chapter
5
THE MORNING DAWNED gray and cloudy, with a steady drizzle of rain that hinted of snow.
As Rachel stood shivering at the cliff’s edge, she gazed out at the silver-limned water of the River Ness, willing back the rise of emotion within her as she thought about her parents and how they had loved this place.
She tried to see it as they had, and not as the desolate, tragic shell it had become. It must have been grand once, must have possessed a certain magic, when the grounds stirred with men and women and children. The thrum of life.
Those days were gone now. But they had once existed . . . back in Duncan’s time.
Would he ever return to where he belonged? And would she be able to forget him once he was gone?
Rachel forced the thought aside, knowing such questions were unproductive. What would be would be, and she could not change that, no matter what she wanted.
Though she closed one door in the passageway of her mind, another opened, full of poignant memories—visions of her parents, of what they would be doing right now had they still been alive. They had found such joy during the holidays. They had known such love.
Sadness took hold of Rachel, enclosing her in its relentless web. Soon she would have to say good-bye to them, and the sorrow of that moment made an ache unfurl and expand inside her, like an old wound newly lanced. She was not yet ready to let them go.
She closed her eyes tightly and tipped her face up to the sky, allowing the drizzle to bead upon her chilled face and run like tears down her cheeks—replacing the real tears that longed to flow. But she was too afraid she would drown in her grief should she allow them to fall freely.
What irony, she thought. What cursed fate. That in this very place where her parents had found love, she had, by some skewed miracle, conjured up a man who epitomized her most secret fantasies, her most longed-for wishes, and the wretched reality was . . . he could never belong to her.
No doubt Duncan was pacing Glengarren’s shadowed corridors, despairing over his circumstances, a spirit and soul wrenched from his existence by the whims of fate, his mind consumed with thoughts of how he would find his way back to his own century—while she wondered if she really wanted him to find the answer.
A gust of frigid air whipped up from the gorge below, bringing her back to the moment—and banishing dreams that she would be foolish to hold out hope might be granted.
Rachel opened her eyes to find the first flurries of snowflakes brushing against her cheeks as lightly as ghostly kisses.
The sight reminded her that Christmas was nearly upon her. Families the world around were decorating trees and wrapping presents to the familiar strains of “Deck the Halls” and “Silent Night” Soon they would be drinking eggnog and eating fruitcake . . . while visions of new toys and games danced in children’s heads.
Rachel’s gaze shifted to the castle that jutted out of the earth like a gray mountain, her thoughts once more returning to Duncan—and where they would both be on Christmas Day. Perhaps it was best not to know.
The temperature suddenly plummeted, and she trembled as the cold cut through her layered clothing like a dull knife and began to numb her gloved hands and booted feet.
Bundling her coat close around her, she hastened toward the house. As she stepped through the front door, shaking the snow from her hair, she paused, noting that the foyer felt surprisingly warm.
Slowly, she closed the heavy portal behind her, her gaze sliding to the library, where a glowing light spilled out over the threshold, burnishing the floor with a golden hue.
A roaring fire burned in the hearth, the flames licking greedily against the long-unused grate, making wild shapes dance over the walls and floor like writhing apparitions.
Rachel started as the lights suddenly flicked on and off. On and off. On and off. A moment later she heard a distinctive male grumble and a curse. She turned to find Duncan flipping the light switch on the wall up and down, his face a mixture of confounded amazement.
She smiled at the sight he made. He looked so beautifully perplexed and utterly disgruntled over his new discovery that her heart did a little flip. This warrior, who lived in a time of bloody combat, was held captive . . . by the power of electricity.
“Having a good time?” she asked, shrugging out of her coat and hanging it up on a peg near the door.
With a fiercely concentrated scowl, Duncan’s gaze snapped to hers. “My home is full of witch’s magic.”
Rachel sighed and removed her wet boots. “It’s not witch’s magic. It’s simply modernization. A lot of years have passed since you lived here.”
Duncan grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “sorcery” as he regarded the light switch and bulb dubiously, his expression conveying that he was decidedly wary of this artificial illumination as he gave the switch another flick.
At last he grew tired of the marvels of modern science and turned to face her, moving out of the shadows that had partially cloaked him.
Rachel’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as she got her first full glimpse of him—clad only in a pair of faded jeans.
Sweet heaven, there was something awe-inspiring about the way God had created a man’s body—particularly a man at the height of his sexual peak.
He gestured to his crotch. “This . . . thing”—he tugged on the zipper—“it sorely vexes me. I pull and I pull and yet it remains steadfast, mocking me. God’s teeth! How do men in this century have time for such nonsense?”
