Christmas at Draycott Abbey (3 page)

Somehow Clair had known there would be roses.

Shivering, she pulled the wet blanket around her shoulders, staring at the granite wall before her. The passage had led her here to the edge of a moat, where roses still bloomed, their glorious petals wild shades of peach, yellow and blood-red.

She had always loved roses. Growing up, she had had a skill for nursing the weakest plant back to health. But these roses were like none that she had seen before.

Despite her fear, she couldn’t pull her gaze away from the ancient weathered wall covered by vines. Every bud hung dense with petals, cupping inward in tight layers. These were nothing like the insipid hybrids so popular back in the United States. Even in the gusting rain, their perfume was overpowering. Rich and sweet, they reached out, calling Clair to a place that felt like…

Home

You came.

You will be safe here
, the house whispered.

The muddy slope glittered in a flash of lightning as names flashed into her mind.

Fantin Latour. Maiden’s Blush.

Gloire de Dijon.

Clair could see their colors now, even in the dark. Rain hammered at her bruised body as exhaustion left her weak and swaying. None of it made any sense.

She closed her eyes on a sob, sliding down the muddy slope toward the silver water that shimmered like a half-remembered dream.

Like a past that had been here waiting for her.

And then sanity returned. Gasping, Clair turned and ran, her eyes trained on the open stretch of ground beyond the moat. The woods lay close beyond. She could hide there in the shadows.

Then somehow she would make her way back to the road. If she stayed out of sight, she could walk to the nearest town to find the local police station and report what she knew. She had heard enough before her capture to know that her sister’s captor was no innocent businessman.

She had overheard terse comments about shipments and couriers. Deliveries were expected from various parts of the world, centered in a small town south of London. Clair had no idea what the couriers carried. Biohazards? Security secrets? Drugs?

She’d never gotten close enough to answer any of those questions. But whatever they carried would threaten Britain and all of the country’s allies. Her sister’s killer had betrayed that much one night in a slurred boast.

But that night Claire had been discovered and ordered into restraints. Nina’s killer enjoyed inflicting pain. He had taunted Clair, describing how pathetic her sister had become, at the end of her life.

Clair closed her eyes in pain. He couldn’t be allowed to escape. Even if she died in the process, she had to relay the information about what was planned and the date of the deliveries.

She ran again, clumsy and half lost. She knew this house was not where they had held her. This estate dated back to the fourteenth century, the historian in her whispered. Clumsy in her exhaustion, she slipped, dropping to the muddy slope. The ground seemed to sway as she stared dizzily up the slope. For long seconds everything went blank. Her name. Her mission.

The dangerous men who followed her.

Clair drove her nails hard into her palm, using pain to focus her thoughts. Blood trickled into her eye and she shoved it away with an angry sweep of her cold fingers. She was near the end of the moat now. Only a few hundred yards until the safety of the woods.

She had to hurry….

A dark shape cut off her view of the water, the dog she had seen earlier. Teeth bared, it inched toward her. Half frozen, Clair tried to climb the rugged stones above the moat, but her fingers slipped.

She rolled downwards. Thorns dug at her fingers. Rose petals spilled down, torn free by her blind flailing just as they had fallen before, long ago.

Love had brought her to the abbey then—and honor had driven her away to danger.

And death.

Memories poured over her like angry smoke. And then like half-seen dreams they vanished....

Shuddering, Clair fell down into the hollow darkness. The storm swallowed her cry as the icy waters closed over her.

Just like the last time she had tried to leave Draycott Abbey…

There.

She was running hard, following the moat.

Ian Sinclair grimaced. The cold had penetrated his knee. Every movement sent shards of pain through his leg. But he didn’t stop, listening for sounds of cars or accomplices.

There was nothing except the howl of the wind.

He cursed as he saw her turn and then the slope gave way. In a flash of light fabric she fell, vanishing into the dark waters of the moat.

Ian memorized the spot where her pale shape had vanished, running hard. He couldn’t lose her now. Not when he had waited so long….

Blurred images seemed to well up, bringing the faces of strangers. Clothes that were not of this time. And yet all of it felt familiar to him.

Angrily, Ian focused on the spot where she had disappeared. At the top of the bridge he threw off his jacket and shoes and climbed the narrow arch.

Never taking his eyes away from the water, he jumped.

The shock of the icy currents drove the breath from his lungs. Aware that time was running out, he dove downward, searching for her hand or her hair or the corner of her dress.

Nothing.

Mud and silt churned up, choking him. In the storm he could see nothing.

He dove again, then resurfaced, each time checking the front lights of the abbey to remember his position. Ignoring the throb at his knee, he searched again and again. Something struck his leg. Smooth and slick, it gripped his knee and then tore free.

Lung burning, Ian reached down and gripped the cold hand. With one powerful kick he shot back to the surface, pulling the limp body with him. Gripping her against his chest, Ian crawled through the mud and up the slope. Her skin was like ice. She stilled hadn’t taken a breath.

Quickly, he tossed her onto her stomach and hammered twice at her back. No response.

Again he struck just below her shoulder blade. She shuddered and then convulsed in coughing. With a groan she dragged in a raw breath.

He threw his coat around her and swung her up into his arms. As lightening exploded over the woods, he saw a dark mark at her forehead. More blood. The little fool.

Even now she struggled, beating at his chest with shaking hands, mumbling half-formed words. There it was, the number she had repeated before. And then the name of a town, a place Ian had passed through often on his way from London. Nothing of importance there.

