A Good Scot is Hard to Find (Something About a Highlander Book 2)

by Angeline Fortin

  This time she came down with enough force to wrench a raw cry from deep within herself. This passion Finn roused in her was so much. Too much. She rocked against him. The fire consumed her, brought her to a boiling point. Yet all she could concentrate on was him. The vibration of his body, its tension building and waiting for a chance to erupt. So close.

  “Aila.”

  His fingers trailed down her cheek and she instinctively leaned her head into his hand as she moved against him, faster. Harder. He laced his fingers through her hair and urged her forward. She obliged him with a kiss, but he forced her back a few inches.

  “Lass, look at me.”

  She blinked open her eyes long enough to see him. To read the passion written there. The…

  Aila closed her eyes again but the image was emblazoned in her mind. With a rough shake of her head, she forged onward.

  Finn stilled her ride with firm hands. “Mo chridhe? Open yer eyes.”

  With a shake of her head, she rocked against him until his breath caught.

  “Bloody hell, what ye do to me.” He relented a moment, hips thrust beneath her in a slow grind before he swore again.

  In a heartbeat, he turned and flipped her beneath him. He rose on his forearms and brushed the wild tangle of her hair away from her face. “Open yer eyes, mo chridhe.”

  She did, only to see the heart-stopping warmth in his eyes, mere inches away. She turned her head.

  He caught her by the chin and forced her back. “Ye always keep yer eyes closed when I make love to ye. Or ye turn yer head away. Why?”

  Aila shook her head. The only answer she could manage.

  “Look at me, mo chridhe.” He punctuated the command with a slow, breathtaking thrust of his hips. His eyes darkened beneath his heavy lids. Her eyelids fluttered and he stilled. “Let me see what ye feel.”

  The problem in letting him see what she felt was that she also saw what he felt. Slipping one hand beneath her hips, Finn drove deeper, wrenching another cry from her as her body begged for more of that delicious friction. It was all Aila could do to do as he asked. The fierce hunger in his eyes was enough to cleave her in two.

  But…oh, the effect it had on her. The sweat on his brow, the flare of his nostrils. Seeing his heated passion written on his face stirred a reaction unlike any she’d ever known. Something ferocious. Combustible.

  She arched her hips to meet his steady thrusts. Pleasure spiraled through her core like a firestorm, reaching outward, ever outward. Through her limbs. She dug her nails into his arse to urge him on.

  “Oh God, Finn! Finn!” Her moaned pleas dissolved into sobs then abbreviated screams as she tried to bite them back.

  Still she watched him. She could see it there. The climax that was nearly upon him, and her body clenched in response. Everything that had been about to spiral out of control caved back inward. An implosion of rapture, emotion, and intimacy worthy of the atomic bomb.

  God, it tore her apart.

  It tore him apart.

  “Ah, mo chridhe! Mo Dhia!”

  The hot rush of his seed filled her. The way he collapsed on top of her had nothing to do with her inability to inhale. For watching his climax overtake him had been the most breathtaking sight she’d ever witnessed.

  And the most heart-wrenching.

  He scattered breathless kisses along her shoulder and into the hollow of her throat as if to thank her. “Ye’re glorious in yer passion,” he murmured into her hair. “Mo Dhia, if I’d known, I would have lit a dozen candles each time we made love to see it on yer face. The sight of ye finding yer release…I was overcome.”

  With a smile, he rolled over on his side and gathered her close into his powerful embrace. Aila melted against him, cheek against his chest, listening as his heaving breaths calmed and his racing heartbeat slowed. Her boneless posture shrouded the fact that her body was still reeling.

  Her thoughts, churning.

  He relaxed with a sleepy sigh, a whisper against her temple. “Tha mi ag aoradh dhut gu h-obann, bana-bhuidseach bheag.”

  Chapter 21

  It would not do. Not at all.

