Draycott Eternal

by Christina Skye

  He hid a smile as Jamee gasped at yet another stone tower filled with old swords and priceless muskets. The Great Hall had impressed her, but the trip up the stone staircase had nearly been her undoing. There, flanked by rows of tapestries and old clan plaids, she had danced from side to side, while questions spilled rapid-fire from her lips.

  And Ian had found an unexpected pleasure in giving every answer, explaining the stories of the old hunting McCall pattern and why its colors were so soft.

  Now there was one last place to show her.

  Ian rubbed his forehead surreptitiously, trying to ignore the pain behind his eyes.

  “Those people in the workrooms,” Jamee said softly, “they looked at me—at us—as if we were married. Or as if we were lovers.”

  “I’ve never brought another woman here, Jamee,” he said flatly.

  “I wasn’t asking, Ian.”

  “I know you weren’t. I just thought you should know.”

  The curve of her lips was beautiful in the last rays of the setting sun. Ian had never seen anything so fragile, yet so full of power. An image swept into his mind, and a second later, it emerged on his lips. “Would you?”

  “Would I what?”

  Marry me. Ian wanted her on his arm, laughing at him across the dinner table, smiling at him from his pillow. He wanted her socks in his sock drawer and her towel next to his. The force of that wish left him aching.

  It was out of the question, of course.

  “Would I do what?” Jamee repeated.

  Stay here with me forever. He cleared his throat. “Pretend something for me. From now until Christmas,” he said hoarsely.

  Her eyes met his. “I’ll pretend whatever you’d like, Ian. I’ll be whatever you want.”

  As always, her honesty and generosity left him reeling. He looked down as her fingers gripped his.

  “Shall I be a reckless American who falls in love with a Scotsman on holiday? Or are you thinking of some sort of captive scenario?” She paused thoughtfully. “I’m not very good at following orders, but for you I’ll try. Maybe we can take turns following orders. Although, if you had something with leather and ropes planned, I’m not sure I—”

  He pulled her the width of the stone steps, buried his fingers in her hair and kissed her into silence while his heart threatened to hammer its way out of his chest. Even this she would offer, to be his erotic plaything in some dark sexual fantasy.

  And Ian knew that she would be superb at her role, the way she was superb at anything she attempted. He decided that his heart was not up to the strain. “No, not that. Something gentler, yet far more dangerous.” He kissed her eyelids softly, his breath playing over her cheeks. “Be my wife, Jamee. Just until I take you back to San Francisco for that Christmas Eve reunion with your brothers.”

  Jamee’s breath caught as he kissed her nose. “Of course, if we both wore leather, that might be better. And instead of ropes we could—” She stiffened. “What did you say?”

  “Wife.” God help him, it was what Ian wanted. It was unreasonable, unfair to Jamee considering the bleak future before him, but Ian’s yearning wouldn’t be denied. “Until Christmas Eve when we have to leave. After that…we’ll see.”

  “Ian, I—” Jamee caught a ragged breath. “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “But—”

  Her smile was lopsided, breathtaking. “Don’t try to wriggle out of your offer already, McCall.” Jamee eased closer and rose onto her toes. Her body brushed his, seduced his. “I’ve said yes, and I mean yes.” A dimple showed at her cheek. “Leather and ropes included. Maybe even harem pants and perfume oils and—”

  “No more.” Ian closed his eyes and groaned. Suddenly the ache in his eyes seemed distant and very unimportant. He reached out with his arms and with his heart, wishing for forever.

  But willing to settle for now.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw desire sheening Jamee’s eyes.

  Ian bit back a curse. He didn’t need ropes or leather. The touch of Jamee’s hands and the look in her eyes were almost more than he could bear.

  And there was one place yet to show her.

  MIST CURLED OVER the gray stones and lapped against high glass walls.

  “Here?” Jamee pressed her nose to a glass door covered with elaborate ironwork, trying to see inside. “Why would you have a greenhouse here in the middle of the castle?”

