In that crowded church, Faith felt the hand of fate at work, almost as if Jared and Maggie had been pulled here through twisting paths over long, circuitous years of trouble and pain.
Beyond the front steps came muffled curses.
Faith hid a smile. Another reporter being thrown out, no doubt. That would make the sixth one today.
Nicholas Draycott possessed an admirable security force. Currently, they circled the church, taking silent pleasure in ejecting any and all reporters who would have marred the day’s joy.
The media had had a field day with the news of Daniel Kincade’s return. His recognition as a hero only stirred the furor about the abbey’s upcoming exhibition. Even now the display cases gleamed, filled with exquisite treasures of Maggie’s creation. Daniel had walked through the night before, reduced to tears. “She’s better than I ever was. Do you see the detail on that platinum and the faceting on those diamonds?” he’d demanded, to anyone within hearing range. He had been proudest of all of the beautiful platinum and Siberian diamond ring she had designed for her own wedding.
Faith knew the pleasure he took in giving away his daughter to a man he admired completely. She also suspected that Daniel was enjoying the media’s frenzied attention. She was only surprised that Maggie seemed to accept the attention, too.
Having a man like Jared MacNeill nearby for protection made the prospect a great deal easier to face.
As the radiant bride joined her groom at the altar, Faith swallowed a sob and dug in her beaded bag for a handkerchief.
By then, Chessa was crying nearly as hard as she was.
~ ~ ~
They stopped on the high slope above the sea. Maggie was wrapped in an old family tartan, warmed by Jared’s hand at her shoulder. She had dreamed once, caught by low voices and the drum of hoof beats. But the dreams were peaceful now. They carried only fragments of memory and yearning and a sense of coming home.
She smiled when Jared’s hand slid beneath the tartan and curved over her waist. “Are we close yet?”
“Almost there.”
“Ummm.” She turned her face up for a kiss, sighing when she felt his lips touch hers. “I’m glad you decided to drive north. We could have stayed at the Abbey, but this feels … right somehow. Besides, I want my first Christmas night with you here at Lochmohr. Though I am going to miss Max.”
“That dog will be spoiled beyond all recognition by the time we get back,” Jared said gruffly. “Marston may demand to keep him.”
“You wouldn’t let him,” Maggie said, sounding startled.
“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m getting used to having puppy fur all over me.”
A light was burning at the front door as they walked up the gravel drive. Through the bright windows Jared saw the gleam of a Christmas tree.
Packages were stacked on the front steps, a silent welcome to the laird and his wife.
Off through the woods he saw a flash of color. His old friend, William Campbell, raised one hand in greeting, then walked back up the road. No intrusions on the laird and his new wife tonight, Jared thought.
And the MacNeill of Lochmohr was relieved for it. There had been nothing but distractions and work in the days before the wedding. In fact his patience had been sorely tried.
Now that they were here, all he meant to do was gather Maggie up and have his reckless way with her on every flat surface of the castle. They would start with the fur rug before the Christmas tree, he decided. It would be a fine beginning.
At the threshold he swept her up into his arms, seeing color fill her face. When their hands met, he felt the silver rush of her thoughts and the hot yearning race through her blood. “Oh, I most certainly will remember that, my heart. I’ll have you that way and a dozen more tonight. And now, my beautiful, maddening and most wonderful wife…”
Lights gleamed from a dozen windows as he pinned Maggie against the wall, swept off her coat and drank in the sound of her husky sigh. Fabric rustled. Lace parted and fell.
Then only skin. Only racing nerves and heat too long denied.
She met his need with equal fire and restless fingers when he set her down before the fire, their clothes scattered and forgotten.
Her body rose to meet him. Her fingers drove into his hair. Wherever their skin touched, desire burned him. And Jared read her own wild need and held her, claimed her, possessed her completely.
The tartans seemed to dance in the firelight. Old voices murmured and then fell away.
In long, driving strokes Jared filled his wife, delighting in the broken sounds of her pleasure and the dazed look as she took his length, trapped against the warm fur.
He would wear her marks on his back by morning, the Scotsman thought with primitive pride. And she would wear a few of his too.
Home, he thought dimly. Though he had never expected to find it or live long enough to enjoy it.
Home, she thought, as the pleasure snapped her up and spun her inside out and made her cry out his name raggedly as she convulsed around him. Wherever you are, my love.
There might have been soft laughter along the shadowed stairs. There might have been the sound of horses and boots and warm greetings in old Gaelic.
Neither Jared nor Maggie heard.
In the dancing firelight her eyes were hot with welcome and need. Jared muttered darkly in Gaelic and then took her all the way home beneath him while snow danced over the high hills and Christmas came home to Lochmohr House at last.
END
Keep reading! Debbie Macomber’s bonus mini Christmas tale is just ahead.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader:
Have you developed a taste for platinum and tanzanite? White Siberian diamonds and South Sea pearls? Maggie makes it all look so easy.
