…”

  Perpetua shrugged. “He is a man of honor. On that, you’ll agree.”

  Morwenna nodded reluctantly.

  “And he is capable of the most arduous campaign.”

  Another nod.

  “Then it’s settled. Ronan MacLeod will do very well for our Miss O’Hara.”

  “But they’ll be like oil and water. He’s positively medieval. And she’s so—modern.”

  “I think we should have a look,” Perpetua said abruptly. In silence their fingers linked. “In and out quickly, mind you. We don’t want him to sense anything,” Perpetua whispered.

  She raised her hands to her sisters. The thrush song faded away and silence gathered, deep and oppressive. Around them the room receded as the shadows thickened.

  A figure slowly took shape in the semidarkness. His eyes were hard, the flat gray of a mountain loch in winter. Sunlight gleamed from the plate armor at his chest and his dented broadsword. Behind him stretched muddy paths and the thatched roofs of a country town.

  Glenbrae Village, as it had been in early spring, seven centuries in the past.

  Perpetua murmured in satisfaction. “Careful,” she cautioned as their thoughts began to link and expand outward. “If he senses us, he’ll put up resistance, and that will make our next contact much harder.”

  Honoria frowned. “He’s smarter than he looks. And he’s more dangerous. Dear me, maybe we should reconsider our plan…”

  RONAN MACLEOD SLID from his weary horse and rubbed the back of his neck. Endless hills stretched before him like restless seas, rich and green.

  Endlessly different from the landscape he had known for the past years as a Crusader in the burning sands of the East. “Do you sense that we’re being watched?” he asked his page.

  “Aye, my liege. The whole town has come to watch the King’s Wolf ride in.”

  “Not that,” MacLeod said slowly. “Closer. And yet not close at all. It is most…strange.”

  The page shrugged, well used to his master’s flights of fancy. “I see nothing but muddy streets full of curious villagers, my lord.”

  Ronan MacLeod surveyed the rugged green slopes. Long years of warfare had given him an instinct for danger he had learned never to ignore, but the muddy streets posed no threat that he could detect. There were no armed Saracens crouched behind the half-timbered walls. No plotting courtiers hid behind the baker’s ovens.

  Yet still the odd sense of uneasiness persisted.

  He smiled bitterly at the grim little hamlet before him. Who would not feel unease in such a place? Glenbrae looked primitive and rude after the colorful cities he had passed in the East on his way to the Crusades. He had heard the bells of Paris toll from the greatest of the cathedrals. He had eaten the finest of roast swan with his fellow knights in Champagne and Burgundy. He had hawked on the slopes of the Pyrenees and savored the colors of a hundred kinds of silk in the teeming markets of Damascus. Through it all, he had fought for a king and felt a thousand times as if he were drowning in the blood of war.

  Now Ronan MacLeod had come home—home to a narrow, muddy little hole in the hills known as Glenbrae.

  If one could call a dozen stone cottages huddled in the shadow of a glen home.

  He pulled a roll of parchment from beneath his hauberk and fingered the red ribbon threaded through the document. From the ribbon hung a wax seal with the image of his sovereign lord, Edward. “For loyalty in right trusty service in many hours of dread, I, Edward, by God’s grace King of England, do entrust this deed conveying all revenues and rights of fee for the village of Glenbrae. By royal grant may Ronan MacLeod, my faithful man, collect wod-penny, agistment, foddercorn and chiminage, from now to his hour of death.”

  Fine words for a village clinging desperately to life, one step away from starvation.

  MacLeod rubbed the only coins in his pockets, two silver French deniers. As they clinked hollowly, he tried to find excitement and satisfaction in a body hardened from months of travel and years of war.

  He did not look up as three dirty-faced children scrambled over the pitted street and stumbled to a halt before him. “’Tis the knight,” one muttered in the rippling Gaelic of the far North.

  “Aye. Blackhearted, he is, so my da says. And the knight does eat the hearts of wee children to break his fast.” The boys drew closer together, their eyes huge. At any second they expected the hard-faced Crusader to pounce upon them with his sword.