  Ian pulled out an ancient key and unlocked the door. The iron frame grated softly as the door slid open. “I’m going to have to have that door oiled.”

  Jamee frowned. “Stop avoiding my questions. What is this place?”

  “This is the heart of the castle, the reason the stones were raised here centuries ago.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s some kind of dungeon.”

  He shook his head. “Water.” He stepped inside. The scent of bergamot and narcissus rushed from the warm, damp conservatory.

  “Water? I seem to recall seeing more than a few drops of that up there on the cliffs. Why would you need more?”

  “That’s the wrong kind. This is fresh water. Drinking water. The priceless element in any siege.”

  Potted oranges in white tubs scented the air with fragrance. Against the glass wall cyclamen and daffodils rose in riotous colors. Jamee touched a branch of flowering jasmine heavy with white blossoms. “Siege? You mean, that nasty thing armies did with battering rams and boiling oil?”

  “That’s the one. Most castles had plenty of provisions stored for such an attack. Freshwater was the one thing no one could do without.”

  “So Glenlyle has its own spring. Very clever.”

  “My father sealed it in just before…his eyes gave out.”

  Dusk gathered against the lilac sky. High over head, Jamee could just make out the first faint sprinkling of stars. “Very nice,” she said, stroking the tiny petals of a rare orchid. One brow rose. “My brother raises them. I happen to know these beauties are hell to grow. So who—”

  “I take care of them. At least I did. Orchids used to be my hobby. Lately…I haven’t very much time for hobbies.” Ian cradled the petals tenderly.

  Jamee swallowed, thinking about how he had touched her with the same tenderness.

  Longing rose within her. “Ian, I want. That is, I wish—”

  Their eyes met. This time Jamee was taking no chances on his chivalry.

  She wore a peach and purple dress of crepe. She knew exactly how it molded her hips and clung to the soft lines of her breasts.

  Ian knew, too, judging by the darkness growing in his eyes.

  Steam curled around Jamee as her hands slid to the top button, freed it, moved to the next. “I was thinking…” She shifted her shoulders carefully and a hint of creamy lace appeared above her breasts.

  Ian made a low, strangled sound. “You were?”

  She nodded, managing to expose another inch of lace. “About something you said.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “It was something about being reckless and making love all night on a pink sand beach.” She turned, in the process managing to brush one hip against his thigh.

  His very rigid thigh.

  “This looks as close to a pink sand beach as I’m going to find in Scotland. What do you think, McCall?”

  He didn’t move. Her face wavered before his eyes. It might have been the steam that veiled his vision. It might have been his eyesight failing.

  Or it might have been the storm of emotions that her words unleashed.

  “Jamee—”

  A long Victorian daybed of rattan with chintz cushions stretched along one glass wall, guarded by a polished marble Cupid. Beyond that a natural hot spring bubbled up from a cavern in the solid stone. The gurgle and hiss of water seemed very loud in the sudden silence.

  Jamee dipped a hand in the warm water, then rested one foot on the soft chintz. With careful grace she drew her skirt over her knee, revealing a silken
thigh and a fragile lace stocking.

  Garters. Dear God, she was wearing garters.

  Ian felt sweat cover his brow. He was losing, and losing faster than he should have. “We might as well leave now. There’s more to see,” he said unsteadily.

  Her head tilted. “I’m very sure of that.” The white stocking loosened and began a slow descent down her thigh.

  “Jamee—”

  White silk spilled over Jamee’s ankle. “What are you waiting for, McCall? I’m not a patient woman.”

  Ian swallowed. Raw desire slid into fierce protectiveness. He knew at that moment there would be no other woman for him after this, no other mouth that would provoke him to fine madness.

  Jamee raised her other knee. Mist clung to her hair, dampening the auburn strands about her face while moisture clung to the damnably sheer wedge of lace at her chest.

  Her dress shifted, its silk cupping her gently rounded breasts.