The craft of jewelry-making is long and time-honored. One of Maggie’s favorite books on the subject is Tim McCreight's Jewelry: Fundamentals of Metalsmithing (Madison, Wisconsin: Hand Books Press, 1997). Bending, cutting, casting and cold joining—they are all here, presented with pictures of some of the most striking, innovative jewelry being made today.
Maggie would be proud to have her architectural pieces included!
If you are fascinated by amber, that magical and beautiful substance composed of ancient plant resins, be sure to look for David Graham’s Amber: Window to the Past (New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 1996). The art—and the science—of this rare material is endlessly intriguing. (Remember Jurassic Park?)
For a look at the immense creativity to be seen in jewelry work today, try Ornament: The Art of Personal Adornment and Lapidary Journal. Both will have you scouting your local jewelry supply store to try your own hand at beading and wire work.
The rise of Asian crime families is, unfortunately, more than a matter of fiction. Triads—secret organizations dating back to Chinese resistance movements against the Manchu invaders—now control the flow of heroin out of Hong Kong, assisted by thriving branches in Laos, Burma, Thailand, and a dozen Western countries. Family loyalty and an unbroken tradition of silence to outsiders makes Triad activity difficult to understand, track, and control. One of the best books on the subject is Gerald Posner’s Warlords of Crime (New York: Penguin Books, 1988). A word of advice: Don’t start the book late at night, or you might have trouble sleeping.
For all those who have written to ask about stories for Adrian and Nicholas: You’ll find a link to the complete list of Draycott Abbey novels in the About the Author section of this book.
Each story is a haunting mix of danger, romance, and high-handed interference by Adrian and Gideon.
Enjoy!
After almost two decades of writing about the beautiful abbey, I have yet to come close to revealing all its secrets. Adrian and Gideon still manage to amaze me, and the inscrutable Marston has abilities I am only beginning to suspect. I hope they have all brought you a shiver of magic and a touch of pure romance.
See you at the abbey!
With warmest wishes,
About the Author
Christina Skye is the New York Times bestselling author of thirty-three books. She is a pushover for Harris tweed, Scottish cashmere, Chinese dumplings, French macaroons and dark chocolate.
Not necessarily in that order.
A classically trained China scholar with over two million books in print, she has appeared on national television programs including ABC Worldwide News, Travel News Network, the Arthur Frommer show, Geraldo, Voice of America, Looking East, and Good Morning, Arizona.
Christina loves being a writer and savors quirky historical research. Most of her first drafts are written by hand, while her white Siamese helps with the “editing.” While she writes, she usually has her knitting right beside her. But don’t expect speed. “The sheer pleasure of colors and texture running through my fingers helps me concentrate on the mystery of my characters taking shape before my eyes. Researching a period draws me into a sense of place, and then knitting pulls me to a quiet place where a story can unfold at its deepest level. It’s my best writing tool.”
Visit her online at http://christinaskye.com/ for a glimpse into new books, strange research tidbits, great recipes and some of her all-time favorite knitting patterns.
~ ~ ~
If you enjoyed this work, please leave a review to help other readers decide if it’s a story they too would like to read. A couple of sentences are all you need to write. Thank you!
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Sign up for Fresh Leaves, the SMP monthly newsletter, to find out when new books by Christina and other bestselling romance authors are released, most at special introductory prices:
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(You can also subscribe from the Steel Magnolia Press website.)
~ ~ ~
Ebooks by Christina Skye available now or coming soon to Amazon (from Steel Magnolia Press)
Regency Romances
Come the Night, Book 1 of The Dangerous Delameres
Come the Dawn, Book 2 of The Dangerous Delameres
Defiant Captive
Seven Nights With A Pirate (original title: The Black Rose)
Seducing the Rake (original title: East of Forever)
Victorian Romance
The Tiger’s Lady (original title: The Ruby)
Paranormal Romances
(Draycott Abbey Series)
Hour of the Rose
Bride of the Mist
Key to Forever
A Highlander for Christmas (original title: The Perfect Gift)
Fallen
Christmas at Draycott Abbey
Find all of Christina’s books at Amazon
Copyright © 2013 by Debbie Macomber
No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.
CHRISTMAS ANGELS IN LONDON
Debbie Macomber
Bells rang out over the heart of London. Taxis raced past. Shoppers trotted by, laughing and jostling in the cold air.
“I do so love Christmas,” Shirley said to her two dearest friends, Goodness and Mercy. “But it never feels like Christmas without snow.” The three angels positioned themselves outside Harrods in the flow of the bustling crowds, their arms filled with packages.
“What are you doing here?” Mercy demanded. “We’re assigned to another case in New York.”
“Helene lives here in London now.”
“Helene? Who’s Helene?”
Shirley exhaled sharply. “Years ago I was assigned as her Guardian Angel. It was before Gabriel decided to make me a Prayer Ambassador.”
