Bound by Dreams
Page 1
Praise for works by
CHRISTINA SKYE
TO CATCH A THIEF
“Fast-paced action, vivid detail, a touch of the paranormal, and hot lovemaking will please readers of adventure romance, while fans of Skye’s Draycott Abbey and Code Name series will enjoy this clever union of the two.”
—Booklist
CODE NAME: BIKINI
“A fun, antic read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fast-paced action, flashes of humor, and futuristic flavor typify this romantic action-adventure. Fans of the Code Name series will enjoy this delicious addition.”
—Kristin Ramsdell, Library Journal
CODE NAME: BLONDIE
“Romantic thrills and adventure from the expert.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Skye is terrific at writing fast-paced adventure romances…a tantalizing addition to the compelling Code Name series.”
—Booklist
CODE NAME: BABY
“Thrilling…fans should eagerly await the next in the series.”
—Publishers Weekly
THE DRAYCOTT LEGACY
“Christina Skye’s delightfully haunting Draycott Abbey tales…pass the test of time, as they remain some of the better romantic fantasies available.”
—Harriet Klausner
Also available from
CHRISTINA SKYE
and HQN Books
CODE NAME
Code Name: Bikini
Code Name: Blondie
Code Name: Baby
DRAYCOTT ABBEY
Draycott Everlasting
To Catch a Thief
Draycott Eternal
The Draycott Legacy
CHRISTINA SKYE
BOUND BY DREAMS
BOUND BY DREAMS
CONTENTS
PART ONE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PART ONE
One crow for sorrow,
Two crows for joy
PROLOGUE
Sussex, England
Draycott Abbey
Summer
THE NIGHT IS ALIVE, restless with dreams.
Almost two decades have passed since he walked this soft grass. Touched these worn stones of Draycott Abbey.
The name flows off his tongue, rich with history. Near his hand a mound of lavender stirs, cool with dew and perfume. The scent he remembers well, along with his hours of peace in the abbey’s shadow.
Every detail of the great house is branded into his memory.
For twenty years he has not come back to these green hills. The danger is too great, carrying the threat of what he once was…and can become again.
The wind draws him to the moat’s edge. He smells the tall grass, feels the brush of young leaves on his skin. Somewhere in the darkness a hunting bird calls sharply.
The night flows around him. Then the past rushes in with a surge of bitterness. The pain slams down.
He remembers the betrayal and lost hope. From his innocence had come death.
His muscles flex. Tendons move, blood sings. Power slides down like swift moonlight spilled across endless seas. The life he’d left behind rushes in, carrying the slap of the wind, the harsh rhythm of an old Gaelic curse.
He remembers the hammer of callused hands at his neck and then the cold taste of blood.
His own blood. From wounds that had left him dead, or close enough to call dead.
He slips off his shoes.
Thyme and mint crush beneath his feet, just like the last time he was here to visit his oldest friend.
Sweat glistens on his bare skin. The night is cool, but to him it is warmth enough when the wind calls. Better to run, to hunt. It is safe here, because darkness is his home and haven.
Roses brush his arm, scenting the air with perfume. His skin burns. The time of power floods through him.
Muscles flex, changing to match a new shape and all its strength.
His hands clench. He touches the low iron fence. One hand grips the cool rail as the power snaps. He lets down the final wall, feels the explosion of dark strength that surges through him.
He remembers another night, too many years ago to count. His first taste of power—and the death it carried. He remembers a boy’s raw, bone-wrenching terror, understanding nothing. That night there had been no control, no confidence, no hope. Only death.
Old history.
Dead ashes.
He mutters an oath and snaps his bond to the past. In silent fury, his body rushes into life, driven by the energy of the hunt. Across the hill he can hear a leaf fall and feel the weight of moonlight on his bare hands.
Alive.
More than alive—with such power as no mortal man can know.
His jacket drops. His clothes fall to the soft earth.
The abbey is as much of a home as he has ever known, and Calan MacKay feels the power of its welcome as he stands in the night, face to the north. The wind from the woods brings the rich scent of prey and the taste of rain before dawn. He runs, a shadow in the trees. A shadow with keenest sight and unthinkable strength. His muscles gather and stretch. Senses burning.
Then he is gone, swallowed by the darkness.
A bird cries. Moon rising.
Strange footprints dot the mud above the abbey’s moat.
HE SMELLS HER across the hill.
A touch of softness. A hint of warmth.
Woman.
Her perfume holds soft ginger. Orange. A hint of cinnamon.
Without looking, he knows her location. Her scent marks every step. Hidden by a mound of lavender, he waits.
