Christmas at Draycott Abbey Read Free Page A

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