When her slim body pressed against his, she might as well have worn nothing. The rain had left her cotton dress transparent. He bit back a curse as he felt her slender legs, her perfect breasts. She was beautiful, just as he had known she would be. Again he was nearly blinded beneath an oily wave of images—that felt like memories.

Lace ruffles and hand-sewn silk that spilled beneath his fingers as he shoved away her gown. Then she met his mouth with her own, opening herself to his driving passion.

Ian closed his eyes as the memories of joy broke over him. How beautiful she had been. How perfect their bodies had been together. Then he had lost her….

Lightening streaked over his head, yanking him back to reality. Grimly, he carried her up the path along the moat, through a bank of perfumed roses. More of the cursed Draycott roses, Ian thought. Blooms that grew even in winter, part of the fourth Viscount’s dark legacy, it was whispered, a pact with the devil for his soul given centuries before. In return for that the roses bloomed far into winter and his family thrived.

Ian hadn’t believed it of course, but the stories made for exciting tales late at night. The roses, like so much about this ancient house, carried ancient secrets. As a boy Ian had played here, one of the present Viscount Draycott’s closest friends. Sometimes he could have sworn there was a movement in an upstairs window or a wisp of trailing fog through the trees, on a day of clear sunlight.

But they had no time for memories or history now. The woman in his arms had slumped again. She was breathing, but he was afraid—

She came fully awake in a fury of flailing fists and broken coughing. Her slim body twisted and she hammered at his chest, her nails raking his neck. “Let me go!” She dug her knee into his ribs and then struck lower, aiming at his groin.

Ian parried all her efforts without thinking. “Stop fighting, damn it. Tell me who you are? Why are you at Draycott Abbey?”

Her breath came in long, painful bursts. “I need the police. I—I have to tell them. Nina—those men. “ She shuddered, one hand cupping her forehead. Ian saw more blood seep beneath her fingers, dark from the wound at the edge of her hairline. “I have to warn them—” she said in a raw voice.

“What’s your name? Who is this person called Nina?”

She shook her head, frenzy giving way to exhaustion. She stared in fear over his shoulder, up the slope. “Lights,” she whispered. “They found me. They’re coming…”

“
Who
is coming?” Even as he spoke, Ian glanced back toward the woods. She was right. He saw a dim flash of lights, quickly extinguished.

Someone else was hunting on Abbey grounds, it seemed.

Something brushed his leg. Churchill had returned. Waiting for orders, the big dog paced beside him, glancing back toward the woods intently. “Track, Churchill. Track.” Ian made the order very clear. He didn’t tell the dog to hunt. He didn’t tell the dog to kill. Both of those things were possible, but now was simply for information.

The woman still fought him, though her energy was nearly gone. “Who is Nina?” he repeated, trying to pull his nearly soaked tweed jacket around her shoulders.

“Dead. They did it… I am next.”

Her hands closed to fists. She drove them hard against his chest. “I have to—go.”

Lightening flickered. Suddenly her hands loosened. She blinked, confused. “Where am I?”

“At Draycott Abbey. But why are these people following you? What do they want?”

Ian tried to keep his voice calm. Her behavior was beyond odd, and he didn’t like the fresh trail of blood welling from her forehead. Izzy should be here soon. Ian prayed that she had no deeper wounds than this cut on her head.

She blinked at him in confusion. “Tell the Viscount that I tried. Tell him I said thank you—but there is no more hope left.”

She closed her eyes, coughing. And when she looked at Ian, her face seemed to grow softer. “I waited,” she whispered. “I did all that I could. My father, the others—they put it to me clearly. I would marry or I would be thrown out. Only Adrian came to offer help. We heard nothing. There was no news from your regiment, no news from the captain of your ship. And still I waited. I hoped—“

Her hand opened, trailing gently over his cheek in awed wonder. “How did you find me?” She coughed again, her body shaking. “And why did you have to come
now
, when it is too late to matter?”

“We’ll get you warm again. Don’t try to talk.” The deep, aching sense of protectiveness struck him again. He didn’t know her, had never seen her, yet the urge to keep her safe drummed in every nerve and sinew of his body.

A thousand questions burned through him, but Ian forced them down. They had to get inside. She was too weak, too cold. She coughed again and again, every movement driving her against him.

He closed his eyes, feeling her slender legs, her slick, wet breasts. How long had it been since he felt this kind of desire?

Centuries
, a voice whispered.

Behind him on the hill another light flashed briefly.

Closer this time.

Grimly Ian dug his phone from his pocket. He hit a pre-set number and waited impatiently.

“Draycott Abbey.”

“It’s Ian, Marston. Meet me by the back stables. Bring blankets. But before you do, check the library. Make certain there are no blankets or any sign of activity in that room.
Nothing at all
. Do you understand me?” There was no time to explain. Ian knew that the abbey’s impeccably trained butler would miss no detail.

“I understand. Blankets. At the rear stables. But the room first.”

“That’s right. There may be men coming up the drive. They may not even use the drive. They may walk. Do not open the door. Let no one inside. Be sure that all the security is operational.” Ian’s gaze leaped to the gravel drive as a car cruised over the hill from the Rye road. “A car just turned from the coast road. It must be Izzy Teague. He was expected tonight. Let him in, but no one else, Marston.”

“Understood.” The abbey’s butler sounded as if they had been discussing flower arrangements for the next market fair.

Ian rang off and started toward the stables, drawing his jacket closer around the woman in his arms. He watched the car race along the moat, lights flashing through the rain.

And yet….

Some instinct made him pull back into the shadows beside the bridge. He dug out his cell phone again, keyed in a new number.

“Acme Pizza. Deliveries in twenty minutes or your money back.”