Draycott Eternal

by Christina Skye

  Jamee’s gaze fell to the sharp rocks below. A shudder went through her. “You don’t really believe that, do you? Your eyes weren’t affected by some half-forgotten superstition.”

  “I’d be careful what you say about superstitions,” Ian said softly. “We live with superstition every day here in the Highlands. Every tor has its tales, and the glens are filled with ghosts.” There was a hammering behind his eyes. His whole body tightened in rebellion at being in this cursed spot. “Let’s go, Jamee,” he ordered.

  Her hand trailed along the weathered stone. “There’s something here, Ian. Something I should understand…” She moved slowly around the ruined wall. She was near the edge when her foot struck a loose stone and she staggered.

  Ian lunged, pulling her back from the cliff edge. “Leave this alone, Jamee. Imagined or not, the curse is part of Glenlyle and part of me. I didn’t come here to do bout with my past.”

  “Then what did you come here for, Ian?”

  His fingers tangled in her hair. “To keep you safe. To make you happy…for as long as I can.” He turned her back toward the narrow trail. “Now, will you stop asking questions and get into the car? After all,” he added, linking his arm through hers, “it appears that there are a lot of people waiting to meet you.”

  THEY WERE LINED UP in two rows, men with calm, keen eyes and women with bright cheeks. None of them was smiling, Jamee noticed.

  She breathed heavily as if she was preparing to run a gauntlet. “Who exactly did you tell them I was, Ian?”

  “A textile designer I met in Edinburgh. We discussed the statues at the Royal Museum and I invited you out for tea.”

  Jamee smiled slightly. “Did I like you?”

  “You adored me,” Ian said. “Tea stretched into dinner and dinner stretched into dancing until dawn.”

  “And was I a good dancer?”

  “The very best.”

  “What did we do after we danced?” Jamee murmured.

  “My dear, a gentleman never tells.”

  Jamee bit back a laugh, but her smile faded as she faced the expressionless Glenlyle retainers.

  Ian stared down the long line at the weathered faces of those who had served his family for decades. “It is a pleasure to be back on Glenlyle land,” he said formally. “I’m pleased to bring a visitor with me this time. I am sure you will make Ms. Night welcome here at the castle.” And then he turned. Looking down at Jamee, he pulled her into his arms. “Very welcome.”

  Rooks chattered in the nearby yew trees and from the end of the row a man’s voice called out in Gaelic. Muted laughter filled the great courtyard.

  Ian answered in Gaelic, never taking his eyes from Jamee’s face.

  A woman’s voice rose, tentative, again in the ancient tongue. This time Ian’s answer was gentler, and the courtyard filled with the ring of clapping.

  Ian looked neither right, nor left, only into Jamee’s eyes.

  “What did you say to them?” she whispered, her face aflame.

  “I’ll tell you someday.”

  A dignified lady with crimson cheeks made her way over the flagstones, her cane tapping with every step. She stopped in front of Jamee and studied the two for what seemed like centuries, her hands tight on her cane. Then she nodded, speaking a phrase in the fluid, soft tones of the Isles.

  Ian stiffened.

  “What did she say?” When Ian did not speak, Jamee caught his shoulder. “Ian?”

  “She said welcome home. To you, Jamee. Only she called you…Maire MacKinnon.”

  The white-haired lady held something out to Jamee. “She says this belongs to you,” Ian translated tensely.

  Jamee looked down at the fragile square of woven wool, its red-and-green pattern faded from centuries of wear. When she touched the fabric, a shudder ran through her. She smelled the tang of peat smoke and heard the drone of pipes, far away over the lonely glen.

  The fragment of old tartan twisted beneath her fingers. Dimly, she heard Ian beside her, speaking urgently.

  Jamee couldn’t make out the words. The castle, too, had changed, surrounded by wild forests that ran all the way to the foot of its huge gate. And now there were horses, the sound of their shoes hollow on the cold stone.

  Fear pulled at Jamee’s chest. She couldn’t be seen, not here. They were marching to war and would think her a spy.

  No MacKinnon could scale Glenlyle’s rough slopes in safety. She would be hung if she were found.

