Christmas at Draycott Abbey
Author: Christina Skye
Date: 2011-12-26T22:00:00+00:00
Description: Don't miss FALLEN - the first book in a brand-new Draycott Abbey trilogy - amazon.com/dp/B008OKMDTO Coming from Harlequin September 18 (paperback) and October 1 (Kindle): THE ACCIDENTAL BRIDE Number 3 in Christina's award-winning SUMMER ISLAND contemporary series. Available for pre-order now! amazon.com/dp/B008EN405G As Christmas draws near and darkness veils the haunted English abbey, a tale of loss and love betrayed begins. As cold closes in, old hatreds spring to life, bringing danger to a vulnerable woman betrayed by those she trusts most. Wounded and lost, Clair Haywood will seek haven wi

A Draycott Abbey Christmas

Copyright © 2011 by Roberta Helmer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

A Note from Christina

Sussex, England
Draycott Abbey
Three weeks before Christmas

Ian Sinclair stood in the darkness, watching rain hammer at the French doors and the ancient granite bridge. Tonight the abbey was quiet. There was no laughter from the Viscount Draycott and his family. The broad front doors were decorated with a single small wreath. Inside all was deserted and dark with no glittering social events or charity gatherings.

Tonight there were only shadows. Only silence and a sense of history so strong it was almost physical. This was how Ian preferred the old abbey.

Lightning tore at the sky, outlining the great oak and the home wood beyond. Wind lashed at the old casement windows as the storm's fury grew. Odd weather for December, Ian thought. There had already been flooding reported near Winchelsea and Rye. But no snow.

Very odd.

Suddenly the dog near his chair sat up. Dark ears pricked back as the big animal stared out into the night. Then the dog shot upright, racing forward to press against the glass doors.

"What is it, Churchill? What do you hear?"

Ian stood up slowly and rubbed his leg. Was it more terrorists?

More people from one of a thousand missions he had carried out for the government over the past ten years?

The tall man by the fire closed his eyes. He was twenty-nine, damn it. He was getting too old to run down assassins and jump off roofs. The last mission in Paris had proved that.

The big brown dog turned and then sat down, body rigid. He was well trained, experienced from long years working with Ian. And that single movement meant only one thing.

Danger.

Ian's face was grim as he slid his Beretta into his holster and went to calm the dog at the door.

No one was expected here at the abbey. No visitors or deliveries of any sort.

As he smoothed his dog's lean, angular head, Ian sensed the keen intelligence and the need to hunt.

Ian understood that need too. Sometimes, when the madness came in the late hours and the dark memories piled up, he too needed to hunt. Only the feel of the cold night air and the pounding of his blood would help him forget…

So they would hunt tonight.

“Go. Find them,” Ian ordered, throwing open the door. "I'll be right behind you."

The dog bounded out in one powerful leap.

Ian stood for long moments, studying the distant woods. Was there a light, up near the Witch's Pool?

He pulled on his old tweed coat, feeling a sharp stab of warning. Wind swirled through the room and the firelight jumped dizzily behind him. His eyes hardened as another light brushed the darkness on the high ridge beyond the moat.

He prayed that the hunting would be good this night….

They were holding her in the back seat. Two men to her right. Two men in front, close enough to grab her.

The ties at her wrists had been hard to remove, but the metal file hidden in her zipper had done the job. Now her nails were broken and bleeding. But Clair Haywood forced away all thoughts of pain.

Right now pain was good. It meant she was still alive.

Lightning cut a violent path in front of the car. The driver turned sharply, leaning forward as the first drops of rain hammered at the windshield.

Clair knew this area. She had seen it in all the guidebooks. She remembered the rolling hills and the wooded ridges above the levels near the sea. But those memories belonged to a different life—a million years and a lifetime ago, before her sister had been killed.

Before the cascade of betrayals.

Before she had taken a dangerous job with men who knew no honor.

The government had promised her identity was impregnable. A simple kitchen worker in a crowded private hotel, no one would scrutinize her.

But someone had, soon after her arrival. And Clair was nearly certain that there had to be a traitor somewhere in the government’s security team. She had almost picked up the nervous whispering of the bodyguards as she stood outside on the patio, pretending to smoke but actually observing license plates of the line of black Range Rovers parked in anticipation of the meeting inside.

One of the men had been flanked by four bodyguards. Clair had tried to see his face. He had noticed her attention, gesturing his bodyguards toward her in a single, cold gesture.

But they had not pursued her. She had prayed it meant nothing.

Before dawn they had come to her room. They had carried her, drugged and bound, from house to house for days, until Clair lost track of time.

But they had stopped the drugs the day before. That told her they needed her clearheaded and open to pain—ready to talk under torture.

And when they removed her blindfold briefly, she knew it was the truth. If they let her see their faces, she wasn’t going to come back from wherever they took her next.

Sitting tensely in the cramped car, listening to the rain, Clair sat up straighter. She refused to give in to fear or pain. This was her gift for Nina, the beautiful, innocent sister whom they had destroyed and tossed away once they were finished with their pleasures.

They would pay for that. And they would harm no other women. Clair would see to that, no matter how much it cost her.

The man in the front seat lit a cigarette.

Stupid, she thought. The flame would ruin his night vision. And it was the one small gift she had waited for. She had already eased open the door lock during stolen seconds of the long drive. The car wheels skidded, taking the turn too fast, skidding on the narrow uneven road.

As lightning cracked, she hit the door with her shoulder, kicked back at the unprepared guard beside her and then vaulted out through the rain into the night.

Rain pelted at her face. Brushes crawled and scraped at her wet skin. But she forced her way forward, pushing through the mud, upward in the darkness.

Up the slope angry voices called out curses in three languages. Car lights shifted, flying over the muddy ground. Clair ducked, finding cover behind a dead rose bush. A line of stones hid her progress as she stumbled forward, biting her lips against a sob as pain shot through her bare feet and legs. She would have only one chance at escape. If they found her, she had no doubt they would kill her.

And it would not be fast and easy. It was not their way.

Her breath caught and she fell flat. There. Behind the rocks she saw a man’s shape.

It was him.

Nina’s lover.

Nina’s cold betrayer. The handsome, well respected man whose identity she had come to unveil.

As pain pelted against her frozen body, Clair could only pray she was not too late.

Ian strode along the great drive, his face to the wind. Churchill was scouting the trees at the edge of the abbey’s woods, eager and silent. Ian followed, watching for footprints or signs of intrusion.

So far there was nothing.

And the rain was growing harder. Wind tossed the great oak. Soon every footprint would be swept away in the mud.

Grimly, the royal protection officer turned up his collar, feeling adrenaline burn in his blood. Standing on the hill, he let the night swallow him, let the small sounds drop into his consciousness as he awaited any sign…that should not be there.

Somewhere a bird cried sharply.

Clouds parted and revealed a ragged moon. Then darkness fell over the abbey once more.

And man and dog hunted.

Too close, she thought wildly.

But she had to stop no matter how they harried her. She couldn’t keep up the killing pace. Her lungs were ready to burst, her heart hammering. It was partly the remains of the drugs they had given her. And partly it was her forced captivity and immobility over the long weeks.

Clair flinched as another silenced bullet raced past her. This time the bullets struck stone, sharp fragments spraying her wrist. One cut deep into her forehead.

She ran.

The storm’s fury grew. They tracked her, merciless and silent, waiting for every burst of lightning to trace her against the darkness.

Farmland gave way to green lawns. Expensive estates. The kind of houses that Clair had always loved, rich with history, veiled in magic and the memories of power long gone.

History had been her passion and her profession until the terrible news of Nina’s death two years earlier. There was violence in history. Cunning, betrayal and cruel deception.

Clair never expected to find those things invading her own prosaic life as a teacher in a small community college in Maine.

Another bullet.

This one tore along her knee. Grimacing, she twisted sideways, throwing her body down a narrow slope and into a deep circle of high bushes. The sharp burn of thorns made her want to scream out in pain. The sharp barbs dug deep, but they hid her well. Her pursuers would not look for her here.

She heard the hammer of footsteps in the mud. Angry voices followed the flash of lights that bounced up the slope and across the dark tangle where she hid.

Her heart seemed to explode. Her fingers shook. She didn’t move, though the pain in her forehead hammered like a hollow drum. Maybe the bullet fragment had been more than a scratch. For long moments the night blurred. The air seemed to weigh her down. The sky flashed to gray.

Dizziness left Clair weak and nauseous. She drove her nails into her palms to hold back a moan.

A man’s tall shape stopped just outside the brushes. If he turned his flashlight now, he would see her. No escape.

She saw the flash of a cigarette. She knew the outline of that arrogant, perfect nose outlined in the flame. Nina’s lover.

Nina’s killer.

