Kilts & Kraken

by Cindy Spencer Pape

  Her brother shook his head. “You expect me to believe she’s not getting under your skin? Pull the other leg. You and Magnus are acting like two opposite magnetic poles, sister dear. Are you trying to buffalo me or yourself?”

  Herself. Clearly. Her attraction for Magnus was unacceptable, but trying to deny it wouldn’t make it go away. Only time, she was afraid, would do that. With a sniff at Connor, she turned to the room. “If no one minds, I think I’ll retire for the night. It’s been a rather long day.” With that, she picked up the two books she’d selected earlier, and made her way to the door, the other women close on her heels. She was glad to see that Melody and Wink seemed as taken by Alice as she was and readily included her in their circle, despite the age difference.

  They all crowded into Geneva’s room, although Melody and Wink had been given suites right across the hall from Geneva and Alice. Wink closed the door and slid into a chair, laughter dancing in her green eyes.

  “Well, Geneva. Now we know why you like to hide up here in the Highlands. However did you find a specimen like Magnus?”

  “I didn’t know they made specimens like Magnus,” Melody added, sprawling on the bed. “I’ll have to explore the Hebrides more thoroughly.”

  Geneva set down her books and threw a pillow at her sister. “Leave him alone, Melody. He has enough problems without adding your mischief into the mix.”

  “Tell us,” Wink said. With her huge adopted family and her early life on the streets of London, Wink, who wasn’t innately magickal, often saw more than any of them when it came to the minds and hearts of others. It was too bad Wink’s sister Nell Hadrian wasn’t here. She’d be an even better advisor, since Nell was the most empathic person Geneva had ever met. “What do you know about the laird?”

  “Is it true that Magnus can’t leave this island?” Melody had somehow heard about that, it seemed. “He fights like a man possessed.”

  “I think he’s a berserker.” Geneva perched on the mattress next to her sister. She tapped the book on Norse mythology she’d been reading along with the one on marine invertebrates. “It’s a gift and a curse, inherited from his Viking ancestors. When he fights, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. His focus and intensity become something more than human.”

  Alice nodded. “I’ve heard the stories. That would explain much of what we’ve seen of Magnus, but not why the kraken are attacking his home.”

  “That’s the real question.” With that, Geneva told the others about everything that had happened since her father had sent her to Mull.

  Everything, that is, except the kiss. That was no one’s business but hers.

  Chapter Six

  Magnus flung back the bedclothes, tired of tossing and turning. For the first time in weeks, it wasn’t even the kraken preying on his mind that kept him awake, it was thoughts of a red-haired temptress that refused to let his mind—or his body—rest. For about half a minute, he considered going to her, to see if she’d welcome another of those incendiary kisses like they’d shared on the ramparts. Since her room was surrounded by her friends’ and sister’s, that would not be a good idea. He’d put his male guests in the same hall as his own suite, along with Rannulf and Quentin, so trying to bring her here was even more out of the question, unless they wanted to end up married by summer’s end.

  While parts of him didn’t exactly oppose the idea, he had enough honor left to reject the notion. She’d made her preference for the city clear, and he wouldn’t risk bringing in another mainlander wife who’d hate him for it. What he needed to do was send to other islands, see if some farmer’s daughter or village girl was willing to make Torkholm her home, in exchange for all the comforts money and status had to offer. With a dirigible, she’d be able to visit her family all she liked, or for that matter, she could bring her family with her. There were plenty of rooms in the castle. Aye, that would be the wisest thing.

  He dragged on a shirt and his kilt, not bothering with shoes, socks or other niceties. With nothing better to do, he made his way up to the ramparts, hoping the night wind would cool his overheated skin. Looking out over his homeland had always been one of his favorite ways to put his life in perspective. Granted, he’d had no chance to ever live as others could, traveling the world, but this, his beautiful island, was the boon he’d been given in return.

  When he reached the castle wall, it took a moment before he realized he wasn’t alone. His first inclination was to panic, but he hadn’t even drawn in a breath when the fear eased. She wasn’t about to jump. Geneva was too level-headed for that. Instead, she leaned against the wall, her chin resting on her crossed arms, her pale face turned into the breeze. “What are you doing up here?”

