The metal warmed in her palm, and she could almost imagine it was her mother’s hand within hers, giving a reassuring squeeze, bidding her to be strong, that the future would again hold all that Rachel had once hoped for.
She wanted to believe, but was too afraid of that future, of what she had seen when she closed her eyes at night, images of a life with Duncan.
And a life without him.
Like a dream, he had suddenly appeared in her world, making her hope again, taunting her with glimpses of a love she knew was meant to be, a love that had struggled across time, obstacles, chasms, to find its other half. Its completion.
Her feelings for him were more than just passion, though the ache was there, burning stronger than the fire in the hearth. She could feel Duncan’s own desire, it seared her, and yet he had denied her, leaving her ashamed of the strength of her yearning for him.
What would he do were she to slip into his bed and press her flesh against his? Take him inside her body, sheath him, rock him, fulfill her fantasy to make them one, to bring their joining, their fate, full circle?
She tried to shake free of the thought, yet it would not release her. She had to get away, outdistance the talons of despair seeking to sink into her.
She pushed to her feet and hastened to her bedroom door, opening it and gazing warily out into the dark corridor, her attention shifting against her will to Duncan’s room, wondering what he was doing. If he was thinking of her as she was of him. If he was hoping she would come to him. She felt as if he called her, silently beckoning.
But what if all she heard was her own need? What if he was fast asleep? What if she slipped beneath his sheets and he rejected her? She simply couldn’t bear it.
Run, her mind clamored. Run as fast as you can. Get away from here.
She did not question the command. Instead she fled down the hallway, not knowing where she was going, simply wanting to feel her breath rasping through her lungs, to remember she was alive and this was real and that somehow she must deal with whatever came next.
She shut out the chill racing over her, keeping pace with her, the brush of air upon her cheeks, the increasing groan of the wind. She ran, faster, her senses expanding and her heart racing, her breath a vapor in the cold.
Her chest was heaving by the time she descended the massive staircase and stumbled into the foyer, her breath coming out in short pants.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, calming her body, easing back into her skin, feeling the sedative affect the exertion had given her.
A hint of wood smoke wafted to her, and she opened her eyes, seeing the door ajar to the library, the orange glow of a fire blazing in the hearth.
Her body and mind were immediately alert, the perspiration growing chill on her brow. Hadn’t Duncan extinguished the fire before he had come up to bed?
Or had someone else rekindled it?
With trepidation, Rachel moved quietly across the foyer and hesitated on the threshold to the library, the warmth of the fire enveloping her even from a distance, the flames chasing the shadows into the corners to gather and grow, threatening, cloaking whatever chose to hide within its blackened folds.
Tentatively, she entered the room, a gasp breaking from her lips at the sight that greeted her, her incredulous gaze taking in the Christmas tree in front of the bay window, the tree that had been barren only a few hours before but was now fully decorated.
Baubles glistened in the firelight, and the red, green, and gold lights woven amid the lush boughs lent a fairylike shimmer in the dark.
A moth-eaten Santa perched in a chair, his hat slanted on his head, his cheeks blooming with faded color. Beside him sat Rudolf, staring up at her with one black button eye, the other missing.
How? she wondered. Who had done this?
“I found the boxes in the storage area,” came a deep voice from the darkness.
With a startled cry, Rachel whirled around to find Duncan lounging in a wing chair in the shadows across the room. The pulse of fear immediately dissolved into a sense of anticipation, a thrumming of her blood at the very sight of him.
“I frightened ye,” he said, shaking his head in regret. “ ’Twas not my intention.”
“W-what are you doing here?”
“I could not sleep.” She heard something in his voice, a yearning that struck a chord within her. Yet his face was cloaked in shadows, denying her a glimpse of his expression.
“Did you do all this?” she asked, gesturing to the tree and the decorations.
“Aye,” he said, rising from his seat and walking through the flickering light toward her, causing a sensation akin to bottled lightning to sizzle down Rachel’s spine, his male beauty riveting her.
Then he stood before her, his dark eyes drinking her in, her own gaze eagerly reciprocating. Never had she enjoyed the simple marvel of looking at someone.
Her lips tingled and her nipples tautened, her entire body quickened, and he had not yet touched her, not uttered a single seductive word. That look alone had undone her every good intention.
She moistened her dry lips, and his eyes followed the path of her tongue. “I don’t understand. How did you know how to decorate the tree?”
“I found this.” He reached into the pocket of the soft blue chambray shirt he wore and pulled out a photo. “It was in the box.”
Rachel glanced at the old picture, the color having lost a shade of distinction with age. But there was no mistaking the family gathered in front of a beautiful Christmas tree situated before the library’s bay window.
The MacGregors, when their children were still young. Rachel’s gaze focused on the oldest boy, who appeared to be about twelve, but his bluer-than-blue eyes were unmistakable, clearly marking him as one of Duncan’s descendants.
Rachel glanced up at him. “This is your family.”
He nodded, his gaze fastened on the picture, an emotion on his face that made her want to weep. “We lived on,” he said in a raw voice.