“Not here. Try back up the slope.” The voice was clipped, cool and arrogant in the way the English did best. “If you lose her, I will shoot you.”

The cigarette glowed, cupped in his hand against the rain. He looked up the hill, inches from Clair’s shivering, sodden body.

And then he walked back the way he had come.

She didn’t move, couldn’t move. It took her ten minutes to calm her ragged breath.

Another ten minutes to convince herself that they were finally gone and it wasn’t another one of their clever traps.

Blood trickled in her eyes and down her forehead as she forced her shaking legs to move. Clumsy, she stood up and pushed through the thorns, too frozen and tired to feel the pain as they dug into her legs. Dizzy and weak, she forced her steps forward.

The slope changed, rising gently. In the distance Clair saw the canopy of a great oak. She crossed a high stone wall, pulling herself up with bloody fingers. And then she stopped, studying the rolling lawns before her.

Impossible…and yet this place felt familiar in some strange way. Probably from the English history volumes and guidebooks she had devoured before her first innocent trip to England five years before.

No hope in remembering that calm, normal life.

It was gone forever.

Through the rain she saw light. The flickering shape called to her, and her hands reached out almost as if she knew the path. Yes, a rock here. The brush of an old oak tree, comforting and dry beneath the hammering rain.

And without knowing how, Clair imagined the sweep of a silver moat. Somehow she knew it would stretch just beyond the hill, pristine and restless in the rain.

And there would be swans. Seven of them.

Pain shot through her temple. She closed her eyes, groaning at the sticky trail of blood from her forehead. Dizziness made her bend double, coughing.

The light flickered again. A lantern seemed to burn against the night, calling to her.

Safe haven. We’ve been waiting for you.

I’m coming, Clair wanted to call out. Her hands moved, but the words blocked, caught in her throat. Her bare feet hit the mud and she fell sideways.

After that was only darkness.

The dog found her first.

Churchill stood alertly at the top of the woods, signaling her presence in rigid silence. And the figure on the grass was indeed a her, Ian saw. Slim white legs lay sprawled sideways. He frowned at the dark marks of blood covering the pale skin.

Why in God’s name was a woman out here alone in the rain? And why only half dressed?

Suspicion made him scowl. Another trick? Was she a clever intruder, caught in the storm? All of that was possible.

Ian strode over the slippery grass, his face as hard as the rocks around him. He opened one hand on the dog’s head, giving soft praise for tracking well done. The dog’s tail banged against his leg, but he did not move, too well trained to leave his prey.

The scent of the hunt was on them both now. The slim legs made Ian blink, feeling a stab of desire.

He bit back an oath. Not desire. He had not felt passion in months. But the strange emotion stirred his blood. Desire along with something else. Something deeper, raw and protective.

And God knows he hadn’t been protective of anything for years.

He couldn’t allow himself to have any kind of private life with the job he held. And he wouldn’t allow himself to feel any emotion now.

Grimly, Ian leaned over the woman, holding up a small light. Her eyes were closed. Blood matted her hair, in a dark stain that stretched over her cheek and her neck. If this was an act, it was superb, he decided. But bloodstains were simple. So were superficial cuts.

He lifted her hand, focused on her pulse. The beat was wild, but steady. No act there.

He raised a lid. Pupils dilated. Definitely signs of trauma.

Rain struck his face, pounding over her motionless body as he considered his options. The practical thing to do was to call her in. He could have the local police come and deal with her.

But somehow Ian couldn’t be sane and practical. The storm was pounding hard. She still hadn’t moved. She would be freezing. If he left her here much longer.…

Hell.

Gritting his teeth, he shrugged off his coat and wrapped her wet body carefully. In one powerful movement he lifted her over his shoulder and turned back into the rain. As he walked, she began to struggle, muttering incoherently. The words were choked, but he recognized the name of a small town near the coast. After that she whispered what could have been a phone number. Or maybe a license plate. Or it might have no meaning at all.

But Ian was taking no chances. As soon as he got to the abbey, he would phone his contact in London and have her checked out thoroughly. Unfortunately, he had found no handbag or pockets with anything to help him determine who she was or why she was here.

Ian’s leg throbbed as he climbed the wet slope. Strangely, the woman didn’t feel heavy. In fact she seemed to fit his arms perfectly, as if she belonged there. The thought left him frowning.

Lightening burst overhead. In the phantom glow, Ian looked down and saw an odd silver scar on her neck, just beneath her hair. It looked like a dense rose, half open, with petals cascading downward. For some reason he couldn’t take his eyes away from it.

Somehow he had known it would be there, hidden just under her hair.

Up the hill, Churchill whined. Over the roar of the storm Ian heard a low cough of motors. He glanced back through the rain, but saw nothing. Did he only imagine the distant hum of a car motor, muffled in the wind?

What he did not imagine was the sense of warning that stabbed along his spine.

“That’s right, Izzy Teague. I’m a friend. Yes, I’ll wait.”

Ian continued to towel the woman’s icy body as he spoke on the phone. He had tossed another log on the fire, and the library at the abbey was snug and warm, but she had not come back to consciousness. Bruises and scrapes covered her legs as if she had run through brushes and stumbled against rocks. He tried to imagine what had driven her to such a wild flight in the rain.

No answers. No ID. Only more questions.

“Sinclair, is that you?”

“That’s right. Glad I found you, Teague. Nicholas Draycott gave me this number, in case I needed help.”

Izzy took a slow breath. “I see. Is there is a problem?”

“I’m not sure. My dog alerted to an intruder. I found a woman out beyond the moat. She was badly cut up and delirious, panicked and half frozen. She still hasn’t come around.”

“Identity?”

“Not a clue. No handbag. No wallet. No phone or identification. Beyond odd, I thought.”

“Damned right it’s odd. Can you send me a photograph? I’ll check on some files here and see what I can pull up.” A chair creaked. “Any signs of trauma? How’s her pulse?”

“Erratic. I just got her inside and I haven’t had time to—hell.” Ian stared down at the blood seeping along her neck. When he lifted back her hair, he had seen the outline of a deep and jagged wound just above her right eye. “She’s got head trauma. The wound is narrow but deep. I can see the bone.” Ian gently lifted one eyelid. Her pupils did not respond.

“No eye response, Teague. She might have hit her heard. Or possibly a bullet has grazed her. Should I take her to the hospital in Hastings?”

“Don’t move her. She may have neck or spinal injuries. I’m wrapping up here, and I should be there within an hour. Call me if her condition changes.” Izzy muttered under his breath. Ian heard the tapping of the keys. “I don’t want to call Nicholas about this yet. This is the first vacation that he and Kacey and their daughter have had in six years. As long as she remains unconscious and stable, we’ll handle it between us. I’ll bring my medical kit.”

It was exactly what Ian had hoped to hear. Nicholas Draycott, the Viscount Draycott, was an old friend of Ian’s. Nicholas had been through his own personal traumas following months of captivity in Asia. He had finally found happiness with an American visitor to the abbey, although their busy lives left them little time for relaxation. Ian didn’t want to jeopardize his friend’s first real vacation in years. “Understood. I’ll send those photos to you immediately. Should I use the same e-mail address?”

Ian heard more tapping at a keyboard. Teague’s security skills were legendary. There was no better person to watch your back in a firefight than Izzy Teague. “Until we know what we’re dealing with, I’d prefer fewer people to have access.” Izzy rattled off a string of meaningless numbers and letters. “Use that address. Send me whatever you have.” The line went dead.

Ian didn’t like the idea of waiting an hour for a medical assessment, but he knew that Izzy’s training in field medicine was superb. As long as his intruder remained calm and stable, Ian would wait.

But his questions lingered. Who in the hell was she? Why had she been running in the rain across the abbey grounds, in bare feet and nothing but a thin cotton dress?

She muttered brokenly in her sleep. Her bruised hands tightened on the blanket and tried to tear it free.

“It’s going to be fine. You’re safe here with me,” Ian whispered. The words seemed to well up from some deep part of his memory, coupled with that odd sense of protectiveness. He had the strange feeling that she was important to him—or that she had once been so. Though it made no sense at all, though they were complete strangers, Ian’s urge to protect this woman was raw and overwhelming.

He stood stiffly, studying the pale, chiseled features marked with cuts. Every instinct whispered for him to trust her, and yet trust was a luxury he could never afford. In his job, everyone was a suspect. Every movement was a threat. A woman with a slim body and long legs like this would tempt any sane man to throw away reason and caution.

But for him, trust was not an option.

So Ian closed down his instincts and hardened his heart. Until he had more information, she was just another intruder in the night. He had to remember that.