  Ronan stared back, fingering his belt. Word of his hair-raising exploits in battle had spread along every dusty road from Damascus to Ghent. Even the court in London buzzed with the tales. And with each telling, the deeds became darker until the man called MacLeod became a monster with no shred of human feeling left.

  Such tales had suited him full well, in truth. He seldom had need to raise his sword because his own black reputation had already done the work of conquest for him.

  The scar that ran across his forehead usually did the rest.

  The King’s Wolf, so he was called. A soldier who acted first and spared no time for regrets. A man who would master any woman foolish enough to tempt his embrace.

  In spite of his grim reputation, the women had always found him, all too eager to taste the passion of a hardened soldier.

  At first MacLeod had been happy to oblige. He had kissed them, stirred them, ridden them to noisy pleasure. He had seen the calculation in their eyes and felt it answer something in his own tortured heart.

  But the novelty had faded. He began to feel defiled with each cold encounter, and the bitter taste in his mouth drove him to an uneasy abstinence. It had been longer than he could remember since he had touched a woman’s cheek, cupped the curve of a hip or breathed the fragrance of roses in silken hair.

  MacLeod scowled at the frightened urchins huddled before him. “Begone,” he growled, tossing down a rumpled bit of linen in which he had wrapped a pigeon pie. Warily the boys studied the castaway food, suspecting some subtle treachery. The youngest of the three, little more than a bundle of bones, snatched up the pie and ran away, followed by his shrill companions.

  A fine homecoming indeed, the warrior thought darkly. Across the muddy road, he watched a pickpocket slip clever fingers into the leather pouch of a well-fed merchant. From the roof above rang an incomprehensible shout as brown sludge descended from a chamber pot, spraying the street.

  Home. MacLeod began to wonder if the heathen East did not have its attractions after all.

  There was no escaping the curious gaze of the villagers busy about their work. He saw how the fathers stiffened at his approach and nudged their daughters out of sight. Even here the legends had spread.

  But it mattered not. He was their lord. They would obey him and offer him the respect he deserved. Whether they gave him any warmer sentiment was of no importance.

  His young page shuffled restlessly.

  “What is it, Will?”

  “The manor house—it’s just over that hill. You wished to arrive before nightfall.”

  In truth, the Crusader could summon little excitement for his new house or anything else. He had learned young that enthusiasm was an emotion best left to women and fools. But he felt a shred of sympathy for the weary boy beside him, who had been traveling for long, chill hours without complaint. “Do you know the way then, whelp?”

  “Just past the wheelwright’s shop. I was told there is a path that leads through the orchard. The house is just beyond.”

  “Then let us go and discover this fine grant the king has made to his best assassin.”

  Four men in tattered tunics sat along the path, their fishing lines angled into the clear water. At the sight of MacLeod, they scrambled awkwardly to their feet.

  MacLeod recognized the fear in their eyes. Yes, his legend had certainly spread here.

  He rubbed his jaw and stu
died the layout of the pool. “Is there someone to organize the villeins for work here?”

  His page’s head bobbed. “The abbot has a way with the locals. Anything you want, he can arrange.”

  “Then we’ll start here,” MacLeod said firmly. “We’ll add an outer ring of water and a new set of dikes. I’ll have sluice gates to control the flow of pike and eels. Tell the abbot the men of Glenbrae may fish here on Mondays. On all other days the pond is open only to women who are with child.” His face hardened. “From the looks of those I saw on the road, most will have little hope of living through the winter otherwise.”

  The page nodded. He, too, had seen the gaunt faces and undernourished bodies. “Shall I tell them it is at your order, my lord?”

  “No. Tell them it is the command of their sovereign. Let King Edward take the credit and their gratitude.”

  The page made no protest, well used to his master’s eccentricities. As they trudged on, villagers gathered silently along the muddy path. The men looked apprehensive, and the women did not meet his gaze.