The answer to that question eluded Rachel. She had never been particularly concerned with men’s dressing habits. Then again, very few looked as this man did.
“It’s probably stuck,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice that she sounded slightly out of breath. “Wiggle it a little bit.”
He scowled and tugged at the zipper, demanding that it obey. To her great relief, the zipper finally complied.
Then he looked at her . . . really looked, his gaze drifting down her body, the barest hint of a smile tilting up the corners of his lips.
“ ’Tis quite a sight ye make this morn, sweet witch.” His voice was a husky rumble that did strange things to her insides.
“I was cold,” she said, trying to explain away her bulky and decidedly unappealing layers of clothing, which she had not merely donned for protection against the pervasive chill, but against hot blue eyes that seemed to bore into her as though seeing into her soul.
“Had ye stayed in my bed last night, such a thing ’twould not have been an issue.” The remark was not an accusation, but rather an observation, one she had little doubt would have proven all too accurate.
She had spent a good portion of the night thinking about him. Imagining herself lying beneath his solid frame, enveloped in his heat, staring up into those hypnotic eyes and getting lost—as she was doing at that very moment, which might explain why she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden banging on the front door.
Her gaze shot to the door, where someone waited for her to answer the summons—someone she couldn’t allow to get a glimpse of Duncan, especially with his portrait looming directly behind him.
“Hide.” She rushed out.
He scowled. “I hide from no man.”
“Think about it,” she said, trying to reason with him. “How would I explain you? I’m supposed to be here alone.” When he made no move to depart, she softly beseeched, “Please, Duncan.”
He hesitated, looking none too happy. Then he nodded curtly and stepped away, blending into the deeply shadowed corridor.
Rachel breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to the door, hoping she appeared at ease as she opened it, relieved when she saw who it was. “Good morning, Fergus.”
“Mornin’,” he replied brusquely, his shoulders slumped against the cold and falling snow as he scrutinized her with squinted eyes that seemed to know she hid something. “Is there aught amiss?”
“No,” she said a bit too quickly. “Why?”
“Yer lookin’ peaked.”
“I’m just a bit tired.”
“Guess ye ain’t slept much, eh?”
“The storm kept me awake.”
“Told ye they was bad.”
An understatement, Rachel thought, hugging herself as the cold, blustery wind blew around her, scattering snow at her feet.
“I brought somethin’ for ye.” He stepped away and then reappeared with a lush pine tree.
She blinked. “What’s that for?”
“ ’Tis Christmas,” he said gruffly. “Thought ye should have yourself a tree. Cut it m’self right from Glengarren’s woods.”
Despite Fergus’s somewhat intimidating personality, obviously there was a gentleness buried beneath his austere demeanor.
Rachel knew she should be thanking him instead of staring at the tree with something akin to despondency, the words to tell him she didn’t want it on the tip of her tongue.
But she couldn’t hurt his feelings like that. He had been making a nice gesture, and it would be wrong of her to throw his thoughtfulness back at him.
“Thank you, Fergus,” she murmured. “That’s very sweet of you.” She moved back in the doorway and motioned him inside.
The smell of pine and brisk air followed him into the house, little green needles dusting the foyer floor as he struggled with his burden.
“I’ll just put it there in the library.”
Rachel nodded and watched him walk away, glancing cautiously toward the shadows where Duncan had disappeared, unable to catch even the slightest glimpse of him in the gloom of the corridor. Was he still there?
With a strange sense of unease, Rachel headed into the library, where Fergus was propping up the tree, his movements surprisingly efficient for a man with his disabilities.
“Is this spot all right for ye?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.
“It should be fine.”
Fergus nodded and then brushed his hands off on his pants. “There should be some geegaws up in the attic. Them sparkly lights and hangin’ doodads—and also one of them things that holds up the tree.”
“Do you have your tree up yet?”
“Nope. Don’t got one. Most folks ’round here don’t celebrate Christmas. The Scots’ time for celebratin’ is Hogmanay, which is at the end of the month. But his lordship’s mother, ye see, was American, like yerself, and she wanted her children tae take part in the holiday, so she got all the fixin’s and would do the place up fancy every year.”
Rachel could only imagine how festive the castle must have once been, all decorated for Christmas, twinkling lights whisking away the shadows, brightly colored ornaments banishing the gray pall, red and white poinsettias enlivening the gloom of the foyer stairs, fresh garland twining around the sadly worn banister, the smell of pine and spices eclipsing the odor of damp mustiness, and a wreath with a big red velvet bow on the front door welcoming all visitors. It would have been a sight to behold.
