Draycott Everlasting

by Christina Skye

  “Café au lait, my own special recipe.” A dimple appeared at Gabrielle’s cheek. “With a healthy dose of single-malt whisky added.” Her tone became grave. “It will all work out. Just you wait and see.”

  After her chef left, Hope rubbed her forehead, searching for equal optimism.

  Winston Wyndgate III was pacing impatiently through the sunny front salon. Sunlight glinted off his steel-gray hair, playing up the suit that had been custom tailored for his tall frame. At somewhere between fifty and sixty, he had a shrewd eye and an encyclopedic memory, a combination that made him respected but not greatly liked in his profession.

  Soon after her purchase of Glenbrae, he had phoned Hope to see if there were any authentic period objects that he might consider worth his interest. But Hope had found no furniture or ceramics of any great age in the house. She refused to part with the attic full of books—not that they would fetch much at auction since they were of no great age or rarity.

  When she offered tea, the professor impatiently declined. “I am interested in art, not nourishment, Ms. O’Hara. I presume you had a reason to drag me up here.” Wyndgate glanced through the room, clearly unimpressed.

  To Hope’s irritation, her hands trembled slightly as she opened the leather box holding her discovery. “Right here.”

  Sunlight played over the heavy, etched silver, gleaming in the wolf’s cabochon aquamarine eyes.

  Wyndgate’s expression was unreadable. “You found this hidden in a wall, you said?”

  Hope nodded, wishing her heart would not race. Wishing that Wyndgate’s decision would not affect her entire future.

  “How old is the house?” he asked abruptly.

  “Thirteenth century, with a restoration in brick sometime in the sixteenth century. The thatched roof was probably added to replace an earlier slate roof that had fallen from siege or age.”

  “Was the wainscoting present in the restored section?”

  “In most rooms. But there was a second panel behind that, and the brooch was wedged there near the floor.”

  The dealer sat forward, his eyes narrowed. “May I examine the piece?” At Hope’s nod, he spread out a black velvet cloth and slid a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket. He worked in silence for nearly ten minutes, examining the deeply grooved silver from every angle while Hope watched with growing anxiety. Maybe the brooch was worthless, a modern trinket that had somehow fallen and worked its way behind the wall.

  “What do you think?”

  “An attractive little thing. Rather nice sculptural detail in the body.” He replaced the brooch on the layer of velvet. “How much do you want for it?”

  Sunlight cast sparks of light onto the hammered silver. Hope was struck as she had been before by the power that clung to the crouching wolf. “How much is it worth?” she countered.

  “That rather depends, Ms. O’Hara.”

  On what? Hope wanted to scream.

  But the academic was not to be hurried. He shifted the brooch from side to side, frowning. “I believe there may be a good deal of legend connected to this brooch.”

  Hope watched sunlight play over the silver like cold fire. The wolf’s aquamarine eyes seemed to shift, following her.

  Forget about its beauty, she thought. Forget about history. Things at Glenbrae House had reached the desperate stage. If there was value to the brooch, then it would have to go. “What kind of legends?”

  “I believe there are only two known items of any similarity to this one. Both are in private collections.” Wyndgate put down the brooch, steepling his fingers. “Works like this were usually presented by the sovereign in appreciation of services rendered.”

  “What kind of services?”

  “Bloody services, Ms. O’Hara. I would venture to say they included tracking down malcontents, ferreting out spies and dispensing with the king’s enemies. The man who wore this brooch carried heavy memories, I can assure you. Today we would call him a hired gun. He was a man of unquestioned loyalty, a seasoned warrior who would be expected to lay down his life for his king or kill any enemy that threatened the security of the realm. He was a man to be feared by man and woman alike.”

  Hope stared at the crouching wolf. “And he lived here?”

  “The records are not entirely clear. A warrior is known to have held lands in Glenbrae sometime in the late thirteenth century. It was a troubled time, with peasant unrest, border raids and frequent famines. There can be gaps in the historical documents, you understand.”

  But dry history didn’t interest Hope. It was the flesh and blood of the past that made her pulse race. Glenbrae House represented all those things to her.