“Yes,” she murmured. “The MacGregors lived on.” Rachel could not bear to think of what life held in store for Duncan back in his own time, an era of unrest, of constant warring. She didn’t want to recall what she already knew. Not tonight. “Everything looks beautiful.”
His gaze slid to hers. “I did it for you.”
“Me?” she whispered.
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“Tae take the sadness from your eyes.”
Rachel averted her gaze. “I’m not sad.”
“Aye, lass, ye are.” He cupped her chin, turning her back to face him. “Tell me why.”
Rachel stepped back out of his reach and slipped around him, moving toward the fireplace to warm her suddenly cold hands in front of the crackling flames.
He followed, standing so close she had no choice but to look up at him. She had to fight to keep from closing her eyes and pressing her cheek against his chest.
“What hurts ye so?” The tenderness in his eyes was nearly her undoing.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes and she turned from him, feeling as though she was slowly unraveling as she focused her gaze on the flames.
“This is my first Christmas without my parents,” she managed in a barely audible voice. “They both died this year.”
How often had she, as a child, crept from her bed to spy on her parents who, after tucking her between the sheets, had spent the evening cuddled together before the tree, soft Christmas carols whispering from the stereo as they shared hot chocolate and an occasional kiss.
As a child she had not appreciated their special bond. As an adult, she had dreamed, even craved to spend her Christmases in an identical manner—wrapped up in the security and love of a man who worshipped her.
Duncan moved behind her, his body close—so close. The warmth of it suffused her, seeped beneath her skin and twined inside her. “Your heart is breaking, is it not?”
Grief instantly clogged her throat. “You would think that
I was too old to allow the sight of a Christmas tree to make me weep,” she said, her voice crumbling.
“ ’Tis not the tree that makes ye weep, lass. ’Tis your sadness. But I do not think your parents would wish for ye tae suffer such sorrow on their behalf.”
He was right. Her parents would have wanted her to be happy, to remember the good times, and there had been so many, she thought.
Her mind drifted back to all the wonderful Christmases in Connecticut, precious memories invading, making her smile even as her chest ached with despair.
“Every year, on Christmas Eve, my father and I built a snowman on our front lawn. We would dress him up like Santa in his red suit and hat. He called it our holiday tradition.” She shook her head and stared down at her hands. “I stopped doing it when I turned fifteen, thinking it was too childish.”
“If ye love something, ye are never too old tae enjoy it.”
“I know that now.” Now, when it was too late to go back. “I guess I always believed my parents would be around forever, and that they would see that I carried on the tradition with my own children.”
Duncan was quiet for a moment, and then he asked in a low, deep voice, “Do ye have any bairns?” He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her around to face him, his expression solemn, his blue eyes delving into hers.
“No,” she murmured. “I don’t have any children. That would require a husband.”
“And why have ye no husband? Ye are as comely a female as I’ve ever clapped eyes on.” He lifted a piece of her hair, fanning the strands through his fingers. “With hair like midnight silk, spillin’ down over your shoulders, making a man itch tae comb his fingers through it.” His gaze elevated to hers. “And eyes the color of ferns, soft and green. Ye are a temptation, lass. A woman any man would be proud tae call his own—a woman any parent would be proud tae call their daughter.”
The tears Rachel had so carefully held in check slipped from her eyes then, and emotions she had kept bottled up inside for so long began pouring forth. She had had no one with whom to share her pain. No one who truly cared.
Duncan pulled her into his arms. She did not resist. It felt good to be held, too right to lay her head against his shoulder and simply let go.
Words spilled from her. She told him of the loss of her parents, how much they had meant to her and how desperately she missed them, and all the while he held her, understanding her sorrow.
When at last her tears subsided and her grief had all poured forth, he tipped her chin up and gazed deeply into her eyes. “Ye are a brave and beautiful woman. Don’t ever forget that.”
His full, sensuous lips were only a hairbreadth from hers. The kiss was inevitable . . . and so long overdue. A lifetime it seemed.
“Rachel . . .” Her name whispered from his lips like a benediction, a sweet prayer for salvation, and every lonely, yearning place inside her responded.
chapter
7
HIS MOUTH DESCENDED, plundered, tasted her desire for him, which he amply returned. His hands swept down her sides to cup her buttocks, pulling her harder against his erection, his chest abrading her nipples.
Then those large, beautiful hands slid between their bodies, his thumbs sweeping across her turgid peaks, sending honeyed bliss spiking through Rachel. She moaned into his mouth, the sound wanton and wicked.
He pulled back and stared down at her, conflict and confusion battling in his eyes, even as his gaze continued to devour her, bringing heat to all her most sensitive spots. She didn’t want it to end. Why did he stop?
Perhaps, she thought painfully, because he was being the sensible one, realizing that theirs was a temporary relationship and that the scales of life and time might very well tip at any moment, righting those things that were out of kilter.
Or perhaps his reticence to take what she willingly offered had nothing to do with the fact that some twisted fate had set them worlds apart, but something far more cruel.
A wife. Children.
A life that did not include her.
Was he thinking about another woman when he kissed her? Yearning to hold another body close?
