Draycott Eternal

by Christina Skye

  “I’d say it’s some kind of man and woman thing.” Ian’s voice was as smoky as the peat fire that had danced in the cottage. It sent fine textures of heat playing up Jamee’s spine. He wasn’t the sort of man who would be deterred from a goal. She saw it in the set of his shoulders and in the narrowing of his eyes.

  Another snowball hissed free and exploded over his shoulders. His head barely bent.

  Jamee felt her first inkling of uneasiness. She danced behind a holly bush and caught up a huge handful of snow, wet and heavy. When Ian came left, she darted right and dumped the white mass down over his head.

  She could read the glint in his eyes, primal now, an elemental challenge that made her pulse race.

  Time for a new strategy.

  Three pine trees up the hill. Jamee estimated her distance and bolted.

  Ian was right behind her. He watched the snow dust her face, flushed and vibrant with color. The stillness of the night settled upon him and with it a fine, heady magic. Snowflakes feathered down and one landed on her eyelash. There it hung, torn like a tear from the eye of heaven.

  Something swelled inside Ian. Heat and more, magic and more.

  It was not a game, nor had it ever been. His need for her was too real. Too strong. Too physical.

  And yet far more.

  She turned, laughing as she ran up the snowy hill. The wind cast her long hair up around her, dusted by little eddies of snow.

  How can I leave her? Ian wondered bleakly. How can I see her once, touch her once, and not want her for a lifetime?

  She was at the top of the hill now, her high laughter drifting down to him as she scooped up a huge wad of snow, then sent it against him with unerring aim. He was too enchanted to duck and took the brunt of it on one shoulder.

  “Ready to quit, McCall?”

  Even the rain of snow did nothing to diminish the heat he was feeling. But as Ian watched Jamee dance toward him, her foot slipped in the snow and she swayed sideways. One shoe went flying, the other skidded over the snow, and she landed hard, the breath whooshing out of her.

  Ian crouched beside her as the snow drifted down around them. “Jamee,” he said urgently, pulling her against him. “Dammit, are you hurt?”

  She blinked, unable to speak.

  He felt her head carefully. “Did you land on a rock?” He touched her neck, her cheeks, her face, afraid he would find traces of blood. “Dammit, Jamee, talk to me.”

  She shuddered. There was something in her eyes, something that spoke without any words at all while the snow whispered down around them, soft and silent as the night.

  Ian pulled her into his arms and stood up.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Rose Cottage.” His jaw clenched. “If you’ll go with me.”

  Jamee heard the question in his voice and the conflict. Emotions she didn’t understand rocketed through her. Her only fear was disappointing him. But if she moved fast…Attacked boldly…

  She traced his jaw and slid her fingers past the open collar of his denim shirt. She saw his eyes narrow and darken. She snagged his belt and waited, hunger in every surge of her blood.

  Their eyes locked. Ian’s lips burned over her forehead, eyelids, and finally met her hungry, trembling lips.

  “Jamee,” he said hoarsely, stopping at the cottage threshold and setting her on her feet.

  Her mind was a haze of need. She popped two buttons from his shirt and yanked the tails free, then played her fingers over all that warm, muscled chest. “Do you mind if I do this?” she breathed.

  “I’d seriously consider suicide if you stopped,” Ian said raggedly. “But—”

  She pulled his face down, eased her lips against his. His mouth was flavored with tea and strawberries and Jamee decided it was the most delicious combination in the world. “Ian,” she whispered, loving the sound of his name on her lips.

  He was too busy unbraiding her hair to answer. He brushed her neck, the flawless curve of her cheek. He hadn’t wanted like this since he was a boy of fifteen with adolescent hormones run amok.

  But Jamee Night seemed to do that to people.

  He remembered where his hands had been at lunch. How could he be honorable and wait when every second was so precious, their future so unsure?

  Her eyes darkened. “Ian, take me inside. I want to touch you. Everywhere.”

  He swallowed, trying to retain his last shred of sanity.

  Her fingers traced his jaw. When she raised her head, her eyes were hazed with tears.