She thinks she is alone. Every step she makes is quick, wary. She is small. Fast. Careful. This is what he sees in the space of a breath. The other details come slowly. Yet they are mostly about what she is not.
Not beautiful.
Not frightened.
Not sure of where she is going.
And because he is an intruder here himself, Calan MacKay does not interfere. He marks her progress, sensing the force of emotion that drives her over the damp grass to a gray boulder above the great sweep of the abbey’s west meadow. From here every detail of motion along the driveway is visible.
But at three in the morning, there is no movement. The grand house is empty. He has already checked to be sure. He is alone.
The woman in the black sweater stops suddenly. One hand to the gray rock, she closes her eyes and sinks down. Tears shimmer. Her head touches her open hands.
He smells the salt of her tears then. The scent is physical, painfully intimate, as if he had shared her body in the most primal form of sex. Her tears smell like youth…and sadness.
Ginger and sunshine.
He is stunned at his sudden awareness of a stranger’s body. It has been years since he has felt such sharp curiosity about a wo
man.
Curiosity turns to something darker.
If things were different, he would make it his goal to taste her passion and her body. He would drive her slowly, making her burn as he suddenly burns. He would hunt and then possess her until his curiosity was slaked.
Something tells him that could take a lifetime.
But he has no lifetime to give. Because Calan MacKay cannot be gentle or trusting, he crushes his desire. She has stirred up emotions he can never afford.
He curses, summoning anger instead. It will be an easy thing to frighten her away. Slow, he moves through the arched rose bower, a shadow amid shadows, making no sound. Almost at her side.
She gives no sign, perched on the rock, eyes intent. Suddenly she sways and pushes to her feet. Her fingers dig furiously at one pocket.
He tenses, no longer a simple observer. She is an intruder on Draycott soil and he plans his direction of attack, the timing of his approach to overpower her.
But the choked sound of her pain is not what he expects. What she pulls from her pocket is not a weapon. Only a folded piece of paper.
Small and fragile, it covers her palm.
He can smell the age caught in its fibers. Salt is locked within faint layers of human sweat, as if the sheet has been carried for years in trembling hands.
Her jaw tightens. She does not have to read the words on the fragile sheet to know their secret. Sliding to her knees, she searches the dark earth. Her eyes are hard with anger as she grips a small stone and hurls it toward the distant house. “Damn you,” she rasps. “Damn all of you.”
She throws another stone, and now he sees the tears spilling down her pale cheeks. He smells the salt of her skin and his body tightens in harsh response. He wants to know her name, her breathless laugh, the heat of her thighs.
He wants to know her body and everything about her.
Reckless wishes. He will never know her.
The tall Scotsman doesn’t move, though every nerve shouts for him to cross the darkness between them. Who is this stranger to hold him, tempt him?
She stands awkwardly, her shoulders tense. No more tears now. Only anger.
She lifts one hand in a fist. “Leave us alone,” she orders hoarsely. “Let it end.”
His curiosity is caught hard now, so he follows when she climbs the hill, hidden when she kneels beneath an ancient oak. She digs with bare fingers and a simple kitchen knife, raking the earth in long lines. He can barely hold himself back when she leans down to the wet earth.
To find what?
She twists suddenly, and her pale face is caught in the moonlight, something from his deepest dreams. Dark eyes glint with tears and fury as she tosses the knife.
It spins high—and lands at his feet.
An accident, or has she sensed his presence after all?
“Gone.” Her harsh whisper drifts on the wind. “Taken like everything else…” She stands, unsteady, one hand white against the ancient tree. With a sigh, she pulls her jacket closed, staring around uncertainly.
And then she turns.
Away from the house. She crosses the dark grass, her shoulders stooped with weariness. Questions storm into his mind as she passes, close enough to touch.
He holds his distance as she crosses the meadow, climbs a small stone fence. From there she winds through the copse that borders the road.
Somewhere in the darkness a car engine coughs.
He draws back. She is still walking when two men emerge from behind a tangle of weeds. They block her scream. Her hands claw and scrape in her struggles.
Anger explodes through him. With their scent like a beacon, he opens to the hunt. But not fast enough.
She fights well, but the men are stonger and they take her just the same. The car motor whines.
Silent and deadly, the Scotsman hunts.
CHAPTER ONE
THEY CAME AT HER without warning. One minute Kiera Morissey had been cursing Draycott Abbey and its arrogant owner, determined to make her visit short so she could be gone forever.
Now she was struggling for her life against violent men in black masks. Her mother’s deathbed request had led her straight into a nightmare.
A rag blocked her mouth, making her gag. Rough hands gripped her wrists, twisting until she moaned. She was supposed to be fighting memories, not violent assailants. Who were these people? What did they want with her?
