A Very Gothic Christmas Page 34
“Rachel?” he called softly.
“Duncan?” she whispered, rising to her feet, her heart beginning to beat faster as he moved toward her.
He halted two feet from her, and her happiness turned to confusion as reality sharpened. Something was different. He had changed. His black hair was shorter, his skin not so darkened from the sun. He was dressed in a worn, brown bomber jacket, sweater, and faded jeans.
This man was not Duncan. Perhaps, she thought in her grief-stricken mind, he was not even real, but rather an image her mind had created to help console her pain.
She turned away from the stranger, the illusion, and hugged herself. She could look at him no longer. It was simply too much to bear.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, moving in front of her, his arm lightly brushing against hers.
The contact was electric. Jarring. She jumped back, shocked by the force of that single touch as she regarded him from the dark embrace of one of the fallen timbers. This was no phantasm conjured up by her mind. But a real man, one of flesh and blood.
“It’s all right, lass. Don’t be afraid.”
She stared at him, unable to speak. Why was she being tormented? Why had God mocked her by putting Duncan’s face on this man?
He stared back at her, his eyes slightly narrowed as his gaze skimmed over her face, obscured now from his full inspection.
“Who . . . who are you?” she managed to say.
He shook his head as though to clear it and replied, “My apologies. I haven’t introduced myself. Allow me tae correct that oversight.”
He held out his hand to her, and Rachel hesitated in taking it. When she did, she experienced the same jolt that had gone through her when he had brushed so innocently against her. She saw something flicker across his face. Had he felt it, too?
“The name’s Duncan MacGregor . . . Lord of Glengarren.”
The breath lodged in Rachel’s throat, the name rebounding through the room.
“It’s nice tae finally get tae meet ye in person, instead of only knowing ye through your letters.”
Letters? Rachel’s mind scrambled back, recalling the correspondence she had exchanged with the son of her father’s friend, remembering one letter in particular that she had received shortly after her father had died.
The words of condolence had resonated so strongly within her . . . giving her the strength to do what she had to do. He had seemed to know exactly what to say to ease her pain.
“Duncan.” The word came out a benediction. Until that moment, she hadn’t made the connection. He had simply signed his letters “D. MacGregor.”
“Aye,” he said, an endearing half-grin bringing out the deep dimple in one cheek. “I was named after the man who built Glengarren.”
Rachel tried to hold back the pain inside her, but the world seemed to conspire against her, and the tears began to fall.
His smile immediately changed to an expression of concern. “Don’t cry, lady,” he softly beseeched.
Lady. Duncan had called her that. The memory only made the tears flow that much harder.
Without another word, he pulled her into his arms. She wept softly against his broad shoulder, finding an odd comfort in his embrace, his scent causing a firestorm of raw emotions to spark inside her.
He took her face in his hands and gazed deeply into her eyes, his own searching her features with an expression of wonderment.
“Sweet God,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”
“What?” she said in a choked voice, glancing up at him. “What’s the matter?”
“Ye’re . . . her.”
“Her?”
“The lady in the locket.”
Rachel frowned. “I don’t understand.”
His hand moved from her face to ease down the zipper of his jacket, one finger hooking the edge of his sweater to reveal what was around his neck . . . a gleaming gold chain.
Her locket at its base.
He pressed his thumb to the seam and the pendant flipped open, showing a miniature picture of herself. Her gaze elevated to his and she saw something there, something beneath the bewilderment. A connection.
“How . . .?”
“I found it years ago, when I was a lad. I had been rummaging around in these old ruins, against my father’s wishes, as this section of the castle had been off-limits for as long as we lived here.
“I don’t know why I searched beneath this particular pile of fallen debris, but I did. I sifted through the soot . . . and there it was. As soon as I looked upon the beautiful face within the locket, I was lost tae glorious sea-green eyes . . . your eyes.”
“I don’t understand. Why was it here?”
“I don’t know. I always wondered about that myself. Perhaps it belonged tae my ancestor, the original Duncan MacGregor. He died in the fire that burnt down this wing.”
Rachel pulled away from him. “He died?” she said in a pained voice. She had yearned to believe he had survived, that he had seen his men into battle, and that perhaps he had not been killed in the battle of Culloden Moor.
“Aye,” he said. “On Christmas Day, 1745. He was engaged in a mighty battle with his most hated enemy—”
“Gordon.”
He nodded, giving her a puzzled look. “The story is that the men fought in here, and that MacGregor had the upper hand.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, it’s strange, but according tae what I’ve read, MacGregor pushed Gordon out of the way when a section of the rafters caved in, saving the man.”
Rachel closed her eyes, the tears seeping between her lashes. “Oh, Duncan,” she whispered in a raw, barely audible voice. “You died to save me, didn’t you?” He had taken the blow that was meant to kill Gordon so that she would be safe from his enemy. If Gordon did not die, then he could not haunt Glengarren, looking for his revenge.
Duncan put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. “Your tears are like daggers tae my heart, lass. Tell me what I can do tae comfort ye?”
Rachel stared up at him, remembering how a Highland warrior had once spoken those same words to her as they stood together beneath the rowan tree, her heart breaking as her parents’ ashes floated away on the wind.
As she gazed up into the face that she had thought never to see again, she repeated the words she had said to him then, “Hold me, Duncan. Hold me tight and don’t let go.”
“Aye, lass. That I will. Always.”
And as the man she had loved through an eternity held her tight in his embrace, the sun rose in a fiery ball above Glengarren, bathing them in its warm, golden rays, and Rachel knew then that her wish had been granted. She had gotten her Christmas miracle.
AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY CATHY ESCUDE
CHRISTINE FEEHAN, a USA Today bestselling author, has written six novels in her Dark series and one Gothic historical romance. Her novel Dark Magic was a finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award for Best Paranormal Romance of 2000. She lives in Cobb, California.
AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY ROB KNELLER
Before she discovered romantic fiction, MELANIE GEORGE was the CEO of an executive-search consulting firm. Her most important job, however, has always been that of mother, to both a much-adored son and two precious dogs. When she is not writing, she is trying to restore her hundred-year-old house and has come to the conclusion that paint speckles will more than likely be a permanent part of her person.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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After the Music copyright © 2001 by Christine Feehan
Lady of the Locket copyright © 2001 by Melanie George
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