  She smiled at him and Magnus’s body tightened. “The same as you, I imagine. I couldn’t sleep. I keep trying to piece together a reason for the attacks, and I keep coming back to the notion that it isn’t natural. Yes, giant squid exist, but their behavior is all wrong. Connor said he felt another magick, faint, but pushing against the spell he and Tom used to hold the creature back so the others could shoot it. Who could, or would, for that matter, have cast such a spell? What purpose for setting such things loose against harmless villagers?”

  Magnus crossed to her and took a position close by her side. In an effort not to draw her into his arms, he rested his own on the parapet beside her and laced his fingers together. He could feel the warmth of her there, clad only in a nightgown and wrapper, tantalizingly close. “I don’t know. My only thought is that a railroad tycoon came last spring, looking for a private country estate. As Torkholm is about as private as an estate can be, he offered a great deal of money for the castle and grounds. He was quite irate when I refused, but this seems a bit excessive for a rebuffed merchant.”

  She made a sound of agreement low in her throat. “Isn’t the island entailed, anyway?”

  “No. The barony and estate predate the entailment laws of the last century. I can leave the property where I like, and the title can even descend in female tail—not that it ever has. Until now, the magick has made the decisions, it seems.” It galled him to admit it but he wasn’t sure if he had an heir for the barony should anything happen to both him and Quentin. Both he and his father had been only children. His great-grandfather had one younger brother, and Quentin was his only living descendent. “My will grants Torkholm to the next baron, but Quentin wouldn’t have truck with magick if he was trying to kill me. He could walk into my chamber and stab me in my sleep, if that was his goal.”

  “And if both you and Quentin die fighting the squid?”

  He sighed. “If the title becomes extinct, it goes to Rannulf and his children. I cannot see Catherine or Rodney behind this, either. They’re both more than happy in their own lives.”

  “Rannulf would cut off his own arm before he did anything to hurt you. Who does that leave?” She shifted closer, until she nearly leaned against his side. Did she know what she was doing to him? How thin his control was stretched?

  “I have no idea.” His voice cracked like a youth’s on the last word. The lemony scent of her hair robbed him of all sense or caution. He wrapped an arm around her waist and brought her snug up against him.

  “Do you think it might be Catriona or her mother?” Her voice wobbled, even as she plowed ahead. She rested her cheek against his chest. “I know you don’t want to think about it, but they’re the only people I’ve encountered here with magick besides yourself.”

  “Why would they attack their own home? I know they’ve given you grief, but I cannot make any sense of that.” Right now, he had better things to think about, anyway. He’d never seen her hair fully down, and he twined his hand in the springy curls, lowering his lips to brush across the top of her head.

  “Cat plans to marry Quentin.” Geneva spoke in a husky whisper. “Killing you would make him laird.”

  Magnus thought about it, but it didn’t ring true. Quentin would never be part of such a thing, and surely Cat wouldn’t do it without
his permission. Quentin’s far-fetched thoughts on the magick made more sense to him. “Yes, but he has no desire to be laird. He’s the one who’s been nagging me to marry again and he’s right. I must remarry, and it should be an islander this time.” He pulled together the shreds of his control and stepped away from Geneva. “I wish—I wish things were different, lass. I wish I was different.”

  She looked up at him and smiled. “I’m not a lass, Magnus, I’m a woman grown—one who doesn’t plan to ever marry.” With that, she looped her arms around his neck and leaned up into his kiss.

  The sky could have rained fire and Magnus wouldn’t have noticed. Her lips were strong but soft, demanding and giving all at the same time. He slid a hand up her spine, and eased the other inside her wrapper to cup one heavy breast in his palm. Geneva groaned into his mouth and nipped his lip, which he took as permission to continue. Unbound by a corset, her figure was lush and feminine, flexible and resilient as willow. When he brushed her nipple with his thumb through the thin lawn of her nightdress, she pressed her flesh more firmly into his hand and speared her own fingers through his hair.

