Wedding the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  Well, hell. From the mouth of a babe. For more than a week, Michael had been bothered that the snowy would not come to him. That the pet his son called Mary virtually ignored him.

  And now he realized why.

  She was forcing Michael to let go. She was keeping her distance in order to free him. And today, on TarStone, she had accepted Libby Hart into her son’s life.

  But had she accepted Libby into his?

  Mary had appeared on purpose, most likely because Michael had been with Libby. She had wanted him to witness their interaction and to know that the woman renting her family home had her approval.

  He understood this, because in the twelve years since being hurtled through time, Michael had made it his business to understand all sides—visible and invisible—of the world around him. He had learned to open his mind, as well as his heart, to the existence of magic.

  Which is why nothing surprised him anymore.

  Not even a son who said he talked to an owl.

  Michael gave Robbie a fierce hug. “Brush your teeth and go to bed, young man. I’m waking you at five to go work on your surprise. And Grampy John still will likely be in the shed before you are.”

  “He cut his thumb yesterday,” Robbie confessed, as if it were somehow his fault. “I bandaged it for him,” he added in his defense.

  Michael pushed the toothbrush toward Robbie’s mouth. “It’s probably time for John to have his glasses strengthened. And it’s good you were there to bandage him up.”

  Satisfied that what he’d hoped to accomplish tonight had been taken care of—persuading Michael to take his box over to Libby and getting the fact that he talked to an owl off his young chest—Robbie was more than ready for bed. He brushed his teeth, stripped himself naked as he ran into his room, and climbed under the covers.

  “Aunt Grace bought me another pair of pajamas,” the boy said, distaste dripping off the last word. “She’s bound I’m going to be civilized, Papa. Can ya make her stop?”

  Michael leaned over and kissed him good night. “It would take an act of God to make her stop.”

  “Then that’s what I’m praying for tonight. That Aunt Grace stops buying me pajamas.”

  Michael walked to the door and turned out the bedroom light but stopped in the hall and nodded. “Aye. Include me, then. I have six pairs in my closet.”

  Michael left the hall light on, went back down the stairs, and returned to the library. He didn’t sit in his chair but stood in the center of the room and stared at the box with the note lying on top.

  He walked over and picked up the envelope, only to realize it had been sealed. Not wishing to spoil Robbie’s surprise, and hoping that Libby would feel the same way, Michael picked up the box, held it, and stood there and stared.

  He threw the box and the letter back onto the stool and sat down in the chair. He found his book, opened it to the bookmark, and took two minutes to realize the damned thing was upside down. He tossed the book onto the floor and stared at the box.

  “Aw, hell,” Michael growled to the empty room. He swept up the box and the letter and strode to the kitchen.

  “I’m going out for a while,” he told John, who was poking his head into the fridge, most likely hoping something edible had appeared there magically since supper. “Robbie’s in bed.”

  John straightened, looked at Michael’s face and then at the box in his hand, and smiled. “Take your time,” he said. “I’ll sleep with my door open, in case Robbie needs me.”

  Michael nodded but didn’t move.

  John went back to exploring the contents of the fridge. “It’s a good night for a walk,” he said into the empty cavern. “Maybe Robbie’s new tenant would like to join you and have a look at our stars.” He lifted his head above the fridge door and shot Michael another grin. “And don’t feel you have to hurry back here. I got things under control.”

  Michael fought for some control of his own but lost the battle. He grabbed his jacket and headed outside, then stood on the porch and took several gulps of crisp night air. He finally shrugged into his coat and set out on the same path he’d taken during last night’s storm.

  Only this time, his reason for traveling it had changed.

  Chapter Nine

  Libby repositioned the bag of iceon her knee, then shuffled through the papers on her lap until she came to the page of things she had to buy. She crossed the truck off the list and shuffled again until she found the page of things she had to do. She made a note to register her new truck, then went back to her list of things to buy. She studied it, thought about it, and crossed off the computer.

  She needed to prioritize, and a computer wasn’t important right now. An ATV was. Two helmets were. Clothes—warm winter clothes. And birth control.

  Libby tapped her pencil against her lips and stared into the fire, wondering if there was a doctor in Pine Creek. She hadn’t been on the pill since med school. And she had to find something soon, if she had read that look in Michael’s eyes correctly this afternoon when she agreed to have an affair with him.

  Libby frowned. She couldn’t picture Michael using a condom. Not because he was callous or unconcerned, but maybe condoms didn’t fit with his concept of living according to the laws of nature. And he’d had a son without having a wedding first, so Libby decided she would be responsible for their birth control.

  She looked back at her list of things to do. First thing tomorrow, she had to go to the post office and pick up the jewelry-making equipment she’d mailed to herself, now that she had a truck to load it in. And while she was in town, she’d take Ian’s advice and check with the Dolans about renting their storefront.

  Libby smiled to herself, thinking how lucky she was to have a ski resort right next-door. Her studio should do okay there, since she imagined beautiful Pine Lake attracted as many tourists in the summer as TarStone Mountain did in the winter.

