chapter
6
HE CARRIED HER TO THE library, to the fireplace, where the flames banished the cold. Still, he held her secure in his arms as he sat down in front of the hearth, smoothing the hair from her brow. His fingers trembled, and he released a shaky breath.
“Lady,” he whispered. “How do ye fare?”
Gazing into his concerned eyes, Rachel did her best to shake off the icy shock and fear that had numbed her the last few minutes.
“I’m fine,” she murmured, her voice sounding raspy. “What about you?” She reached up to smooth her fingers over a cut along his cheek.
He took her hand in his and gently kissed her palm. “ ’Tis a scratch.” His eyes held hers, somber, sorrowful. “Had anything happened tae ye, lass . . .”
She gave him a gentle smile. “Don’t worry. I’m stronger than I look.” Her vow did not seem to appease him. She could feel the tension in his body, his distress almost palpable. Never had a man looked at her in such a way, as if his very world would collapse if she had been hurt. “What happened in there?”
He shook his head. “I know not.”
“Duncan . . .”
“Aye, lass. I sense what troubles ye.”
“Then I didn’t imagine it? There was something—”
“Aye.”
“But it can’t be. I don’t believe in spirits, malevolent or otherwise.”
“Nor I. But neither would I have believed that this thing that has transpired with me could have happened.”
Rachel didn’t want to think that Duncan’s appearance and whatever had just taken place could be connected, though strange, frightening things had begun happening shortly after his arrival.
“Perhaps it was a freak wind?” she said, searching for an explanation. “Like the voice I heard. The wind through the corridors and rafters often sounds human.”
“Perhaps,” he said without conviction, tension bracketing his mouth.
He stood up and carried her over to the couch, where he laid her down, his gentleness bordering on reverence, touching a place in Rachel she long believed cold and remote.
He began to pace, and in moments his anger was back, swirling around him as turbulently as the wind that had brought them both to their knees.
As she watched him rake a hand through his hair, his face stamped by frustration, she tried desperately to convince herself that what had transpired in the east wing had been brought on by fear when she couldn’t find him, panic closing off her throat rather than an invisible hand.
And perhaps Duncan had stumbled back into the wall instead of some force throwing him into it. Fear could easily shroud the truth, blur the mind.
And she had been afraid . . . afraid of losing him. When he had not appeared after she called his name repeatedly, she began to think that he was gone—disappeared into the mist, never to be seen again—that perhaps everything she had experienced thus far had not been real but rather her unconscious mind wanting something so desperately it was willing to bring her fantasies to life.
Yet she couldn’t quite dispel the feeling that strange forces were at work here. The same forces that had brought Duncan to her. Hadn’t Fergus told her that Glengarren was more than it appeared to be?
“There is much that confuses me,” Duncan said, moving to stand in front of the fire, his troubled gaze fixed on the lapping flames.
Rachel rose unsteadily to her feet, her knees still weak and her head aching. She longed to console Duncan. But, more than that, she wanted him to hold her again. Those few minutes his arms had been around her, comforting and warm, had infused her with a sense of security she had not felt in a long time.
This blue-eyed Highlander, whose starkly beautiful mien now resembled more a lost child than a heroic warrior, had filled an empty space in her heart.
He released a burdened sigh and ran a hand over his brow. “I am weary.”
Instinctively, Rachel touched his cheek. His flesh was chilled, though the fire in the hearth cast enough heat into the room to make her clothing feeling uncomfortably warm.
A fresh surge of fear assailed her. Something was different. She couldn’t put her finger on the variance, but something had changed, some alteration in his appearance, as if a vivid oil painting, like the one of him in the foyer, had diffused to watercolor.
He turned his cheek into her hand, and closed his eyes. “I am glad ye were not hurt. ’Twould grieve me much were ye tae suffer.”
Rachel’s heart missed a beat at the gentleness she detected in his voice, and the sincerity in his words. “Duncan . . .” His name was a plea.
