Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise

by Christina Skye

  His brow rose. “And what things would that be?”

  “Laughter. Fine wine. A dozen noisy children in a sunny house.”

  “Hmm.”

  She did not turn to look at him, and MacLeod was glad for that.

  “And what do you know of these things that truly matter?”

  She gave a shrug that could have meant any of several things—acceptance, regret or anger. “I know because they are things that I’ve never had. Never hoped to have.” Her voice fell. “Before I came here, it went badly for me. No work. No money. No hint of any future. There were nights on rainy streets when I was hungry and cold….” Her shoulders stiffened. “Times when I thought of selling my body, since it seemed I had no other skills.”

  “But you did not?”

  She turned then, a glint in her dark eyes. In the half-light he saw pride and angry pragmatism.

  “We shall pretend, Scotsman, that you did not ask that question.”

  He gave a tiny smile and nodded.

  “This man,” she said presently, pointing at the shadowy knight, “has also known cold nights on rainy roads. He has known the power of shifting dreams and he thinks his heart is whole, but he is wrong.”

  MacLeod looked at his own face, dominated by dark, wary eyes. “He is?”

  “But of course. The heart can only be whole when given. Then the dreams take shape, truly real. In that moment all the things that truly matter begin.” Silence fell and then Gabrielle sighed. “What do you mean to do about Hope?”

  He tried to resent the question but failed. “Leave, most likely. It is her wish as well as mine.”

  “Is that so?”

  MacLeod’s face hardened. “She has no need for me here. She can hire another man to fix her roof. She can hire twenty.”

  Gabrielle gave an exasperated snort. “With what, may I ask? With kind words and promises of hot meals? No, Scotsman, I think not.”

  He made an angry gesture, driving a hand through his hair. “But she must have wealth. This house, these lands…”

  Gabrielle shook her head. “Every penny went to the purchase and the repairs. It has been months of dust and sawing and work. And just when the future looked secure, the letter came. Taxes,” she hissed, making the word a curse. “Enough to break her.”

  MacLeod didn’t speak. Couldn’t, when her words had such a ring of truth about them.

  “She needs a strong pair of arms and an honest heart. She needs…someone like him.” Gabrielle traced the harsh features on the wall.

  MacLeod didn’t speak. He was too busy thinking about Hope, wondering if any of this could be true.

  “Not,” Gabrielle murmured, “that anyone asked me.”

  As he strode outside without a backward glance, she was pleased to see that she had finally penetrated that prickly shell of his. And though it was impossible, she could have sworn she heard him curse.

  In perfect medieval French.

  “HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?” Hope’s face was pale, her shoulders stiff.

  Gabrielle frowned and put down her knife. “Seen who? Jeffrey?”

  “Him. MacLeod.”

  “I saw him go outside. Ten, perhaps fifteen minutes ago.”

  Hope’s fingers twisted, restless. “Which way?”

  “Over the lawn. To the stable, perhaps.” She pointed out the window, where dusk gathered over the glen.

  “I see.” Hope drew a rough breath. “Very good.”

  “What is very good? What are you going to do?”

  “Exactly what I should have done yesterday. Something I’ve put off too long.” She ran one hand across her waist, as if to smooth away a wave of uneasiness. “I’m going to make him leave.”

  HE HAD TO GO. Definitely had to go.

  She couldn’t have him wandering about, overturning her life with that harrowed look in his eyes. A list of the man’s problems could have filled a book. Meanwhile, he disturbed her, distracted her, making her forget she had a hundred problems of her own.

  That was why he had to go tonight.

  Hope kept the words running through her head as she walked toward the stables. Her feet hissed softly on the damp moss and the wind played through her hair. There was just enough light from the rising moon to pick her way over the uneven slope.

  Beyond the stable wall she stopped, aware of a muffled stamping and the murmur of a low voice. She crept to the wall’s edge, blinking as she stared into sudden light.