“Well, you just better hope that Gabriel doesn’t get wind that we are here.” Mercy tugged at Shirley’s sleeve, urging her along the crowded street.
“Go on without me. I’ve been so worried about her. The last report upset me terribly.”
“What’s going on?”
Shirley sadly shook her head. “Helene was deeply in love with an Englishman who made frequent trips to the States. They had a long-distance romantic relationship going for a couple of years. When the opportunity arose for her to accept a position in London, she leaped on it, saving it as a surprise for Andrew.”
“Don’t tell me,” Goodness murmured.
“Yup, the dirt bag was married.”
“Oh no, and she’s already accepted the position.” Mercy’s wings fluttered ever so slightly.
“That’s her now.” Shirley pointed to the lovely young woman leaving the store, her arms loaded down with packages. “I heard she’s given up on romance and that would be such a shame. There should be someone for her.”
“She needs our help,” Mercy whispered. Then she whirled around. “Where’s Goodness? Did anyone see Goodness?”
* * *
Helene shouldn’t have put off her shopping to the last minute. She would need to wrap her packages this weekend to post first thing Monday morning. Unable to afford flying back to the States for the holidays had depressed her. It wouldn’t seem like Christmas without her family, but she was determined to make the best of it. Agnes, the older woman in her apartment building, had invited her to dinner, and Helene had volunteered to bring the goose.
Agnes might be well into her eighties, but her mind was sharp and clear. Best of all, she was an excellent Scrabble player.
Helene walked through the happy crowds on Brompton Road, lost in thought. She was planning which gifts to wrap next when suddenly…
She stumbled forward hard. Her shoe must have caught on a loose paver. Losing her balance, she staggered and then fell, her packages spilling out of her arms, flying in every which direction. Just before she landed on the cement walkway, a pair of arms caught her.
Strong and very male arms.
Gasping, she clung to her rescuer, ready to voice her thanks. Then she swallowed the words.
“William?” She’d met Agnes’s grand-nephew once before, and it hadn’t been a pleasant meeting. The tall, black-haired Englishman had seemed cool and somehow disapproving. Was it all Americans he distrusted, or just her? Helene wondered. He seemed to find her friendship with his elderly aunt suspicious. To his way of thinking, a lovely, young American woman must have an ulterior motive to strike up a friendship with an elderly woman.
“Ms. Parsons.” He dropped his arms so quickly she nearly lost her balance a second time. Without another word, he bent down to help her gather her packages.
Helene’s mind raced. Despite their differences, she refused to be rude. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “I don’t know what happened. One minute everything was fine, and the next I was flying through the air.”
William handed her the fallen packages and retreated a step. “I was visiting my aunt.”
That much was fairly obvious. Really, William wasn’t hard on the eyes, and as Agnes had pointed out any number of times, he was unattached. The older woman had taken delight in letting tidbits of information casually drop into their conversation. William worked as a barrister; perhaps that explained why he remained as stiff as starched sheets.
“My aunt invited me to join the two of you for Christmas dinner.”
Great. He was sure to watch Helene’s every move for fear she was pilfering the silver. “I should let you know that I’ve never cooked a goose before, and I…” She stopped mid-sentence and her entire mouth went completely dry.
Andrew.
He was walking purposefully toward her. The instant their eyes met, his face brightened.
She must have looked stricken because William asked, “What is it?”
Andrew arrived before she had a chance to respond. “Helene, darling.”
“I am not your darling. You
r darling is your wife.”
Undeterred, Andrew moved closer. “Mary and I have separated.”
“Wonderful. Mary apparently caught on to the fact that she was married to a no-good, cheating scumbag.”
“Now, Sweetness…”
“I beg your pardon,” William cut in, tucking his arm around Helene’s waist and drawing her close. “I believe Helene’s interest lies elsewhere.”
Andrew glanced from one to the other and then back again as if he were watching a tennis game at Wimbledon. He narrowed his eyes. “It didn’t take you long to find someone new.”
“It took me longer than it should have.” Helene smiled up at William. He smiled at her and in that moment something clicked inside her. Their eyes met and held, and neither one seemed able to look away. It was as if he too experienced the same surprising, gentle awareness.
When Helene finally managed to tear her gaze away, she saw that Andrew was gone. She felt her spirits unexpectedly soar.
William smiled at her slowly. “I think this Christmas shows a lot of promise.”
“Yes, it does,” she agreed. A gust of wind swept down the street. Snowflakes began to fall around them. “Oh, look. Snow! It isn’t Christmas until it snows.” Helene lifted her hand and caught the cold flakes on her upturned palm.
And into her hand floated a single, white feather.
* * *
“Goodness, did you cause Helene to stumble?” Shirley demanded.
Her fellow angel responded by fluttering her wings. She smiled sheepishly. “Would I do that?” Goodness asked, grinning.
debbiemacomber.com
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
A Highlander for Christmas Page 38