Beyond the sheeting rain, beyond the old casement windows, a light glinted through the deserted abbey. First it flickered out. Then slowly it climbed and began to move. Gathering strength, it crossed the staircase and found the Long Gallery, with its rows of priceless portraits. Phantom light brushed the face of the first Lord Draycott, returning in splendor from the Crusades astride his powerful destrier.

Light touched the third Viscount, bloody from the wars in France.

And then it came to rest, outlining the cold features of the fourth Viscount. Lace curled at his wrists and gleamed at his throat, but the opulent fabric did not soften the arrogant set of that mouth and eyes. The painting was a masterpiece, from the hand of England’s finest artist. Every line crackled with life and force so real that the figure almost seemed to breathe.

A random stranger standing in the gallery would have sworn that the figure did move.

The heavy curtains flared out. Moonlight seemed to drift through the high windows and pool at the Viscount’s feet.

Cold laughter filled the gallery as a shadow separated from the darkness. Keen eyes took in the colors of the painted portrait.

His portrait, to be sure.

Yes, the likeness was superb. That Gainesborough fellow had been irritating but excellent at his craft. Sometimes Adrian Draycott amused himself by observing tours of the house. He enjoyed watching the smiles and laughter fade when they glanced upon his brooding face.

Yes, it was a face that had made servants quake and aristocrats move to avoid his path. Once the whole house had rung to his shouted commands. He had known every inch of the abbey grounds, cared and inquired after every tree and every rose. He was a cold, heartless man, but that coldness had never extended to this beautiful house.

His power was gone, his fortunes only memories, Adrian Draycott thought sadly. Today the tourists never suspected he was nearby. The abbey’s stalwart butler, Marston, never noticed Adrian cast his arrogant glances. Even the current viscount and his family, though occasionally sensing a strange presence, gave no sign of noticing his wishes.

To guard the abbey was his curse—and his joy. He was still repaying the harm he had done in that earlier age. And until his tasks were done, the abbey would be in peril.

At his feet came the silent brush of warm fur.

Adrian Draycott’s hard features softened. “Well met, my old and true friend. Do you feel it too? She has come back, and yet the rest is shrouded in my memory. But danger walked with her once, and a colder danger walks at the abbey again. We are called to work, Gideon. If we fail, the cost to us will be grave indeed.”

The cat stared at him intently, as if to will his loyalty into words.

Adrian reached down and stroked the powerful back. “So once again you will walk beside me? Though the peril grows?”

The cat’s tail flicked hard as if to show contempt for the thought of any other choice.

“You honor me, my old friend. But we must be abroad. Something has moved out beyond the ridge. And there is another movement, ever so slight, that I sense by the Witch’s Pool.”

Lace stirred in a phantom wind. Outside in the night came the wild peal of bells.

Twelve times, and then one more lonely peal.

“I grow too old for these careerings. The years weigh upon me, Gideon.” Light circled around his head and the room seemed to tilt, caught in angry, swirling emotion. “But I have no choice. It was a vow freely given. First to her, all those years ago. Then to a friend bound to me closer than blood. I failed them both. But I must not fail them now.”

Adrian’s face hardened. He swept out one arm, powerful in richest black velvet. Lightening seemed to crackle along his outstretched fingers.

Then the abbey ghost and his oldest companion were gone.

She was dying.

Clair Haywood pushed at the weight that crushed down against her chest. She fought to breathe, locked in terror as she struggled up from nightmare dreams of men with proud eyes and blackened hearts.

She sat up and choked back a moan. Pain tore through her head. The room was in shadows, lit only by the golden rays of firelight. Nothing about the place was familiar.

Tall portraits flanked the grand fireplace. Antique rugs and old French furniture covered the floor.

Clair looked down, flinching at the sight of the bruises and cuts on her legs beneath the cheap cotton dress. Memories of her days in captivity churned up like smoke. She remembered the man with the cold eyes. She remembered his powerful companions. Most of all, she remembered Nina’s last phone call. That night she had been frightened, her voice low and whispered. “Come to England, Clair. I need you. I was so wrong about him. And the other men, the ones who come here for meetings—they are even worse. I know he does not trust me. He has kept me here locked inside for weeks. He uses my computer to send you e-mails from me. Trust nothing that you receive that way. Say nothing to him in turn. But try to have this number traced. It’s blocked, and I have no clue where they have taken me. Hurry, Clair. I’m afraid. So afraid that he means to—”

Clair closed her eyes at the memory of what she had heard next.

Her sister’s sudden, indrawn breath. The sounds of a struggle.

“You were warned, Nina.” Clair would never forget that cold, aristocratic English voice.

That was the last that she had heard from her sister.

Was this the place where they had taken Nina months before?

Wincing at the hammering pain in her forehead, Clair struggled to her feet. Dizzy, she pressed a hand to the silk-covered wall, focusing her thoughts. There were two doors to the room, one leading outside and another to a small closet. Something seemed to pull her footsteps beyond the doors to a section of wood paneling that almost seemed….

Familiar?

She traced the wooden molding, edge to edge. When Clair pressed harder, a latch clicked. She stood stunned as a small door opened. Narrow steps descended in a tight curve down into the darkness.

No time to think. No time to wonder how she had found that secret latch. The danger was too close.

Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, she closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall. Forcing away her pain, she followed the steps downward.

Ian filled another hot water bottle and then gave Churchill his final dose of medicine. Their last mission in Paris had nearly crippled the animal, but the dog had begun to recover.

In the weeks since their return Ian had been fiercely protective, warning that the animal could not be put to service again until all his strength was recovered. Churchill sensed that protection and offered his loyalty in return.

Frowning, Ian studied the scars on the animal’s legs. Finally the marks had begun to fade. But the dog still woke in the night, shaking restlessly, listening for gunshots.

They both woke that way, Ian thought wryly.

Suddenly the big dog turned, rigid and alert. He stared at the door to the kitchen and trotted forward. His head tilted.

Listening.

Ian opened the door and stood beside the rigid dog. The abbey was silent. No sounds of cars or guns or lethal attack.

And yet his dog did not move.

Had the woman in the library awoken?

“Track, Churchill.”

The dog shot away, bounding up the stairs. Ian was close behind.

But when they reached the library, a trail of blankets led across the floor. Blood covered the corner of the carpet. Their intruder was gone.

Smothering a curse, Ian followed the line of tangled blankets and saw where the last one had fallen in a heap beneath the portrait of Nicholas Draycott and his family.

Both doors in the room were closed. The only way out was through the door Ian had just used. The closet held only coats.

And yet over the years he had heard stories of hidden stairways and secret doors in this ancient house. Ian searched each wall now, focused on the wood beneath the Draycott portrait where the blankets had fallen.

Beyond the wood he heard a faint squeak.

A small door sprang open. In the shadows he saw another blanket where darkness shrouded the narrow steps of a hidden passage.

Churchill stood alertly, ears pricked forward, body tense, awaiting Ian’s command.

Ian held up the blanket, giving the dog her scent. “Track,” he ordered curtly.

The dog bounded down into the shadows, following the scent. Ian followed, his face grim.

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.”

At any other time Ian might have smiled. But not now. “Teague, where are you?”

“Just outside Winchelsea. It’s this damn storm.” Izzy’s voice was curt. “Power lines are down and there’s flooding everywhere.”

“So you’re not at the abbey?” Ian’s eyes narrowed on the racing black car.

“No. Ten minutes—maybe fifteen.”

“Someone else just arrived. Black car, probably an Audi. Can’t make out the plates. I doubt that he’s come to taste the Christmas punch,” Ian said grimly.

“Watch your back,” Izzy Teague said flatly. “I’ll make it in ten.”

The line went dead.

Pain woke her.

Dimly Clair saw lights overhead, moving dizzily. She shuddered, her wet skin frozen and half numb.

She moved restlessly and felt an arm grip her shoulder.

“So you’re finally waking up. I’m glad for it. You took a fair soaking outside in the moat. Ian is taking care of everything, and I will have you tucked up before a fire with warm blankets in no time. Then maybe you would like something to eat? A nice broth with some Earl Grey tea? Perhaps my very special blueberry scones?”

Heaven, Clair thought. When was the last time she’d had a proper meal? When was the last time they had fed her more than dry bread?

She cleared her raw throat, blinking at the gray haired man in the black suit. “Who—who are you?”

“I would be Marston, ma’am. I am the butler here at Draycott Abbey.”

Butler.

Draycott Abbey.

Clair began to remember now. As the first memories returned, so did her urgent need to contact the police. “I have to make a call. The local police first. Please, help me. If you can drive me—or let me use your phone—“

“Of course. Let’s get you tucked in first. We’re having a storm right now, so driving anywhere will be difficult, but I’m certain that Ian will help you arrange a phone call, as soon as he’s free.”

Clair rubbed her throbbing forehead, feeling dry blood stick to her fingers. “It can’t wait. They will be meeting before Christmas. I—I have to contact the inspector in London.”

