Loving the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  Yeah, husbands definitely had their advantages.

  She was trembling like a poplar leaf when she finally pulled back, still making sure that she stayed within his embrace. Her heart was threatening to fly out of her chest, and she was quite pleased to see that Morgan was equally affected.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” she said, toying with a button on his shirt. She looked up. “And thank you for getting rid of mom so diplomatically. She’s pregnant and doesn’t need to be in the middle of this. Having her and Callum take the moose back for you was a brilliant idea.”

  “Ah. So you do believe you’re in danger.”

  “I believe that someone besides us and the Dolans might be out here and that they might be looking for the gold.”

  “So, if I were to ask you to stay here with Faol today and explore only this camp, you just might obey me?”

  Sadie thought it was past time Morgan’s vocabulary got an adjustment. “Obey is one of those words women don’t really care for, Morgan. But I might be inclined to go along with your suggestion,” she offered instead.

  He pulled her back against him, tucking her head under his chin and rocking her gently. His laughter made her chest tingle, and Sadie closed her eyes and leaned into his strength. Yeah. She really liked being married.

  “Ah, Mercedes. I’m starting to have hope for us,” Morgan whispered, kissing the top of her head and squeezing her tightly. “You can spend the rest of your life making me into a modern husband, if that is your wish.” He lifted her chin. “While I work just as hard to make you into a suitable wife.”

  His eyes darkened, sending her heart racing again, this time with anticipation. Now that she knew what making love could be like, she wanted to experience it again. Tonight. Just as soon as the sun set, she was going to attack this man like a woman possessed.

  “You enjoyed yourself last night, wife?”

  Sadie had to look away from his intense gaze, so she turned her attention to fingering the cherrywood knot hanging around his neck. “That depends,” she whispered to his chest. “Did you?”

  All she got for an answer was silence.

  Sadie felt heat climb to her face. Dammit. He’d better give her the right words. She tugged on the cord that held the cherrywood knot. “Did you?” she repeated.

  “Almost,” he said quietly.

  Sadie snapped her head up. “Almost? What does that mean?”

  He tapped the end of her nose, dropped his arms to his sides, and stepped away. “I’ll tell you what it means in six days,” was all he said before he pivoted on his heel and strode off through the woods.

  Sadie stared at his back until he disappeared around the cookhouse. Almost? How can someone almost enjoy something? Either he did or he didn’t.

  She was almost ready to scream.

  It amazed Sadie how quickly she had grown accustomed to sleeping with Morgan. And as she set up their new camp, she thought again about her decision to pretend to be Morgan’s wife for the week. Had she managed to sabotage her heart, making it impossible to walk away in six days?

  For the first time since the fire eight years ago, Sadie had the hope of a future that included a husband, children, and a cozy home of her own. If nothing else—if she did have to walk away at the end of the week—Morgan had returned that possibility to her. He had made her realize that the fire may have taken half her family, but it had not taken her future.

  She could still hope.

  She could still dream.

  She could still love.

  But could she be loved?

  Sadie finished spreading out their sleeping bag and stretched out on it and stared up at the tops of the trees. Morgan hadn’t once mentioned the word love, for all his peculiar vocabulary. Sadie dismissed the fact that she hadn’t exactly brought the word up, either. He was the one talking about marriage; he should be the first one to say it.

  He acted possessive, like a caring husband.

  He worried about her safety.

  And he almost enjoyed having sex with her.

  Sadie touched the fingers of her right hand together, feeling leather touch leather. Would he completely enjoy their lovemaking if she had no scars? What would it be like, to go to Morgan fully naked, flawless, and beautiful?

  Would he say the words to her then?

  I love you.

  Sadie closed her eyes and let her escaping breath turn into a smile, letting those three little words echo though her mind like a promise. And she decided then that she was not walking away from Morgan MacKeage in five days.

  Sadie woke with a start, unable to orient herself for several seconds. As the treetops towering over her head came into focus, she realized that she’d fallen asleep. Feeling a bit embarrassed for having a nap in the middle of the day, she sat up and scanned the area for Morgan.

  He was nowhere to be seen. Sadie decided this was her chance to have a bath while she still had some privacy. She gathered her toiletries and some clean clothes and looked around the logging camp. There had to be a water source nearby, a spring or a small brook. She hadn’t seen any signs of a dug well during her exploration of the camp earlier.

  She headed into the forest, hiking north along the west side of Fraser Mountain, figuring that if she walked far enough, she would eventually run into a stream.

  She ran into Morgan instead.

  He stepped from behind an outcropping of ledge and used his impressive body to block her path. Sadie’s heart started to race at the sight of him. He was so incredibly handsome. So large and solid. And so damned sexy, standing there like a god of the woods.

  She smiled at him.

  He didn’t smile back.

  “I stink,” she said, her smile rising a notch at the incredible look he gave her. “And I’m not kissing you until I wash my hair and change into clothes that can’t stand up by themselves.”

  “You’ll catch a cold.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll catch fleas if I don’t have a bath.”

  He actually took a step away from her at that possibility. Sadie walked up to him, tapped him on the nose, and continued past him with an insolent sway of her hips. Morgan fell into step beside her. And as they walked in companionable silence, Sadie thought about the history of this area.