  He deepened this kiss, letting her feel his need, and splayed his hand across her breast.

  “Magnus, you make me ache.” There was wonder in her voice, reminding him that she was likely new to this endeavor.

  “We should stop.” It might kill him, but he would. A lady deserved more from her first time than a rushed coupling on a stone floor.

  “Mmm. We should stop long enough to go inside, at least.” Her soft laugh caressed his ear. “I have French letters in my medical bag and there’s a bed in the infirmary.”

  “Lord bless clever women.” He hadn’t even thought about protection—four years of celibacy would do that to a man. Magnus had her halfway to the watchtower stairs before she stopped laughing. They snuck down the servant stairs of the castle like naughty children. Once they locked the door of the infirmary behind them, Magnus lit a gas lamp and they fell together on the bed whooping with laughter. “You make me feel like a boy.”

  “Now that’s where we differ.” She disentangled herself from his arms and fetched her bag from her desk, rooting through it to come up with a handful of paper envelopes. “You make me feel all grown up.”

  Perhaps she wasn’t as inexperienced as he’d led himself to believe. There was no hesitation in her gaze as she stood before him and let her wrapper and her nightgown drop to the floor.

  His breath caught in his chest. “You’re beautiful, but of course you know that.” Her creamy skin glowed, its speckling of freckles a dusting of gold in the low lamplight, complimenting the burnished copper of her hair. Eve, come to life, or maybe Venus, rising from the sea.

  She shook her head, her curls bouncing, but made no coy move to cover herself. “No. But thank you for making me feel as if I am.”

  He couldn’t let her be naked all alone. Magnus stood and unbuckled his kilt, knowing his long shirt still covered him to midthigh. “You’ve already seen all I have to offer.”

  Geneva chuckled again. “Not like this.” Her gaze dropped to where the fabric of his shirt tented outward.

  “I should hope not.” Even in his dreams, he’d noticed her, with her cool hands and angel’s voice. Hoping she wouldn’t change her mind once she laid eyes on him, he yanked his shirt off over his head.

  “Ah, Magnus, you’re the beautiful one.” She reached out a hand and ran it over the muscles of his chest, tangling her fingers in the coarse whorls of hair. Then she leaned forward and kissed one of his newest scars, one she’d tended, now little more than a pink line on his tanned skin.

  He’d never kissed a lass as tall as Geneva, where he only had to bend his neck, not stoop his whole body over. He pulled her close, marveling at how perfectly they fit. Somehow, one of them drew the other down onto the bed, where they indulged themselves, kissing and exploring each other until they both trembled with need. Magnus took his time with her breasts, full, high, with puckered copper nipples. She clenched her fingers in his hair, holding him to her while her hips lifted restlessly.

  “Sweet.” He blew a breath over one peak, damp from his mouth, and shifted to suckle the other. With his hand, he found the wet heat between her legs, and traced his fingers along her folds. Aye, she was ready. He sucked hard on her nipple and pressed a fingertip against the swollen bud of her clitoris.

  “Magnus!” She shattered against his hand, and he slid two fingers inside her at the moment of her climax. A touch of resistance blocked his way for a brief moment before he felt it give, and she cried out again, her channel still pulsing as another crisis rolled through it. She was almost unbearably tight—how had he gotten the idea that she was experienced?

  Christ, she had been a virgin. The poor woman would be sore in the morning. He ought to stop now, before he hurt her further, but he wasn’t that good a man. Instead, he wiped his damp fingers on the sheet and tied on the condom, hoping he didn’t tear it as his hand trembled. Once it was in place, he moved over her, kissing her deeply, letting the tip of him graze her tender flesh. “Are you sure?”

  She dug her nails into his back. “I’m sure. Please.”

  * * *

  Geneva had never been more certain of anything in her life, especially now that he’d done the hard part with his fingers. She’d already crested twice but she still needed something more—him, filling her. Nothing else would take away the empty ache inside her.