She began to twist, but the old butler patted her shoulder calmly. “Don’t worry yourself. Everything will be fine. You will be safe here.”

“No. I have to go. They will be coming after me—“

The butler shook his head. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to drive anywhere, not tonight. The temperature has dropped, and we are bracing for an ice storm before morning. The police have warned everyone off the streets.”

Clair closed her eyes, trying to think. She had hoped the storm would be her friend, concealing her tracks. Now she saw it would be her worst enemy.

She blinked as the butler turned, climbing a marble stairway. “I can walk. My head hurts, but I’m feeling a little stronger.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it. Ian was most specific. You are to rest. I think you’ll like this room. It is one of Lady Draycott’s favorites.”

Clair’s breath caught as he nudged open a door with his foot.

Blush pink curtains of thick velvet hung beside towering windows. Antique carpets glowed on warm mahogany floors. A fire flickered below a carved stone mantelpiece.

“It’s beautiful.” Clair was relieved to see the phone on the lacquer desk near the window. Meanwhile, the pounding in her forehead was growing worse. “Do you have some aspirin, Marston? Then I think I can rest.”

“I will bring you everything you need. I’m sure Ian will be back to check on you soon. He has gone outside but he didn’t want you to be disturbed.”

“I see. I’ll be fine here. Thank you again, Marston.”

As soon as the butler closed the door, she darted to the phone. The number she needed was burned into her memory. She dialed quickly and waited.

The inspector Clair needed to contact was out. She left a message on his voice mail, telling him that she was at Draycott Abbey and she had important information for him.

But she left no details, not in an unsecured voice mail. She could not risk turning the information over to the wrong hands. As she hung up the phone, Clair’s shoulders slumped.

She wanted to be done with this responsibility. She wanted to forget these men she had watched for weeks. She told herself that she had done the best possible under the circumstances.

She had been tracked and watched so long that she could not begin to accept that the nightmare was finally over. Curling up on the bed, she closed her eyes and tugged a blanket over her shoulders, lulled by the sound of the rain at the windows.

She tried to believe that she would be safe here. Finally, after so many long weeks.

After so many long centuries, a voice whispered…

She closed her eyes and slid down into dreams.

Marston spread another blanket over the woman’s motionless body and then stirred the fire. He had brought tea and soup, but she was already asleep.

Her drawn face made him shake his head. But now she was safe. No harm would come to her at the abbey. After a final glance at the room, he closed the door softly and moved outside. His chair was already waiting in the corridor. He sank down, keeping guard just as Ian had asked.

The butler had asked no questions, but he was perfectly aware of what kind of work Nicholas Draycott did. And if his old friend Izzy Teague was venturing to the abbey in a storm like this, it could only mean one thing.

A job of of deadly importance.

So Marston would wait and watch. He was no longer a young man, but he knew things about the abbey that few people did. The air seemed cold, heavy with memories. Glancing down the hall to the Long Gallery, he thought he saw a flicker of light and the sudden movement of the velvet curtains.

Just a trick of his eyesight, an illusion of the shadows, Marston thought. Just another one of the abbey’s little tricks. He had often seen such odd movements in the Long Gallery, near Adrian Draycott’s imposing portrait.

Over the years, the abbey butler had seen many strange things when the moon was high, and tonight some instinct whispered for him to keep all his senses alert. With grave eyes, he studied the closed doors of the silent corridor. Reaching down, he felt the reassuring outline of the heavy metal flask filled with steaming Earl Grey tea. It was a special blend made exclusively for the Draycott family, as it had been done for centuries, since the family first had tea holdings in Kashmir.

Marston savored the bracing brew. But his real comfort came in the weight of the heavy metal flask. He was not too old to use it as a weapon should the need arise.

The thought made him smile grimly as the wind snarled and rain hammered at the windows.

No one would get past him tonight.

Ian’s leg was hurting again, but that was not why he stopped at the base of the long marble staircase. He listened to the howl of the wind, impatient for Izzy Teague to arrive. He was worried about the woman upstairs, and he needed answers.

More that that, he had to know how to explain the odd sense of connection he had felt between them outside in the rain.

Angry at his tangled thoughts, Ian muttered under his breath, staring at the black car parked at the base of the abbey’s steps. The men had rung the doorbell twice already.

Ian could delay no longer. Something was wrong. All his field experience and training urged him to caution.

Acting on instinct, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed quickly.

A man answered on the second ring. In the background Ian heard laughter and the click of glasses, along with the sound of caroling voices. “MacKay here.”

“Sinclair. Sorry to bother you, Calan. It sounds as if you’re busy.”

“Just a small group of my wife’s friends. The second bottle of champagne is opened, or we wouldn’t dare begin to sing. But you didn’t call to critique our carols, I think.” The man at the other end of the line moved the phone, and Ian heard a door close. The sounds of singing faded away. “That’s better. Now we can talk. I doubt you’ve called for an invitation to Christmas dinner, so how can I help you?”

Calan was one of Ian’s oldest friends. As boys he and Ian had clattered around Draycott Abbey, dreaming of lion hunting and mountain climbing as they raced across the abbey grounds with their friend, the young viscount.

But Calan had never discussed his boyhood. Over time, Nicholas and Ian had come to understand that Calan was not like other boys. Not like other men.

And because of those dark and unusual skills, Ian had to ask a favor of his old friend now. “There’s a problem here. I don’t know exactly what it means, but my instincts are on red alert. I hate to bother you but—“

“It will only take me a few minutes to get there. You were right to phone me, Ian. Especially now, while the viscount and his family are away.” Calan hesitated. “Am I to assume I should keep a low profile? No noise.”

“That would be correct.”

“And I should be prepared for a possible attack?”

“I’m afraid so. Izzy Teague is on his way. But right now, I have unexpected guests. Somehow they made their way through the security at the main gate. That can hardly be an accident.” Ian chose his words carefully. “Earlier tonight, I found a woman in the rain. She was wounded, disoriented. The pieces still don’t match up, but the fact that I’m having visitors now.…”

“Understood. I should be there in fifteen minutes. I’ll have a look. Don’t expect to see me until I’m ready to be seen,” Calan said grimly. “Surprise can be a most useful tool. On a night like this, neither man nor beast should be afoot. The hunting should be good.”

Ian heard the soft laugh. Memories of other nights and other strange things drifted through his mind. He was glad that Calan MacKay was no enemy. Ian was glad too for the hunting skills that his old friend had taught him and Nicholas. That stealth and strength of vision had more than once saved Ian’s life and the life of the royal family he protected.

“Thank you, Calan.”

“No need. Keep your eyes to the hill and your face to the wind. You’ll see me before you hear me.”

The line went dead.

Calan was gifted with abilities that even now Ian could not completely understand. It was Calan’s skill to blend into the darkness and hunt by stealth and strength, a creature of night itself. Only twice had Ian seen his old friend change. The sight of that dim creature he became had left Ian more than a little unnerved.

The doorbell rang again.

Ian smoothed a hand over the outline of his Berretta, tucked in the back of his waistband where it could be easily reached. He looked out at the front steps.

Two shapes stood outlined against the night, flanking the door.

Wind gusted down the stairway and icy fingers brushed his neck in warning. He had a sudden, unmistakable sense of memories, as if a friend whispered at his ear of lies and loss.

Of love betrayed…

Once again they come.

Watch the night. Watch your back well, old friend.

The doorbell rang again, and Ian shrugged away a strange sense of disorientation, as if he was caught in two different times. In two different bodies.

Tonight you would do well to keep your wits about you, the old house seemed to whisper. Tonight you will hunt, and the prize will be far beyond what you expect.

Ian paid no attention to the strange fancies of a dark, cold house. He was a man now, with too much experience and too little hope. So his fingers rested lightly on the Berretta as he walked to open the heavy oak door.

There were two men on the steps, rain glistening on black coats. Their faces were expressionless.

Ian kept his hand on the door, one eyebrow raised. “Can I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir.” The taller man reached into a pocket and flashed a badge. The logo of the Sussex Police looked authentic, Ian thought, but the flash of the image had been too fast for certainty.

Ian frowned, forcing up a look of surprise. “Police?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s official business. Could we come in, sir?”

“Of course.” Ian opened the door slowly. “Is something wrong?”

“I am Inspector Hampton. Sorry to trouble you so late.” The taller man glanced up the broad staircase. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Ian Woods.” It was the pseudonym Ian usually used. Only a handful of people knew the name, and it would cover him until he understood exactly what was afoot. “Come into the library, please. The family is away, but I can manage to round up some tea for you. Perhaps something stronger, if you care for it, Inspector?”