  She tried to turn, to run.

  But the vision grew, holding her, suffocating her…

  SHE CLUTCHED her shawl tighter about her shoulders, staring anxiously into the gathering dusk. A black cloud of birds scattered over the horizon and she whispered a prayer of protection.

  No one saw her. No clansman walked the moors this night after the drums of war had been sounded.

  Only the moon, chill and silver, marked her steps up the dangerous cliffs. Only her heart led her, guiding the precious gift for the man she loved.

  She felt the thick, pounded wool, safe beneath her arm. Her dyes had set true, red and green, fierce in their fire. Maire thought of the hours she had taken over the dyeing and weaving of her cloth, breathing words of protection with every move of her shuttle. The rows were straight and true, but slightly changed. Maire’s border now held a double edging of red surrounding the bold black stripe that dominated the center of the design.

  She had chosen her pattern carefully. Intuition whispered that the bright new border would provide protection to her beloved when he marched into battle. For Maire, as with all the women of her line, the wool was woven not simply for warmth and decoration but to strengthen and protect its wearer, by God’s grace.

  A fine sprinkling of snow lashed her face as the wind growled down from the north. One savage gust nearly yanked the dense wool from her grip.

  An omen?

  She was close to the castle now. Perhaps too close. To walk on MacColl soil was a fearsome risk, Maire knew. But some instinct had whispered to her for weeks that Coll would be in grave danger when the first snows fell.

  She clutched her gift tighter as the snow grew deeper. She saw the outline of the old stone well at the edge of the castle wall, dim and gray behind a veil of white. There would be sentries posted nearby, Maire knew. But Coll’s young nephew, Angus, was to wait for her in the shadow of the cliffs.

  Shivering, she drew back into the lea of the wind, hidden by a crevice on the stone face. She heard the skitter of small stones and then Angus’s smiling face appeared out of the slanting snow.

  “Here I am, Lady Maire. Coll was fashing that he could not come himself, but the old laird watches his every move now. Someone has whispered about your meetings, I fear.”

  Maire’s hands trembled as she held out the precious length of wool. “I must be gone then, Angus. Give this to Coll, will you? And be certain he wears it when he marches away with his kinsmen.” She felt her fear rise, choking and bleak. “Promise me this, Angus.”

  “My promise is given,” the boy said solemnly, making the sign of the cross at his chest.

  Only then did Maire’s tension ebb. The boy would do just as he promised. No vow made in the sign of the cross would be taken lightly.

  “Hurry then.” Maire looked up and heard the great oak gates creaking free. A line of riders clattered over the flagstones out of the castle’s courtyard. “Quick, before he’s gone,” she whispered desperately. “Remember your promise.”

  She stood in the slanting snow, watching the small figure clamber up the hill. Through the damp white flakes she saw Angus dart to the second horse and call out.

  The rider pulled out of the line, then bent down to speak to his young kinsman.

  Coll. Maire felt the fire of his touch and the burn of his love, even though she could not see his face.

  But it would be enough. Now she knew he would be safe, wearing her plaid to keep him warm and protected until he rode safely home to her.

  She turned and made h
er way back down through the trees. The snow bit at her face, growing ever thicker.

  So it was that she did not see Angus’s small form lifted bodily onto the last rider’s horse. Nor did she see the scowl of fury that settled over the face of Coll’s cousin as he fingered the finely woven bolt of wool, which was to have been a gift to his hated rival.

  It was a gift which would never be delivered. He would see to that.

  Then even the boy’s high, thin cry was blotted out, swallowed by the hiss of the gusting snow.

  HARD HANDS.

  Biting wind. Voices raised in cold fury like forged steel blades.

  Fear twisted in her chest.

  An old fear. A wound that would not heal.

  “Jamee.”

  The word was distant, foreign, without meaning. Even the fingers that dug into her shoulder had no impact or familiarity. She had to get home to the cottage, away from the spying eyes of those who would whisper their evil tales to the old laird.

  “Dammit, Jamee, talk to me.”

