Perpetua sank into a chair beside the preserves bubbling on the fireplace, and a white angora cat with pale green eyes jumped onto her lap. “Well, Juno, what do you say? Do you think our Miss O’Hara needs a miracle?”
“And what will she do when she has it?” Honoria said, with her usual astuteness. “People always say they need a miracle. They plead and plan, but when they have one standing in front of them, they haven’t the slightest idea what to do with it. Why, I remember that nice man, Mr. Schweitzer. A little absentminded, but then we all are at times.” Her eyes took on an unfocused, dreamy appearance. “I’ll never forget how we had to—”
Perpetua’s rocker creaked softly. “No more nostalgia, Honoria. Hope O’Hara needs our help, though she is too proud to admit it.” She opened a large, leather-bound book and ran her finger down the page.
Somewhere down the hill a thrush trilled in the late afternoon sunlight, and the sound spilled through the silence of the glen, full and rich.
“It has to be now.” Perpetua slammed the volume shut and stared at her sisters.
Morwenna nodded as she shut down the computer. “If we miss the transit tonight, it will be six months until we have another chance. We all know that Ms. O’Hara might not be able to hold out for that long.” She bit her lip. “It’s very risky.”
“Last week I tripped on one of your shoes and nearly broke my neck on the stairs,” Perpetua said. “Don’t talk to me about risky. It’s now or never, I’m afraid. What do you say, Honoria?” Both turned toward their silver-haired sister.
“Your calculations are correct.” With a sigh, she rubbed red-rimmed eyes. “The transit will be operative until 2:00 a.m., but no longer. The next window won’t appear until mid-May.”
Silence hung. The wind rattled against the snug casements and grumbled across the glen.
Morwenna sighed. “Tonight, it is.”
Lightning flickered far to the north.
Outside, the first fat drops of rain struck the flagstone path.
“If we do not act now, our young friend will run out of time and maybe even out of dreams,” Perpetua said. “It is time for the vote.”
All movement stilled. The powerful word had been uttered.
The three women stood, hands raised. As quiet as sunlight, they moved closer. “Shall we find a man for Hope O’Hara?” Perpetua asked.
Light changed and swirled in front of them.
A figure slowly took shape in the semidarkness. Light gleamed from the armor at his chest and brushed his dented broadsword as he sprawled in a chair by a cold hearth.
Even at rest, his eyes were hard, lined by months in the blinding desert sun.
Honoria frowned. “He looks dangerous. Dear me, maybe we should reconsider….”
Perpetua shook her head. “We have to do this. Dangerous or not, he is exactly what she needs.”
Morwenna nodded. “A flawed miracle is better than no miracle at all. It is time for the vote.”
Honoria nodded with a sigh. “Then let it be done.”
“Look.” Morwenna pointed at the misty image. “He’s vulnerable now. There won’t be a better chance than this.”
The three women stood, hands raised. As quiet as sunlight, they moved closer. “Shall we find a man for Hope O’Hara?” Perpetua repeated.
All three nodded as one as they tightened their circle and then stood still.
The firelight flickered. Light shimmered and swirled. Outside, clouds brushed the high cliffs. Then time wavered and seemed to stand very still….
HOPE WANDERED to the open window, listening to a distant peal of thunder. Tax worries from her newest financial blow had made sleep impossible, and she slipped on a paisley shawl, intending to raid the kitchen for Gabrielle’s hot milk and fresh cookies.
At the top of the stairs her skin began to tingle. Strange, nervous energy brushed her neck, almost as if life were about to hand her an unexpected gift.
She stopped at the foot of the stairs, watching moonlight play over the hard features of the manor’s ancient owner. “What am I going to do?” she whispered. “How am I going to save this beautiful old place? That’s what you want from me, isn’t it?”
The lace curtains stirred at the open window. Somewhere in the darkness a nightingale piped in solitary splendor.