“Nothing for me. As we’re on duty, I’ll get straight to the point.” The man in the dark coat followed Ian into the small study on the abbey’s first floor, glancing around alertly. Something about that look sent another instinct of warning up Ian’s spine.

“I hope there’s been no crime in the village. It’s general very quiet down here.”

“I’m afraid there has been a crime. We were tracing an escaped prisoner from Hastings. She got away in the storm. We’ve been going house to house, warning the residents.”

“A woman, you say? Good Lord, what is the world coming to?” Ian moved to the fire, careful to keep his left shoulder to the wall so that his right arm was free. “But we’ve seen no one here. It’s all been quiet.”

“You’re certain of that? No one has come with a story of a flat tire or a car breaking down? Maybe an excuse that they were lost?” Again the inspector’s sharp eyes roamed across the room.

He looked like a man who would miss nothing, Ian thought.

“Nothing at all. I wish we had something better to report. It would be a pleasure to see this criminal brought to justice.”

The man in the black raincoat nodded slowly. He raked a hand through his wet hair. “I should warn you that this woman is lovely. She has used her beauty to bring several men to their deaths. She preys on the very wealthy. Judging from the house, you might fit that bill, Mr. Woods.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I live very simply. I have my dog for companionship and that’s all I require.” Ian gave an awkward laugh, as if he was a little embarrassed by this admission of his simple lifestyle. “If you leave me your card, I will be glad to contact you should I have anything to report. It’s the least I can do.”

The man near the door pulled a card from his pocket. The crisp vellum bore the imprint of the Sussex police force. This too looked authentic.

But paper was easy enough to forge, Ian knew. “Anything I can do to help, Inspector.” Ian waited, letting a hint of impatience tighten his features. “You’re sure you wouldn’t care for a brandy? It’s damn cold out there.”

“No, we had better be on to the next house. It is going to be a long night. They’re forecasting an ice storm before dawn.” The man turned abruptly at the door. He bent down and pulled a pale scrap from the carpet.

Ian cursed silently when he saw the piece of wet fabric. He remembered that thin cotton. It must have torn from her dress. Worse yet, there was a dark bloodstain at one corner.

The inspector glanced at Ian. “Yours, Mr. Woods?”

Ian gave an embarrassed laugh. “I’m afraid it is. I hurt myself earlier. I was out shooting and I slipped in the rain. I ended up shooting myself in the boot. Damned embarrassing. Didn’t want to mention it, Inspector. Nothing a man wants to boast about, you know.” He reached down to his leg and winced. “Hurts like hell, if you want to know the truth of it.” He gave another embarrassed laugh.

The inspector nodded slowly and slipped the piece of cloth into his pocket. “As you say, it’s nothing you would want to brag about.” His eyes moved to his unsmiling companion. “But since she is a dangerous criminal, you wouldn’t mind if we had a look around would you? Through the back rooms. Upstairs too.”

“Of course. Be my guest. But the abbey is completely deserted. Only myself and the old butler are in residence.”

In a quick jerk of the wrist, the man sent his companion forward, out into the hallway. The man moved silently back to the kitchen.

Ian sat down on the edge of the big mahogany desk and reached down, triggering a silent alarm. Marston would see that the woman was out of sight.

Ian leaned down to pour a liberal measure of sherry into a crystal glass. “Take your time, Inspector. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here and nurse my drink. My toes have begun to throb most damnably.”

The man gave a look of distaste, dismissing Ian as an utter fool.

That had been Ian’s intention.

He did not follow when the officer moved out into the hall. There was no reason. Ian had already made certain that the abbey’s security cameras were functioning perfectly. They would tell him exactly what he needed to know.

When footsteps rang down the stairs ten minutes later, Ian ran a hand through his hair, leaving it bristling and unruly. He tugged his jacket askew and splashed sherry over the old tweed.

Perfect. Now he was the very picture of a drunkard well into his cups.

“All finished, are you? No devilish felons discovered in the Long Gallery, I hope.” Ian gave a rough laugh. “I wouldn’t mind a little company tonight, as a matter of fact.”

“Not this kind of company, you wouldn’t.” The officer swept a dismissing glance as Ian sagged drunkenly against the wall.

“Of course. Quite right. Wouldn’t care to be cut up into pieces in my bed. That is what she does? Uses a knife?”

“Hardly. Poison is more her style. I’d be careful what you drink tonight, Mr. Woods.” The inspector pulled his wet raincoat on. “Be sure to call me if you have anything to report. We will be in the area.”

Somehow he made it sound like a threat.

As they moved to the door, Ian moved awkwardly after them, one hand to the wall in a further display of inebriation. “Well then, stay dry. Or as dry as you can. One hell of a storm, no mistake about it.”

The inspector turned back. He seemed thoughtful. “You say there’s no one else here. Only you and the old butler?”

“That’s right.” Ian felt the hairs stir along the back of his neck.

“You mentioned a dog. Where is he?”

“Oh, I expect he’s out in the storm. Likes to hunt. I give him free rein of the grounds.”

The inspector nodded slowly. “Good security.” His hand moved to his pocket. Ian moved back, seeming to stumble, and his hand slid to the Berretta behind his back.

Light shone on the driveway. A car motor growled and came to a stop. Light footsteps raced up the drive.

The doorbell rang.

Ian didn’t move.

The inspector’s eyes narrowed. “Are you in a habit of expecting company this late, Mr. Woods?”

“It’s an old friend from London. He was due quite a while ago. I suppose the storm delayed him.” Ian shuffled past and leaned against the door for a moment, puffing loudly. When he opened the door, he blocked the view with his body and made a quick movement of warning with his fingers.

Izzy Teague stared at him and then nodded.

“About time you got here. I expected you hours ago, Harris.”

“Traffic from London was a nightmare.” Izzy gave a booming laugh. “I hope you have some of that vintage Draycott port waiting for me.”

“None better. But there’s been a spot of a problem. Some kind of criminal has escaped. The inspector from Hastings came to alert residents in the area.” Ian turned, holding the door as if he was about to lose his balance. He gave another embarrassed laugh. “Enough sherry for me, I’d say.”

He moved back and waved Izzy Teague inside. The man’s chiseled mahogany features were damp with rain as he studied the two men in the foyer. “Police, is it? What’s going on?”

The inspector glanced outside at Izzy’s car. “A dangerous criminal has escaped. She’s still somewhere in the area. If you see anything unusual, contact me immediately. Don’t try to handle her yourself. She’s more dangerous than you can imagine.”

“I came to England to relax, not get swept up in one of your devious mysteries. And since I’m half frozen myself, perhaps you’ll excuse me. I’m going to warm up at the fire.”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Ty Harris.” Izzy shrugged out of his leather coat. “Specialty furniture importer. Offices in London and on Peachtree Road. Atlanta, Georgia.” Izzy flashed a grin and held out a business card. “Call me if you’re interested in some excellent reproduction Georgian furniture, Inspector.”

The policeman studied the card carefully and slid it into his pocket. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Harris.”

His lips flattened as he saw Ian leaning against the wall, looking more drunk than ever. “Best to stay indoors tonight. The rain will be turning to ice before morning. Dangerous conditions for walking—or anything else.”

Ian nodded and smoothed his rumpled shirt. “No problem there. No intention of going out tonight, Inspector.”

At the door, the inspector turned. “By the way, there was no record of the name Woods listed as owner of this property. The house and grounds belong to the Viscount Draycott and his family, do they not?”

“So they do. Nicholas Draycott has gone off on holiday. I think he’d had enough of all the Christmas bustle and folderol. He asked me to pop around and keep an eye on things in his absence.”

The inspector nodded slowly. “I see. Then I will leave, with another reminder that you stay indoors tonight. You can reach me at that number on my card should you need me.”

Ian gave a leering laugh. “That I will, should anything turn up. Or if anyone turns up.” He clicked his tongue. “A female murderer. Beautiful, too. Gad, what is the world coming to, I ask you?”

But the man standing in the library ten minutes later looked anything but casual or inebriated. Ian’s face was grim as he watched Izzy set up a high-tech laptop computer and connect it to a freestanding hard drive.

“When she said the woman’s name, she told me that they had killed her. Maybe you’ll find a record of a crime in your database. But I warn you that she wasn’t making much sense. Given the rain and the cold, along with her wound, I’d say she was in shock.” Ian paced impatiently. “As soon as you get your search running here, I want you to have a look at her. She seems stable, but I’m taking no chances. If she needs to be seen at a hospital, I’m driving her there tonight.”

