by Carmen Caine
“You hid in the poster.” A smile tugged at her lips. “I thought you were a symptom of my jetlag.”
The word came as a jolt, a reminder of the vast differences between them. But the long centuries of guarding his bed had taught him much, including the strangeness of her world and the wonders it held.
So he didn’t blink, just slid his arms around her, pulling her close. “And I thought I’d wakened from a seven-hundred-year sleep. You took my breath, lass.”
She drew back to look at him. “Even after so many other women?”
“Especially because of them.” It was a truth that didn’t surprise him in the least.
The endless parade of lovers hadn’t brought him one woman he ached to see again. There wasn’t a woman amongst them who’d made his heart beast faster. Cilla had done that and more, making him want him in ways he’d never have believed he could come to care for a woman.
Yet he did for her, and it both humbled and terrified him.
He wanted to court her rightly, to claim not just her beautiful well-made body, her golden hair and sapphire eyes, but to possess her heart and soul.
All of her, if only he could.
“But…” She glanced aside, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
He cupped her chin, turning her to face him. “I speak true, lass.”
“Oh, I believe you.” She met his gaze, her eyes clear and shining. “It’s just a great deal to consider. Having to believe you’re a ghost, solid and real as you are. Now-”
“You’ve accepted my ghostdom.” And I thank the gods that is so.
“How could I not, after all I’ve seen?”
“Then accept me as a man.” He looked at her deeply, willing her to do so.
“I do,” she said, not even hesitating.
Hope flashed through him, and he was scarce able to believe it. Half afraid he might say something that would change her acceptance, her willingness to trust him. Undo the joy that, despite all, he was able to touch and feel her. The softness of her skin, the pliant warmth of her curves, the sweetness of her smile. He couldn’t bear to lose any of that, not now.
So before the world tilted and tipped him off its edge, he prayed to whatever powers might aid him.
He didn’t want to slip back into the empty dark he’d dwelt in for so many uncountable years.
There was no going back. Not even if he could never truly make her his. He could pleasure her in other ways. He’d seen how responsive she was to passion.
He’d ignore his own.
She was balm to his needy soul, and more than enough for him.
He only hoped she’d feel the same.
“See you, lass” - he considered his words - “I did enjoy the women I encountered in the early days of my cursed state, but I cannae recall the name or face of a single one of them.”
“You don’t have to tell me this.” Her cheeks bloomed pink, but she didn’t glance aside.
“I believe I must.” He smoothed his knuckles down her cheek, hoping to soothe her. “You need to know. The ladies who crossed my path in the centuries between then and now are naught but a great blur.”
She blinked. “A blur?”
He nodded. “I can think of no other way to describe them. But I’ll no’ lie. They were good lasses, passionate and generous. But my heart was no’ given to them, nor did they desire mine. It was only about…” He tailed off, knowing she’d understand. “Since meeting you, my time with them is as if it ne’er happened. They are no’ even a faint beat in my memory.”
“And me?” Her voice caught. “Where do I fit in with all those others?”
“You stand above them like the brightest star in the heavens. You are the sweet golden light I didn’t know I was missing.” He looked at her, his heart bursting. “The honeyed warmth I ne’er knew existed, even in my earth life. You may no’ be the first woman I’ve drawn into my arms, but you are the only one I’ve given my heart.”
“Oh…” She twined her arms around his neck, melting into him. “I think you are a bard as well, or maybe a warrior poet? No one has ever said anything like that to me.”
“You should hear such words every day.” He cradled her face, his heart thundering. You should be loved every day, cherished above all else. “The women before you are of no importance. They went on to spend their lives with the men meant for them. What matters is that you are the woman I would love to see as my last, with no one coming after you. If” – he had to tell her – “we are able to find a way to undo my pact with the Dark One.”
She pulled back, her eyes rounding again. “What do you mean your pact with the Dark One?”
“Exactly that.” The truth lanced him.
He had no choice but to tell her. “Once a year and a day rolls around and I have remained unaroused, I will be granted the eternal sleep I requested.”
She paled. “You mean a different kind of ghostdom than you’re living now?”
“It will be no ghostdom or afterlife at all.” He tried to explain. “There are many layers to the Otherworld, see you? I asked the Dark One to send me into a deep, black sleep from which there is no waking. He agreed.”
He looked at her, wishing he could turn back time and undo his request.
“That’s horrible.” Her face clouded. She fisted her hands against his shoulders and he caught the tremors rippling through her.
“Such was my own desire. I only wanted relief. A way out of a curse I could bear no more.” He touched her hair, regret spearing him. “Would that I had known I’d meet you.”
She moistened her lips. “So this forever sleep will claim you if you get through the proving period without becoming aroused?”
“That is the way of it, aye.”
“Then I have it!” She brightened. “I know what we need to do to save you.”
“I cannae be saved, lass.” He spoke plain, his gaze locked on hers. “The Dark One is all-powerful and holds a soul to his bids. He makes no exceptions.”
“But that’s excellent.” She beamed. “We want him to keep his word.”
“Och, he does, to be sure.”