  Dimly, she heard. That voice she knew. Those fingers, tense and hard, were familiar.

  She blinked.

  No snow. Only golden sun in an azure sky. Glenlyle Castle loomed before her, gray and proud, walls that she had not gazed upon for years. Perhaps for lifetimes.

  Ian’s fingers tightened on her shoulder.

  Ian.

  The name took shape; the face took on meaning. Slowly. Slowly.

  “What is it, Jamee?”

  Her muscles clenched. Danger wrapped around her even now. “I don’t…know.” Not exactly true. Images crowded at the edge of her vision, cold and heavy like sleeting snow. “I was here. At least it felt like here.” Her voice broke. She looked down at the piece of old tartan in her fingers.

  The gift. One of her weavings made so long ago.

  A voice spoke out of the mist around her, soft, fragile words in an ancient tongue. This time their meaning was somehow clear to Jamee.

  “’Tis home you’ve come to the glens, Maire MacKinnon.” Blue eyes twinkled keenly in an ancient face and old fingers brushed Jamee’s hand. “Aye, ’tis the weaver’s mark you wear here in your palm.” A thin, brittle nail traced the tiny scar at the middle of Jamee’s palm, a birthmark and no more.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not Maire. I’m Jamee.”

  The blue eyes narrowed, keener still. “You have her skill, lass. You have her fire in your blood. And the danger in the mist…” The old voice wavered, then fell away.

  Jamee looked down. The fragile scrap of cloth was locked in her fingers. She moved to hand it back, but the old woman pressed her hand closed. “Yours, it is. Yours, the hands which made it. May it bring you rest and a welcome after your long wandering. With a great joy to you and your laird,” she added softly.

  Her cane tapped away over the flagstones. Jamee stood unmoving, half-expecting to see a line of horses bolt from the castle and a small boy dart through the falling snow.

  More delusions? If so, how to explain this scrap of old plaid which dug deep into her memories, far back into the mists of time?

  Perhaps she was simply going mad.

  Ian’s hands tightened over hers. “So now you speak the Gaelic, do you?” The question was teasing, but he looked just as shaken as Jamee.

  “Gaelic?”

  “That’s what you were using just now with Widow Campbell. And she speaks not a word of English.”

  “But I don’t speak Gaelic. Nor do I understand it.” She looked down, dropping the scrap of plaid as if it burned her fingers.

  Which it did.

  The shadow of the castle fell over her like hands stretching out from a distant past. Jamee heard the tinkle of sheep bells far away in the glen and the sad whine of the wind.

  “Put it from your head,” Ian murmured. “I’m sure there’s some explanation. Let’s go inside now. I have something to show you.”

  Jamee was certain there was an explanation, too. She just couldn’t think what it was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Ian raised his arms and gestured to the colorful confusion around him.

  Jamee stared at the long row of rooms at the north side of the castle, where the stables had once been housed. Instead of horses, the floor now held scraps of chenille, silk bouclé and bolts of bright velvet. Gold metallic braid was piled beside faceted eyes and tiny knitted caps. And in the middle of the cheerful chaos lay bears of every size and shape, bears of every color and price, spilling from boxes, crowded tables and floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  Jamee swallowed hard. “You make bears?” She spun around and gripped Ian’s shoulders, shaking him lightly. “You make teddy bears here at Glenlyle?”

  “For four generations,” Ian said without a hint of embarrassment. “My great-great-great-grandmother supplied several to King George IV when he visited Scotland. Back then, she specialized in sheep, as befitting a true Scotswoman. Today we also make rabbits and cats, but the bears are most popular.”

  As he spoke, a brawny man with jet-black hair strode through the clutter with a fluffy white toy sheep cradled in his arms. “We’ve had a wee bit of a problem with the eyes, sir. Perhaps you’d care to take a look.”

  Ian examined the animal carefully. One of the faceted eyes dangled precariously. Ian pulled a needle from the thick chenille. “You’ll have to tack the eye securely, Geordie. Use heavier thread, I think. A shorter stitch would also do no harm.”

  To Jamee’s amazement, Ian demonstrated precisely, his needle moving in swift, confident stitches.