“Not possible. The conditions were bad when I came down, and they have already begun closing the major roads. We’ve got a nasty ice storm headed our way, my friend. You keep her immobile and warm, and I’ll handle the rest.” He looked up, frowning as Ian continued to pace. “Why don’t you go upstairs and start now? Be sure that she doesn’t get up. Keep her warm. Use blankets and hot water bottles, whatever you like. If she wants water, give her a glass with a straw to sip through. No food. No medicine. If she wakes up and is lucid, call me.” Izzy shook his head and went back to work. “You’re going to walk a hole in that carpet if you keep pacing that way.”

Ian frowned, unaware that he had even been moving. Why did the weight of responsibility hang on him so heavily tonight? He stabbed a hand through his hair and shrugged. “I’ll do that. Let me know what you find out about those police officers who arrived so conveniently.”

“Count on it. If that chatty one is an inspector from Hastings, then I’ll eat my hard drive,” Izzy said coldly.

The same suspicion had already struck Ian. He walked to the window and pulled back a curtain. The cars had gone now. Nothing seemed to move out in the stormy night. “Calan MacKay is due shortly. You know him, I think?”

“Well enough. Although I doubt anyone knows all there is to know about our Scottish friend. What you’re telling me is that he’ll be outside, keeping an eye on things? Even though we won’t see him.”

“Exactly.”

“Nice to know. If the police who might not be police come back, they won’t know what hit them.” Izzy flashed a cold grin. “Someday maybe you and Nicholas Draycott will tell me the whole story about your friend from Scotland.”

Ian walked to the door. “Some day perhaps.”

But it was a lie. Ian would never speak of what he knew about Calan MacKay. Calan’s story and tangled secrets were his own, to share or not to share.

Right now Ian had a different set of secrets to untangle.

Clouds raced before the ragged moon. Wind banged at the old casement windows and lightening flickered over the rooftop.

One shadow, darker than the rest, slowly took on shape. Polished boots gleamed beneath darkest velvet and white lace that fluttered at wrist and collar.

Danger stalked the abbey this night, and Adrian Draycott saw that danger clearly. The threads of memories trailed back for centuries. Not by accident did the players find themselves within the abbey walls again.

Fate had brought them here. Or love.

He had tried to help them centuries ago, but they had been betrayed. His eyes gleamed in sudden fury against the shadows.

He watched the sleek black car race through the rain toward the abbey’s gate.

Now the betrayal had come again....

Ian wasn’t sure what he expected to find.

She might have been pacing. She might have been exhausted and withdrawn.

Either way, he was going to keep her in that bed, safe and immobile for the rest of the night, just as Izzy had ordered. He nodded to Marston, clearly taking his guardian duties seriously. “Why don’t you go have a rest now, Marston? Things are quiet and our police friends are gone. If they come back, Izzy will pick them up on the security cameras.”

Marston nodded and stood up, rubbing his back as if it ached. “I won’t sleep, but a spot of tea would be nice. Can I bring you something while I’m in the kitchen, Commander?”

“No need. I’m going to try to rest here. If anything changes, I’ll use the house line to buzz you and Izzy.”

“Very well. I will be available, as always.” The butler nodded gravely and strode away to the back stairs.

Marston is too old for this kind of thing, Ian thought. But tonight they had to use all their resources at hand.

As he touched the door, Ian caught the sudden smell of roses. Rich and perfumed, the fragrance spilled around him, as if from a glorious summer afternoon.

He shook his head, fighting the old abbey’s tricks, and walked inside.

Firelight flickered over antique carpets and fine chintz furniture. Velvet curtains covered the tall casement windows. But Ian saw none of that. His whole focus was locked on the woman in the big bed, her hair a dark cloud on the white pillows. Her eyes were closed, but she stirred restlessly, whispering.

Ian moved closer, hoping for some kind of clue to help Izzy in his search.

“T-told you. Don’t go, Nina. Not yet. Wanted to meet him. Do some research. It all seems too fast.” Her voice broke. She stretched her hands out to the darkness and sat up sharply. “No. Don’t hurt her.”

In the silence her eyes blurred.

Suddenly she saw Ian, sitting in the little chair beside the bed. Her mouth opened in surprise. “Where am I?”

“Draycott Abbey.”

The woman frowned. “I remember that.” Her questions stopped when she reached up, feeling the outline of the bandage at her forehead. She winced as her fingers touched the corner of her eyebrow.

She was too pale, Ian thought.

She looked exhausted.

“Who are you?”

“Commander Sinclair. Metropolitan Police Service, ma’am. I found you wandering on the abbey grounds in bad shape. You’ll be safe here. The roads are hellish tonight, with the storm getting worse, but if you need something, let me know. Marston has come up twice with soup and tea. He takes it as a personal affront that you’re not well enough to eat his specially made food.”

“Marston.” She said the word slowly. “Yes, I remember. He brought me here earlier. But there was something else. Something I needed to do—“ She blinked hard, frowning as if in pain.

“It can keep. Why don’t you lie back and get some sleep? I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

.

“It’s so beautiful, this room. It’s been so long since I felt safe...”

Her breath eased out in a husky sigh as she studied the carved fireplace and the elegant portraits. “I’ve always loved this house.” Her voice was a mere whisper now. “Adrian—he told me that I should paint here in summer, with all his roses abloom. I finished the painting, but never had time to show him. We waited, he and I. But you never came back…”

“I?” Ian leaned down, frowning. There it was again, this odd delusion of hers that they had met before. “Who is it that you mean? I’m certain we never met.”

“Oh yes, but it was long ago. You don’t remember that afternoon, on the river near Oxford? My parasol snapped. You jumped into the water to retrieve it. You were the perfect gentleman.” Her lips curved, as she closed her eyes. “But you were less than a gentleman that night, in my coach as we returned to London. Your kisses were most ardent, as I recall, my love.” Her voice broke away in sudden coughing.

Ian sat on the edge of the bed and took her hands. “Your coach? In London?” None of it made any sense. It had to be a delusion from her state of shock.

But as Ian looked down, his hands seemed to move. His long fingers entwined with hers in a way that felt painfully familiar. He brought their linked hands to his lips and kissed the curve of her wrist.

So precious.

So achingly familiar.

And in the sudden flare of the firelight, Ian saw a different world and a different time. Bright carriages raced by moonlight, carrying women with powdered hair and crimson lips. Jewels glittered in the candlelight of an elegant London ballroom.

Ian felt his heart hammer as her fingers tightened.

“I waited so long….” She drew his hand to her cheek on a shaky sigh. “My love.”

As her eyes closed, memories spilled over Ian like smoke.

In the candlelight her violet eyes gleamed, more beautiful than any jewel.

His heart was full almost to breaking with the love he felt for her. Tomorrow they would be married. Tomorrow the joy he had hoped to bring her would finally come.

Then he would have to break the cold news. His orders had just come, calling him to Goa on East India Company business. He refused to take her with him to that place of bad weather and illness. She would wait for him here, in the protection of her family, since he had no family of his own. He had already asked his old friend Adrian Draycott to keep a protective eye on her while he was away.

He had not told her any of this yet, knowing it would break her heart. She would rail and demand to go with him, no matter the danger or inconvenience.

The journey was out of the question. He would not see her dead from one of the strange miasms that felled so many travelers in the tropics.

He heard her turn and give a sudden laugh of pleasure. A dark figure loomed up from the candlelight. White lace fluttered at black velvet sleeves.

The fourth viscount was always elegant, but tonight he outdid himself. A different beautiful woman graced his arm. He never seemed to keep the same woman for more than one night.

A pity. Had Adrian found luck in love, his life would be so much richer.

“Glorious, as ever, my dear. Are you quite certain you mean to have this scapegrace friend of mine? If not, I’ll sweep you away to the altar this night. I have a Special License at hand, should you agree.”

“You are the veriest rogue, my lord. But no, my heart is given.” She turned, her eyes shining.

Ian felt the force of her love strike him and knew he was the luckiest of men.

Now, in the quiet room, the memory of her love reached out to him across the centuries….

They had been lovers once, centuries before.

The force of the knowledge made Ian’s body tighten and his blood stir. Who was she? And what was this damnable fantasy that seemed to capture them both?

Her hands trembled against his. Almost without conscious thought, Ian brought them to his face, struck by how much they had lost.

None of it made sense. Yet he did not move. As she slept, he kept a lonely vigil with images that felt like memories.

Clair sat up, disoriented, listening to hail hammer at the windows. A gray cat studied her from the bottom of the bed, its long tail twitching. The great animal seemed possessive, as if he was well accustomed to claiming this bed.

Had she seen a cat here before?

She couldn’t remember.

She stood up slowly and winced as the floor spun beneath her. With a gasp she caught the back of the wingchair, closing her eyes until the waves of dizziness passed.

Still too weak.

She rubbed her head, wincing at the sudden stab of pain. She had to try the inspector again.

As she walked to the desk, the door opened.

“You shouldn’t be up.” A tall man with charcoal eyes and broad shoulders crossed the room. Clair recognized him from her flight at the moat.