  Not that MacLeod expected anything different. He was a native son gone too long among the Sassenach enemy. By the people of Glenbrae, he was neither trusted nor remembered.

  Up the hill the warrior saw the dark stones of a grand tower house. Wooden shutters covered the dozen windows on the lower floors. Where the shutters lay open, MacLeod swore he saw true glazed casements, a sign of wealth beyond what he had expected.

  Smoke curled lazily from the tall brick chimney, and the warrior felt a sudden tug at his heart. He had never had a proper home. After the long years of war, all he could remember was dusty roads and the sight of the next hill rising before him.

  Yet the prickling sense of uneasiness did not leave him, even here in the shadow of the grand tower house by the loch of Glenbrae. Home or not, something waited.

  And MacLeod sensed dangers yet to come….

  SUNLIGHT STRUCK Perpetua’s heavy amber pendant as the images from the past swirled around her and slowly faded. She stood up, color spilling over her plain gray dress. “Oil and water, no doubt about it.” Mischief lit her striking green eyes. “But the fireworks between them should be absolutely delicious.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Glenbrae House

  Late November, seven months later

  HOPE LISTENED TO A thrush trill. Outside her window the last hardy roses burned in glorious color, their sinuous vines coiling up Glenbrae House’s stone walls.

  Blue and white porcelain gleamed on the mantel above the fireplace, and bright chintz chairs warmed the corners beside the window. Sunlight glinted off the polished floor, just as she had pictured it on her first visit.

  The inn she had dreamed of that sunny afternoon was finally nearing completion. Unfortunately, luring paying guests to the quiet valley had not turned out to be so easy.

  Hope frowned at her easel. Her latest attempt to reproduce the figure painted on the stairwell was faring no better than her other efforts. The man’s face was too flat. Too cold. With no hint of life.

  Even now, months after moving into Glenbrae House, the brooding image on the stairwell continued to fascinate her. Hope decided he was a medieval warrior sent on the king’s service. Something covert, no doubt, involving jewels or secret documents to be transferred to a safe hiding place out of reach of the king’s enemies.

  With eyes like that, the man knew the weight of dangerous secrets. He bore the hard responsibility of human life and death. Each hard choice was marked on the canvas of his proud face, hidden in the depths of his shadowed eyes.

  Hope sighed and put away her brushes. For the past weeks, every picture she painted seemed to incorporate the medieval figure above the staircase. Even her dreams were touched by images of a broad-shouldered figure with keen silver eyes. Sleeping hadn’t been easy, to say the least.

  Considering the sad state of her finances, sleeping wasn’t likely to get any easier. Not without a genuine, honest-to-goodness miracle.

  But Scotland seemed to be a place for miracles.

  A door slammed downstairs. Footsteps tapped over the polished floor from the kitchen, and a voice called up, “I have the chocolate tea cakes. And the Wishwells have sent over more homemade wine.”

  A delicious aroma of chocolate and roasting almonds drifted up the stairs. Hope remembered that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  She stretched, then slid her brushes into a glass of clean water, studying her mysterious subject. “Gotta go, MacLeod.”

  For a moment she could have sworn a gust of wind swept over her neck. Impossible, of course. The windows were sealed and the room was comfortably warm.

  Too much imagination, she thought wryly. That was another thing that Scotland’s brooding landscape seemed to foster.

  “Coming right down, Gabrielle,” she called.

  Her bank account might be at rock bottom, but thanks to the generosity of her neighbors and the skill of her young Parisian chef, they would always eat well. Baskets of tomatoes fresh from the vine had appeared at the front door all summer, followed by armloads of cheese and homemade delicacies. None of her neighbors would accept a pence in payment; by same baffling, unspoken knowledge, all of them knew of Hope’s financial predicament.

  At first she had tried to refuse, only to discover that the “extra” produce was left anyway. The more she refused, the more was given. Even now the quiet generosity of the Highlanders left her in awe.

  If only she had as many paying guests as she did vegetables from her neighbors’ fields…

  She sighed, walking to the window. The last of the hollyhocks peeked among the hedges. The magical scene almost helped Hope ignore the way the thatched roof tilted.