  She swallowed. Ronan MacLeod had claimed to come from the thirteenth century. The King’s Wolf, he had called himself.

  She stared at the brooch with growing uneasiness. “Do you know his name?”

  Wyndgate shrugged. “That’s one of the gaps, I’m afraid. No one records the warrior’s clan or his place of birth. He was a solitary man, hardened by war and the sort of jobs that fell to his hand.”

  “Does the phrase ‘the King’s Wolf’ mean anything to you?”

  Wyndgate toyed with a heavy gold cufflink. “Should it?”

  “It might have some connection with the brooch.” Hope couldn’t believe that she was actually considering the possibility that MacLeod had told her the truth. But like it or not, the coincidences were piling up fast.

  “I could check further.” His lips pursed. “For my usual fee, of course.”

  Hope brushed her palm slowly over the brooch. “How much is it worth?”

  “How much do you want?” Wyndgate parried.

  “It’s very unusual, you said. In that case, let’s say…twenty-five.” Hope held her breath, waiting for a flat rejection. She had no idea what the brooch might be worth, but with twenty-five hundred pounds in her pocket, she could begin to pay off some of her most pressing debts.

  Wyndgate turned slowly. “Twenty-five,” he repeated softly. “You’re a sharper negotiator than I thought, Ms. O’Hara. I suppose this old house is very expensive to maintain.” His eyes narrowed, hawklike. “Very well, I’ll pay your price, though some might consider twenty-five thousand pounds a bit steep.”

  Hope swallowed hard. Twenty-five thousand?

  Twenty-five thousand?

  She stared at the crouching figure. At that price, she couldn’t afford to keep the heirloom. Not even if the eyes of the wolf seemed to follow her reproachfully. And she refused to consider MacLeod’s outrageous story any longer.

  She held out her hand. “Sold.”

  “Excellent. I’ll make you a bank draft right now, if that would be convenient.”

  “That would be fine.” Hope struggled to keep her voice steady as she watched Wyndgate scratch out a satisfying string of zeroes with a heavy gold fountain pen.

  Now she had a chance. With luck she could keep Glenbrae House going until its reputation was restored. If so, it would be thanks to a silver wolf, the gift of a warrior from an age she would never know.

  As Wyndgate slid the beautiful ornament into a thick velvet pouch, Hope felt a pang of regret. “You’ll send me a picture, won’t you? I’d like to see the brooch when it is completely documented.”

  “Nostalgia, Ms. O’Hara?” The dealer’s brow rose.

  Hope looked out the window over the slope to the roof, where Jeffrey and Ronan were hard at work. “Maybe I feel I owe it to the brooch’s owner. Whoever he was.”

  Wyndgate shrugged. “As you wish.”

  Halfway to the door, he turned back to her. “Perhaps you should check the records here. You might find some documents left with the house.”

  “There’s nothing. The books that were here at the time of purchase date entirely from the past seventy years, I’m afraid.”

  A shaft of sunlight touched his steely hair. “There might be something you’ve missed. Perhaps I should have a look before I go.” He seemed to hesitate.

  “Is something wr
ong?”

  “I now recall there was some unpleasantness about the brooch, Ms. O’Hara. This warrior had many enemies who would have been happy to seize it—along with the royal power it conferred.”

  “You mean it might have been stolen and then left here?”

  “Possibly. Or perhaps the owner hid it himself, hoping to keep it safe. I’ll have a look at the Ashmoleon. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to examine the stairwell where you found this. Then I’d like to see the library. If you have rather an extensive collection, there might be some useful documents mixed in.” He studied her with growing impatience.

  Hope folded the bank draft and told herself to stop feeling guilty. The brooch would ensure Glenbrae House’s survival. As the house’s owner, it was her decision and no one else’s.

  “What will you do with it now?” she asked. “Sell it or keep it for your own collection?”

  “That depends what I’m offered for the piece.” He rubbed his hands briskly. “Of course, with the proper documentation, the price could rise quite significantly. You’ll understand why I’m anxious to make a systematic search before I go.”

