Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise Read online

  “Forget the Pope. Tell me about Hope and why she never smiles anymore. Something’s wrong. You must have noticed.”

  MacLeod stared at the lights up the hill. He had noticed the changes, of course. Lately she seemed to take every opportunity to avoid him. But it was the safest choice for them both. When they were together, they either argued or lost their wits in a haze of pure lust.

  Since the lust could lead only to further frustration and pain, it was better that they spent no more time together than was absolutely necessary. Once he left and went back to his own time, Hope would understand why he had tried to spare her.

  “It is only normal,” MacLeod muttered. “She has been busy preparing for this holiday of hers.”

  “Christmas doesn’t belong to just Hope. And it’s more than that,” Jeffrey said firmly. “You’ve both been marching around like storm troopers.”

  MacLeod’s brow rose. “Storm what?”

  “You know, wookies. The force is with you.”

  “It is?”

  Jeffrey sighed. “Star Wars, MacLeod. Darth Vader and Han Solo. Luke and Leia.”

  “Oh, that.” In truth, MacLeod had no clue what Jeffrey was talking about. In the weeks since being catapulted into this chaotic time in English history, he had confronted a thousand mysteries of arcane speech and baffling behavior. He had gleaned what he could from television, books and the things they called magazines. The rest he simply lied about. The important thing, MacLeod had learned, was to appear casual and confident no matter the subject or question.

  In a way, behaving like a twentieth-century male reminded him of the cutthroat behavior of King Edward’s nobles at court.

  MacLeod scowled. Sometimes he felt as if he had become too comfortable with glib smiles and cool laughter. Soon he would simper with the best, agreeing with everything and saying nothing.

  The thought made him curse.

  “Don’t glare at me, MacLeod. If you ask me, the problem is that Hope’s in love,” Jeffrey said flatly.

  “Love?” MacLeod’s scowl grew. “Is she claimed by a local Glenbrae man?” The thought was a knife stroke deep into his chest.

  “Claimed? Lord, man, where do you come up with this antiquated jargon? If you mean is Hope seeing anyone, the answer is no. According to Gabrielle, she hasn’t been involved with anyone.”

  MacLeod was disgusted at the wave of relief he felt at Jeffrey’s answer. Irritably he hitched the logs higher against his chest. “I believe that destroys your speculation.”

  “Not quite.” Jeffrey cleared his throat. “There is one other possibility. Someone else.”

  “Who?” MacLeod demanded.

  Jeffrey rolled his eyes. “You really must think I’m an utter fool.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t growl at me. You, that’s who.”

  MacLeod cursed fluently, secure in the knowledge that Jeffrey would not understand medieval French. “You are dangerously wrong about these—delusions of yours. There is nothing between Hope and myself. There can be nothing.”

  “Why, are you married?”

  MacLeod nearly stumbled.

  “I thought not. You’re not exactly perfect husband material. Oh, you’ve got that dark, brooding look women seem to like, but you’re as slippery as a snake on ice. No past and no details. No woman could ever pin you down.”

  One could, MacLeod thought. A woman with a sharp tongue and a vulnerability that made him ache. A woman he knew had been far too long without a man’s touch.

  But he wouldn’t take things one step further. Honor forbade it, when he might be yanked away from Hope at any moment. Meanwhile, things had gotten far beyond the Wishwell sisters’ control. Whenever he demanded answers from them, he got gentle evasions. Whenever he demanded dates and predictions, they stammered apologies.

  MacLeod knew that there would be no help from the old ones, and bedamned if he would leave a bastard child behind him. He had seen too many in his lifetime.

  He looked up at the house and saw Gabrielle and Hope silhouetted in the window. “I don’t want Hope hurt. That is the reason things are…as they are.”

  “Does she know how you feel?”

  “It makes no difference,” MacLeod said grimly.

  “Maybe it does to her. If there are risks, she should know about them. It’s her life, too. It’s only fair that she should know.”