  A candle flickered on a rough stone bench, touching a rider and horse as they moved in a controlled dance. At a slight urging from MacLeod’s leg, the great horse danced sideways, light as air. Another movement sent him prancing in place. Then, to Hope’s awe, the great animal lifted a foreleg smooth as silk and kicked laterally.

  There were names for paces like that, she thought. There had to be a whole science to that sort of movement and control that seemed effortless but had to be anything but, especially with an animal so large. Horses like that could only be seen in exhibitions and beer commercials. People didn’t actually ride them anymore, not as MacLeod was doing. Not as he had done the night he’d jumped the cliff. A knight in full armor would need a mount large enough to bear the weight of man and armor, she thought. A horse with enough endurance to carry his master through battle upon battle…

  What was she thinking? Hope shook off her rambling thoughts and eased back, feeling as if she had intruded on a dream of great beauty, a dialogue of movement and grace captured in silence by candlelight.

  Then the horse’s head rose. He sniffed and reared.

  MacLeod turned, seeing her for the first time. Smiling slightly, he whispered to the horse. The gray mane fluttered as man and beast bent in a low bow.

  Hope stepped into the light, struggling for words. “That was…beautiful. He’s good, so good. How did he learn those things?”

  “Work. Many nights we’ve spent at this, haven’t we, Pegasus?” The horse tossed his head, snorting.

  “It shows. He’s amazing. So are you.” Hope swallowed, remembering why she’d come. “But I need to talk to you.”

  MacLeod’s hands clenched on the gray mane and he slid to the ground in a smooth movement that marked a man who had spent a great part of his life in the saddle.

  But not now, Hope saw. The horse carried neither saddle nor bridle. “How…?”

  MacLeod strode past her, the horse following at a sedate pace, head erect and entirely conscious of his regal grace.

  As Hope followed them into Glenbrae’s old stable, she had her second surprise. All was clean, the dirt floor raked and the rough wooden benches now free of litter and leaves. “You did this?”

  MacLeod shrugged. “It was a small matter.”

  But Hope had seen the sorry state of the stables, littered with ten years of leaves and miscellaneous debris. Cleaning it had been beyond her, yet he had done it all in a day.

  She trailed her hands over the gleaming saddle, leather straps and bridles hung neatly on the walls. His armor shone behind him, freshly cleaned. Hope saw a barrel of sand on the floor and realized this was his method. Simple or not, it had worked.

  He was a man to take care of things. In his quiet way he would move into a room, carve out his own order and transform everything in a matter of hours. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or irritated.

  She touched the chain mail and the shining gauntlets, and then a movement in his helmet caught her eye. He shifted quickly for a man so tall, blocking her way. “Did you wish to say something?”

  Hope could have sworn he sounded guilty.

  If so, she was going to find out why. Maybe he had moved those papers on her desk. Maybe he had done things more destructive than that.

  She pushed past him. “What have you got in that helmet?” Expecting the worst, she reached over the rim, seeing nothing but shadows.

  Something stirred against her fingers. She heard a muffled meow as a wriggling ball of warm fur pressed against her palm.

  Two fluffy heads p
eered over the helmet’s rim, blinking sleepily. A pair of kittens slipped over each other in their eagerness to stand.

  “Kittens? Is this what you were trying to hide?”

  She could have sworn his face flushed as he reached for the nearest one. Black and white paws skittered over his shoulders, then settled in the wool cradle MacLeod made of his long tartan. “They were alone, hungry. I heated milk in the kitchen and fed them with a cloth.”

  The kitten purred softly, shoving its velvet nose and face against MacLeod’s neck in a haze of happiness. Absently MacLeod settled its wriggling white body beside his friend. “They’re hungry again.” He opened a jar on the edge of the table, poured milk into a clean rag, and offered it to the greedy newborns.

  Hope stared in amazement. Kittens. The man was hiding kittens from her.

  She took a ragged breath and forced her splintered thoughts back under control. It didn’t matter if he was good with animals, she told herself grimly. She couldn’t afford to trust him. He had to go.