As moonlight pooled through the open shutters, light glanced off the warrior’s face. His gaze seemed to cut through her, proud and commanding. There was a touch of light at one shoulder, and Hope had the sharp impression of a crouching form that might have been an animal.
An animal no more wild than he, with his cloak flying out behind him and his eyes dark as a hunter’s. In that moment sadness filled her, pain for a warrior she had never seen and a hero whose name she would never know. Just as on her first visit to this house, the portrait called to her and Hope reached out to the man, out to the animal glinting at his shoulder. Her fingers opened, curved to touch the ornament at his surcoat.
“Who are you?” she whispered. “Tell me your secrets.”
His face danced before her, a thing of restless beauty sculpted from moonlight and shadow. His eyes glittered with pride and the habit of command.
In the moonlight she almost felt his heat and the play of his breath, so close he seemed.
“Give me an answer,” she whispered. “Heaven knows, Glenbrae House needs help from someone tonight.”
Above her head moonlight played through the lace curtains and shimmered along the polished wooden steps. Hope drank in the sight, realizing just how much she had come to love this old house. How could she bear to lose it?
As she walked into the bar of moonlight, something sparkled on the floor before her. Bending, she ran her hand along the hand-carved wainscoting, only to feel a jab at her finger, just as she had felt earlier during her rehearsal on the stairs. When she tugged aside an uneven piece of wood, she found a circular piece of metal half-hidden in the shadows. Dark patches of tarnish clung to the deeply etched grooves as she carried it to the window.
Moonlight met the snarling face of a wolf, his powerful body crouched to attack. The raw beauty of the piece left Hope stunned. She felt the aura of power clinging to the old ornament, and her breath caught.
The figure was hard and uncompromising, just like the portrait behind her. Surely this was a man’s design, never worn by a delicate female. No woman would feel comfortable wearing a symbol of such blatant male power.
Hope shivered, half expecting to see an arrogant male face glaring at her for touching this treasured ornament. As she turned, moonlight swept the old painting and the knight’s long cloak seemed to blow about his powerful body. Suddenly the circular shape at his shoulder was very clear.
A crouching wolf, just like the one in her fingers.
Hope cradled the heavy brooch, feeling the metal warm to her touch. Its beauty was hypnotic, pulsing with powerful images of the man who had worn it above one shoulder. Like the portrait, the brooch belonged here at Glenbrae.
But perhaps it would have a special use.
An idea came to Hope in a blaze of inspiration. A design of such power and beauty would be worth a great deal to the right person with an eye for history, and she knew just that man, English collector Winston Wyndgate.
Her fingers tightened on the silver oval. Perhaps Glenbrae House had just given Hope her miracle.
The wind whined past the house as Hope snuggled into a thick down coverlet two hours later.
Moonlight and stars were gone now, trapped behind angry banks of clouds.
She should have closed the shutters, but there was a rare magic in the sight of a storm churning over the Scottish countryside.
She willed herself to relax, fighting tangled thoughts of border raiders and dour Highland warriors. Worst of all was the image of a silver wolf that howled its pain to the night sky.
After her discovery on the stairs, Hope had pored through Glenbrae’s extensive library for any clues to the dating of the exquisite silver brooc
h, but her search had been fruitless. Though she found pages of simple necklaces and religious pieces, none showed the dramatic sculptural detail of her wolf.
There was no question the brooch was old and very rare. Its striking artistry would only add to its historical value. She prayed that its sale would keep her solvent a while longer.
But there was still the problem of luring visitors to Glenbrae, of course. At first she had been convinced that a stay in a rugged Highland tower house offered the perfect adventure for sophisticated travelers. In fact, when she had initially approached travel companies in Britain and the U.S., she had received enthusiastic support.
Only later did Hope discover she was expected to slip them a healthy “facilitation fee” before referrals would appear. By the time she understood the bald hints, Glenbrae House’s renovation had emptied her bank account. Without paying guests, she had no money for bribes to buy referrals. Without bribes, she had no guests.
Catch-22.
Outside came the bang of loose shutters. Tree branches whipped angrily in the rising wind.
