A Very Gothic Christmas

by Christine Feehan

  He loomed over her, wearing a kilt that barely covered his massive thighs. A shorn linen shirt hung in ribbons from his shoulders, revealing enormous arms whose muscles flexed with every move.

  “Answer me, damn ye! Where is Gordon? And my men? What evil work have ye done here, sorceress? And I issue ye fair warning—’tis best advised not tae rile me when blood lust is racing through my veins.”

  Fear and confusion blotted out good sense, and Rachel snapped, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  If she had thought he couldn’t appear any fiercer than he already did, she was sadly mistaken. “Do not think ye can fool me,” he said in a voice that was deceptive in its calmness. “None of your evil tricks will keep me from killing that whoreson. Is that why ye’re here? Has he bade ye tae put a curse on me?”

  “A curse? No.”

  “Then ye must be a spy for that Hanoverian bastard.”

  “A spy?”

  “Aye. For the king. Come here tae find out what plots are being planned against him.”

  Before Rachel could utter a vehement denial, the sky opened up, throwing down daggers of rain that stabbed at her face as she struggled to rise, solid ground quickly turning to mud beneath her feet.

  Without a word, the warrior snatched her up by the arm and propelled her toward the castle, his hold sending hot pain and pressure into her shoulder, and though she resisted, her efforts proved useless.

  With one mighty kick, he sent a side door flying open and shoved her into the house, where the electricity flickered as inconsistently as candlelight. Then he slammed the door behind him, effectively trapping her.

  He stalked her. She backed away, glancing wildly about her, thoughts of escape thwarted by his hulking form as the rain slashed against the house, battering the roof as if hurtling hailstones, a barbed pike of lightning slicing into a tree just outside the window, sending sparks in every direction.

  “Stay away from me!”

  “Silence!” he barked, his voice reverberating off the walls as explosively as the thunder overhead. “When I invite ye tae speak, then ye’ll speak. Not before.”

  Rachel quickly closed her mouth, her outrage dampened by the threat in the man’s eyes. Undoubtedly he was deranged. Why else would he be running around in the middle of the storm, bellowing for a nonexistent army and brandishing a sword?

  Yes, he was mad; that had to explain his erratic behavior. But it was criminally unfair that the rest of the package wasn’t equally as distorted. Not even remotely close. The man, for all his insanity, was heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

  Rachel suddenly felt as mesmerized by his presence as she was petrified of his menacing demeanor. He towered over her, more than six plus feet of him, his long dark hair plastered to his head and shoulders by the rain.

  “I’ll ask ye one last time, woman; what have ye done with Gordon and my men? Where are ye hiding them?”

  She returned his glare and set her shoulders mutinously, the old, defiant Rachel returning, refusing to cower any longer, no matter how sulfurous his regard.

  “Answer me,” he commanded.

  “Make up your mind. First you order me to silence, then—”

  He loomed over her. “I’m in no mood for insolence, witch,” he cautioned, a muscle working in his jaw. “Be forewarned that rebellion will be treated accordingly. Should ye not wish tae find yourself shackled in the dungeon, ’twould be wise tae tread carefully.”

  Shackled in the dungeon? Now he was pushing it. “I don’t know who you think you are—”

  In one swift move, he withdrew his sword and leveled it before her eyes. The gleaming razor-edged blade glimmered with deadly purpose and appeared stained with something dark—something that looked disconcertingly . . . like blood. Rachel swallowed.

  “At last I had him,” he growled through clenched teeth, his power and presence charging the air as keenly as the lightning flitting over the treetops. “Sliced my blade across his hide, and yet he mocked me with his laughter.” He edged closer, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me what ye’ve done with him, and I’ll go easy on ye. Ye have my word that your punishment will not be severe.”

  Punishment? Rachel forced back the trepidation his threat caused, knowing that if she showed any fear, he would only use it against her.

  Squaring her shoulders, she stared into those bluer-than-blue eyes, and said with far more bravado than she felt, “I’m giving you to the count of ten to get off this property or I’m calling the police.”

