No one breathed in the tent.
“Does my idiot brother not realize that England has triple our mounted men, quadruple our spearmen and archers?”
“But they’re our hills and valleys,” Niall reminded softly. “We know this land. We know what advantages to exploit, and doona forget, we have Brodie and his Templars. We have the gentle mists and bogs. We can do this, Robert. We’ve been fighting for years for our freedom and we have yet attained no decisive victory. It is time now. Doona underestimate the men who follow you. We have two weeks to rally the forces. Believe in us as we have believed in you.”
Robert drew a deep breath and pondered Niall’s words. Had he been too cautious? Had he been willing to fight only small battles because it wouldn’t be such a terrible loss if they failed? Had he unwisely restrained his men from a major war because he feared the possibility of defeat? Circenn had been impatient to war. His Berserkers were impatient to war, aye—and his own impatient brother had wagered their future. Perhaps they were all impatient because it was time.
“Let us summon Brodie. This is what you’ve been waiting for,” Niall said firmly.
“Aye, milord,” said Lulach, Niall’s brother. “If we prevent Edward’s army from reaching Stirling, we will have turned the tides. We will be unstoppable, and if ever the time was now, the time is now. Plantagenet grows weaker in his own country; many of his own lords will not follow him into our land. I say we face this wager boldly, as a gift of fate.”
Robert nodded finally. To the messenger, he said, “Get you to Castle Brodie with all haste. Command Circenn to bring his men to join us at St. Ninian’s Church by the Roman road. Tell him time is of the essence and to bring every weapon he possesses.”
The messenger expelled a relieved breath and fled the tent for Inverness.
* * *
Lisa and Circenn explored each other with uninhibited joy, withdrawing completely into a world of their own making. Circenn laughed more than he had in centuries. Lisa talked more, voicing thoughts and feelings she hadn’t even suspected lay dormant within her. In this way they rediscovered themselves, opening up closed compartments that needed the light of day.
The two of them roamed the estate, picnicking in the fresh spring air, dashing off to the bothy for a private moment. It was there that Lisa confided to Circenn what she’d seen Duncan doing with Alesone.
“Did you look?” He scowled possessively. “Did you see him entirely in the blush?”
“Yes.” Lisa’s cheeks heated.
“I doona care for that thought. You will not look upon another man unclothed for the rest of your life.”
Lisa laughed. He sounded so thoroughly medieval. “He didn’t look as good as you.”
“I still doona care. It makes me angry with Duncan merely for being a man.”
Then he erased her memory of the young, virile Douglas, against the wall in the bothy.
Twice.
They spent long nights in his bed, in her bed, on the stairs late one night when the Greathall was deserted. She told him about her life, and slowly, haltingly, he began to tell her of his. But there she sensed he was holding something back. Because of their odd connection, she could feel a darkness in him that waxed and waned without explanation. Sometimes, when he watched the children playing outside in the courtyard, he grew silent, and she could feel that peculiar mixture of anguish and anger that she simply didn’t understand.
The castle staff was delighted with the laird’s newfound laughter, and Duncan and Galan beamed when they dined together. Gone were the private seduction dinners—Circenn saved that for later in the privacy of their chambers. Meals were now taken not in the formal dining hall but in the Greathall, with an assortment of knights and the occasional Templar.
Lisa was slowly and irresistibly becoming fourteenth-century. She learned to love the flowing gowns and tartans, even sitting with some of the women, watching them dye the fibers and fashion the Brodie weave.
She loved the fact that people sat about the hearth and talked in the evening, rather than retreating to their individual electronic worlds of television, phones, and computer games. They possessed richly detailed oral histories and were eager to share them. Duncan and Galan knew their clan history centuries back and wove grand tales of the many Douglas heroes. Lisa listened and sorted through her own genealogy, looking for a Stone to speak of, but who cared if one’s uncle was a lawyer? Could he chop wood and carry water?