She wanted to ask him, but wondered if she really desired to hear the answer. Perhaps it was better not to know.
“What’s the matter, lass?” he quietly asked.
Did he not see what was in her eyes? Could he possibly not know how she felt?
“Tell me,” he gently commanded, cupping her cheek, raising her eyes to his. “We keep no secrets between us.”
No secrets. No lies. Not when time was so very precious. “I . . . I want to know . . . if you have a wife.”
He regarded her for a long moment, and with each second that ticked past, her heart began to crumble, piece by devastated piece. She could not blame him for loving another woman.
No matter what she thought, true love did not translate through time, through barriers that no human could breach; their souls had not been searching through eternity to find each other. Such thoughts belonged to other realms. Not theirs.
Rachel turned away from him, not wanting him to see what his silence had wrought, the pain so clear on her face.
He came up behind her, sliding his hands around her waist, his pelvis nestling against her bottom, and in an instant, her despair ebbed, her loneliness waned, replaced by a merging of something earthy, a connection unable to be explained. It simply . . . was.
She wanted to hold him close, feel his heart beating in tempo to hers, rub like a cat over the sweet hardness pressing against her, feel him tense, hear him groan with desire. For her. Only for her.
Never had a man made her feel so wild, so wicked, yearning with the need to release all her inhibitions and revel in her sexuality.
His hands fisted in her hair, gently tugging her head back to rest against his chest as he whispered in her ear, “There is no other woman, lass. Only you.”
Relief and a sweet ache poured through her veins. This was madness. They were worlds apart, centuries apart, and yet not apart at all.
His fingers splayed across her stomach, his lips tracing her jawline. “God, lady . . . ye make me forget myself. ’Tis as if all the years of honing my skills on the battlefield and learning the necessity of control were for naught. With a winsome smile, a sultry glance, ye bring me tae my knees. I yield tae ye, lady. Ye are a force far greater than I.”
His words sent a delicious thrill through her. To think she made this beautiful pagan wild with desire for her was bone-melting, divine. Pure heaven.
Rachel tipped back her head and closed her eyes, simply wanting to feel the warm press of Duncan’s hands on her body, imprint his every touch in her mind.
She turned her head up for his kiss, his tongue thrusting into her mouth in a rhythm she longed for him to do with his body. She throbbed, heat pooling at the juncture of her thighs.
“I want tae touch ye,” he whispered against her lips, asking her permission instead of simply taking what he wanted.
“Please . . .” she begged, curling into him as his hand cupped her breast, her body dissolving under his sensual demand.
She gave in to her need and rubbed her bottom across his erection, reveling in the soft groans her actions elicited.
“Ye are indeed a witch tae have enticed me so. Heaven help me, lass, ye make me want . . .” He stopped abruptly, his hands stilling.
Rachel could feel his withdrawal, and she very nearly cried out her despair. “What?” she begged. “What do I make you want?”
When he didn’t answer, she turned in his arms, looking into those haunting eyes, knowing she could lose herself in them, in him.
“What, Duncan . . . please tell me.”
“Ye make me want tae forget that my life is not here,” he said, his words laced with anguish, lancing her heart.
“But you’re here with me now. We could—”
He pressed a finger to her lips, stopping her from saying something that she could not, should not. He s
moothed a tendril of hair from her face, his fingers lingering, a bittersweet smile on his face.
“Ye know as well as I that I must find a way tae get back tae where I belong. There are people who depend on me, who even now may be struggling with my disappearance.” He paused, and then made a startling confession, “I have a son.”
His admission stilled everything inside her. “But you said—”
“I have no wife,” he reassured her. “But I cannot deny that I’ve had mistresses.” His words wounded when they should not, when they had not been meant as weapons.
Rachel tried to pull away from him, not wanting to hear whatever was coming next. Though he held her to him without force, his grip was unrelenting. He would not let her run away.
“Nay, lass,” he rumbled in a voice meant to soothe. “Listen tae me.”
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t want to hear that you loved another woman.”
He took hold of her chin and forced her head up. “I did not love another woman. There has been no one who has captured my heart, and yet I fear . . .” He stopped, his gaze roaming her face as if to memorize what he saw.
“What do you fear?” she whispered.
His smile was almost grim as he looked into her eyes once more. “I fear, sweet witch, that I could very well lose my heart tae ye. Truth . . . but I think I already have. ’Tis as if my heart, and all I am, has always belonged tae ye.”
Rachel’s heart soared, and she felt as if her entire life had been building toward this very moment, as if she had simply been biding time until the emptiness inside her was filled by the only thing missing.
This man.
She had felt a connection with him from the start, and though she had not known him, her soul had recognized him, seen what her eyes had not.
“I feel the same way.”
“Ye do?”
“I do.” She smiled gently and said, “Now, tell me about your son.”
He looked uncertain about where to begin. “I have only known the lad these past six months. I knew naught of his existence for fourteen years, and then his mother died of the pox and he sought me out. He is a fine boy.” His words rang with pride. “Strapping. Fierce. A warrior at heart. And the next MacGregor laird.”
A Very Gothic Christmas Page 28