Security guards? Kiera would have expected the Draycott family to post a team of bad-tempered Neanderthals to guard their precious privacy. But would they condone this kind of violence?
The wind snapped through the trees. Birds exploded over her head as she fought harder. Plastic bonds locked her wrists sharply. She couldn’t see, striking out at her attackers by feel alone. She knew there were two of them, and so far they had said only a few words, all of them in a language that sounded Slavic.
This was a private unit of hired foreign thugs, meant to protect the aristocratic owner of the abbey and his family? Hard to believe, even for the arrogant Draycotts.
She didn’t frighten easily, though she hadn’t been prepared for an attack on a quiet country road in the English countryside.
Now she was focused, ready to fight back. Her father had taught her self-defense as soon as she was big enough to hold a Muy Thai stick and play at kickboxing moves. Yet in her emotion at her first glimpse of Draycott Abbey, she had violated the crucial rule: Always stay prepared.
Now her attackers were going to get a little surprise.
Kiera made the move exactly as her father had taught her. She went completely limp, toppling sideways. Before her beefy captor could adjust to her sudden falling weight in his arms, she snapped forward and kicked him solidly in the groin.
His wheeze of stunned shock told her he had expected fear and blind compliance. No way, dog breath.
The second his hands loosened, she dropped to her knees, rolled and then shot toward the woods. She was in good shape. She also had a five-yard lead on the second attacker. She grabbed the top of the abbey’s stone fence, pulled herself up and threw one leg over.
But her pursuer lunged and managed to grab her ankle just before it cleared the fence. He jerked her backward, her face scraping against the stones. Blood gushed over her lip, but when he tried to shove her down beneath him, she clawed at his eyes, sending him reeling.
Unfortunately Attacker Two had sewer breath. He was also the size of a Mack truck. With a jerk of his callused hands, he drove her flat onto the ground. Then he stood over her, one heel pressed at her throat.
Bad sign, Kiera thought.
Any second she would have a crushed windpipe.
“What do you want?” She hated that her voice was high and spiky. The heel pressed to her throat started to grind down. “Okay, are you some kind of private police? Security guards from Draycott Abbey?” She spoke wildly, saying anything that came to mind.
His foot froze. A good sign.
“I mean, if you’re hired by Viscount Draycott, I can explain.”
His breath caught.
Kiera still couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but she heard his clothes rustle and then the click of a cell phone opening. He muttered something in a language that definitely sounded Slavic, then waited for an answer. Hoping for a distraction, she went perfectly still on the ground, but the pressure on her throat never loosened, nor did his gaze leave her face. Clearly this gorilla had military or professional security training, and now his focus was almost palpable.
Simple tricks weren’t going to work with this one.
In the distance she heard the low growl of a motor. Picking up speed. Coming closer.
Straight in her direction.
Attacker One grunted, slowly recovering, one hand to his eyes. Kiera’s mind raced through escape scenarios. Her father had taught her dozens. No way was she going to be a statistic on the evening news.
When the gorilla closed his cell phone, Kiera focused. He reached down, jerking her to her feet.
She twisted and dug two fingers into his neck, precisely at the vulnerable notch of his collarbone. Muscle flexed and then cartilage tore nicely. While he was still hunched over in shock, she sank her teeth into his palm, deep enough to feel skin part. Bone ground beneath her teeth.
She spit out blood but the man’s grip held firm. His growl of fury didn’t quite cover the sound of the car motor nearby.
Panic squeezed hard. Damn, damn, damn. How many more men were inside the car?
Then Kiera heard leaves rustle.
Something was moving toward her from the far side of the fence. There was no mistaking the snap of twigs, the harsh breathing, the sounds made by a very large animal.
There was something strange about that rough breathing. Or maybe it was hypoxia starting to kick in. She aimed two more satisfying collarbone jabs as her attacker’s fingers locked around her throat.
Dizziness tore at her vision.
Oxygen almost gone.
A dark shape exploded over the stone fence. Kiera heard the slap of a body and then the sound of bushes shaking. She could see almost nothing as she fought her furious captor. Then abruptly she was free, her attacker sinking to one knee.
Car lights cut across the road, closing in fast as Kiera shot across the pavement to the far slope, where the ground fell away abruptly at the edge of a creek. Diving over the bank, she tucked sharply and landed in a sprawl at the bottom.
The sounds were muffled here. Up on the bank she heard the squeal of brakes and harsh voices, followed by a scream of pure terror.
Something growled. The sound made Kiera’s hair stand on end. She had seen predators in zoos throughout Europe, but she had never heard that kind of growl, a sound that held cunning and intelligence.