  His lips covered hers and he pressed slowly inside. A small whimper escaped her as he slid the widest part of him into her and another bit of tissue gave way. Still, she pushed back with her pelvis, drawing him deep and refusing to let him falter. When he was fully seated, she twined her legs around his.

  “Are you all right?” His deep, normally steady voice trembled.

  “Better than I’ve ever been.” This was what her body had been made for. Much of her life, she’d felt mannish and ungainly because she was tall, sturdy and interested in science. With Magnus, she was pure woman, and that sensation was almost as blissful as the feel of his body lodged so deeply inside hers it seemed he’d filled her very soul.

  Then Magnus began to move, and bliss didn’t begin to express the tidal wave of sensation. All she could do was hold him, lift her hips to meet his and lose herself in the rhythm.

  Her third climax took her by surprise, crashing into her with the force of an avalanche, to the point where she nearly swooned—or perhaps she did, for a second or two. Magnus groaned and thrust deeply, holding himself at her core while his body shuddered. Several long moments later, he rolled to the side, pulling her with him, limp and sated, to drape across his broad chest.

  “That,” he rumbled a bit later, while she was still dazed and blinking, “was worth waiting four years for.”

  “Four years? You’ve been celibate since your wife died?” It touched something in her heart that she was the one with whom he’d broken his sexual fast.

  “Longer—since the day she confirmed she was increasing. Isobel wanted no more to do with me after that.” He laced his fingers through hers where they rested on his ribcage. “Unless you count my own hand as a partner, then yes—it’s been years.”

  “About the same for me, actually.” She didn’t say out loud that she’d learned to pleasure herself. “Since medical school.”

  Magnus gave a snort. “Don’t try to cozen me, lass. I know a maidenhead when I breach one. You’ve never been down this road before.”

  “Not all the way down the road—but around the first bend or two.” This was something she’d never even told her sister. “There was a boy in school. We were engaged for our last year, and we…experimented a little, learning how to give one another relief with our fingers and mouths. I thought we’d marry, set up practice together, and everything would be perfect. Until the day he mentioned that I’d make a wonderful assistant and be a great asset to his medical practice. Because of course, a mere woman couldn’t be a real physician.”

 
; “The man was a fool.” Magnus kissed the top of her head. “You’re a brilliant doctor. You don’t need to have ballocks to treat the sick.”

  “Ah, what a nice way to put it.” Even lying sweaty and naked together, Magnus could make her laugh. “I’ve always believed that, at any rate. Slowly, I’ve built up a practice of patients who trust me—when I’m not haring off on missions for my father.”

  “Ah, the mysterious Sir Fergus MacKay. Don’t you think, lass, it’s about time you tell me who he is and what all the secrecy is about? You know any confidence is safe with me.”

  “I do. It’s difficult, because in this case, the secrets aren’t my own.” If anyone deserved to know about the Order, it was Magnus. She drew in a deep breath. “You know how sometimes there’s more truth to old tales than modern scholars believe? Like Viking berserkers, perhaps. You know about bit about those, don’t you?”

  “Aye. That’s the origin of the Findlay line, as you guessed. Even the name means ‘fair warrior,’ if you go back far enough.”

  “While Torkholm is named for Thor, a god of war.”

  “Aye.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Think about the name MacKay. What does that bring to mind?”

  “MacKay. Son of Kay. Kay…” He thought for a moment. “Good lord, Sir Kay. Arthur’s seneschal from the Knights of the Round Table.”

  “Aye.” She smiled into his chest. “You remember, I mentioned my friend Amy Lake, the photographer? What would her last name be in French?”

  “Lac.” He sat up and gazed at her, his eyes wide, incredulous. “Du Lac. Lancelot.”

  She sat, pulling the sheet with her over her chest. “You’re quick. Tom’s name is Devere—for Bedivere.”

  “You mean the Round Table—all the stories were true?”

  Geneva nodded. “Not all the tales, but the gist of some of them, anyway. The Order still exists, working in secret for the Crown. The Duke of Trowbridge, Amy’s father-in-law, is the leader. Almost all the members are descendants of the original Knights.”