  “Jamee?”

  “I’m sure, Ian.”

  It was too late for talking. Some voice of honesty whispered that he’d always meant to have her this way, ever since she’d enchanted him by trying to save his life on the cliff. “We can’t. It’s a bloody bad time.” Even as he spoke, Ian’s fingers worked her blouse from her skirt, sublimely indifferent to what he had just said. It was crazy. It was reckless. It was—

  The only thing Ian McCall had wanted in years. Maybe in centuries.

  The thought made icy fingers play over his spine. He thought of the stone circle and the wind that moaned over the glen like a woman’s cry of loss and pain.

  He wouldn’t lose Jamee. He wouldn’t deny what they both wanted so badly.

  Images pressed at his eyes, shadows that melted when he caught her in his arms and carried her over the cottage’s threshold. Firelight spilled over old wood and freshly cut flowers. Even a hardened cynic could feel the emotions captured in each room. “If you believe in magic, you’ve come to the right place.”

  “I believe. So do you, Ian. I can see it in your eyes. My parents did, too. They were so happy here,” Jamee whispered. She looked around her, awed by the dark crossbeams, the fine old prints, and the roses in every window. “I’ve wanted to come here ever since I was twelve and my mother told me how beautiful it was.”

  Ian kicked the door shut with his foot and set Jamee on the ground. He touched her hair, frowning. “It feels like I’ve wanted you for a lifetime.” His hand slid over her neck and found the taut peak of her nipple. He pushed aside cotton and lace and covered her with his mouth until her skin flamed.

  Suddenly she understood the dark songs and all the sad movies from her youth. Love was feeling naked, being turned inside out. It was terrifying, without rules. Nothing could have prepared her for this aching need and total vulnerability.

  And yet Jamee couldn’t think of anything she wanted more.

  She finished unbuttoning Ian’s shirt and shoved it from his shoulders, then took an unsteady breath. His skin was golden in the firelight, ridged with muscles.

  Panic shook her. The Big Three were something else. None of them had mattered. After all, she could barely even remember them.

  She wanted to remember this. She wanted to be perfect for Ian.

  She bit her lip.

  Don’t think, a voice said. Get him deep, so far lost that he doesn’t have time to think, either.

  She worked tensely at the button on his waistband. She tried to ignore his mouth, his fingers stroking the curve of her breast.

  His jeans came free. She worked them down his muscled body, smiling faintly when she heard him curse. She experienced a heady sense of control, of being wanted.

  Fast and hot, she thought, praying he wouldn’t be disappointed. She couldn’t bear that.

  He shoved off her blouse and sent it flying.

  “Ian,” she whispered, tonguing the warm planes of his chest, reaching for his heat.

  “Hold on, Jamee,” he said tightly. “This isn’t exactly a race.” When she didn’t answer, he forced her to look at him. “Why do I get the feeling you’re rushing through this?”

  “Who, me?” she asked throatily.

  “Talk to me, Jamee.”

  She swallowed. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to give him time to see how poorly she was managing this. “We can talk later.”

  “Now.” His hands circled her wrists. “No secrets, remember
?”

  “I’m a little afraid,” she whispered. “Okay, I’m a lot afraid. I’m not beautiful, I’m not experienced and I’m—”

  “You’re gorgeous, you’re smart and you make me feel like I’ve been hit by a runaway train. Dear God, woman, would I be here if I weren’t crazy with lust?”

  “Truly?”

  He gave a strained laugh. “Beyond hope of recovery.”

  Lust. She liked the sound of the word.

  Her skirt flew up. His trousers skidded to the floor.

  Jamee looked down and caught an audible breath. His thighs were burnished in the dancing light, muscles tense. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

  Ian’s eyes glinted. “I’m not beautiful. Lairds of Glenlyle are not beautiful.” He pulled her close and kissed her eyelids. “We’re stubborn, foolhardy and generally impossible. But we’re not beautiful.”

  But he was. Her hands brushed the warm muscles at his shoulders, the lean expanse of his waist. He was as beautiful as a man could be.