  “You can sew?”

  “Sew?” The man named Geordie raised one brow. “The laird can set a better stitch than any man in the Highlands. And there’s many a man in Glenlyle Village who has won awards for his skill.”

  Jamee was speechless. She moved to a row of desks, each with a letter and photograph pinned above the work area. “What are these?”

  “Letters from the children who will receive each gift. All the toys made here at Glenlyle are individually planned for a particular child,” Ian explained. “Each Christmas over a thousand Glenlyle bears are sent out from Windsor Palace as gifts to children’s hospitals, orphanages and to the families of police and soldiers killed in action. Each bear has its own name and individual costume, depending on the particular wish of the child who has written. No two children will ever receive identical bears.”

  Jamee swept up a delicate silver bear with creamy fur, a velvet jacket and tiny spectacles. “Who is this one for?”

  Ian glanced at the letter hanging above the desk. “A six-year-old girl in Liverpool. She lost her father last month in a lorry crash. Her mother wrote us, describing exactly what her daughter wanted, and we’re going to see that she has it there waiting under the tree.”

  Jamee felt a lump build in her throat. She looked down the long row of worktables, each topped by a handwritten letter with a photograph of a different child. Each of those children would be touched with delight when they opened a box on Christmas morning and found a toy that was specially designed as the answer to a secret wish.

  Tears welled up in Jamee’s eyes. Ian cradled two bears under his arms, fluffing the lace jabot on a very dignified bear wearing an exquisite miniature kilt.

  Not bears, she thought. Ian McCall ought to be cradling children in his strong, gentle arms.

  He ought to be holding their children.

  Wanting swept through her, fierce and wordless. She yearned to see Ian’s hands enfold the soft skin of a baby’s cheek. She yearned to hear his laughter mingle with the soft chuckle of an infant. What was happening to his eyes mattered nothing to her. Blind or sighted, Ian McCall would be an extraordinary father.

  And since he was already an ineradicable part of her heart, it was Jamee’s duty to make him see that.

  Ian took her arm and guided her back along the stone corridors that led to the main courtyard. “I’ll give you the whole tour, if you’d like. Then I’m afraid I
need to come back here and work.” He rubbed his neck. “It’s the busiest season now and I’ve been away for too long a time.”

  “Because of me,” Jamee guessed.

  After a moment, Ian nodded. He looked out at the courtyard, a furrow between his brows. Jamee saw that his jaw was tense. Was he in pain? Was it because of his eyes?

  There was no point in asking, of course. He would never tell her.

  “I want to see your favorite places, every one of them, beginning with that tower you and Duncan climbed out of. Then I’ll let you go, McCall, and not before.”

  “I take it you don’t want to see the dungeon?”

  Jamee shivered. She thought of cold stone walls and the small, scuffling sounds of unseen animals. “I think I’ll pass on the dungeon tour.”

  “I suppose you’re not interested in our collection of old tartans, either,” Ian said innocently.

  “Tartans? Genuinely old?” Jamee’s face lit with excitement. “Made with the old vegetable dyes and not these horrible chemical colors?”

  Ian nodded.

  Jamee realized he was teasing her. She crossed her arms at her chest and tried to look nonchalant. “What would I be interested in old cloth for? Don’t you have anything more exciting?”

  Ian’s lips curved. “I might be able to come up with something.”

  IT FELT DAMNED GOOD to be home, Ian decided.

  He had forgotten how the sun poured golden over the courtyard flagstones and how the old clan flag snapped crisply in the wind. He had forgotten how pleasant it was to hear the rustle of fabric and the soft laughter of villagers making museum-quality toys in rooms that had once housed blood stallions.

  Most of all, Ian had forgotten the joy of showing this old castle to someone who could appreciate it as much as he did.

  He would call Duncan shortly and alert him to their safe arrival at Glenlyle. After that, he wanted to check the evaluation of the fingerprints taken from the kidnappers’ vehicle. At least one and probably several more men were still at large, and Ian wanted them traced as soon as possible.

  The danger was not over, not by far, but it still felt good to be home.