  Ian swallowed. Her nipples were peaked, sweetly distended. He couldn’t look away, suddenly sorry he had given her that third glass of champagne at lunch. But he realized the champagne made no difference. Jamee had changed in the last week. She was confident now, sure in what she wanted and willing to reach out for it. At any other time, Ian would have delighted in her confidence.

  But not now.

  Her fingers slid beneath the second stocking. She made a low, breathy sound. “I’m afraid I’m caught, Ian.”

  He was caught. Skewered. Burning at the sight of her. Electricity was doing somersaults through his body. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  She lifted her skirt and turned slightly. “Maybe you could help?”

  He wouldn’t help. He could uncover, arouse, possess. But never help.

  She looked at him, her eyes vulnerable and luminous as twilight gathered into darkness. “Please?” she whispered.

  And with that word Ian was lost, lost so deep he didn’t remember what he had been fighting. His hands opened, settling carefully over the warm skin above her knee. “Here?” he rasped.

  Jamee’s head tilted back as she sighed. “And there.” She moved her leg against his hand. He felt her shiver when he inched beneath the edge of her stocking. “There’s nothing caught, Jamee,” he said gruffly.

  “I’m so glad to hear it.” She turned, her back braced against his chest. “Now you can take it off.”

  She was like his priceless orchids, velvet petals slick with dew. She trembled when Ian’s hands went up instead of down. Her stocking slid on its own to the floor.

  Beneath her skirt she wore a tiny, improbable scrap of lace that looked too delicate to have any purpose except to inflame him.

  Which it was doing admirably.

  Her hip eased back with apparent innocence against his thigh. Heat curled from the pit of his stomach, then plunged to his gut.

  “So hot. All this lovely steam.” She raised her arms. The silk dress parted, inched over her shoulders, then slid to the floor.

  Ian stared, frozen, his heart slamming.

  Gold skin spilled from a silk camisole topped with sheer lace. Every curve and shadow was visible beneath.

  Jamee turned, her breasts peaked and dark against the silk. The narrow strap trembled and slid down her shoulder. “Ian, if I’m not—” she began unsteadily. “If this isn’t what you want—”

  Lost.

  Ian made a flat, hard sound and brought his mouth to all that golden, glowing skin. In a second, the camisole was gone and one delicate crest trembled against his mouth.

  Her heart raced. He felt it slamming beneath his fingers as he made his way downward with slow, maddening thoroughness. When she swayed, he guided her back against the marble Cupid while his sensual foray continued.

  He wanted to see every soft inch while it was still possible. Then the final wedge of lace was before him, tantalizing.

  He looked up and saw the uncertainty in her eyes. “Ian, I—”

  The lace disappeared. He cupped her gently like the orchids she reminded him of, fragrant petals glistening with dew. She was fire beneath his hands as he traced the soft shadow of her ribs, then the damp auburn curls that clustered lower.

  With lips and gentle tongue.

  “Please, Ian, I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. Now, mo cridhe.”

  She arched against him, her fingers digging into his hair. She balanced on the fine edge of passion, and then he catapulted her off into worlds that had no name.

  The colors in the room faded with the gloom of twilight. But other senses took the place of Ian’s vision. He heard the soft, husky rasp of her breath and smelled the sweet, floral scent of her skin.

  He wanted more. In a second, he found it.

  His mouth settled over her heat with no more barriers. Like a trembling flower, she moved beneath him, sleek with the sweetness of her need. Ian did every carnal thing he’d dreamed of for too many sleepless nights, perversely driven to take forever as he teased her to madness, stretching out the pleasure until they both knew torment.

  And Jamee was better than any fantasy, honest and generous in his arms, crying out his name as the stones dissolved beneath her and she fell.

  Or she flew. Into forever. Into seas of silver where wishes were tiny fish that nibbled at her hands.

  Ian catapulted her off into worlds that had no name. Into colors she had yet to experience. He felt the desire surge through her, lift her high and leave her shuddering, breathing his name.

  So beautiful.

  His hands tensed and slid deep, his mouth a counterpoint to his hands. “I love you, Jamee,” he whispered over the tangled silk that cast back his own heat.