  “I need to talk to you, MacLeod.”

  He looked up, one brow arched.

  “I am listening.”

  “It’s like this. I’ve been thinking, quite a lot actually.” She tried not to watch the kittens swaying happily against his gentle hands.

  “And?”

  “And I’ve decided. There’s no discussion, no arguing. My mind is made up.” She locked her arms at her chest, hoping it would still the fluttering there.

  It didn’t.

  “What should I not discuss or argue about?”

  “You.” She raised a hand as if to forestall anger or protests. “There’s no other way. You’ve got to go, MacLeod.”

  “I see.” He dripped more milk on the rag for his tiny charges.

  “Aren’t you going to ask why?”

  He shrugged. “It makes no difference. You said your mind was set.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you—since you haven’t asked. You’re entitled to some sort of explanation.”

  “I am neither kin nor mate. You owe me no duty or honesty.”

  Hope chewed her lip, watching the kittens meow contentedly. “You saved my life, and I appreciate it. If there were some other way, I’d let you stay.” Her fingers tightened over her waist, digging restlessly. “I’ve spoken to the church in Glenbrae. They have a temporary residence until…”

  “Until what?”

  Hope took a shaky breath. “Until you sort things out, get your life back in control.” She tried to smile, tried to ignore waves of abject, raw guilt for what she was doing. But self-preservation had to come first.

  “Very well. I shall leave when I finish here.” He set the kittens back in his helmet and calmly began gathering his equipment.

  Hope’s fists opened and closed. Candlelight spilled over his broad shoulders, sculpting his high cheekbones and proud chin. But there was no flicker of emotion in his eyes as he lifted harnesses and saddle.

  “Damn it, stop being so calm, will you?”

  “One of us needs to be calm.”

  “Are you saying I’m upset? Are you saying I care? Because if you are, you’re wrong. I don’t c-care. And I don’t trust you, not for a second. I don’t trust anyone.”

  “I see.”

  “Just what do you see?”

  He turned slowly. “You.” There was something rough and almost dangerous in his voice. “Maybe I even see things you do not wish me to see.”

  His long legs crossed the room in three paces. Hope took a step back, only to feel the table behind her. His hand rose toward her, then past, jerking down a bridle from the wall. In the process he grazed her hip with the edge of his hand.

  MacLeod tossed the leather strip into a basket on the floor, then reached behind Hope for his gauntlet.

  His thigh slid between her legs and his gaze never wavered from her face.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Satisfying myself.” His eyes darkened. “Satisfying both of us.” He reached back for his hauberk, and their bodies met shoulder to thigh.

  “Stop,” Hope whispered. “I need for you to go.”

  “And I will. Tonight.” He watched her face as his hand slid into her hair. “Be hard, Hope. Never apologize for this. It is the way you will survive—now and after I have gone.”

  Hope didn’t feel hard when their bodies touched. She felt angry and confused.

  And dangerously vulnerable.

  She blurted out the words that had bothered her since that morning. “Tell me why you went with those soldiers after they killed your family.”

  His hands stilled. “So you can laugh?”

  “So I can understand.”

  With a harsh sound of despair, he locked one hand to her head. His fingers were rigid, as if they wanted to push away—and couldn’t. “There were broken bodies beneath my feet and blood that shone in pools. All that matters is, I failed them. I turned away. I lived and they did not.”

  “There must have been a reason that you went.”

  “They had one of my sisters. She was their bond against me.”

  “Oh, God,” Hope breathed. She tried to dismiss this as yet another fantasy, but the hurt in his eyes was too real. “What happened to her?”

  “She went to London. At the court, I was told. She died long after, when I was already in the East. When it was too late to matter or to grieve for what she had become.”

  “But why was one boy so important to them?”

  He took a sharp breath. “Because I could fight. Because I took five men at once, with no help. I would have died but for his order. I should have died….”

  “Whose order?”