  “This is my property, wench, and the only one who will be departing . . . is you.” His gaze then raked her body, once, twice, the burn of anger in his eyes slowly refashioning into something else—something less fierce . . . though far more disturbing to her peace of mind.

  As much as she tried not to, she couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering over the rippling arm muscles exposed by his sleeveless shirt, or take note of his large, strong hands . . . hands that could easily snap her neck.

  Forcing air into her constricted lungs, she said with as much authority as she could muster, “I want you to leave.”

  Ignoring her, he took a step closer, less than a foot now separating them. His gaze, blue and hot as the heart of a flame, studied her face, and then slid downward again, narrowing as they focused on her breasts, which felt absurdly conspicuous beneath her sodden pajama top.

  His voice, so harsh and cold, changed to a husky rumble as he said, “Remember my name, lady, for I’ll not tell ye it again. ’Tis Duncan MacGregor, Laird of Glengarren . . . and master of all who dwell within its confines.”

  No. Not possible. This darkly disturbing stranger was not some mythic warrior from the past, even though his resemblance to the man in the portrait was uncanny.

  Rachel took a step back and found herself against the wall. “No man is my master . . . and you’re trespassing.”

  “A person cannot trespass on his own property.”

  “Look . . . I don’t know where you came from or what you’re doing here. All I know is that I’m the only one who is supposed to be in this house.”

  Thunder crashed in that moment, and lightning lit the dim room. The explosion diverted the man’s attention. He frowned and looked away, toward the window where the play of light flickered and the slash of driving rain pummeled the panes.

  He turned from her, confusion creasing his brow, as though he had just noticed something he hadn’t before. He moved through the shadows to the window to stare out into the darkness.

  He turned from her, confusion creasing his brow, as though he had just noticed something he hadn’t before. He moved through the shadows to the window to stare out into the darkness.

  “There was no rain,” he said in a troubled voice. “No thunder and lightning.” He shook his head, and raked a hand through his hair. “And this place . . .” His gaze swept the room. “ ’Tis my home . . . and yet not.” He turned, pinning her with his blue stare. “What manner of madness is this?”

  As he searched her face for answers she did not have, Rachel was almost tempted to believe his claim. The hectic, frightening moments preceding his sudden appearance rushed back to her—the shouts of men, discovering she had stumbled into the circle of stones, the erupting of lightning, and the strange energy that had turned reality into a surreal nightmare.

  Again, Fergus’s warnings about the stones tapped at her subconscious. She tried to shake off her misgivings, but she couldn’t. The man was obviously as upset as she. More so, in fact.

  He paced in front of the window, then around the room, his expression of distress growing with each second, making the hair stand up on the back of her neck. And yet, something akin to sympathy stirred in her chest. If he was, by some freak act of nature . . .

  No, if she allowed herself to believe such a thing even for a moment, she would be as crazy as he.

  He stopped abruptly, legs planted apart, and clutched at his shoulder. Pulling his hand back, he stared at something that, to Rachel’s horror, ap
peared to be blood.

  He groaned. Just slightly. And as he unsteadily swiveled toward her, she watched the dark bloom spread over the tattered cloth of his shirt. She bit back a cry of alarm.

  His blue eyes raised to hers, and the anger was back in force. “Damn that bastard Gordon,” he hissed, his rugged face a shadow of frustration and pain. “He’s cut me—but not so badly that I intend tae die before I’ve seen his limbs scattered for the damned crows.” He started toward her, grim determination in the set line of his jaw. “I’ll give ye one last chance tae confess where ye’ve hidden him. If ye refuse . . .” He swayed suddenly, his face leaching pale as his shirt.

  Concern assailed Rachel. Lunatic or no, the man was injured and in pain. Quickly, she crossed the room, forgetting the fact that his presence endangered her.

  He stepped back, his gaze cutting to his sword, as if to warn her away. Then the last thread of energy drained from him and the weapon clattered to the floor, the sound echoing off the old beams overhead.

