Page 13 of Bewitched Before Christmas
His gaze shifted back to the woman in the snow. Lola.
Shit.
He leaped to his feet and closed the small space between them, dropped to his knees. She lay sprawled in the snow. So small and still, he was sure she must be dead, and panic swamped him. Her skin was pale, her eyes closed. A ragged wound was torn in her throat; he hadn’t been gentle. Her sleeve was pushed up and there was a second wound at her wrist. She’d offered herself to him.
Don’t let her be dead.
His fingers searched for a pulse and he found it, weak and thready. He’d nearly drained her dry. But instinct had taken over. The need to survive. He’d lost so much blood. Now his wounds were all but healed. He’d never known blood so powerful.
Had he taken too much?
He had to get her out of the cold. Get her some food, some drink. Maybe a blood transfusion. He pulled out his cell and tried the castle, but there was no signal. Nothing. Then he remembered. She’d stopped the goddamn world. Saved his life not once but twice.
He couldn’t let her die.
Scooping her up out of the snow, he held her cradled against his chest. So small.
Then he ran. He hadn’t been in these forests for nearly three hundred years. He’d kept away since he’d returned, but long ago, he’d called this place home. After his father had been killed by the redcoats, they’d moved here with his mother and sisters and Gabe, the foster brother he had loved like kin. He’d known the forests intimately. Had hidden and hunted here. Then the English had come, slaughtered the last of his family. After that there had been only Gabe, who had died at Culloden, saving Lachlan’s worthless life. A pointless act of bravery as it turned out. He had only put off the killing blow.
Now he ran through the trees, not thinking, leaving it to memory. Still he skidded to a stop, shock holding him immobile as the cottage came into sight. Maybe he’d expected it to be nothing more than a tumbled down ruin. Or at least the dark, cold place of his memory. They’d been fugitives and fires had been a dangerous luxury. The winters long and cold. They’d slept, huddled together for warmth. One of his sisters had died the first winter. She’d been a weak and sickly little thing. Not strong enough to withstand the cold. It had broken what was left of his mother’s heart.
But the cottage was nothing like he remembered. There was a garden out the front—surrounded by a picket fence—covered with snow, but he could make out a path from the wooden gate to the bright red front door.
Did someone live here?
It didn’t matter, he had to get Lola to safety. He pushed open the gate with his hip, carried her down the path, then shifted her in his arms so he was able to try the door. It opened to his touch. Inside was total darkness, but he was used to the night and made his way unerringly to the sitting room. Found the sofa and lay her down. He moved to the edge of the room, located the light switch. At first he thought he was out of luck, nothing happened, then somewhere he heard the hum of a generator starting up and the lights flickered on.
He hurried back to Lola and sat on the huge brown leather sofa beside her. Took her hand; it was icy cold. Felt for her pulse with fumbling fingers. Still there. Her clothes were damp. He hesitated a moment, then stripped her down to her black bra and panties. They were dry. He shrugged out of his coat and covered her with it, while he went and searched the house. He found the bedroom and snatched the duvet from the bed, ran back, and wrapped it around her, tucking it in so only her pale face showed.
Then he sat back for a moment and blew out his breath. The place was nothing like he remembered. The cottage of his childhood had been a cold, damp, miserable place. With a dirt floor, bare stone walls, and windows shuttered with rough wood, the gaps stuffed with straw to keep out the drafts. Now the floors were polished wood, with thick rugs, the walls cream, dark red curtains at the windows. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated in red and silver and a holly wreath hung from the door. A leather chair sat across from the sofa and on it lay a sleeping ginger cat. He smiled. His mother had owned an almost identical animal. It hadn’t moved since they entered, presumably frozen in place by Lola’s spell.
A fire had been set in the fireplace, and he went across, found the matches and lit the kindling.
He gave Lola one last look—her eyes were still closed—and left the room in search of food and drink. The kitchen was off a small hallway. His mother had cooked over an open fire when they could risk it. Most of the time they’d eaten their food cold and often raw. When they had food to eat.
The fridge was well stocked, and he found cooked chicken, some sort of pie, cheese, and piled them all on a plate. Added bananas from a dish on the big scrubbed wooden table. He picked up a bottle of water, then spotted a wine-rack, selected a bottle of red and added that to his pile.
When he got back, Lola was still unconscious.
He couldn’t let her die. He was going to make sure she lived, and then he was going to get the hell away from her. He was the kiss of death. Everyone he had ever cared about had been taken from him. After Culloden, he had sworn never again. He would send her back to her family whether they liked it or not. Unless they were also frozen in time.
How far had Lola’s spell spread? Could the whole world be affected? It seemed inconceivable. Maybe when she woke, she could tell him more. The room was warm now, and he added wood to the fire, then got a couple of glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into one, then sat beside her, wrapped his arm around her and shifted her so she was lying against him.
“Lola, wake up.”
Nothing. He put the glass to her lips. The first mouthful ran down her chin. He tried again, and this time she swallowed convulsively, then coughed and her eyes flashed open. Panic flared on her face, and she flailed but was wrapped too tightly in the duvet to do much.
“What? Where are…?” She searched around her frantically.
“We’re safe,” he said.
For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t or couldn’t believe him, then she slumped down. “I thought I was dead. I thought you—” Her eyes widened. “You drank my blood.”
“You offered it.”
“Not all of it,” she snapped.
The tight band around his chest, eased a little. She was fighting back. She would live.