  “Edward. The king you say is centuries dead. He could not win against us,” MacLeod said flatly. “Though he quartered Wallace, he could not kill what Wallace and the Highlands had begun. When he looked at me, his eyes twisted, and instead of one angry, frightened boy, he saw a country, young and proud. Because it frightened him and he was king, he attacked. Perhaps that arrogance made him a great ruler.” MacLeod shrugged. “All I know is that I remained his prisoner, caught in his grip for ten long years and more.” He lifted Hope’s head, staring deep into her eyes. “I have done things to haunt my sleep. You are right to send me away.”

  Those hard, broken words took away any fear Hope might have been able to muster. Honor suited him like the weathered, ancient kilt across his thighs.

  “If you did these things, it was at another’s order, not by your choice.” She heard her words and swept aside the warnings of logic. It didn’t matter whether she believed him. He believed, and his anguish was almost enough to convince her. All she cared about was that he was lost and alone and riddled with anguish.

  He made an angry gesture with one hand. “Do not try to forgive me. Wherever I go, I bring danger. Even here. So I will leave.” He pulled away, only to feel her palm against his shoulder.

  “Fear me,” he said roughly. “It is the only way you will be safe.”

  Slowly she touched the scar beside his mouth.

  “It is dangerous for you,” he said. “This time it would not stop between us with one kiss.”

  “Why?” Hope whispered.

  “Because you make me blind. You make me want to claim you as I once claimed all this land.”

  His hands dipped. The tiny buttons at the front of her sweater shifted, straining beneath his callused fingers. “Tell me to stop.”

  All her words fled. The only thing left in the silent half-light was the angry glint in his eyes. Even then, Hope felt the hurt in him.

  Somehow it matched her own.

  A button tore free and hit the table. She still didn’t pull her gaze from his.

  “What do you want from me, Hope O’Hara?”

  “I…I’m not sure. Nothing, I thought.”

  Another button pulled free. “And now?”

  She made a low sound of confusion.

  The wool drifted open. When MacLeod saw she wore nothing underneath, his b
reath jammed in his chest. “Snow against roses,” he whispered. “A sight to stir a man’s blood to madness. Tell me now to leave,” he ordered hoarsely.

  He palmed her breasts, then slowly traced the tight crimson nipples. Hope’s pulse raced like autumn thunder in her ears. Then she said different words. “Show me, MacLeod. Show me what it can be like. Just once,” she whispered.

  He pulled her against him with a curse, creamy skin and heated crests meeting the hot friction of his broad palm. “Do you feel it now, mo rùn?” She was cradled in his thighs, every hard outline of his growing desire clearly felt. “Do you understand, Hope? They lied, those men. You would not disappoint a lover. By all honor, you would only drive him to heated madness.”

  His mouth covered the aching skin caressed seconds before. His dark hair fell over her shoulder, warmth against the greater heat of his mouth.

  Hope made a small, choked sound. She had expected awkwardness, but he gave her grace. She had expected stiffness and distaste, but heat shifted into raw pleasure and something odd began to happen near her ankles, building in hot, racing spirals.

  She had never known this kind of electric need. She had never felt so naked, no open.

  So precious.

  His teeth rimmed her breast, then closed around her. His name was a ragged plea whispered in the still, calm air as desire sank tiny teeth into her core. She moaned, caught beneath the silken probing of his tongue.

  Wind sighed around the stone walls. Like a sleepwalker, Hope heard the distant murmur of the loch and the soft crunching noise of the horse at his straw.

  Time seemed to crawl, endless and sweet in the stable’s gloom. She tried to speak and could not. She tried to argue or protest and she could not. Wanting was too close, need too furious. His fingers turned her fluid, pliant, restless.

  She took a racing breath and touched his face. “You can…We could…” She swallowed, trying to say things she’d never said before. “You don’t have to worry about complications. Entanglements. I wouldn’t try to hold you.”

  How could a woman look so vulnerable? MacLeod wondered grimly. And how could he be such a fool to consider her breathless offer?