She shrank back.

“No need to be frightened. You shouldn’t be on your feet. You need to rest,” he said roughly. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

“Who—are you?”

“Ian Sinclair. Metropolitan Police Service. “How do you feel, Ms…..”

Clair watched him prowl the room and pull the curtains closed, his focus almost palpable. She didn’t answer his question. “I’m tired. I was going back to sleep. You don’t need to stay, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Ian. I’ll help you back to bed.”

Her hands tightened. “I’ll be fine. You can go.”

With a shrug he sat down in the wingchair beside the door. “Not tonight.”

“You can’t be serious. You’re staying here in my room?” Clair ran a hand over her forehead, frowning as the pain continued to build.

“Two men have come looking for you tonight. I’d like to know why they are so interested.”

Her hands trembled. “I knew they would. I—I have to get to London. I need to call—“

“You need to rest,” Ian said flatly.

Clair didn’t move. “Where are they now?”

“They drove off.”

“They won’t go away. They can’t afford to.” Her voice shook. “Not now.

“Why? What makes them so interested in you?”

She closed her eyes, trying to sort out whether he was telling the truth. If he was with the police, surely she could trust him?

“Will you call someone for me?”

“Of course. But first tell me your name.”

“Clair.” She looked down, surprised to feel the gray cat press against her leg, purring loudly.

“Clair what?”

She hesitated. Since Nina’s death, she had learned to trust no one. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I need to know why these men are so interested in you. I need to know who you are and why you are running away. They assured me you were a dangerous criminal and that I should phone them if I saw you.”

Clair spun around angrily, regretting the sudden movement that left the floor spinning all over again. “That’s a lie. I’m no criminal. They can’t—”

“I know it’s a lie. Now sit down and rest,” the man said curtly. “I believe you.”

“You do?” Clair sank down slowly on the bed. “Why?”

“Hell if I know.” He glanced around the room, frowning. “Are you cold?”

“A little.”

She froze as he pushed her back gently against the pillows and spread another blanket over her. She took a deep breath, studying his eyes. She had learned to read expressions over the last months, but she couldn’t seem to read this man’s face. And yet…

“Have we met before?”

“Outside. I pulled you out of the moat,” he said grimly. “Half dressed and more than frozen.”

No.” Clair shook her head slowly. “Before that. Somewhere else.”

“Not likely. I’d remember.” He cleared his throat and then leaned down to stir the fire. “You should sleep now.”

“I need to get to London.” Clair lay stiffly. Her vision seemed to blur. She blinked hard, trying to stay awake. “It’s—important.”

“Why?”

“I can only tell the inspector.”

The man named Ian frowned. “You can tell me. What is this important information you have?”

Clair wriggled away from him on the bed and felt the room blur. “Stop asking questions. I’ve had enough questions for a lifetime. They never stopped their questions. They took me and they watched me.” Her voice broke as she stood clumsily. “No more….”

She stared at the flowers that danced wildly over the rug. “I have to tell him—“

Her thoughts tangled. What was so important for her to convey? Clair rubbed her head, forcing her body forward with jerky steps. “I have to be sure he knows.”

“Damn it, Clair, sit down. You’re sheet white.”

Ian gripped her shoulder, and she shoved him away. “Get out of my way. You can’t stop me.”

With a raw oath, he pulled her around, locking her at his chest. Their bodies met and Clair flinched. In her struggles the dress spilled from her shoulder, and she felt the heat of his arm against her chest. His muscles clenched.

She heard his breath catch sharply as her breast brushed his hand.

His fingers seemed to lock. Then they opened slowly, cupping the curve of her warm skin.

Clair closed her eyes, trying to breathe.

Fear. Then fear gave way to need and driving heat.

His thumb stroked the aching point of her nipple and she shuddered with need. She reached out slowly, her palm to his angular jaw. “Who—are you?” she whispered. “Why do I know you so well?”

Her skin burned where he touched her, but she wanted more. She wanted him to remember, just as she yearned to remember.

Because the memories were all that mattered now.

Only by remembering could she trust again.

“I am someone you can trust. Believe that if nothing else.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “You must begin to trust me now, Clair.”

A muscle moved at his jaw. He looked at her naked skin, hot against his hand. “I knew you would feel like this. Somehow I knew you would be warm like this, so soft against my hand….”

She felt his words drift against her skin, as gentle as his touch. Need choked her. He had to stop.

But she couldn’t find the will to push him away. Need left her blinded. She had waited for him so long….

“Hell.”

Ian took a long, angry breath.

Then he shook his head, slowly pulling her dress back up over her shoulder. “I’m—sorry. You should be sleeping. I promised Izzy you would not be disturbed.”

“Izzy?”

“Someone who has come to help you. We will be close tonight, Clair.”

She nodded. Her lips curved in a tentative smile. “My name—it’s Haywood,” she said, trusting him for reasons she still could not understand. “My sister was Nina Haywood. They killed her.”

“We’ll find them.” He slid a blanket around her trembling shoulders. “No matter what it takes.”

Clair jumped at the sound of a car motor out in the darkness. She heard the muffled howl of a dog.

Ian’s eyes were hard as he glanced toward the window. “I have to go. Stay here, no matter what you hear. You will be safe inside the abbey.”

Clair gripped the blanket, suddenly afraid. “Be careful.”

“Always.”

Ian ran down the steps as Izzy emerged from the library.

“Two men outside.” Izzy shrugged on a Kevlar vest and tossed another to Ian. “A second car just stopped at the gate. Three men in that one.”

“Calan?"

“Tracking.”

Ian nodded as Izzy held out a shotgun, then drew another from the case at his feet.

“Georgian furniture, at your service,” the security operative said grimly. “I’ll go around to the gatehouse. Give me two minutes before you open the door.”

Ian waited impatiently, his eyes on the glowing hands of his watch. Teague would be in place soon. But waiting was a torment.

Outside Ian heard a thud. And then the keening cry of a dog.

Churchill.

Damn them, they had the dog. He must have gotten out earlier, maybe past Marston and out through the kitchen.

His face carefully masked, Ian pushed open the heavy oak door.

The supposed Inspector and his assistant stood in the high beams of a Range Rover. Another car was angled in the drive behind them. Ian saw them toss a heavy fishing net down on the ground before them.

The net moved. He heard Churchill whimper.

Damn them to hell.

He was careful to betray no emotions. “Back so soon, Inspector? I’ve nothing to report, I’m afraid.”

“Your act was quite convincing, Woods. Or should I say Sinclair, Commander Sinclair of the Royal Protection Squad?” The taller man nudged Churchill with his boot, and the dog snapped vainly, trapped in the tight network of fibers. “I’ve no more time for games. Where is the woman, damn it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Beyond the two parked cars, Ian saw a wisp of movement. Izzy would be in place now, and Calan moved somewhere out in the darkness, missing nothing.

He raised the shotgun slowly. “Unwrap the dog. Let him go. Then we’ll talk.”

“Such loyalty for a brute animal.” The ‘inspector’ shrugged. “No, we’ll talk after you bring Clair Haywood outside. Then of course I’ll release your dog.”

Ian knew it was a lie. They would all die out here in the ice storm if he wasn’t careful.

“Very well. I’m putting down my weapon.” Out beyond the moat he saw a rush of muscle and the glint of fur. But Ian kept his eyes on his whimpering dog as he slowly leaned down, placing the shotgun on the ground. Without waiting, he inched closer to Churchill, reaching for the knotted cords.

A bullet slammed into the ground beside his foot.

“Not so fast, Commander. Call the woman outside. Do it now.”

Ian saw Churchill wheeze in pain. The thought sent a wave of fury boiling through him.

But he forced his face to stay calm. “I’ll have to go inside. I warned her not to come out, no matter what she heard or saw.”

“A wise injunction. But now you are going to break it.”

But before Ian reached the first step, the door opened slowly.

Clair stood in the light from the hall, his jacket around her shoulders. “Of course you came. You couldn’t stop, could you? Nina wasn’t enough. But you’re too late.” She smiled coldly, her hands clenched. “I’ve already called the inspector in London. He knows your name and all the rest of your plans.”

“Most unwise of you.” He raised a squat Browning and motioned her closer. “Move away from the house. Otherwise I will shoot the Commander and his dog. I doubt you would care for that.”

Clair moved as if in a trance.

She took in the men silhouetted in the bright lights of the Range Rovers. She saw the dog, struggling weakly in his bonds. Most of all she saw Ian. His eyes warned her away, but Clair ignored his silent command.

“I can hardly harm you. It seems that you have all the weapons now. But you always were afraid, weren’t you? Always a gun beneath your pillow. Nina told me that.” She smiled thinly. “She also told me where you keep the keys to that safe. You thought she didn’t see you, but you were wrong.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Clever little fool. Not that it did her any good. Nor will it do you any good.”