“That’s perfect! Don’t you see?” Her voice rose. “We only need to get you excited and the pact with him is null and void. He can’t whisk you off into some deep, dark oblivion.”
“It is no’ so easy.” He shook his head, hating that he had to dash her hope. “I did no’ explain the testing period well enough.”
Her face fell. “There’s more?”
“The most damning part, aye.”
“Tell me.”
“If I allow myself to desire a woman, in the fullest sense” – he spoke quickly – “the proving period will end immediately.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“Should the like happen, the druid’s curse will return at once.” He reached for her arms, lowering them from his neck. “Only this time I will no’ have the freedom to roam the world at will and choose my own partners for each night’s required bedding. The Dark One would whisk me into the coldest corner of hell, leaving me to pleasure the hags who dwell there.”
To his surprise, her chin came up. “And if we refuse to accept that?”
He blinked, not sure he’d heard her.
She laid a hand on his arm. “We can just go on as we are, can’t we?”
Hardwick almost choked. To be sure he wanted what she suggested. The notion rode him day and night. But he’d never been a man to build his castles of clouds. Truth was, he doubted he could continue this way much longer. He wanted her as a starving man craves food.
He was more than close to overstepping himself.
But her touch and the hope in her eyes made it impossible to deny her. As did his own burning desire to make such a foolhardy, shaky-footed proposition work.
He started to scowl at the improbability of it, but slung an arm around her instead, pulling her close. “Aye, sweet, we can keep on as we are.”
For the now, he added in silence.
***
A good while later, in the smallest hours of the night, Hardwick stood just inside the bolted door to Dunroamin’s unused wing and tried his best not to sneeze. Damp and musty, the chill, seldom-seen rooms reeked of dust, old leather, and moldy books. With surety there were a few other smells he couldn’t identify.
Molting stags’ heads, ancient stuffed birds, and faint traces of candle wax were reasonable guesses.
Blessedly, he couldn’t detect the slightest tinge of dragon breath. Nor did he catch any subtle wafts of sulfur or the unpleasantly sharp-sweet odor of hell hag. Not that he was presently in a state likely to attract his heinous watchers.
At the moment, coupling – even with Cilla – was the last thing on his mind.
Even so, he frowned.
His brow furrowed even more when a small four-footed something scuttled out of a shadowed corner and darted across the uneven wood-planked floor. Tiny legs pumping, the wee creature disappeared into the unsavory-smelling blackness beneath a torn and tattered armchair.
As if, like him, the mouse wanted nothing to do with dark and dust-coated places, he reappeared in a wink. He took a few cautious steps forward and then sat up on his haunches, fixing Hardwick with a curious stare.
The wee beastie didn’t appear frightened of him, as some creatures were wont to do. Far from it, the mouse angled his head jauntily.
His cheeky perusal made Hardwick’s heart clutch.
Any other time, he would have smiled.
As things were, he flicked his fingers to conjure a fine morsel of cheese. This he threw to the teeny, bright-eyed mouse. Snatching it, the beastie scampered behind a cracked gilt mirror propped against a wall.
Feeling an odd tightness in his chest, Hardwick placed his hands on his hips and looked around. He took care not to breathe too deeply. While not quite malodorous, the air held enough piquancy to twitch a sensitive nose.
And - as he’d only now just learned - it would seem his nose was quite discerning.
His heart, too, the gods preserve him.
He swallowed a sigh.
Now wasn’t the hour to dwell on such revelations. He was here for a reason, and an important one. So he moved deeper into the dingy passageway, taking care to peer into each open door and shadowed niche. Dark, dreary, and filled with indistinguishable clutter, these less frequented rooms and deliberately hidden corners beckoned with treasures.
In particular, the room he knew to be filled with bolts of ancient tartan. He’d seen the room once and meant to find it again now.
His pulse leapt at the prospect.
He quickened his step, his expression purposeful.
He needed the tartan.
To that end, he nipped into the dimness of a promising room only to walk straight into the pointed corner of a dark oak table.
“Odin’s toenails!” He rubbed his hip, scowling.
He made matters worse by backing away from the table and nearly tripping over a great, untidy pile of moth-eaten velvet window draping.
When a great swath of hanging cobwebs brushed across his face, clinging, he almost sifted himself out of the cramped and cluttered rooms.
There was only so much that a man – corporeal or otherwise – should be made to endure.
But the lure of the plaid bolts was greater.
A piece of true tartan, deftly applied, would protect him far better than any strip of plaid crafted in his usual finger-snapping way.
Sure of it, he threw open the door to yet another of the dark little rooms. He spotted the tartan at once. The colorful cloth was everywhere. Great teetering piles in such profusion, his heart near jumped from his chest. In one corner, the stacked bolts even reached the ceiling.
The room was empty otherwise, though a spill of ivy grew in through a crack in one of the grime-coated windows. The spreading green had claimed much of the far wall and some of the bolts stored there.
Even so, there was more than enough cloth to suit his purpose.
Relief – and hope – pumping through him, he stood on the threshold and surveyed his choices. Ancient and covered with a thick layer of dust, the tartan patterns were difficult to distinguish.
Not that the plaid mattered.
What did was the tartan’s strength.