  Then Jamee looked into Ian’s eyes and knew he would be the only man who mattered in her life. She wanted to savor every second of what was happening between them.

  “No more rushing?” he said.

  “No more.” She eased her hands beneath the soft white cotton that was his last piece of clothing.

  He was huge and hard already. Jamee closed her eyes, loving the feel of him against her hands.

  “You might have to revise that statement,” Ian whispered, gathering the silk of her hair and pressing it to his lips.

  Jamee looked at the hard lines of his face and knew there would be no turning back. “Does this mean I’m going to get my Christmas gift a little early this year?” she asked breathlessly.

  Ian made a ragged sound and slid the fragile lace camisole over her head.

  Then he took a breath. Another one, long and shuddering. “Santa Claus must have worked a lot of overtime this year,” he said.

  Jamee had never known that her skin could sing and her heart could fly.

  Ian taught her. Generous, careful, infinitely patient, he made her long for sensations she had never dreamed existed. He showed her how to wait and trust while his slow, thorough kisses raised her to heights unimagined. As he moved down her body inch by inch, she gasped, mindless in his arms, surrendering to his tender mastery.

  “Ian, stop. I want you to—”

  “Soon.” He found her hip and moved, finding the dewy heart of her.

  Jamee caught a ragged breath at the stab of tiny claws of pleasure. “But you haven’t…”

  “I can wait. Hell, I’ve fantasized about this long enough.” His fingers pushed deeper. “God, you’re tight. I’m going to enjoy every second of touching you like this.”

  Jamee flushed, wriggling slightly, which was a mistake considering that she was locked against his thighs. “I’m trembling, Ian. So are you.”

  His eyes hardened. “Trembling is good,” he said thickly. “Wriggling is even better. Number one and number two, right at the top of my Christmas list.” His fingers moved, fully sheathed in her heat, and need raced into heady madness. “Tremble for me now, princess. There’s no one here but us.”

  She caught his shoulders and arched her back. Colors that had no names flashed before her eyes and unimaginable textures kissed her skin. Ian muttered hard words in Gaelic as the desire built between them.

  Then Jamee cried out, the ends of reason unraveling. He drove her high, toppling her into a storm of color with his touch. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

  Her choked cry set Ian’s blood aflame. He wanted to fill his hands with her. He wanted to take all day and all night, learning the taste of her passion.

  Even when pain nudged at his eyes, he paid no attention. She clenched against his hand, hot and incredibly tight.

  Pressure drummed through his head. The room blurred for a moment.

  Bits of silver flecked Jamee’s hair. He felt pieces of holly dotting his forehead. Merry Christmas, he thought bitterly. He had to tell her. She had a right to know about his future.

  Muttering, Ian shoved Jamee’s skirt down over her knees as there was a light tap at the door.

  Ian pulled on his trousers while Jamee tugged on her camisole and blouse. Then Ian went to open the door.

  Snow fell softly over the threshold. Angus looked from one to the other, his expression unreadable. “Duncan sent me down. He said you two should come back to the house right away.”

  Ian felt the muscles tighten at his neck. “Did he say why?”

  “There was a telephone call from London. He seemed to be doing more listening than talking, but he stopped long enough to send me down here after you.”

  “Thank you, Angus,” Ian said. “We’ll be right up.”

  The door closed. The tiny bell hanging above the mantel chimed softly in the wind. Jamee’s hands trembled and she locked them at her waist. “Is it something to do with those men?”

  “It’s possible,” Ian muttered.

  Her eyes were huge. Passion was changing to fear, and the sight clutched at Ian’s heart.

  “You would tell me the truth, wouldn’t you, Ian? If they were very close and something was about to happen…”

  Once again Ian noticed a subtle shifting of colors, blue that blurred into purple and black. He managed a tight smile. “I’ll tell you the truth as soon as Duncan tells me.”

  “And what about the rest?” Jamee caught his hand and held it tightly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  He spent an eternity lost in her eyes. Somewhere he heard the slow, relentless tick of a clock.

  His decision did not come easy. He had lied to people before, in the line of duty. Sometimes they had been women with lost children, and Ian had said the words they needed to hear, even when they weren’t true.