  “Of course.” Hope pointed the way to the shadowed stairwell and the picture above. Winston Wyndgate paid no attention to the image of the medieval knight, too intent on exploring the loose wedge of wainscoting.

  Hope left him at his search.

  Hope had barely reached her office when Jeffrey charged in with a plank of wood caught beneath his arm.

  “Look at this beam,” he crowed, barely missing Hope’s desk lamp with his plank. “Rotted through, but not to worry. When MacLeod says he’s good, he’s good. In two days you’re going to have a seriously excellent thatched roof.”

  Hope touched the stained wood. So the two men actually could repair a roof. It was clear she had underestimated them.

  “There isn’t much MacLeod doesn’t know about thatched roofs.” Jeffrey frowned, drumming three fingers on the plank. “Although he seems confused about a fair number of other things.” He rubbed his jaw. “But you should see him work. He’s coated the reeds with a layer of clay to reduce the fire hazard, though how he thought of that is beyond me. Then he managed to brace two of your beams that were ready to split.” Jeffrey stretched contentedly. “I haven’t had so much fun in ages.”

  Hope was about to question him further when she heard an explosive crack from the kitchen, followed by a torrent of Gabrielle’s angry French.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HOPE RACED DOWN TO the kitchen to find a pot boiling over and the curtains flying madly. Gabrielle was huddled against one wall, a spatula clasped to her chest.

  MacLeod stood in the center of the room, staring in horror at the television set above Gabrielle’s worktable. At his feet were the shattered remains of an old but very ugly Sèvres platter.

  “Diable.” He made the sign of the cross, then pulled his sword from the floor. “Stand away. This is the devil’s dark work.”

  Hope felt a hysterical laugh build in her throat. “A television set?”

  “They move, these demons.”

  Hope took a cautious step forward. “It’s all right, MacLeod. Put down the sword. It’s only reruns of Gilligan’s Island.”

  “You know their names?”

  “Of course I do. Boring, but hardly the work of the devil.”

  He traced the mark of the cross again, this time with his sword. “Evil can be most cunning,” he said harshly. “In the Holy Lands I had many visions. Around the campfire mirages came often to torment our souls in the desert light, but none were so clear as this one.”

  Hope saw him tense, his hand rising. “What are you doing?” She managed to catch his sword arm seconds before he would have decimated the glass screen. The man was consistent, at least. Every piece of his story meshed, right down to the part about the Holy Lands and the campfires.

  But there was one small problem.

  Time could not bend. Space and matter did not transmute, swallowing up unsuspecting victims.

  Get a grip, she told herself.

  “I own demesne lands in the fens of Norfolk and forty acres in Normandy.” MacLeod’s jaw clenched. “I have ridden with kings and supped with the mightiest of Outremar. Such tricks cannot deceive me.”

  Gabrielle was looking at him as if he were crazy. And Hope feared that any moment Winston Wyndgate might appear.

  Explanations would have to wait, she decided. “It’s all right, MacLeod. Trust me.” She reached for the television controls, but he seized her hand.

  On the screen Gilligan launched into one of his incessant arguments with the captain. It appeared to have something to do with a monkey and a very large coconut.

  MacLeod stood stiffly, his whole being locked on the square glass screen. His concentration was almost frightening, Hope thought.

  “How do the men fit inside the box?”

  “They’re not real, MacLeod. They’re just images.”

  “So they are spirits.”

  When MacLeod raised his sword again, Hope moved in front of him. “That’s enough culture for one day.” She tried to turn off the power, but missed, and a moment later the screen filled with a glorious panorama of the Cartwright family galloping over the high plains of the Ponderosa Ranch.

  MacLeod muttered harshly. “What manner of knights are these?”

  “Not knights, cowboys.”

  “I know what a cow is,” he said with angry dignity. “I also know what a boy is.” He gestured fiercely at the television screen. “These are neither cows nor boys. And their horses are strange.”

  Gabrielle and Jeffrey had crept closer behind her and were staring at MacLeod in shock.