  Everyone spoke about fairness in this age, MacLeod thought. It was a source of intense concern with them that all things be fair. But life had taught MacLeod that there was never any fairness—only that the strong survived and the weak were crushed.

  “There are reasons—things she doesn’t know.”

  “Then tell her.”

  MacLeod’s face hardened. “No.”

  “Damn it, she’s special, MacLeod. She cares about the people around her. They’re all the family she has now. So don’t give me any more of your lame explanations. If you two want to go on pretending that there’s nothing between you when even a blind man could see the truth, then go ahead and pretend. Just don’t think you’re fooling anyone but yourselves. Now, let’s go inside and pretend to be having fun. Deck the bloody halls and all that,” he muttered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  LAUGHTER SPILLED INTO the corridors of Glenbrae House. The air was thick with the scent of pine needles and spiced cider. Gabrielle and Jeffrey stood by the fire that blazed in the library, arguing companionably, while Archibald Brown and the Wishwell sisters strung the last angels on the tree.

  Merry Christmas.

  Hope stood watching the neighbors and friends she had come to know so well in the past months. These people had welcomed, cajoled and inspired her as the fledgling inn took shape. Even their conspiracies had been endearing, Hope admitted to herself. They had all been her greatest supporters, and it was fitting they should be here at Christmas to enjoy the final result.

  Tonight was her small token of thanks to them for all their months of generosity and kindness. She was only too aware of how much she owed these friends. And if something was missing, some small corner of her heart that remained wounded and incomplete since the loss of her parents and her beloved uncle, Hope refused to show it. Not tonight.

  She forced a smile into place as she entered the room.

  “There she is now,” Archibald Brown called, holding up a glass of sherry. “Dear lass, come and put an end to our wee argument.”

  “Not about stocks and bonds, I hope.” Hope crossed to the fire, smiling at the elderly gentleman, who had already managed to dust confectioner’s sugar all over his tweed lapels. “I’m afraid you’ll have to argue that subject all by yourselves.”

  “Nay, nay, ’tis not stocks we’re arguing over. Tonight there is a moratorium on all financial matters. It seemed safer that way,” Archibald said with a twinkle in his eye. “We’re disagreeing about the prior owner of Glenbrae House. I recall he was an elderly diplomat from London, but Morwenna swears he was a retired military man from Edinburgh.”

  “I can’t help you there. I was told only that the last owner died twenty years ago and left the manor in total disrepair. We found a few mementos during the renovations. Old rail tickets, receipt books and a few random pieces of correspondence. Nothing with any substance, I’m afraid.”

  “A pity.” Archibald brushed absently at his lapels. “Of course, any man who let a braw place like this fall to rack and ruin would be marched out and shot, were the choice mine.” He sighed contentedly, his face glowing in the firelight. “Rare good luck that ye decided to buy the old place, lass. ’Tis life and heart ye’ve put here again.”

  Perpetua held up her glass of spiced cider. “A toast,” she said gravely. “To Hope O’Hara and the magic she has created here. May this house always remain a place of beauty and joy.”

  Hope felt a lump in her throat as she stared around the room. Goodwill glowed in each face, warm as the embers of the fire. “Glenbrae House is finished only because of your encouragement, inspi
ration and help. I hope that you will always think of this as your second home, because in the very truest sense, I will always think of you as my second family.”

  Her eyes blurred as applause rippled. She brushed at her eyes, thankful when Jeffrey and Gabrielle moved to the ancient piano and launched into a loud chorus of “Deck the Halls.”

  Somewhere between the first verse and the second, Hope turned away, tugged a shawl around her shoulders, and slipped out to the long porch running along the back of the house.

  Over orchard and glen, snow drifted, silent and sublime. The moon was a sliver above the trees, casting silver enchantment over Glenbrae.

  Hope felt the beauty and peace, but as if from a distance. She should have been excited, dizzy with happiness on this night. The inn was finally complete, and despite all the setbacks, her clientele was growing, just as she had hoped. She was surrounded by a dear, eccentric circle of friends in a place of rare natural beauty.