  Maybe she would take up skiing. She was definitely going to try snowmobiling. She’d seen several sporting goods stores on her drive up from Bangor and couldn’t wait to try one of the colorful, sleek, powerful-looking machines.

  Part of her new life plan was to live a bit more recklessly. Not stupidly, though. She’d wear a helmet and get the proper instructions, and she would ride safely and stay on the marked trails. But it was time to expand her world to include some of the more exciting things in life.

  Like having an affair with a sexy mountain man? Heck, Libby couldn’t think of anything more exciting than messing up her sheets with Michael MacBain.

  She leaned her head back on the couch and closed her eyes on a sigh. She had done a good job of keeping herself occupied these last few days—of keeping her mind off her problem.

  Or, to give credit where it was due, Michael MacBain had done a good job of keeping away the memory of what had taken place in her operating room an entire lifetime ago.

  She had gotten her mother to check discreetly on her patients before she left California. Esther Brown and Jamie Garcia had walked out of the hospital that day, neither of them the worse for the wear of their ordeal.

  No, she was the one who had come away wounded.

  Not mortally but definitely shell-shocked.

  Libby lifted her head and looked down at the towel of ice on her knee. If it was true—if she really could heal people by will alone—could she heal herself?

  And if she could, should she? Wasn’t that…unethical or something? Was there an unwritten code for people like her that said they couldn’t practice on themselves?

  “Physician, heal thyself,” Libby quoted aloud, waving her hand over her knee like a magic wand.

  “So I should call you Dr. Hart, it seems.”

  Libby bolted off the couch, her surprise erupting in a scream as she spun toward her intruder.

  Michael winced but didn’t move.

  “Goddammit, Michael!” she shouted, throwing her towel of ice at him. He ducked to the side, and the towel hit the wall behind him, ice cubes scattering ar
ound the room like shattering glass.

  Michael straightened, his expression resigned.

  “I’m changing the locks on the door.”

  “That won’t stop me.”

  “You scared the hell out of me, Michael.”

  “I thought screaming might be like the hiccups. That a good fright might cure ya.” His features suddenly hardened. “But it seems you were trying to cure yourself, Dr. Libby Hart.”

  Libby snapped her gaze to the third button on Michael’s shirt and rubbed her hands on her thighs in an attempt to calm her racing heart. Finally, and with a shuddering breath, she made her decision and raised her eyes to his.

  “Actually, it’s Dr. Elizabeth Hart.”

  His stance didn’t change. His eyes did—they darkened and narrowed and cut into her like the razor edge of a scalpel.

  “What kind of doctor?”

  “A trauma surgeon.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “It doesn’t explain a damn thing.”

  “It explains everything,” he countered, still not moving, still piercing her with steel-dark eyes. “Like why you feel so strongly about helmets. And,” he continued more forcefully when she tried to speak, “why you act decisively and from your gut. A trauma surgeon would be used to making quick and instinctive decisions. Tell me if I’m wrong, Elizabeth, in thinking that you insist on being in control of whatever situation you find yourself in.”

  “Of course I do. That’s what a surgeon does.”

  “Aye. I understand now, this authority you carry around you like a protective shield, which you’ve created to keep yourself insulted from your patients—a shield that also keeps you safe from the rest of the world.”

  “I’m not an ice queen.”

  “Nay,” he softly agreed. “You are pure fire, Elizabeth. And that scares the hell out of you, because something happened in California a week ago that shattered your control.”

  “I’m not a doctor anymore. And I’m Libby now, not Elizabeth.”

  Michael finally moved. He walked around the couch and stood in front of her, and Libby craned her neck, refusing to break eye contact with him.

  Michael reached out and picked her up before she could react. He stood her on the hearth so she was at eye level with him, then stepped away and clasped his hands behind his back.

  “You don’t spend your entire life training to be a surgeon and then simply turn your back and walk away. What happened a week ago, Libby?”

  “Some-something I can’t explain.”

  “Try,” he gently entreated.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “I…I can’t say it out loud, Michael.”

  He unclasped his hands and cupped the sides of her face, using his thumbs to brush away tears Libby hadn’t even realized were running down her cheeks. “It’s okay, lass. Your fear will find its own voice when you’re ready,” he softly assured her, bringing his mouth close to hers.

  Libby eagerly met his kiss, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and clung to him with the desperation of a leaf facing a storm. She opened her mouth and tasted him, felt his vitality, and was consumed by the strength of his response.

  He smelled of wood smoke, of mountain air and the crisp autumn night he’d walked through to get there. The man was solid granite under the flannel of his shirt, and Libby dug her fingers into his shoulders as she canted her head to deepen their kiss. He completely engulfed her, both physically and emotionally, and Libby’s desperation slowly and quietly turned to passion.

  His tongue explored her mouth while his hands sought out the curve of her backside, sending shivers of delight along the path of his touch. Libby pressed her body closer, whimpered when he lifted her against him, and trailed her lips over his chin and down to the base of his throat, glorying in the heat and smell and taste of his skin.