  His head bowed forward, and his bloodied hand gripped his shoulder again. “God’s teeth,” he moaned. “My strength at last fails me.”

  Rachel took a deep breath and reached out to peel back his shirt. “Please, let me take a look at your wound.”

  “Nay,” he growled, his massive hand snatching her wrist, twisting in a way that dragged her against his hard body, his fingers digging into her arm so forcefully she bit back a whimper.

  Hot pain sluiced through her, as did the musky scent of his flesh. She felt the defined muscles of his chest against her damp breasts.

  As his body heat radiated through her every pore, her legs grew weak. Not from fear, she realized as she threw back her head and glared defiantly up into his piercing blue eyes . . . but from desire.

  “Witch,” he whispered against her cheek, his warm breath stirring the hair at her temple. “Do ye think me a fool? Shall I allow ye tae touch me so that ye may hex me further? Finish what Gordon began?”

  Words of contempt lodged in her throat as her gaze dropped to his lips, wondering what they would feel like against her own, wanting to know the answer with an almost desperate fervor, a need she barely understood yet felt compelled to surrender to. Her body seemed to melt into his.

  Suddenly, a fierce blast of wind, ice-cold and razor sharp, swirled around them, raking over their faces and groaning like an anguished soul.

  The man heaved backward, as if jerked, clawing at his neck, his eyes showing white in shock. Horrified, Rachel watched him fall to the floor, his arms thrashing as if to fight back at some invisible force.

  As quickly as the terrifying ordeal had begun, it was over. He lay sprawled across the floor, gasping for breath, his bloodied hand pressed to his throat and his glazed eyes fixed on her in disbelief.

  Dropping to her knees beside him, she placed her hand over his in a beseeching gesture. “Please. You’re injured—”

  “What powers are these?” he snarled, knocking her hand away. “ ’Tis no witch ye are, but the devil.”

  “I only want to help.”

  “By trying tae kill me?”

  Rachel gaped at him. “Kill you? That’s not only ridiculous, but would have been impossible, considering you had hold of my arm.”

  “ ’Tis your black magic.”

  Exasperated by his irrational accusations, she glared down at his scowling face. “If I were a witch, I wouldn’t stop with choking you. I’d skewer you with your own sword, not just for behaving like an ass but for luring me out of my bed and into that horrid storm. If I were a witch, I’d twitch my nose and gladly send you up in a puff of smoke. Now”—she metered the words—“you are bleeding badly. If we don’t get it stopped, you might very well bleed to death. Is that what you want?”

  He regarded her warily, still clutching his shoulder. “Nay,” he begrudgingly admitted.

  “Fine.” Standing, she offered her hand. “Then come with me. We’ll clean the wound and bind it.”

  His gaze shifted to her hand, then back to her face, and he grunted. “ ’Twill be a cold day in hell before Duncan MacGregor allows a woman tae heft him as if he were a helpless babe.”

  Rolling away, he unsteadily shoved himself to one knee, then staggered to his feet before righting himself to his full, imposing height.

  Nervously, Rachel regarded him, wondering if she knew what she was doing as she pointed toward the distant corridor. “The kitchen is that way.”

  He made an inarticulate sound. “I’ll remind ye again, ’tis my house and I know where my own bloody kitchen is.”

  With that declaration, he pivoted on his heels and stalked from the room, disappearing through the shadows.

  chapter

  3

  COLLECTING HER FRAZZLED WITS, Rachel cautiously followed the beautiful giant down the long, dark corridor, the air growing colder and damper and even more biting with each step she took. A veil of foreboding whispered over her shoulders and twined around her nerves.

  While the chill had been noticeably uncomfortable before, there was a keenness to it now, an almost tactile quality to the air as it stirred around her ankles, slowly easing up her body to her thighs, her belly, breathing across her breasts, drifting through her hair and brushing her face with wraith-like fingers, as if . . .

  No, she wasn’t going there. She had enough to deal with. She didn’t believe in ghosts . . . or Highland warriors plucked from another century and zapped into her life by a lightning bolt.