Blissfully the days and nights unfurled, and Lisa realized that she now understood why her mother had lost the will to live when Jack died. If her mom had felt a tenth of what Lisa felt for Circenn, it would have been devastating for Catherine to lose her husband. And her mother had lost so much in one day—her love, her ability to walk, her entire way of life. Lisa attained a new respect for her mother’s strength, only now understanding the extent of her mother’s loss and the pain it must have caused her to continue living without Jack.
Circenn’s strength and love were always curled around her like a protective cloak. She couldn’t imagine how she’d lived before without it. The link between them kept her constantly aware of him, no matter where he was. It was never invasive, but she’d discovered—feeling a need for complete privacy while using the chamber pot—that it could be dimmed if she wished. She would never be lonely again. Sometimes, when he was far away, riding with his men, something would amuse him and she would sense his rich laughter rolling inside her, although she would have no idea what had made him laugh.
At other times she would feel his frustration while he was off with his knights, and without even knowing what he was angry about, she would be flooded by his raw masculinity that roared to wield a battle-ax and actively protect his homeland. Via their bond, she experienced masculine emotions and drives she’d never understood before, and was fascinated by the knowledge that he was feeling her more tender, womanly ones.
It wasn’t until she asked him if he knew of a puppy she might adopt that she choked on a deep, bitter swallow of the blackness inside him.
They were sitting on the stone bench by the reflecting pool—it had become a favorite spot of theirs—watching some children tossing a bladder ball in the courtyard. A small mutt had plunged into the melee and grabbed the ball between his sharp teeth, and when it had burst against his whiskers, he’d shot straight up into the air, yipping frantically, comically trying to scrape the remains of the skin off his nose. While the children had giggled helplessly, Lisa had laughed until tears sparkled in her eyes.
“I want a puppy,” she said, when her amusement subsided. “I’ve always wanted one, but our apartment was too small and—”
“No.”
Perplexed, her smile faded. A wave of sorrow engulfed her, radiating from him. It cloaked her in a deep sense of futility. “Why?”
He brooded, staring at the yapping mutt. “Why would you want a puppy? They doona live long, you know.”
“Yes, they do. They can live ten to fifteen years, depending on the breed.”
“Ten to fifteen years. Then they die.”
“Yes,” Lisa agreed, unable to fathom his resistance. Another wave of darkness and anger surged around her. “Did you have a puppy once?”
“No. Come. Let us walk.” He rose and extended his hand. Guiding her away from the playing children, he led her into a thick copse.
“But, Circenn, I don’t mind that a puppy will die. At least I get to love it for the time I have with it.”
He pushed her back against a tree and covered her mouth with his, savagely.
Her breath came out in a soft humph, as he crushed her between his body and the tree. She was smothered in his emotions: pain, hopelessness, and hunger tinged by a savage need to possess her completely, to brand her with his body. And something more, something that danced tantalizingly out of her reach.
“Mine,” he whispered against her lips.
“What a totally barbaric”—she drew a deep breath beneath the onslaught of his lips�
��“medieval, arrogant, warlord thing to say.”
“And true. You are mine.” He dragged his tongue across her lower lip, tasting, suckling. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips. He crowded her against the tree, pressing her into it. His blackness charged the air between them and infiltrated her, drenching her with his tension. He raised her skirts and slipped his hand up her thigh, abruptly burying his finger inside her. “You are wet, lass,” he said roughly. “Dripping for me yet I’ve scarce kissed you. I like knowing you walk around ready for me.”
He turned her around to face the tree. He shoved his tartan aside and pushed the folds of her gown out of his way, trapping the fabric between her body and the bark. He cupped her exposed curves, spreading and opening her for him. His breathing was harsh, and she gasped when she felt him heavy and swollen between her buttocks. Then suddenly he thrust into her.
He was too big from behind. Lisa tried to push him away with her hips, but he pushed back relentlessly.