He needed one whose weave hadn’t been weakened by damp and centuries. Or worse, its proud threads assailed by moths and beetles. A single strip was all he required. But whatever he chose, the cloth had to hold securely, not giving at all once he’d fastened it into place.
His life – or unlife – depended on it.
So he eyed the bolt stacks carefully.
It took him all of two beats to know what must be done.
Rubbing his hands together, he strode directly to the largest pile of tartan and thrust his arms deep into the center of the dusty bolts. He closed his fingers around the one that felt right, pulling the bolt swiftly from the pile.
He’d chosen well.
Not a mote of dust marred the ancient MacDonald tartan. A fine hunting weave of muted greens and blues, shot through with white, red, and black stripes. He recognized the sett as belonging to the MacDonalds of the Isles, long-time friends and allies.
He smiled, ran appreciative hands over the smooth, well-aged wool.
The MacDonald connection was surely a good portent.
Better yet, the bolt smelled fresh and clean.
Its position in the middle of the pile had allowed the tartan to defy the ravages of time, leaving its precious wool almost as pristine as the day some long forgotten soul had added the bolt to the stack.
Hardwick set the bolt aside and flexed his fingers, readying himself for what he must do. He felt a twinge of regret. It pained him that now, after centuries of lying untouched, he should be the one to mar such a noble tartan.
Fortunately, he was certain the MacDonalds wouldn’t mind.
As with his good friend Bran of Barra, more than one of the braw MacDonalds stood in his debt.
So he closed his eyes and drew a deep, preparatory breath. Then he began unrolling the bolt with care, measuring just enough to suit his needs. Another deep breath and a few more finger flexes, and he was ready.
Gripping the tartan, he drew it taut and ripped off a suitable length.
Before guilt could besiege him, he dug his fingers into the cloth, holding it fast as he willed away the rest of his garb. Once naked, he wrapped the tartan around his hips. He wound the cloth band ever tighter, until he was certain even the slightest twitch of his best parts would prove impossible.
Satisfied, he knotted the tartan, well pleased with his handiwork.
He shoved a hand through his hair, excitement beginning to quicken his blood. Deliberately, he envisioned the sweet golden triangle topping Cilla’s thighs. He imagined his hand cupping her heat and finding her slick, moist, and warm.
Soft, slippery, and eager for his caress, she’d surely also welcome his tongue. If not, he knew ways to persuade her to allow him the pleasure.
At the thought, heat flashed through him, his loins quickening as fierce need fired his blood.
But he didn’t twitch.
The plaid wrapping worked well.
Tight, stifling, and a lust damper if ever there was one, the binding enabled him to switch his thoughts from plundering his lady’s heat with his tongue to things as uninspiring as polishing the mail of his hauberk or watching several of Seagrave’s kitchen laddies empty and then scrub the stronghold’s cesspit.
His smile returned. His hope renewed.
Uncomfortable as it was, the binding would allow him many freedoms.
Truth be told, he’d never had a better idea.
He looked down, feeling his grin to his toes.
For good measure, he retied the binding’s knot, making the fit just a bit tighter.
“By Thor’s silver hammer!” A familiar voice boomed behind him. “I dinnae believe my eyes!”
“Bran!” Hardwick’s good humor v
anished.
He spun around to face his friend, summoning his plaid even as he wheeled about. He slapped at the familiar woolen pleats, brushing the folds in place. “Can you no’ leave a man in peace?”
The Hebridean just stared at him, gog-eyed. “I know fine that some modern women run about wearing wee bits o’ cloth that barely cover their bottoms, especially Ameri-cains. But I have ne’er yet seen a man donning such a style!”
“It isn’t a style, you great buffoon.” Hardwick glared at him. “It’s to counter the Dark One’s stipulation that I daren’t-”
“Run hard.” Blunt as always, Bran rocked back on his heels.
“As e’er, you’re a man of few words.” Hardwick folded his arms. “Be glad you haven’t such a need.”
“I ne’er turned a druid from my door.” Bran drew his brows together, eyeing Hardwick’s plaid as if he could still see the tartan binding hidden beneath it. “Be that as it may, I’ll own that – were I in your position – I might consider such measures. Even if I’ll vow for all time that a Highlander’s man piece wasnae made to be constricted!”
“Humph.” Hardwick refused further comment.
He knew too well how much a Highlander appreciated a free and unrestricted swing.
“Why are you here?” Hardwick changed the subject. “I thought you’d gone back to Barra to gather your lads?”
“So I did!” Bran flashed a grin.
“Where are they?” Hardwick waited.
“Aye, well…” Bran looked down, shuffling his feet on the dusty floorboards. “My friends were in the midst of merrymaking when I returned to my hall.” He glanced up again, gave Hardwick a sheepish smile. “It will take a while for their heads to clear enough for them to sift up here and join us. So-”
“You came ahead?” Hardwick was suspicious. “Since when do you – the greatest feast-giver in the Hebrides - walk away from a night of revelry?”
“Perhaps I’m growing old?” Looking anything but, the burly Islesman whacked Hardwick on the shoulder. “Seven hundred years wears on a soul.”