  The expert she had called in several months ago had told her that even the best thatch had to be replaced every twenty years, and Glenbrae House’s roof had not seen replacement for half a century. Unfortunately, bills for a dozen other repairs already awaited payment, from hinges for the leaded windows in the study to new plumbing in the guest rooms and carpeting for the front salon. All bad enough.

  Now a new roof. Where would it end?

  Hope shoved a strand of chestnut hair off her forehead and followed the scent of tea cakes to the kitchen. Today her French chef sported computer-chip earrings and a huge necklace made of silicon wire.

  “Nice earrings,” Hope said, settling at the broad table and gratefully accepting a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea from her young chef. Although barely twenty-one, Gabrielle was an extrovert with a world-class network of contacts stretching from the Arctic to the Amazon.

  “In honneur of the Glenbrae Investment Club, I try out some new recipes for their favorite food.”

  “Zucchini again, I take it?”

  Her chef nodded happily. “Curried zucchini soup. And the corn bread with the so very hot chilies, from my friend in New Mexico.”

  It was a lucky thing that their spry septuagenarian neighbors had stomachs of iron and opinions to match. They liked their food hot and their arguments noisy. Most nights their investment meetings turned into loud and personal shouting matches, though somehow no feelings seemed to be hurt. Hope seemed to know exactly when to interrupt with pitchers of fresh lemonade and Gabrielle’s steaming soup, flanked by wedges of hot corn bread.

  “They make much money, these investors of Glenbrae?” the Frenchwoman asked, setting down her cup of tea.

  “Rich as Croesus, I believe. Last month they received dividend checks that made me drool. They keep insisting that I should let them establish an account for me.”

  “And why do you not?”

  “You know very well why, Gabrielle.” Hope studied the cozy kitchen, where sunlight glinted off hanging copper pots and herbs strung from beams in the ceiling. “I have no money for anything extra. This beautiful old house is all the gamble I can afford. And if I don’t have paying guests soon, even this gamble will be lost.”

  The young Parisian slid off her white toque and tapped her jaw
. “I have been thinking about this and then the perfect idea comes to me. It is a thing that will make Glenbrae House as popular as the beautiful Draycott Abbey. I visited only last year, you know. Marston, my butler friend there, tells me the tourists come every week by busloads.”

  “Draycott Abbey. That’s in England, isn’t it?”

  The silicon chips danced madly as Gabrielle nodded. “All granite and glass, a most beautiful place. Marston says it draws visitors like a magnet, mainly because of its ghost.”

  “Ghost?”

  “A very eccentric and dashing figure with a reputation most evil. The tourists love it because he walks the battlements.”

  Hope hid a smile. “Did you actually see him?”

  “No, but some have,” Gabrielle said defensively. “Very many of them.”

  “That’s all very well for Draycott Abbey, but we don’t have any historic treasures here. Even the history of Glenbrae is sketchy.”

  Gabrielle smiled shrewdly. “But you have other things just as good as history. Soon you will have the tourists in busloads, too. Just like Draycott Abbey.” Gabrielle slid another slice of cake onto Hope’s plate. “And it is only one little lie.”

  “Giving me more cake isn’t going to change my mind.” Hope sighed. “I should at least be starving by now, considering that we’re perched on the brink of complete ruin.”

  “Good day or bad, one must eat,” Gabrielle announced with Gallic pragmatism. “Hours pass and you eat not one scrap. Always you work, you pace, you paint.” Gabrielle toyed with the chunky silicon earrings at her cheeks. “But now I see the answer most perfect.”

  All Hope could see was an endless future of rising debt and leaking thatch. She moved her spoon, drawing crosses in a butter-light ridge of icing. “I’m afraid to ask.” As a cook, Gabrielle was a genius, but her common sense was noticeably weak.

  So Hope refrained from reminding her friend that her prior efforts to forcibly detour tour buses past the inn had resulted in a massive traffic jam and a threatened civil action by the county constable.