  So why did emptiness still gnaw at her heart? Why did her happiness carry shadows of regret? Now of all times, why did the memories of her lost parents and uncle intrude, like an unraveling hole that could never be filled?

  Hope brushed a tear from her cheek. The sounds of enthusiastically off-key carols drifted through the windows, a gentle contrast to the soft sigh of the Highland wind.

  Merry Christmas.

  She did not hear him until he was close behind her, but she knew who it was even before she turned. Her body recognized him, and her heart greeted him with a swift, excited lurch.

  “A beautiful night, is it not?”

  “Very.”

  “I hope I do not disturb you.”

  Hope’s hands tightened on the weathered oak rail. “No.”

  She turned as the silence stretched out. He wore a black sweater shoved up over his forearms and a pair of wool flannel trousers that she had bought for him in the village. His worn leather jacket was the gift of Archibald Brown, a hand-me-down from his son, a broad-shouldered rugby star. Right now the leather was dusted with snow, as were MacLeod’s hair and eyelashes.

  He looked delicious enough to eat, Hope thought, but the sight of him broke her heart in two. She didn’t need this, didn’t want this when she was just learning to stand on her own two feet. No awareness this deep and painful could be healthy. “Actually, you are disturbing me a little,” she sighed. “A lot.”

  He leaned on the rail, looking out into the field that was fast filling up with snow.

  “You’re not going to ask why?”

  “If you want, you will tell me.”

  There it was again, the steadiness and calm confidence that Hope had seen in so few other men. In another man it would have been arrogance, but not in him. MacLeod would not ask or press her. It was his way, quiet, tough and irresistible.

  Maybe he was a knight.

  And maybe she was nuts.

  “Before you arrived here, I found something in the stairwell,” Hope said slowly. “A silver wolf with aquamarine eyes. It looked very old.”

  He said nothing, but Hope was certain that his shoulders stiffened.

  “I don’t suppose you ever saw it.”

  He shrugged. “Why would I see such a thing? It is your house, after all.”

  “And what if I sold this silver wolf for a great deal of money to a man who seems to think it has great historical significance?”

  “It is your right.” He did not look at her, his eyes on the distant cliffs.

  “Twenty-five thousand pounds, MacLeod.”

  “It is money, no more.” He looked at her then, his brow rising. “What answer do you expect of me?”

  “I’m not sure. You seem to know everything else about this beautiful house….”

  “The silver wolf has nothing to do with me,” he said harshly. “I am glad if it has brought you good.”

  “As a matter of fact, I considered it a miracle.” She sighed. “So now I’ve got everything I’ve worked for—my inn, a growing business and wonderful friends. Why am I standing out in the snow like an idiot, watching the moon and fighting back tears? Tell me that, MacLeod.”

  His hands tightened on the smooth railing, but he said nothing.

  Hope took a deep breath. “Why is it we wish and want and wait, but when we finally find the thing we want, it’s never what we thought it would be? Never.” Hope blinked as snow dusted her cheeks and tickled her eyelashes. “Go on and laugh, MacLeod. At least this time you would be justified.”

  “I’m not laughing.” His voice was husky. “This place, this glen, this house—I can understand exactly how you feel. There is magic here.”

  “Do you feel it, too?”

  His eyes darkened. “More than you know.”

  “But I love Glenbrae. I love these people, and this house is everything I’ve ever wanted. So why am I crying?”

  “Because life is like the river we can never step in twice. The water flows, always moving, always different, just as we are always different. There’s no way to stop the change, Hope. That is why we feel pain.”

  She frowned. “Are you saying we shouldn’t try to hold on to the past?”

  “I’m saying that pain might be good. On your television, everyone runs away at the first mention of pain. Everyone talks about happiness, always happiness.” His gaze scoured the faint line of the distant cliffs. “But I’ve watched weak men become heroes when pressed. I’ve seen evil men do generous, unselfish deeds when the need was great enough. Without pain and change, we would never grow.” He raised his hand and a snowflake settled gently on his palm. It hugged the callused skin for long heartbeats, then melted. “Like that,” he said softly. “Beautiful and then gone. It lasted but a moment. Yet would you take it back or deny the beauty of that moment?”