Storm or not, there was magic in this quiet glen, and Hope was determined to find a way to hang on. She prayed her brooch was the answer as she drifted off into a troubled sleep.
Hope tossed restlessly. She dreamed of fighting her way through corridors filled with unsmiling IRS agents. And silhouetted in the background was a warrior, one hand on his sword hilt as he stood guard over his rugged domain.
A shutter banged angrily in the wind. Lightning streaked in angry fury above the hills.
A branch tore away from a tree. Hope sat up sharply, suddenly wide-awake. The rain hammered in earnest now, drumming against the roof and windows. A bulky black shape flew past her window and hung flapping from a tree branch.
It was the last tarpaulin she had spread over the damaged roof. So much for her temporary effort to repair the hole in the thatch.
She jerked on a sweater and jeans and ran for a flashlight, regretting that Gabrielle and Jeffrey had decided to spend a leisurely evening in the village. By the time they returned, the six upstairs rooms could be awash in rain and damaged beyond recovery.
Rain pounded at her face as she shoved open the rear door and raced outside to get a ladder. Gasping, she hefted the heavy frame against the house. With water sluicing down her cheeks, she wobbled up the rungs while the tarpaulin snapped angrily in the wind.
At the top of the ladder, she crawled onto the wet thatch. The remaining length of canvas was already flapping free above the roof hole. Blinking against the rain, Hope tackled the cloth, blindly fighting the wind.
A tree branch tore free and sailed past her head. Hope ducked just in time, barely avoiding a direct hit. Below her the hillside stretched black and ominous.
Don’t look down, she thought hysterically. A few more gale-force gusts and she would be tossed off the roof. Breaking her neck seemed a real possibility.
Hope heard the faint cry of an animal, all but drowned out by the drum of thunder. Lightning arced again, outlining the streaming reeds. Frantically she twisted a heavy rope over the slapping canvas.
As she glanced up, she was struck by a sudden sense of unfamiliarity about the landscape. The hills seemed—wrong. Trees rose where there shouldn’t have been trees, and the curve of the path lay like a dark snake, angled higher than it should have been.
Wind tore at her hair and pebbles stung her cheeks.
She swayed dizzily, telling herself that Glenbrae House was exactly as it had always been. Only the darkness made the surroundings look unfamiliar.
Balanced precariously, she lashed the last rope down over the ragged thatch, again struck with the dizzy sense that something was wrong. Out in the darkness she heard a sharp cry that might have been the neigh of a horse. Squinting, she made out a black shape racing through the trees above the orchard, the form almost like a man on horseback.
Hope fought back a wild laugh. Either the rider was mad or she was hallucinating.
The figure grew larger, silhouetted against the steep gorge bordering the mouth of the loch. No one could jump the chasm and survive, Hope knew. Not even in broad daylight.
On a night like this, it would be suicide to try.
Surely he must know that.
On he came, the thunder of hooves clearer now. Against the storm, man and mount gathered speed, and Hope watched terrified as they raced toward the high stones leading to a sheer drop.
And certain death.
She closed her eyes, afraid to look. Any second she expected to hear the animal’s shrill scream of terror.
As the storm raged on, she opened one eye and in a ghostly flash she saw horse and rider soar over the wall of stone, out above the churning waters at the far side of the loch.
The landscape seemed to change, shifting beneath them. Hope clutched at the rain-slick rope, blinking back tears. Only by a miracle had they survived. The man might be crazy, but he had rare courage to make such a leap, enough perhaps to help her finish lashing down the canvas….
The wind gusted around her, angry and furious, whipping her hands free. The next thing she knew, she was falling, slammed blindly down toward the roof’s yawning hole.
The sound of her own terror rang in her ears.
PART TWO
The Gift
Night cannot hold,
Nor forest gain…
CHAPTER THREE
A TRUE STORM FROM HELL, MacLeod thought grimly.
Demon winds fought the night, wild beyond any he had known.