He opened his eyes, and a gasp lodged in her throat. His piercing blue eyes were as faded as a winter sky, the color nearly drained from them.
Then he blinked, and his eyes appeared normal again. Rachel stood rooted to the spot, stunned and shaken. Could what she had seen been a trick of the light? A temporal illusion brought about by the flickering flames and her overstressed mind?
Her questions drifted to the background as Duncan ever so lightly touched his fingertip to her bottom lip, gently smoothing the callused pad across her suddenly sensitive mouth.
The contact was as jarring as it was seductive; that this battle-scarred warrior, whose very presence denoted power and danger, could evoke such tenderness in a touch, left her weak . . . and aching for him.
His mouth curved into a sensual invitation, a promise of pleasure she could only imagine. To feel those lips on her own. To experience the full measure of that soul-melding she knew only with him, a heightened awareness that dug into every fiber of her being, would be bliss.
The need to press her mouth to his nearly overwhelmed her. Made her tremble. She felt her lids grow slumberous, her body languid.
“Rachel,” he whispered, his breath fanning her cheek, teasing a tendril of hair, blowing into her very heart and lodging there.
Everything inside her focused on him, tunneled solely on this moment, a second of eternity that seemed to have been building for a lifetime, waiting . . . waiting.
Then, without warning, he stepped away, leaving a cold chill in his wake, and a haunting despair to take up residence inside her.
She opened her eyes to find him standing with his back to her, his head bowed, his body rigid. For long moments they stayed frozen in time, silent, torn, grief and need clashing in an inner battle before pieces of her began to quietly shatter.
She turned away from him—and from the turmoil in her heart, fleeing on silent feet back to the sanctuary of her room, back to the familiar demon of loneliness.
THE BLIZZARD STARTED that afternoon.
Rachel hugged herself as she stared out her window into ever-darkening skies, watching the snow that had continued unabated for most of the day, covering the ground in a thick blanket of white, weighing down tree limbs and layering the rooftops of the sleepy town in the distance, the inhabitants oblivious to the turmoil and despair residing on its very perimeter.
The snow collected in deep drifts along the castle walls and painted the windowpanes in a complex veil of ice crystals as the wind moaned its plaintive song.
Rachel sighed wearily and sat down before her bedroom hearth, the logs crackling, spewing orange and blue flames, black wisps of ash ascending the chimney.
She was dressed for bed; flannel pajamas she was glad to have packed. Though her body was tired, her heart was too sore and her mind too involved in troubling thoughts for sleep to come easily this night.
She wrapped a hand around her mother’s antique locket, having not removed it from around her neck since her mothers death. The locket was Rachel’s solitary comfort, her last vestige of the life she had once known.
The metal warmed in her palm, and she could almost imagine it was her mother’s hand within hers, giving a reassuring squeeze, bidding her to be strong, that the future would again hold all that Rachel had once hoped for.
She wanted to believe, but was too afraid of that future, of what she had seen when she closed her eyes at night, images of a life with Duncan.
And a life without him.
Like a dream, he had suddenly appeared in her world, making her hope again, taunting her with glimpses of a love she knew was meant to be, a love that had struggled across time, obstacles, chasms, to find its other half. Its completion.
Her feelings for him were more than just passion, though the ache was there, burning stronger than the fire in the hearth. She could feel Duncan’s own desire, it seared her, and yet he had denied her, leaving her ashamed of the strength of her yearning for him.
What would he do were she to slip into his bed and press her flesh against his? Take him inside her body, sheath him, rock him, fulfill her fantasy to make them one, to bring their joining, their fate, full circle?
She tried to shake free of the thought, yet it would not release her. She had to get away, outdistance the talons of despair seeking to sink into her.
She pushed to her feet and hastened to her bedroom door, opening it and gazing warily out into the dark corridor, her attention shifting against her will to Duncan’s room, wondering what he was doing. If he was thinking of her as she was of him. If he was hoping she would come to him. She felt as if he called her, silently beckoning.