She grabbed the tree with her hands, confused by the intensity of his emotions, doubly confused because she was caught up in the maelstrom of his fury. It imbued her with an unidentifiable rage that had no object she could discern, translating into a fierce need to possess, to dominate, to take even that which would, under other circumstances, be willingly given. The only release for the anger was in the taking.
His rage consumed her, and she bucked back against him and turned, forcing him from her body. She rammed the heels of her palms against his chest.
“I don’t understand you,” she snapped, her eyes flashing. Still, his intense darkness seeped inside her, driving her, goading her to release it somehow.
His eyes were dark, unfathomable pools, and danger radiated from him. He shoved her back against the tree.
She knocked his hands from her shoulders with a swift outward thrust of both arms. “Oh no. You said I get to be in control, too. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. You do what I want this time.”
“And what do you want, Lisa?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
She grabbed his plaid and ripped it from his body. She dropped it to the ground, spreading it with the toe of her slipper. “Lie down,” she demanded, his strange darkness fueling her.
He complied, his eyes glittering. Although he’d honored her demand, he was by no means subdued. He was dangerous and deadly, but she didn’t care one bit, because his emotions made her feel every bit as lethal.
She dropped on top of him and kissed him with all his frustrated rage. She became a wild thing, uncaring that she filled the air with sounds of passion. Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him deeply, tonguing his mouth, nibbling his lips, shifting her hips so she was astride him. The movement with which she claimed him inside her body was not a gentle one. Their eyes met and locked, and she imagined sparks flying from the sheer heat of it.
She felt like a Valkyrie, demanding satisfaction from her mate. His hands swept up and closed over her breasts, his gaze fixed on the mole inside her left thigh. She rocked herself on him, raising and lowering her hips again and again, her palms flush to his chest, bracing herself, watching the area where their bodies were joined by his thick shaft. He reared up hungrily, suckling her nipples as her breasts swayed above him, his hips thrusting urgently. When he exploded inside her, savage satisfaction flooded her and she nearly swooned from the intensity of both their emotions. It was overwhelming, and pushed her swiftly past the edge. She arched her neck and cried out.
Afterward, she lay on his chest, wondering what had just happened. Had she taken him with his desire, or had he taken her with hers? It was so confusing, so mind paralyzing, their strange bond. When their passions were high and their bodies sweat-slicked against each other, she truly couldn’t see where he began and she ended, because she felt it all. It heightened her pleasure a hundredfold.
“What just happened?” she whispered.
“I think we demonstrated the true extent of our need for each other, lass,” he said softly, stroking her hair. “Sometimes need can be a violent thing.”
“But what was all the darkness I was getting from you?” she pressed.
“What did it feel like, lass?” he asked carefully.
“Like you were furious with something or someone, and almost like you thought I wouldn’t be here tomorrow.”
He sighed against her hair. His arms tightened around her and she felt his throat work as he swallowed. “Time is too short, love. That’s all you felt. That no matter how long I might have with you, it would never be enough.”
“We have a whole lifetime, Circenn,” she reassured him, kissing him. “You have all of my life.”
“I know,” he said sadly. “I know. All of yours.”
“There’s something you’re not saying, Circenn.”
“It’s still not enough,” he replied. “I begin to fear that only forever will satisfy me.”
“Then I’m yours forever,” she said easily.
“Be careful what you promise, lass.” His eyes were dark. “I may hold you to it.”
Lisa pressed her cheek against his chest, weary from the outburst of emotion and confused by his strange words. She sensed some dark threat there that she wasn’t certain she wished to understand.
* * *
“Tell me everything about your life, lass,” he demanded later, as they lay in his bed. He shifted inside her and rocked.
“Everything?” Her breathing was rapid and shallow. God, but he knew how to touch her. She had never understood being touched, until this Highlander had placed his hands on her body.
“Everything. Did you ever know a woman’s pleasure before I made you mine?”
“Do you mean did I ever have an orgasm? That’s what we call them in my time. A climax or an orgasm.”