  It took hours, well into the wee hours of the morning for Finn to loosen his hold on her. All the while her mind refused to let go of that paralyzing moment. With a murmured grumble, he rolled over. Aila slipped from the bed as if this were the worst coyote ugly moment anyone had ever conceived.

  Except it wasn’t regret that compelled her.

  And it wasn’t a walk of shame she was about to make.

  It was a flight of self-preservation.

  Rab lifted his head as she tiptoed across the room. Heart knocking against her ribs from the fear of waking Finn, she pulled her clothes from their hooks. Yanking on her blouse and skirt, she threw her wool plaid around her shoulders. The hinges on her trunk screeched like alarm bells to her ears when she knelt to ease the lid open. She froze and glanced back at the bed. Thankfully, he slept on.

  And continued to sleep when her purse upended and spilled it contents while she spilled a curse or two. Or three. One for the noise she made, another for the lack of light as she swept her hand around the interior of the trunk, grabbed every solid object she touched and stuffed it back inside the bag.

  One last oath for the lump sum of her idiocy. There were so many layers to it, she didn’t have time to define them. How had she let it go so far?

  “Tha mi ag aoradh dhut gu h-obann, bana-bhuidseach bheag.”

  Aila knew a handful of Gaelic. Enough to figure out about two words of what he’d said. One was witch.

  The other was adore.

  That alone sent her heartbeat into a tailspin. Still, in a million years it couldn’t equal to the panic that raged inside of her. The panic that compelled her to flee.

  Gah, she hadn’t signed up for this. This intimacy. This exposure. She hadn’t anticipated Finn and the depth of feeling he could wring from her.

  Or worse, the emotion she might rouse in him.

  This wasn’t why she’d come here. Somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten her purpose. Had she left the moment Boyce gave her the necklace — mission accomplished — it would never have come to this.

  Aila stood with the time travel device in one hand and flung her purse over her shoulder as she crept to the door and opened it. Backstepping, she opened the table drawer and found a candle tall enough to light from the embers in the fireplace and substituted it for the stubby one in her chamberstick. Finn groaned and she held her breath. When he stilled once more, she looped a finger through the handle of the candlestick and dashed to the door. She shot Rab a pointed look, and the dog followed with visible reluctance. Well, she wasn’t exactly thrilled either!

  Her eyes strayed back to the bed, her chest tight and aching. Her heart warred, begging her to stay but lighting the fire under her to make a hasty retreat. The latter provided the greater call to action. Tears blurred her vision as she closed the door.

  She made her way down the hall to the obsidian well of the spiraling stairs, the candle sconces extinguished this late at night. The circle of light cast by her candle hardly stretched a few feet around her, forcing each step to be a cautious one. How she hated this nightmarish passageway.

  A warm presence brushed alongside her leg and Aila croaked out a broken yelp of terror before she realized it was Rab. He took position next to her. She curled her fingers into his scruff and let him guide her through the carnival of horrors. As they turned into the hallway to the kitchen, she was tempted to close her eyes and use him as a seeing eye dog. The ghoulish statuary was bad enough in the daylight, even in the evenings when Finn or Ian was with her.

  Alone in the dark….

  The faces passed by, shrunken to skulls in the dim light. Rab slowed, a growl of warning deep in his throat. Another face flashed in the light —

  Aila screamed. She couldn’t help herself. No place on earth was there a statue more frightening than the face of Mr. Derne.

  As she jumped back, s
he lost hold on the time travel device. It bounced off Rab, then her foot before it clattered to the stone floor.

  “What are you doing down here this time of night?” his foul drawl slithered down her spine. “And what was that?”

  He leapt back at the dog’s sharp bark with a gruesome frown. His drawn features fell in long, shadowed creases, his eyes wells of blackness. He could have passed for the evil emperor something-or-the-other from those Star Wars films Brontë had made her watch. The epitome of the Dark Side.

  “A cup. I need some water. From the well.” His presence rattled her. She longed to channel her stress and ask what the hell he was doing there in the dark, in the middle of the night, springing out on innocent passersby and scaring the shit out of them. On the other hand, she wanted no reason to prolong her departure.