His Browning rose as Clair moved closer.

She had no time to process the shadow that exploded from the bank of roses beside the moat. She sensed more than saw a powerful body and burning eyes.

The man standing behind the inspector fell and his weapon flew through the air. Scrambling, Clair caught it up as it hit the gravel. With a snarl the man in the black raincoat aimed his gun at the dog, already tearing through the net. Clair didn’t think. Her hand tightened, squeezing the trigger.

Her target rasped a curse and looked down in disbelief as his right leg gave way, his kneecap shattered.

Car doors opened. Two men leaped outside.

Clair felt a heavy weight at her shoulders as she was knocked to the ground. Dark fur pinned her when she would have stood. She saw Ian running now, saw a man at the low door to the gatehouse at the far side of the drive.

A bullet sang past her ear and grazed her head. She tried to stand, but something seemed to hold her fast. The perfume of roses drifted around her as she watched a powerful shape bound away toward the men fighting under the single wreath at the abbey’s great door.

Your work is done here. Leave the rest to them. You will not be betrayed this night.

Clair felt the weight of memories that came in the same instant as the brush of phantom fingers.

Adrian? Is that you?

Of a certainty. Always too stubborn and too brave. Then as well as now. But you must trust him. He will put things all to right.

And maybe, once all this is done, you’ll show me that painting you made of my roses…all those centuries ago.

If it was a dream, it felt clearer than any reality. Clair shivered and could have sworn she saw dim lace flutter against a black velvet sleeve.

Then the lights swam around her. She was so cold.

And then only darkness.

Ian fought with cold, clinical accuracy. Two men fell. From the corner of his eye, he saw Izzy take down two more. Calan was nowhere to be seen, but the muffled groans up the slope told Ian that his friend had hunted well.

He stood up, watching the man whom Clair had shot crawling through the mud, moaning.

Ian made no move to help him, moving down to free his dog instead.

Churchill gave a clumsy wag of the tail and tried to stand. He shook himself hard, nudged Ian’s leg and then bounded into the darkness.

More men waiting, Ian thought.

But where in the hell was Clair?

You must allow me my small vanities, old friend. She is well. Not that she needed the help of either of us. Guard her close.

And think well on the path before you. Do not lose her again as you did before.

Ian shoved away the odd, disjointed words that filled his mind. He saw the shape near the banked roses and knew somehow that it was Clair.

But her eyes did not open. Her hands were limp.

“Clair,” he said hoarsely, pulling her against his chest, willing her to move.

He did not release her until Izzy crouched beside him and forced his hands away.

London
Metropolitan Police Department
Two weeks later

Ian Sinclair walked through the crowded corridors, past whirring fax machines and banks of desks. No one hailed him or stopped to talk.

Eyes were averted except for the occasional glance at the black band around his arm.

His eyes were hard as he walked to his desk and methodically cleared out its contents. For a job that had spanned nearly a decade, there was precious little to show. He looked at the single Christmas card on his desk and shoved it into the dustbin.

After shoving the pens, notebooks and a single file into his canvas satchel, he stood up and glanced around the room. Silence fell. The man at the closest desk glanced up at him and cleared his throat. “Sorry about the news, Sinclair.”

Ian gave a curt nod. “So was I.”

With the satchel beneath his arm, he walked back into the streaming pre-Christmas traffic. The smell of the sea was heavy here. Strange, he had never noticed before.

When he turned and walked south, he did not look back.

Ravenwood House
Southern England

The house was golden, lit by the last rays of the dying sun. Its peace and age blended with the rolling hills that overlooked the English coast.

Ian turned into the ornate gates of the estate owned by Calan MacKay, feeling muscles tighten at his shoulders. As he walked into the front hall, his friend appeared with the silence that so many people found unnerving.

“Is it done?”

Ian nodded. “Hard to believe. Ten years gone in a matter of minutes. I didn’t have anyone whom I would miss.” He shrugged. “If you offer me some of that fine aged whisky, I won’t turn it down. Not tonight.”

Calan nodded. “The fire is lit in the study. You won’t be disturbed. I’ve left the bottle there for you already.” Calan started to say something else, then took a slow breath. “I think I’ll go take Churchill for a run. We might be gone for quite some time,” he murmured.

Ian barely heard.

He opened the doors to the small room with its walls of inlaid mahogany paneling. Firelight danced over the rich red rugs. Ian barely noticed. He glanced through the empty room and then sank down in the deep armchair near the fire. With a sigh he closed his eyes.

He barely heard the movement. The fingers moved slowly, smoothing the knots at his shoulders. Smooth lips brushed his brow.

Ian felt the last of his tension fade as he gripped her hands and tugged her down into his lap. “I was starting to worry.”

“It’s all done, is it?” Clair Haywood touched his cheek, looking anxious.

“Completely done. I resigned as of three o’clock this afternoon. Your death at Draycott Abbey was the final straw.” He made a low sound as her fingers massaged his neck. “They asked me what I mean to do now. Private security work, I suppose. There’s lots to be had now.”

“But that’s not what you’ll be doing,” Clair said quietly.

“No, it is not. I’ll be working with Nicholas and Izzy, tracking down the rest of these men. Izzy has already found enough to suggest there is a very important man in place, too deeply hidden to be safe. And so, our work is just beginning.” He kissed her hand and then gently opened the sash of her robe. “But not tonight.”

Clair shrugged free of one sleeve and bit his lips gently. She sighed when his callused hand cupped her shoulder and slid to her breast. “Last night, Ian, you didn’t—“

“No, I didn’t. Your shoulder still needs to mend.”

She pressed closer, her face determined. “I’m fine. And I want you to treat me as if I were. I want—everything you have to give me. It is long past time, my love.”

Ian took a raw breath. Yet again she tore through all his defenses. “Clair, you can’t. Not yet.”

Smiling with a look of infinite joy, she turned carefully and straddled him in the chair. “Is that so?” The robe spilled from her sleek body and she reached down to undo his belt. “Idiot. You probably think you need to protect me, even now.”

All the words flew out of Ian’s head when her fingers slid lower, burrowing down to curve over hard, aroused skin. “But who, I wonder, will protect you from me?”

“No one. So I sincerely hope, my love.” Ian whispered her name as he kissed a hungry path along her shoulder. Their two bodies met, restless and hungry, matched in ardor and in trust.

Fabric rustled.

Skin met aching skin, golden in the firelight.

Around them the air seemed to still.

A single snowflake drifted down over the quiet house. Neither of them noticed the sound of soft laughter.

And then the faint, lingering perfume of roses….

Welcome back to Draycott Abbey.

Do you love magic that gathers within weathered stone walls? Are you fascinated by old houses, where the weight of history presses down like a physical touch? If so, you'll feel completely at home at this lovely, rose-covered estate in rural England.

I'm frequently asked if my books have to be read in order.

Definitely not! Each book is written to stand alone. All of the stories are self-contained. But since many readers prefer a series in its order of writing, this link will take you to the current Draycott Abbey collection.

DRAYCOTT ETERNAL

DRAYCOTT LEGACY

HOUR OF THE ROSE

BRIDGE OF DREAMS

BRIDE OF THE MIST

KEY TO FOREVER

SEASON OF WISHES

CHRISTMAS KNIGHT

THE PERFECT GIFT

TO CATCH A THIEF

BOUND BY DREAMS

DRAYCOTT EVERLASTING

Christmas at Draycott Abbey, a novella

The series began with a story of the brooding ghost of an earlier ancestor, Adrian Draycott. After that came nine Draycott Abbey books, which may not all be in print at the time you read this.

Stay tuned. Izzy is working on that!

And if you are intrigued by Calan MacKay, the secretive Scotsman, you may enjoy Bound by Dreams, the story of Calan’s rare skills – and his rediscovery of a love lost within the abbey walls.

Meanwhile, enjoy the scent of Adrian’s heirloom roses.

They bloom even in winter, thanks to a particular bit of magic worked by moonlight. No, Adrian didn’t sell his soul to the devil.

But it was a close thing. Far too close. And Adrian’s testing has only begun as the danger grows, carried into the turbulent present.

Watch for more brand new novellas coming in 2012!

For a taste of Draycott Abbey, try Marston's Chocolate Pots de Crème. You'll find the recipe, and two variations, at DraycottAbbey.com/recipe. These small and entirely delicious little desserts are a staple at the Abbey over Christmas. Marston always uses the exclusive Earl Grey tea made for the Draycott family to infuse this decadent dish, but any good quality Earl Grey tea will work. Happy cooking (and eating!)

I'll be waiting for you at the abbey……

(with some help from the unflappable Marston)