  Where she would sheathe him.

  Ian channeled all his senses into touch. Slow. Deeply. Until he watched her turn inside out and come apart against him again.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Impossible to want her more or need this less.

  His belt hissed free. It was a race now, hunger against hunger. Cursing himself for the pride that had made him wait, Ian fumbled with the last of his clothes.

  Her breath caught. Definitely caught. “God, Ian, you’re a sight.”

  “Is that good or bad?” he rasped.

  “Magnificent, I’d say.” She eased her hands down his chest. Each touch was madness and infinite need. She took her time showing him just how much she wanted him.

  The stars were lost high above when her hands cupped his heated male length, sweetly goading. “You said you didn’t come to do bout with your past. So prove it, McCall.” Her lips curved. “Now.”

  With a groan, Ian closed his eyes. He caught her hips and impaled her slowly. He could barely see her face, little more than a dim outline against the gloom of twilight. But Ian felt her, felt her hands clench at his shoulders and her hips move in sudden urgency.

  With a low groan he tensed. One stroke brought him inside her. He moved with savage focus, inch by inch, pleasing them both even as they perched on the jagged edge of passion.

  One more thrust. Her breath caught in shocked delight, while her hands strained against him. Another, while his heart tried to slam free of his chest. Heat was a madness in his blood as she rocked against him, opening, welcoming each hot thrust, as frantic as he was.

  “Sweet heaven, Ian, this is—You are—” She gave a soft groan. “Why did you make us wait so long for something so wonderful?”

  Ian feasted on the color in Jamee’s body, the vibrant textures of her voice.

  Every second brought him deeper. He wanted to be the first and the last for her, but he would settle for being the very best, the one she would always remember.

  “There are no rules here, Jamee. No conditions. Only what you want.”

  “You. Just like this.” She tensed, her eyes dim. “Ian, I can feel you. You’re so deep that we…”

  Her nails dug into his back. With a startled cry, she arched against him, skin tight to slick skin.

  Desire slammed through him as she spun
away, velvet skin clenched around him. And this time, Ian followed, finding light and color hidden in her laughter, joy shimmering from her skin and captured in her hair. She turned him inside out. She made him reckless. She forced him to close his eyes and open his soul instead.

  And then she taught him how very much he loved her.

  BREATHING WAS a painful effort. Moving was beyond imagining. But smiling Ian could just about manage.

  So he smiled. Liking the little sounds she made when he eased her down against the couch. Loving the way his touch made her shudder while aftershocks rippled through her.

  “You were…” She raised one hand, then let it fall limply. “That was…”

  “Not bad.” The feel of her skin had him hardening again. “But it gets better.”

  She shook her head slowly, more than a little drunk from the power of the emotions flooding through her. “No way. Impossible. Negatory, McCall.”

  His fingers slid between their heated bodies. His lips nuzzled one rosy nipple.

  Her eyes snapped open. “But you just—” She swallowed. Her head fell back as he did slow, forbidden, wonderful things that sent new flames of sensation racing inside her.

  “That’s right, I did,” Ian said harshly. “And now I’m going to do it all over again.”

  Her hands twisted in his hair, pulling him closer. “I don’t suppose arguing would do any good.”

  “Not a bit.”

  She settled over him perfectly, her body already knowing just how to touch him, how to cradle and arouse him.

  “Good,” she whispered raggedly as he moved deep inside her.

  JAMEE OPENED HER EYES a century or two later. Every inch of her body felt hot and sensitized, and she seemed to have lost her bones somewhere.

  Ian was bent over the spring. She savored the sight of his muscled back, the long tapering legs. He studied the water, then scooped up a handful.

  “I’m glad I didn’t argue,” she said huskily.

  “So am I.” He sank down beside her and brought the water to her mouth. “Drink this. It’s magic. The oldest kind,” he said gravely.

  Jamee felt her throat tighten at the fierce tenderness in his eyes. “Some kind of love potion that you McCalls have been hiding for generations?”