  She felt as if she was floating, and it took Libby a minute to realize that Michael had sat down on the couch. She found herself straddling his lap and couldn’t stop herself from moving against him. Heat shot through her at the intimate contact and settled deep in the pit of her stomach. She trembled with urgency as she unbuttoned his shirt.

  Michael stopped her by placing his hands over hers.

  Libby looked up into storm-gray eyes that shone with the fire of pure male lust. But it was lust held in control by pure male determination. She clasped Michael’s face between her hands and kissed him soundly on the mouth, then pulled back just enough for him to see her smile.

  “Don’t you dare get noble on me, Michael. This is something we both want.”

  He gathered her hands back and trapped them against his chest. “I was just wondering who’s supposed to be in charge,” he drawled, his eyes gleaming with humor.

  Libby blinked. “We can work as a team.”

  He lifted one brow in contradiction. “Really? I don’t feel like part of a team. In fact, I don’t even feel like I need to participate, only just show up.”

  Libby leaned back. “Are you one of those Neanderthal guys who’s got to be in charge in order to perform?”

  Michael lifted his hips against her. “I don’t think performance is the problem, lass,” he said. “And I’m a bit more evolved than a caveman.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  He cupped her face in his hands, his expression serious.

  “I didn’t come here tonight to make love to you, Libby.”

  Her cheeks burned, and she tried to climb off his lap.

  Michael held her in place. “This is not a rejection, woman. It’s a call to our senses. It’s too soon for you. And for me.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a self-abasing grin. “I intended only to make out with you a bit. To get myself hot and bothered and very frustrated.”

  “But why?”

  He cocked his head at her, his eyes lit with amusement.

  “I believe it’s called foreplay.”

  Libby smacked him on the shoulder, pulling free and climbing off him, not the least bit contrite when Michael grunted in surprise and had to protect himself from being unmanned by her knee.

  She marched to the hearth, got down on her knees, and made herself busy putting logs on the fire while she fought to bring her temper under control.

  No, not her temper—her raging hormones.

  Damn him. The man was an idiot. She had all but offered herself up on a silver platter, and he had bluntly said no, although he had tried to soften his rejection by claiming it was for her own good.

  Well, dammit, she was getting sorely tired of his nobility.

  “You’re going to start a chimney fire if you put any more wood on,” he nobly informed her.

  “It’s my body, isn’t it?” she accused, still poking at the logs, deciding it was the fire heating her face, not shame.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I look like a twelve-year-old boy.”

  He said nothing to that. Libby poked the logs more violently. Since the age of seventeen, when she had finally realized she wasn’t going to grow another inch and would never have womanly curves, Libby had decided sex was probably overrated, anyway.

  Yeah. Well. She wanted those curves now. And six inches added to her height while she was at it. Dammit, he had to stand her on the hearth just to see her face.

  Libby jumped when Michael wrapped his arms around her, taking the poker away with one large hand and pulling her back against his chest with the other.

  “You don’t feel like a twelve-year-old boy,” he whispered in her ear, sending prickles of awareness shooting through her. “Ya feel like fire in my hands, lass, when I touch you.”

  And he did touch her then, lifting his hand to cover her breasts, pulling her more tightly against him, more intimately into the spread of his kneeling thighs. And the evidence of what he thought of her body scorched her back.

  Libby took a shuddering breath, which firmed her breast into his palm when he squeezed her gently a
nd brushed his thumb over her nipple. He splayed his other hand across her stomach, his fingers sliding lower to gently touch her woman’s place.

  Libby’s response was immediate. Heat pulsed through her. Moisture gathered. And the nipple he was stroking poked through her bra and shirt, searching for more of his touch.

  She tried to turn to face him, to wrap her arms around his neck and stifle her moan in his shoulder, but he held her still and continued to stroke her, sending her into a storm of raging desire.

  His hand on her breast moved to the buttons on her shirt, and, with painstaking slowness, he worked them open one at a time. Libby gripped the edge of the hearth and closed her eyes as heat built inside her and moisture continued to gather against his hand between her thighs.

  Her blouse finally unbuttoned, he slipped it down her arms, and his lips found the base of her throat.

  Libby moaned, threw back her head, and whispered a curse.

  Michael chuckled, the sound deep and warm, as he pulled down the straps of her bra and continued to make love to her neck with his mouth.

  He brought both hands up to her now naked breasts, covering them, kneading them, completely inflaming her.

  And then he moved to the snap of her pants.

  It was all Libby could do to hold on to her sanity. His mouth was driving her into a frenzy, trailing over every inch of exposed skin. He opened her jeans and then slid his fingers inside her panties and caressed her intimately.

  Libby cried out and twisted, trying to face him, but he still refused to let her move. He just kept working his magic with his hand, building her desire with his fingers, making her yearn for more.

  “Let go, lass,” he whispered into her hair. “Burst into beautiful flame.”

  She didn’t want to, didn’t know how.

  She was scared. Confused. Unsure.

  “I’m right here to catch you, Libby,” he thickly continued, his lips brushing her ear, his breath caressing her senses, his hands working their magic. “I won’t let you fly away, lass. Let go,” he tenderly urged, pushing one finger deeply inside her.