But what if all she heard was her own need? What if he was fast asleep? What if she slipped beneath his sheets and he rejected her? She simply couldn’t bear it.
Run, her mind clamored. Run as fast as you can. Get away from here.
She did not question the command. Instead she fled down the hallway, not knowing where she was going, simply wanting to feel her breath rasping through her lungs, to remember she was alive and this was real and that somehow she must deal with whatever came next.
She shut out the chill racing over her, keeping pace with her, the brush of air upon her cheeks, the increasing groan of the wind. She ran, faster, her senses expanding and her heart racing, her breath a vapor in the cold.
Her chest was heaving by the time she descended the massive staircase and stumbled into the foyer, her breath coming out in short pants.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, calming her body, easing back into her skin, feeling the sedative affect the exertion had given her.
A hint of wood smoke wafted to her, and she opened her eyes, seeing the door ajar to the library, the orange glow of a fire blazing in the hearth.
Her body and mind were immediately alert, the perspiration growing chill on her brow. Hadn’t Duncan extinguished the fire before he had come up to bed?
Or had someone else rekindled it?
With trepidation, Rachel moved quietly across the foyer and hesitated on the threshold to the library, the warmth of the fire enveloping her even from a distance, the flames chasing the shadows into the corners to gather and grow, threatening, cloaking whatever chose to hide within its blackened folds.
Tentatively, she entered the room, a gasp breaking from her lips at the sight that greeted her, her incredulous gaze taking in the Christmas tree in front of the bay window, the tree that had been barren only a few hours before but was now fully decorated.
Baubles glistened in the firelight, and the red, green, and gold lights woven amid the lush boughs lent a fairylike shimmer in the dark.
A moth-eaten Santa perched in a chair, his hat slanted on his head, his cheeks blooming with faded color. Beside him sat Rudolf, staring up at her with one black button eye, the other missing.
How? she wondered. Who had done this?
“I found the boxes in the storage area,” came a deep voice from the darkness.
With a startled cry, Rachel whirled around to find Duncan lounging in a wing chair in the shadows across the room. The pulse of fear immediately dissolved into a sense of anticipation, a thrumming of her blood at the very sight of him.
“I frightened ye,” he said, shaking his head in regret. “ ’Twas not my intention.”
“W-what are you doing here?”
“I could not sleep.” She heard something in his voice, a yearning that struck a chord within her. Yet his face was cloaked in shadows, denying her a glimpse of his expression.
“Did you do all this?” she asked, gesturing to the tree and the decorations.
“Aye,” he said, rising from his seat and walking through the flickering light toward her, causing a sensation akin to bottled lightning to sizzle down Rachel’s spine, his male beauty riveting her.
Then he stood before her, his dark eyes drinking her in, her own gaze eagerly reciprocating. Never had she enjoyed the simple marvel of looking at someone.
Her lips tingled and her nipples tautened, her entire body quickened, and he had not yet touched her, not uttered a single seductive word. That look alone had undone her every good intention.
She moistened her dry lips, and his eyes followed the path of her tongue. “I don’t understand. How did you know how to decorate the tree?”
“I found this.” He reached into the pocket of the soft blue chambray shirt he wore and pulled out a photo. “It was in the box.”
Rachel glanced at the old picture, the color having lost a shade of distinction with age. But there was no mistaking the family gathered in front of a beautiful Christmas tree situated before the library’s bay window.
The MacGregors, when their children were still young. Rachel’s gaze focused on the oldest boy, who appeared to be about twelve, but his bluer-than-blue eyes were unmistakable, clearly marking him as one of Duncan’s descendants.
Rachel glanced up at him. “This is your family.”
He nodded, his gaze fastened on the picture, an emotion on his face that made her want to weep. “We lived on,” he said in a raw voice.
“Yes,” she murmured. “The MacGregors lived on.” Rachel could not bear to think of what life held in store for Duncan back in his own time, an era of unrest, of constant warring. She didn’t want to recall what she already knew. Not tonight. “Everything looks beautiful.”