“The family used tae make a big deal outta it,” Fergus went on. “Stringin’ up rows of popcorn and them berries, and the kiddies would hang candy canes and dangle beribboned cookies from the tree limbs. ’Twas quite a fetchin’ picture, if I say so m’self.”
“It sounds lovely.” And just hearing about it made Rachel’s heart ache for days that were gone forever.
Fergus’s gaze dropped from hers then, and he shrugged. “I have me own selfish reasons for bringin’ ye the tree, what with this bein’ Glengarren’s last Christmas and all. It just seemed kinda like the thing tae do, if ye know what I mean.”
Rachel essayed a gentle smile. “You did the right thing, Fergus,” she reassured him. And though it was the right thing for Glengarren, she didn’t know if it was the right thing for her.
He gave her a quick nod. “Well, I’ll be goin’ then.” He shuffled toward the door, but then paused on the threshold, eyeing her. “Ye sure everything’s all right? Ain’t nothin’ strange happened tae ye since I left ye here alone?”
More things than she cared to confide, Rachel thought. “No. I’m fine.”
He made a low grunt. “Well, don’t say as I didn’t warn ye. There’s things about this old place that just ain’t right. No, not right a’tall. Ain’t seen nothin’ with me eyes, mind ye. ’Tis just a feelin’ I get, here, in the pit of me belly.”
Rachel well understood that feeling. She rubbed her arms as a chill suddenly assailed her, her mind replaying the night before, hearing whispers, seeing the odd mist in the hallway.
“Thanks for the warning,” she said. “I promise you’ll be the first to know if I encounter any problems.”
“Well, all right, then. Good day tae ye.” He doffed his dusty hat and scuffled out the door, closing it soundly enough that the bang echoed in the far-reaching corridors.
Rachel sighed, her gaze straying to the pine tree leaning against the wall next to the bay window, filling the room with its scent—a scent that brought back poignant memories of Christmases past, of long-ago days when she, like the MacGregor children, had strung popcorn for the tree.
Closing her eyes, she backed out of the room, standing motionless in the hallway until the rise of emotion subsided. Then she glanced about, expecting Duncan to reappear; disgruntled, of course, because he had been forced to keep out of sight. But no sound came to her, no shadows shifted to reveal his brooding, beautiful face.
Where was he?
Rachel moved through the foyer, her feet whispering across the cold surface as she headed toward the darkened corridor where Duncan had retreated. Her eyes strained to see through the murky gloom. She called his name; the sound rebounded like a cry down a well.
With faltering steps she continued on, the darkness swallowing her, as did the cold. She moved cautiously down the unfamiliar hall that meandered like a maze, long-undisturbed dust rising with each step she took.
Here the surroundings appeared older, the air mustier, cobwebs clinging tenaciously in the corners and along rotted moldings, jagged pieces of wood and broken sections of stone scattered on the floor, sad remnants of neglect and age. Clearly, no repairs had been done in this part of the house in generations.
Rachel stopped abruptly as the air stirred against her. No draft. No place for air to get in. Yet it crept up her body inch by inch, touching her flesh here, there, crawling over her face . . . and then slowly, inescapably, shifting around her throat.
Her hand flew to her neck, panic driving through her blood like an ice spike, as freezing and brutal as the air. Her rational mind was eclipsed by fear, by the certain knowledge that something threatened her—and that something was tightening around her throat.
Rachel began to run blindly through the shadows, desperate to escape the terrifying presence that followed her. “Duncan!” she cried as the gloom of her ancient surroundings intensified, his name reverberating off the vaulted ceiling.
She froze in her tracks, her heart slamming against her ribs and cold sweat rising to her face. The echo that had come back to her had not been her voice . . . but a deep masculine knell—as jeering as it was menacing.
Rachel forced her rigid legs to move, then move faster, every nerve in her body standing on end as the pressure around her throat increased.
She struggled to breathe—stumbling forward, all her attention centered on the dim rays of light that suddenly appeared ahead.
Frantic, she burst from the corridor and into the cavernous, charred ruin of the decimated east wing, with its blackened walls and rafters that yawned around her and above her like the exposed bones of some mammoth beast.
She spotted him then—Duncan, standing amid the rubble of what had once been part of his home. The pressure increased around her throat, leaving her unable to call his name.
She dropped to her knees, struggling for air, trying to pry away unseen hands, her eyes widening as a funnel of wind and odd white vapor whirled before her, whipping up dust that appeared to take form.
Duncan turned then, his eyes shockingly blue against his blanched face. For an instant their gazes locked through the roiling haze—then a roar—howling, ear-splitting, coming from nowhere and everywhere—ripped through the air, the force hurling Duncan backward into the wall, the sound of her name on his lips the last thing she heard before unconsciousness engulfed her.