  But this was Jamee. Jamee, whose eyes lit with laughter when she ground snow over his neck. Jamee, who heard the chime of a bell and found magic like a child.

  Jamee, who was being hunted down by men who had no souls.

  He took a deep breath. “The truth, then.” He squinted, watching colors shift, the restless discharge of dying nerves. “Very well, the truth is that I’m…going blind.”

  He heard her gasp. He was extraordinarily still, at peace now that the words were said. And in that fragile, aching moment of peace Ian felt every sense work with extraordinary clarity.

  Her body was rigid. Her breath came in husky little breaths. “Blind?”

  “I’m afraid so. It seems to run in the family.” He did not tell her the whole story of the Glenlyle curse. For someone who was not born in the Highlands, it would sound like madness. “Color change is one of the symptoms, along with the pain.”

  She straightened, moved awkwardly like someone waking from sleep. Her hand circled his arm. “Ian, I don’t believe you. Your eyes—this is truly happening?”

  “For two months now,” he said, looking out over pale fields dusted with snow. Strangely, he felt no hint of bitterness, only regret. He had had thirty years to grow used to the idea and his fury was that he should find this woman only now. “It was one of the reasons that I refused the job when your brother offered it. I wasn’t certain how long I had. I still don’t know, Jamee.” He turned, his face hard. “From now on, we’ll take this hour by hour. The color has begun to change, and my vision could deteriorate quickly. I have backups, precautions, but if my sight goes, someone else will take over. No arguments. Can you accept that?”

  He looked down at her face gleaming in the moonlight. Slick with tears. “Don’t, Jamee. Don’t cry for me. I’ve thought about this for a very long time and I suppose I’m as ready as any man can be for such thing.”

  She made a rough sound and slid against him, her chin to his chest. “But I’m not ready,” she rasped. “I don’t want you to be ready, either. There must be things that can be done.”

  “Don’t.” Ian ran a hand over his forehead, where an ache was beginning to build. “It’
s a solid diagnosis, Jamee. There’s no cause and no known cure. Anything else is delusion and I won’t grab at phantom hopes.”

  Her hands trembled, twisted in the folds of his shirt. “You knew. All this time, you knew and you thought only about me. Ian, I don’t want your last days of sight to be spent like this, full of work.” She drew a ragged breath and pushed away, rising to her full height. “You told me once that I should never settle for anything but the best. That I should sleep on a pink sand beach and make love beneath the Southern Cross. Dammit, if what you said is true—”

  “It is true,” Ian said, without emotion or anger.

  “Then go. Find that curving beach. Make love all night to a woman who isn’t being followed. I won’t let you stay here with me and become a target for a madman.” With a little broken cry, she stumbled backward over the floor. “I meant it, Ian. It’s over. I’m calling Adam and having him send someone else.”

  “No, you’re not, Jamee.” Ian walked slowly past a tiny mahogany chest covered with Christmas ornaments. “I don’t quit until I can’t keep you safe anymore.”

  “Adam doesn’t know. He couldn’t know. He would never have chosen you for this job if he did.” Her hands clenched to fists as she stared at him with stiff dignity. “I’ll tell him and then he’ll fire you.”

  Ian kept coming. “Adam knows. The last time I spoke with him he insisted that I tell you.”

  She swayed, blinded by tears. Ian caught her by the door.

  “Don’t, Jamee.” His voice was a hoarse caress. “I would rather spend every day of vision with you. Forget about some calculating beauty on a pink sand beach.”

  She shoved at his chest. “It can’t happen, Ian. I won’t let it.” She gave him a stricken look. “If you can fight for me, you can fight for yourself.”

  Ian gathered her carefully in his arms, overwhelming her rigid body with gentle strength.

  A strength he was only now beginning to discover, as snow drifted softly past the windows and he realized that Jamee was the future he’d never expected to find.

  She studied his face. “It’s true? You’re absolutely certain…”

  “It’s true.” He tucked her head in the warm hollow beneath his chin. There were no other words to add.