“Aye. Did you?”
Lisa blushed. “Yes,” she said softly. His fingers tensed on her hips, and he buried his face in her thighs, lapping gently.
“When?” he growled. The vibration was exquisite.
“This is really rather personal,” she protested weakly, arching against him.
“Yes, ‘this is really rather personal,’” he mocked. “And you think to withhold mere words when I’m doing this to you?”
“I was curious. I … touched myself a time or two.”
“And?”
“And I found a most unusual sensation. So I bought a book that explained it all.”
“And?”
“And what?” she said, feeling embarrassed.
“Did it feel like this?” He slipped a finger inside her.
“Nothing feels like you,” she whispered, arching against his hand.
“Did you touch yourself like this?” He drew back so she could see him. One hand palmed her mound, the heel of it exerting gentle friction; the other he wrapped around himself.
She lost her breath, mesmerized by the sight of his hand holding his heavy shaft. Jealous of his hand being where hers longed to be. She reached out and knocked his hand away and he laughed.
“Mine,” she said roughly.
“Ah, yes.”
* * *
Later he began again. “Tell me everything about your life. Tell me about the wreck and what’s wrong with your mother and what you missed and what you longed for.” He quickly tried to mask his feelings, ashamed of what he was thinking. He must have been successful at hiding his emotions, for she confided readily, teaching him many new words as they went along.
A dangerous thought had formed in the back of his mind, and he pressed against it, trying to force it into submission.
But he knew well the danger of seeds once sown.
“GALAN, WE’VE DONE IT,” DUNCAN SAID SMUGLY. THE two brothers were leaning against a stone column near the entrance of the Greathall, observing the revelry. Circenn was teaching Lisa one of their less complicated Highland dances. Engrossed in watching her feet, every few moments she tossed back her head and laughed at him. She was adorable, Duncan decided.
The villagers had finally gotten their feast, thanks to Galan, Duncan, and the enthusiastic castle staff who had planned it without awaiting further input or permission. While Circenn and Lisa had wandered about, oblivious and infatuated, the residents of Castle Brodie had finalized the plans, simply informing the couple when the celebration would be. The laird’s blossoming romance with his lady had infused the estate with good humor.
Duncan conceded that they’d done an astonishing job; the staff had devoted loving care to transforming Castle Brodie for the festivities. Brilliantly lit by hundreds of rushlights, the hall was warm, the atmosphere most conducive to romance. Rippling banners of crimson and black Brodie tartan decked the walls. Thirty long tables formed a rectangle around the room, each laden with a sumptuous feast. The musicians gathered behind the laird’s table at the head of the hall, while in the center of the rectangle, on the floor cleared for dancing, couples, children, even an occasional wolfhound indulged the fierce Scot penchant for celebrating. In such a war-torn land, any cause was reason to feast as if there was no tomorrow, because there might not be. The musicians were playing a sprightly, edgy tune and the dancers faced the challenge with relish. As feet flew, the tempo increased, and ripples of laughter broke out as they kept pace with the frenetic beat.
“Look at them,” Galan said softly.
Duncan didn’t have to ask whom he meant; Galan’s eyes were fixed on Lisa and Circenn, as were many other eyes in the room. The laird and his lady were clearly in their own universe, absorbed in each other.
Duncan had heard the strange note in Galan’s voice and now gazed at him sharply, seeing his older brother in a new light.
“They are so in love.” Galan sounded weary, and longing infused his voice.
Duncan frowned, confounded by a new and uncomfortable sensation—as if he were the older brother and should take care of Galan. It occurred to him that Galan was thirty years old and had single-mindedly devoted the past ten years of his life to warring for Scotland’s independence. That didn’t leave much time for a disciplined warrior to taste the comforts of family and home life. How had he failed to see that Galan, in the midst of all the warriors and the fighting and the splendid wenching to be had, was lonely?
The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 82