His gaze slid to hers. “I did it for you.”
“Me?” she whispered.
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“Tae take the sadness from your eyes.”
Rachel averted her gaze. “I’m not sad.”
“Aye, lass, ye are.” He cupped her chin, turning her back to face him. “Tell me why.”
Rachel stepped back out of his reach and slipped around him, moving toward the fireplace to warm her suddenly cold hands in front of the crackling flames.
He followed, standing so close she had no choice but to look up at him. She had to fight to keep from closing her eyes and pressing her cheek against his chest.
“What hurts ye so?” The tenderness in his eyes was nearly her undoing.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes and she turned from him, feeling as though she was slowly unraveling as she focused her gaze on the flames.
“This is my first Christmas without my parents,” she managed in a barely audible voice. “They both died this year.”
How often had she, as a child, crept from her bed to spy on her parents who, after tucking her between the sheets, had spent the evening cuddled together before the tree, soft Christmas carols whispering from the stereo as they shared hot chocolate and an occasional kiss.
As a child she had not appreciated their special bond. As an adult, she had dreamed, even craved to spend her Christmases in an identical manner—wrapped up in the security and love of a man who worshipped her.
Duncan moved behind her, his body close—so close. The warmth of it suffused her, seeped beneath her skin and twined inside her. “Your heart is breaking, is it not?”
Grief instantly clogged her throat. “You would think that I was too old to allow the sight of a Christmas tree to make me weep,” she said, her voice crumbling.
“ ’Tis not the tree that makes ye weep, lass. ’Tis your sadness. But I do not think your parents would wish for ye tae suffer such sorrow on their behalf.”
He was right. Her parents would have wanted her to be happy, to remember the good times, and there had been so many, she thought.
Her mind drifted back to all the wonderful Christmases in Connecticut, precious memories invading, making her smile even as her chest ached with despair.
“Every year, on Christmas Eve, my father and I built a snowman on our front lawn. We would dress him up like Santa in his red suit and hat. He called it our holiday tradition.” She shook her head and stared down at her hands. “I stopped doing it when I turned fifteen, thinking it was too childish.”
“If ye love something, ye are never too old tae enjoy it.”
“I know that now.” Now, when it was too late to go back. “I guess I always believed my parents would be around forever, and that they would see that I carried on the tradition with my own children.”
Duncan was quiet for a moment, and then he asked in a low, deep voice, “Do ye have any bairns?” He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her around to face him, his expression solemn, his blue eyes delving into hers.
“No,” she murmured. “I don’t have any children. That would require a husband.”
“And why have ye no husband? Ye are as comely a female as I’ve ever clapped eyes on.” He lifted a piece of her hair, fanning the strands through his fingers. “With hair like midnight silk, spillin’ down over your shoulders, making a man itch tae comb his fingers through it.” His gaze elevated to hers. “And eyes the color of ferns, soft and green. Ye are a temptation, lass. A woman any man would be proud tae call his own—a woman any parent would be proud tae call their daughter.”
The tears Rachel had so carefully held in check slipped from her eyes then, and emotions she had kept bottled up inside for so long began pouring forth. She had had no one with whom to share her pain. No one who truly cared.
Duncan pulled her into his arms. She did not resist. It felt good to be held, too right to lay her head against his shoulder and simply let go.
Words spilled from her. She told him of the loss of her parents, how much they had meant to her and how desperately she missed them, and all the while he held her, understanding her sorrow.
When at last her tears subsided and her grief had all poured forth, he tipped her chin up and gazed deeply into her eyes. “Ye are a brave and beautiful woman. Don’t ever forget that.”
His full, sensuous lips were only a hairbreadth from hers. The kiss was inevitable . . . and so long overdue. A lifetime it seemed.
“Rachel . . .” Her name whispered from his lips like a benediction, a sweet prayer for salvation, and every lonely, yearning place inside her responded.