Dirt and branches slapped his face. He cursed, trying to hold his mount steady as it danced skittishly beneath every burst of thunder.
He had left the village hours ago, only to wind blindly through the bracken-covered glen. Now, for some reason, every stone and slope looked foreign to him.
In truth, the hard ale he had consumed at his meal may have been to blame, but somehow MacLeod did not believe it so.
His horse sidestepped wildly as lightning struck only yards away. Where was the infernal track back to Glenbrae?
“Soft, my beauty,” he murmured, gentling the great bay with a touch. “We’ll be inside and there you’ll find dry straw beneath you instead of this cursed mud.” As MacLeod spoke, the rain-slick bank gave way. His mount foundered before finally kicking free and plunging forward.
Darkness and more darkness stretched before them.
Well did the warrior regret leaving his pallet. Even more did he regret the strange sense of need that had pulled him from his snug tower house out into the gusty night.
But a knight of St. Julian did not turn away from anyone in need. The storm had called to him like a silent cry for help, and a terrible force of urgency churned inside him even now.
With his bay saddled, he had plunged across the glen, ignoring the worried looks of his groom and page. Rain lashed him in sheets, dimming his view to little more than the muddy slope before him.
There were cliffs all about these glens, MacLeod knew. Every bend hid sheer walls and dizzying drops. But worry gained strength as he rode, and he could not turn back until he had an answer.
Somewhere below he heard the roar of water. The byrne was angry, awash in the storm. The ground seemed to dip and the trees whirled around him.
Wrong, he thought. All infernally wrong.
Over the shriek of the wind, he heard a scream of terror. He could have sworn that the trail changed, flattening before him.
He gripped the reins, peering into the sheeting rain as lightning flared overhead. Another scream confirmed that his instincts had been true. Danger lay nearby in the night.
The old wound burned at his knee as the bay reared, mud flung up beneath the powerful hooves.
Down the slope and a league beyond, darkness veiled the cliff face. Fighting a sense of dread, MacLeod struggled to turn his mount, but the bay was at the gallop, wild with fear.
While the wind keened, man and rider leaned into the jump, out over the deadly stone face combed
by rain and mist. Into the darkness they plunged, across the heather and the wild byrne.
Another cry reached out to MacLeod even then….
HOPE SCREAMED WITH PAIN. Her fingers burned as she clawed at the roof edge, losing inches with each passing second.
Thank God, the rider had come from the cliffs, answering her call.
He rocked forward into the wind while his anxious bay sidestepped nervously along the narrow trail. A branch swept past his head, and he ducked at the same moment he saw Hope and called out.
She did not understand, his words lost against the boom of thunder. Wind whipped around the steep, angled roof and tore the rope from her fingers. As she grabbed for a handhold, the horse reared and its rider again shouted a harsh command.
Desperately Hope clawed at the soggy reeds, which shredded at her touch. Her foot sank through a rotting beam and swept her out into cold, empty space.
She pitched down the wet reeds, a captive of the rope lashing down the tarpaulin, her scream drowning out the man’s angry shout. Rain slammed into her face, and time seemed to go on forever. As if in a nightmare, she plunged toward the ground, spinning blindly.
The great horse neighed shrilly as its rider kneed forward.
Instead of hard earth, Hope felt the impact of warm muscle halting her descent. Her breath shuddered as she toppled forward, clinging to the terrified horse. Her whole body throbbed, but she was alive.
Breathless, she turned to study the man whom she had to thank for saving her life.
His long black hair blew about his face, as wet as her own. Darkness veiled his features, permitting only a glimpse of piercing eyes and tense jaw. But the strength of his body was unmistakable. She blushed to feel his thighs strain where she straddled him.
He muttered a low phrase to the horse, the words snatched away by the wind. The sounds seemed to gentle the creature, and Hope, too, felt curiously calmed by the soft rhythm of his speech. Though the language was unclear, she decided no man could be a complete villain if he could calm an animal with such gentle confidence.
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