  Under pressure from Rab’s continued snarling, Derne backed between two of the statues and issued a few yaps of his own. “Call back this beast, Mistress Marshall, or I shall see him on a spit before dawn.”

  “Rabbie! Stop it!” What more did he expect her to do while she was on her hands and knees with a candle in one hand?

  God, she was never going to find that tiny device in the dark. Just as the thought formed, she swept her hand in a wide arc and found it. A bloody miracle. She climbed to her feet and dragged the shepherd away by the scruff. She did so without a word, though she would have loved to volley all sorts of timeless curses at him.

  “If I see that beast in the castle again, I shall have you sacked!”

  * * *

  Into the bailey and out the postern gate, she broke into a run with the comforting presence of the dog by her side. Even he couldn’t ease the urgent need to get as far away from the castle as she could, as fast as she could.

  Derne’s threat had nothing to do with it. He wouldn’t see Rab again.

  Or her.

  He’d never have a chance to sack her, just as she’d never have the chance to tell him where to go. As she would never see this place again. Never see Niall and Effie again. Never see Finn…

  Or tell him goodbye.

  A tear splashed on her cheek, but she kept moving. Doing what she had to do.

  She couldn’t do it any longer. Couldn’t bear it.

  Halfway down the main street of the inky village, Aila hit the return button on the device. She blinked against the sudden change from night to the blinding light of day and got a tree branch to the face for her trouble to boot. The village was gone leaving her surrounded by the trees of the castle parkland. The inn was less than a half mile ahead.

  There was hardly a greater distance that she could put between her and Finn — two hundred and seventy plus years!

  Bloody fucking hell, what had he done to her? Watching him…watching him watching her…. She’d been completely naked under his probing gaze, atremble in the face of raw intimacy.

  A shudder traveled from head to toe. It was as if he’d found her deepest secret, one she didn’t even know about, and stripped her bare.

  She’d never felt so emotionally wrought. Exposed.

  Vulnerable.

  And that would not do. Not at all.

  God help her if Finn felt the same. God help them both. The injustice!

  As she ran, the frenzy of emotion that drove her to run turned to anger. Burgeoning, blinding fury. Not at Finn. He’d done nothing to deserve it. Not even at herself for being such a bloody fool.

  Nay. Each outraged beat of her heart pounded like the fall of a smithy’s hammer on an anvil. Each beat sent searing hot gushes of blood to flood her cheeks, to her eyes until she saw red.

  It was all directed at one person.

  Aila burst through the door of the inn, right into the taproom. Straight to a table for two near the window. Right where he’d said they be. It might have been the only truth Donell bothered with. How she’d been played!

  “My goodness, Aila dear, what are you wearing?”

  Ignoring Violet’s question, she came to a skidding halt and hurled the device in her hand at Donell with every ounce of fury in her heart. “Ye right git bastard! Who the fuck do ye think ye are?”

  “Aila! What’s gotten into you?”

  Aila couldn’t even spare a glance for the older woman as Violet pushed back her chair and stood. Her focus was reserved for Donell. The bloody architect of her misery. “Do ye have any idea what ye’ve done?”

  “Now, lass, calmy doony.”

  She slapped his supplicating hand aside. “Dinnae tell me to calm down. Ye lied right to my face. How could ye fuck with me like this? With Finn? Are ye mental? Do ye have any idea…?”

  A sob tore through the words and she swallowed back the knot at the back of her throat. Gah, the bastard was a blur through the haze of unshed tears. He could be laughing at her for all she knew. Patting himself on the back for a job well done. She longed to lash out, pummel him with her fist as he’d battered her with his fool’s errand.

  “Ye buggering jobby,” the words were nothing more than a hoarse whisper as the heat went out of her. “Why? Why would ye do that?”

  “Aila.” A cool, soothing hand clasped hers. Another smoothed back her hair with a gentle sweep. “Dear girl, sit down.”