  Yet she could not deny that there was something different about her surroundings, even the very space she occupied, as if a sphere of quintessence was keeping pace with her. Something almost . . . malevolent.

  Rachel forced herself to concentrate on moving forward, or she would surely turn on her heels and run from the house. Storm or no storm.

  She found the mysterious stranger slumped against an old, rough-hewn table in the middle of the kitchen, one hand pressed against his shoulder, his gaze shifting around the room, renewed bewilderment etching his brow. Odd, how he suited the massive chamber.

  With a fortifying breath, Rachel moved across the room, her steps slowing as he elevated riveting blue eyes in her direction. Never had she encountered such forcefulness in a glance. No insanity lurked behind those eyes—just weariness and confusion.

  “I’d better take a look at that wound,” she said, only to hesitate under the intensity of his regard, his expression having grown suspicious, guarded, as though he expected her to do something to him, as if she could possibly harm this hulk of a man.

  Yet that look moved her, revealing the barest suggestion of vulnerability. Of despair.

  “I won’t hurt you,” she murmured. “I just want to see how badly you’re injured.”

  He scowled a moment longer, then nodded, eyeing her the way a hawk eyes its prey as she eased back his shirt. She gasped when she saw the ragged four-inch cut running just below the front of his shoulder toward his left arm.

  Gently, she probed the inflamed area around the wound. “How did this happen?”

  When he didn’t answer, she looked up and found him scrutinizing her. A ripple of anticipation flowed through her, an unfamiliar ache, like a thousand warm butterflies taking flight in her stomach.

  “ ’Tis as I told ye,” he said in a rumbling burr. “ ’Twas a gift from that swine Gordon.”

  Gordon, again. Rachel was beginning to greatly dislike this invisible threat. “Remove your shirt, please.” She expected him to balk, perhaps refuse completely. Surprisingly, he did neither.

  She forced herself to turn away as he shed his stained garment, rummaging through the old cupboards until she collected enough supplies to attend to the wound: a clean cloth and the first aid kit she had spotted earlier, which contained ointment and self-adhesive gauze bandages.

  She filled a basin with water and returned to the table with her supplies, doing her best to keep from looking at the sculpted contours of his chest.

  “This might stin
g a bit,” she said, thankful her voice sounded normal—and that she had spoken before facing him. Her enraptured gaze traveled over perfect pectorals and washboard abs. Everything inside her liquefied in that single glance.

  She was suddenly, and acutely, aware of just how long it had been since she had felt anything even remotely close to desire. And she had certainly never experienced anything like this—a yearning to explore the chiseled planes of him, the rugged line of his jaw, ease the tension from around his eyes. Madness. Pure madness.

  Gently, she began bathing the wound, becoming absorbed in the task, not realizing that she stood rather intimately between his thighs until she felt his legs press against hers.

  Her gaze jumped to his, and what she saw there took her breath away. His eyes had darkened to a velvety midnight blue. With the lightest of touches, he brushed a lock of her hair off her shoulder, his fingers leaving a path of warmth in their wake.

  Dear Lord, what was it about this man that made her want to lean into his touch? She had known him so short a time . . . and yet, it seemed as if she had known him an eternity.

  “You really should get to a doctor,” she managed to say, though her voice held a slight quaver. “This is deep. You’ll need stitches.”

  “And are ye concerned about me, sweet witch?” A hint of sensuous amusement laced his words, the corners of his full lips slanting upward.

  Rachel scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d simply prefer you didn’t bleed to death in my company.”

  Anger she could take from this man. Arrogance. Even brooding. But that smile she was entirely defenseless against, and it had the power to string her nerves tighter than a bow.

  He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating across her skin in the strangest way. “Ye have a sharp tongue, but I like a wench with spirit.”

  Disconcerted, Rachel flung the bloody rag into the bowl. “Look, if you call me wench again, I’ll punch you in the nose.”

  Her bout of temper made him slant a black brow at her. “And what manner of name would ye like tae be called, lass?”