  Jean Lavoie’s diary mentioned that Jedediah Plum had visited camp number three for several days and had taken to wandering off at night. But he was always back in his bunk each morning, which meant the prospector hadn’t traveled far.

  Jean had followed him once but had lost his trail when Jedediah’s footprints had become mixed with the tracks the horses had made that day hauling logs. Jean also mentioned that he hadn’t been the only one stalking Jedediah that night.

  But on the fourth morning the prospector had not returned. His body had been discovered sticking out of a snowdrift about a mile north of the logging camp.

  “That’s it,” Sadie said, pulling Morgan to a stop so abruptly he stumbled backward.

  “That’s what?” he asked.

  Sadie brushed the hair from her face and shifted her bundle of clothes to her right arm. “I was thinking about Jedediah’s gold mine,” she said. “And when he died.” She looked around the forest they stood in. “It was near here, according to the cook’s diary I have. Someplace just north of the logging camp.”

  Morgan also looked around, frowning. “North? How far?”

  Sadie shook her head. “The diary said about a mile or so but wasn’t specific. But I remember from my dad’s research that Jedediah’s body was found near the base of a cliff that was at least a hundred feet high. Only we were never able to find that cliff because we never knew where the logging camp was.”

  She shot Morgan a bright smile. “Until now. Thanks to you and Faol, I can discover exactly where Jedediah’s body was found. And I’d bet my kayak that the old prospector died close to his gold mine.”

  “A tall cliff?” Morgan whispered, looking north. “About a mile from camp?”

  Sa
die dropped her bundle of clothes and threw her arms around Morgan’s shoulders. “Forget our swim,” she said with a laugh of excitement, hugging him tightly. “Let’s go north and look for that cliff.”

  Morgan slowly untangled her arms from around his neck, setting her away from him. He bent down, picked up her clothes, and gently placed them back in her arms. He smiled at her, but his face was drawn, his expression tight.

  “We have the rest of the week to look for that cliff,” he said, his voice even-toned. “After our swim.”

  Sadie could only stare at Morgan, confused by his reaction. Why wasn’t he excited about this?

  Morgan took hold of her hand again and started them walking down the mountain, west, away from where she really wanted to go. Sadie followed along meekly and thought about her pretend husband’s sudden change of mood.

  With Mercedes’ hand firmly tucked into his, Morgan headed to where his magical stream ran into the Prospect River. Sweat broke out between his shoulders and ran in a trickle down his back. His right hand involuntarily curled into a fist, and his feet felt like stones as every step he took led him closer to the magical stream he wanted to keep secret from Mercedes.

  Of all the hundreds of square miles in this valley, why did Plum’s accursed mine have to be located in his gorge? And why now, after all these years of searching with her father, did Mercedes have to be the one to find it?

  The drùidh’s vision rose in his mind, and Morgan started to shake with the force of his thoughts. He released Mercedes so she would not feel his trembling. He walked ahead in silence, holding back branches for Mercedes when the trail became thick.

  They broke from the woods and stepped onto a sandbar jutting into the magical stream. Upstream the water rippled with gentle current over gravel worn smooth by time. But the stream’s path bent around the sandbar and eddied into a deep pool of calm water—perfect for swimming, Morgan decided, and for making love to his wife.

  Mercedes wasted no time. She dropped her bundle of clothes onto the sand and quickly followed it down, immediately unlacing her boots.

  “Go away,” she told him succinctly, pulling off her boots and then her socks. Her hands went to the snap on her pants. “Find your own swimming hole farther downstream.”

  Morgan pulled his sword from his back and set it on the ground, then unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, letting it fall beside his sword. Mercedes turned her head to discover he had not obeyed her order. She frowned at him.

  He smiled at her. “I stink, too, wife,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “And I like this swimming hole,” he added, unbuckling his belt and pushing his pants down to his ankles.

  His wide-eyed wife suddenly squeaked and turned to face the stream. “It’s broad daylight, Morgan. You can’t…we can’t just…”

  Morgan ignored her flustered sputtering and stripped naked, setting the rest of his clothes neatly beside his shirt. He hesitated, then took the cherrywood burl from around his neck and set it on top of his pile.

  He didn’t need its help today to froth up the water. He and Mercedes could do that all by themselves.

  Stretching his muscles against the cool autumn air, Morgan strode past his speechless wife and waded into the stream. He slipped under the water and kicked his way to the center of the pool before he turned and resurfaced. He let his feet sink to the bottom and stood facing Mercedes, the water only as deep as his chest. He brushed back the hair from his face and smiled at his still gaping wife.

  “Hide in the trees to change,” he told her. “And wear only your shirt if you feel you must hold on to your modesty.”

  He sent a splash of water toward her. “It’s not cold, Mercedes. Hurry up and join me.” He bobbed his eyebrows and spider-walked his fingers through the air. “I’ll wash that beautiful hair of yours if you want.”

  She darted a nervous look up and down the length of the stream, then suddenly jumped up and ran for the forest. Morgan lay back in the water and floated, smiling up at the deep blue sky. For all of her shyness, Mercedes seemed to be a willing wife, playful and energetic and eager.