  “But why—” Hope made a low, angry sound. “Oh, Lord, why am I asking you, of all people? I still don’t know where you came from or why you’re here. And I—”

  His kiss was gentle as a snowflake settling over her mouth. And like a snowflake, she melted in his heat.

  This, Hope thought. This is what I want. This is what I’ll always want, even when I’m worn and stooped with age and my hair has gone snow-white.

  Suddenly none of her questions mattered. She tried to speak and tell him, but his palms closed over her cheeks and his mouth opened, drawing a slow moan.

  He murmured a rough phrase Hope didn’t understand.

  No matter. The hoarse edge in his voice told her all she needed to know. He hadn’t forgotten. And now his indifference was gone.

  His palms slid around her shoulders. Her hands found his jacket. She shoved, pushing beneath the soft leather and finding the man beneath.

  Warm skin met and Hope felt MacLeod shudder. Not indifferent. Not at all.

  The ribbon fell from her hair, dragged free by his trembling hands. And then his body was against her, hard with need.

  “Ronan, I—”

  “No. No words. I want nothing to come between us, Hope.”

  She wanted to tell him how he left her ragged inside. She wanted to tell him she could feel his heart race. She wanted to share the thousand swirling discoveries as their bodies met.

  The snow drifted down around them and suddenly there were no more words. Her world shifted, all touch and scent, while the night wrapped around them, offering its dark protection.

  “What are we doing?” Her hands threaded deep into his hair and she sighed as he pulled her against him. “No, forget I asked.” She ran the pad of her thumb across his chin, over one high cheekbone, and along the small crescent scar above his eye. “When? I’ll murder whoever did it.”

  He drew a ragged breath, and snowflakes danced around his face. “You’d have to travel far to find him. To places where there was fighting, always fighting.”

  “Was it Vietnam? The Gulf?” Hope frowned when he didn’t answer. “Ronan?”

  He didn’t recognize the words she said, but he knew that they were places of war. It had not ended, not even i
n her time.

  He sighed. “No to both. It was another place, a place you would only know from books. It’s so far away that sometimes even I forget it. But leave off this talk of war.” He eased beneath the soft silk of her blouse. “You smell like morning, like sunlight on heather.” Silk and lace pulled free. “When I saw you in the doorway, wrapped in light and wearing that piece of cloth in your hair—”

  “A bow, MacLeod.” Hope laughed unsteadily. “That’s what it’s called.”

  “Bow,” he said hoarsely.

  “Forget about the bow,” she whispered. “Say my name instead.”

  He did as she asked, whispering the word against her mouth. Then said it again, pressed against her neck amid swift, searching kisses.

  “I tried to forget.” His hands clenched on her waist. “I tried to stay away. By all the saints, I tried and failed.” He caught a strand of her hair and brought it to his lips. “But I saw you in the light with snow falling around you, and all I could think of was—” He drew a slow breath.

  “Was what?”

  “How fast I could tug that cloth from your hair and the silk from your shoulders.” His eyes darkened. “I can guide an arrow to its target at two hundred paces. I can fell a grown man with one blow, but against you I am powerless.” His hands tightened. “Turn from me, mo rùn. Turn from me now.”

  For answer, Hope slid close and leaned into his warmth. It wasn’t fear that made her knees go weak and her pulse zing. It wasn’t fear that demolished every scrap of her careful logic.

  “Kiss me again and I’ll think about it.” She let her body flow against him, her long skirts whispering in the night. “Or are you afraid you’ll give away all your dark secrets?”

  His hands rose, tangled in her hair. He tilted her face back, staring at the pale skin dusted by snowflakes.

  MacLeod felt something break inside him. “Aye, I know the feel of fear. My hands are trembling and I can barely see,” he said harshly. “My fear is for you, for the things that could happen to you if…”

  He made a sharp, angry sound and then his mouth burned over her face.