  With a shake of her head, Aila swiped at her tears. “I want to go home, Vi, please. Can we go?”

  Aila was aware of the way Violet looked to Donell with confusion, seeking an explanation. A reaction? “Of course, dear. Let me get my bag. Where is yours? Would you…er, like to change first?”

  A nod jerked her chin and Aila spun on one heel, leaving Auld Donell behind without another word.

  Leaving all of it behind her for good.

  Then why did it feel so bad?

  * * *

  Donell leaned back in his chair, the wind taken right out of him. Leaning to the side, he picked up the device that had fallen to the floor and slipped it into his pocket. Despite the early hour, he pulled a flask from his pocket and took a deep swallow. “I’m getting too auld for this shite.”

  Rab sat at his feet, head cocked to the side. “Och, that dinnae go as I’d thought, did it? Got her knickers in a bunch, she does.”

  They both looked toward the door and back again. “Ye ken, it takes a spirited lass to best challenge a Scotsman. Alas, they’re an emotional lot, too, and as I said, the years upon me have taken their toll.” Donell reached out to ruffle the dog’s scruff. “I’ve lived a thousand lives working for a better future, lad. This is my last hope.”

  The dog’s brows shifted as he glanced toward the door again.

  “Aye, well, what are ye waiting for? We’re no’ finished yet. Git after her.”

  Chapter 22

  Present Day

  Leith, Scotland

  “Well, dear girl? I’ve given you two hours of silence to expend your anger upon dozens of innocent drivers on the roadway. You nearly gave me a heart attack a time or two along the way,” Violet said as she made her way from the foyer of the house she’d lived in her entire life to the living room while Aila carried in their overnight bags. Rab raced past them and proceeded to sniff everything before he bolted upstairs. “Would you like to talk about whatever it is that has you in such a tizzy?”

  Denial pinged through Aila. Was this what Finn felt when she’d asked the same of him?

  Finn. A far sharper pang suffused her. Talking about him was the last thing she wanted to do.

  “I imagine you’d feel far better if we talked.”

  I’ll never say that to another person as long as I live, Aila swore silently in response to Violet’s comment. For years, she’d had the question directed at her by counselors and therapists. People she’d gone to specifically to talk. To vent her worries and frustrations. She’d never realized how invasive a request it was when one wanted to deny their emotions.

  Nevertheless, those years had also taught her the benefits of talking through her thoughts, no matter how much she didn’t want to. No matter how much it hurt.

  “I’
m willing to accept the presence of a dog in my home with only a vague explanation, however I’d appreciate a more detailed reason for your odd behavior. Come, I’ll pour us a glass of that nice Talisker 18 I’ve been saving and we’ll talk.”

  It wasn’t a request this time.

  Aila followed her into the kitchen. Under the bowed window that overlooked a garden filled with vivid flowers sat a bistro table where they’d shared dozens of conversations in the months since she’d come to live with Vi. And dozens of fingers of scotch. She’d never been one to turn down good drink and better company, however the idea of drinking whisky after days of sharing them with another was more than she could bear.

  “Make it a glass of wine and ye have a deal.”

  Violet raised a brow and clucked her tongue before she turned to the cupboard and removed a pair of glasses. “Wine? You must be more upset than I imagined.”

  Since there was no good answer to that, Aila held her tongue. Rab, having completed his tour of his new home, found them. She tweaked his ear affectionately. When she’d found him waiting patiently beside her car, she’d nearly wept with relief. Violet had taken her desperate claim that she’d always wanted a dog and adopted the “stray” without protest, thank God. Whether Donell intended it or not, the dog was hers now.

  A soothing anchor amid the turmoil in her mind.

  She’d have to get food for him. A collar, tags, leash, bowls…a bed. Far more pleasant thoughts than anything that might arise in the conversation to come. Aila went to the cupboard to find a bowl. Filling it with water, she set it on the floor for him.

  “Red or white?”

  “I believe Brontë usually liked to drown her sorrows in a pinot noir, aye?”