  And so comfortable here in these woods.

  Now, if he could only get her comfortable with him.

  Morgan watched from the corner of his eye as Mercedes silently tried to sneak into the water. The little gràineag had emerged from the forest a good fifty paces from where she’d entered. Now she was tiptoeing up the stream toward him, trying not to make any noise or ripple the water.

  Morgan closed his eyes, smiled, and waited.

  Strong feminine hands—both of which were naked, he was pleased to feel—landed on his shoulders with surprising force and drove him under the water. Morgan twisted and reached for the tails of Mercedes’ shirt, pulling her down with him.

  His mouth captured her squeal under the water as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled their bodies together, snaking her legs around his waist and trapping him tightly. Morgan shouted, still underwater, the moment his groin came into contact with the naked, delicate, down-covered folds at the juncture of her thighs.

  He ravaged her mouth while she stole the breath out of his body. Her hands tugged at his hair and dug into his shoulders. She wiggled her hips, further arousing him, setting him on fire as he hardened to stone.

  They needed air.

  Not that he cared at the moment. But Morgan had a thought that Mercedes’ eagerness might drown them both.

  He planted his feet and stood, keeping his very passionate wife firmly locked against him. They both tossed their heads back the minute they surfaced, taking in large gulps of air. But before he could catch his breath, the little gràineag’s mouth was covering his. Morgan fell forward, sinking them both to the bottom, placing Mercedes between the gravel and his now rock-solid manhood.

  And that was when Morgan suddenly remembered the foil packet that was still in his pants. On the beach. Much too far away right now. But Morgan simply didn’t care at that moment. This woman was his. He was hers.

  He kicked his feet just enough to bring them to the edge of the pool, lifting Mercedes’ head above water and resting it on the shore. Still covering her, still locked in the embrace of her legs, he slid down just enough that he could touch the tip of his manhood to her feminine center.

  Her eyes opened, blinking the cascading water away, and Mercedes smiled in anticipation of the passion he offered. Her hands dug marks into his shoulders as she used the heels of her feet to lift her hips against him, opening herself to receive him inside.

  But he hesitated and pulled back.

  “We don’t have protection, wife,” he said, closing his eyes against the urge to drive forward. “I need to go to my pants.”

  “I don’t care,” she whispered, lifting her hips again and trying to pull his mouth back down to hers.

  Morgan held fast. “Well, I do, gràineag. I will not have you crying foul in two months. You’ll say the words in front of a priest before I put a babe in your belly.”

  She gave him a fierce shove. And before he could right himself, Mercedes was up and running toward his clothes. Morgan didn’t know if she was going for his pants or his sword.

  “Why didn’t you bring it into the water?” she growled as she knelt down and rummaged around in his pockets, making a mess of his neatly stacked clothes.

  Morgan stood up and backed deeper into the pool while he appreciated the view of her beautiful backside. Soon she had the foil packet in her hand and was running back to the stream, her wet flannel shirt clinging to every delectable curve of her body, her long legs making short work of the distance between them.

  Morgan heard the rifle shot the instant Mercedes lunged into his arms. When she landed against his chest, she was dead weight. He dove them both into the water, holding on to her with desperation. He covered her back with his hand and sank to the bottom of the pool, feeling the warmth of her blood against his palm as she lay limp and unmoving against him.

  Morgan rose to the surface and frantically
waded to the sandbar, turning to shield Mercedes from the direction of the sniper. He crossed the sandbar in less than three strides and ducked into the forest just as another shot cracked through the air, hitting the dirt at his feet.

  Morgan kept running deeper into the woods, heading downstream toward the sniper, hoping the villain wouldn’t expect him to move in that direction. Morgan ran a few hundred yards, then finally stopped and set Mercedes gently on the ground.

  She was a bloody mess, nearly all of her flannel shirt soaked red, both front and back. The bullet had gone straight through her body.

  With shaking hands, Morgan popped all the buttons on the shirt and spread it open, revealing a small wound just below Mercedes’ right breast. Her breathing was labored. She was unconscious, her face as pale as a winter’s moon, her eyes already sunken beneath eyelids that were blue with the promise of death.

  Morgan forced his hands to remain steady as he worked the shirt off her shoulders and held her in a sitting position. He wrapped the blood-soaked flannel around her back and over her breasts and the wound, using the sleeves to tie it as tightly as he dared.

  Swiping his forehead with a trembling and bloody hand, Morgan looked up and cocked his head, listening for sounds of the sniper moving in for the kill.

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. They were miles from nowhere, and Mercedes would bleed to death before he could get her to civilization. He had to get to Daar’s magic burl and the stream to heal her before it was too late.

  He heard a sound then, on the other side of the valley, the distinct shout of a man being surprised. A wolf’s growl was followed by another shot, but this time the muzzle was pointed in another direction.

  Confident that the sniper was now occupied elsewhere, Morgan gently picked up Mercedes and ran through the forest again, back upstream. He kept to the woods and passed the sandbar, running until a bend in the stream concealed him from the other side of the valley. He set his wife down gently on the gravel and then ran back to the sandbar.