  “You’ve never seen a cowboy?” Jeffrey asked. “The Magnificent Seven? Lonesome Dove?”

  MacLeod’s frown deepened. “Tricks and more tricks.” He kept one eye on the television while he leveled his sword protectively in front of Hope. “What kind of magic have you conjured?”

  “Not magic, technology. Science, MacLeod.”

  His face held no sign of understanding.

  Jeffrey gave a low whistle. “He’s serious. The man has never seen a cowboy before.”

  The tiny hairs stirred at the back of Hope’s neck.

  Frowning, she hit the power button and the screen went dark. She had enough problems for one morning without questioning her own sanity or the arcane laws of physics. Besides, MacLeod was favoring his good knee again. Crawling up the steep roof must have been agony for him.

  “You should have told me your knee was bothering you again.”

  “It does not pain me.” Even as he spoke, he slid more weight onto his other foot, grimacing slightly.

  “Yeah, right,” she muttered, tugging him toward the stairs.

  “No. I want to know about tel-e-vision. In my time—”

  “Later, MacLeod. Since you’ve worked so hard, I want you to have a nice hot soak. The heat will help your knee.”

  “Heating water will be too much trouble,” he said gruffly.

  Hope tugged at his arm, anxious to get him out of the kitchen before Wyndgate appeared. “No problem. I expect I can manage to turn a few handles for you.”

  The cozy bathroom had high ceilings, and the walls were lined with blue-and-white wallpaper crowded with scenes of cats. Sun shone through fine lace curtains as Hope opened the tall armoire by the door. “Here are clean towels. Don’t feel you have to rush.” She turned when she heard no answer. “MacLeod?”

  He stood frozen in the doorway, one hand clenched to a fist. “This is the place?” He traced the porcelain sink warily. “You bathe in this?”

  “No, over here.” Hope pointed to a luxurious oversize tub nestled on intricate wooden feet. “There’s sandalwood or jasmine soap. Take your pick.”

  “Soap is for women,” MacLeod said flatly. “Have you no sand?”

  Sighing, Hope flicked on the faucets and watched hot water stream into the tub. “Sorry, no sand.”

  H
esitantly he stuck a finger into the water. “It burns.”

  “It had better burn. I paid a fortune to have the plumbing redone.”

  MacLeod stood mesmerized by the water, as intent as a child with a new toy. Hope decided it was time to spring her next question. “Now you can tell me what was really going on out there by the loch.”

  His head rose slowly. “Going on?”

  “That’s right. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you were watching the woods before we were locked in the shed.”

  He frowned. “I do not know what you mean.”

  Hope sighed. Talking to him was like trying to discuss emotions with Mr. Spock. “Don’t try to distract me. I want to know why you were so uneasy. I especially want to know what happened with that door.”

  MacLeod stirred the water. Hope was fairly certain he was stalling for time. “Well?”

  He turned, moving closer. One finger rose to her cheek. “You have water here.” Very gently he lifted the fragile, glistening bead onto his finger.

  The movement made Hope’s entire body tighten. She took a step backward, more angry at herself than him. “Forget about the water. I want answers.”

  “Answers were na what you wished of me before.” The Gaelic cadences were rough in his voice. “Outside by the loch, you were open to me, mo rùn. Open to all that you were feeling.”

  Hope swallowed. He wasn’t going to let her forget, was he? “That was then, and this is now.”

  “Is forgetting so easy for you?”

  Hope had not forgotten anything, but she wasn’t about to cave in to lust again. She couldn’t afford to. “I’ll survive.”

  Motionless, Ronan MacLeod watched the currents hiss and ripple. He marveled at hot water that ran from a metal hole with no fire, and lights that glowed from glass globes set on the walls. Miracles of her time, he thought, and she counted them for naught.

  By honor, in this age even bathing taxed his reason. He could never be comfortable here.

  And what of his suspicions? Once they were freed, he had immediately surveyed the area, but the two men in the shadows were gone. He could confide his suspicions, but he had no doubt they would be greeted with the same disbelief as the rest of his story.