She knew they gossiped about her; the old folks talked about everything. She suspected they were making up for all the times they’d held their tongues when they were young, invoking the impunity of advanced age. She found herself rather looking forward to senior immunity. What a relief it would be to say exactly what she thought for a change.
And what would you say, Gwen?
“I’m lonely,” she muttered softly. “I would say that I’m lonely and I’m damn tired of pretending that everything’s fine.”
How she wished something exciting would happen!
It just figured that the one time she’d tried to make something happen, she’d ended up on a senior citizens’ bus tour. She may as well face it, she was doomed to live a dry, uneventful, and lonely life.
Eyes shut against the bright rays, she groped for her backpack to get her sunglasses but misjudged the distance and knocked the bag off the rock. She heard it bounce amid the clatter of loose stones for several moments, then a protracted silence, and finally a solid thump. Tucking her fringed bangs behind one ear, she sat up to see where it had fallen. She was dismayed to discover that it had tumbled off the rock, down a gully, and to the bottom of a narrow, forbidding precipice.
She moved to the lip of the aperture, eyeing it warily. Her patches were in her pack, and she certainly couldn’t be expected to remain a non-that-word-she-wasn’t-thinking without something to take the edge off. Gauging the depth of the rocky cleft to be no more than twenty-five to thirty feet, she decided she was capable of retrieving it.
She had no alternative; she had to go down after it.
Lowering herself over the edge, she felt for toeholds. The hiking boots she’d laced on that morning had rugged, gripping soles that made the descent a little easier; however, as rough stone grazed her bare legs, she found herself wishing she’d worn jeans instead of her favorite pair of khaki Abercrombie & Fitch short-shorts that were so in vogue. Her lacy white tank top was comfortable for hiking, but the faded denim button-down she’d tied around her waist just kept getting tangled about her legs, so she paused a moment to untie it and let it waft down onto her backpack. Once she reached the bottom, she’d tuck it in her pack before climbing back up.
It was slow, strenuous going, but half her life was in that pack—and it was arguably the better half. Cosmetics, hairbrush, toothpaste, floss, panties, and many other items that she’d wanted on her person in case her luggage got lost. Oh, admit it, Gwen, she thought, you could live out of that pack for weeks.
The sun beat down on her shoulders as she descended, and she started to sweat. It figured that the sun had to shine directly into that crack at that moment, she thought irritably. Half an hour earlier or later, and it wouldn’t have penetrated there.
Near the bottom, she slipped and inadvertently kicked her bag, wedging it firmly at the bottom of the narrow crevice. Squinting up into the sun, she muttered, “Come on, I’m trying to quit smoking down here, you could help me anytime now.”
Easing herself down the last few feet, she placed one foot on the ground. There. She’d made it. Hardly enough room to turn around in the tight space, but she was there.
Lowering her other foot, Gwen grabbed her button-down and stretched her fingers toward the strap of her pack.
When the ground gave way beneath her feet, it was so sudden and unexpected that she scarcely had time to gasp before she plunged through the rocky bottom of the crevice. She fell for a terrifying few seconds, then landed with such force that the impact knocked the air from her lungs.
As she struggled to draw a breath, crushed rock and dirt showered her where she lay. Adding insult to injury, the backpack fell through the hole after her and thumped her in the shoulder before rolling off into the darkness. She finally managed a ragged breath, spit hair and dirt out of her mouth, and mentally assessed her condition before attempting to move.
She’d fallen hard and felt bruised from head to toe. Her hands were bleeding from her panicked attempt to catch herself as she’d plunged through the jagged opening, but, blessedly, it didn’t appear she’d broken any bones.
Gingerly, she turned her head and gazed up at the hole through which she’d fallen. A stubborn ray of sunshine filtered down on her.
I will not panic. But the hole was an impossible distance above her head. Worse still, she’d not passed any other hikers during her climb. She might yell herself hoarse, yet never be found. Shaking off a nervous shiver, she peered into the gloom. The shadowy blackness of a wall loomed a few yards away, and she could hear the faint trickle of water off in the distance. Obviously, she’d fallen into an underground cavern of sorts.
But the pamphlet said nothing of any caves near Loch Ness—
All thought ceased abruptly as she realized that whatever she was lying upon was not rock or soil. Stunned by the abrupt fall, she’d naturally assumed she’d landed on the hard floor of a cavern. But while it was hard, it was certainly not cold. Warm, rather. And given that until a few moments ago no sunlight had penetrated this place, what were the odds that something could be warm in this cool, damp cave?
Swallowing, she remained utterly still, trying to decide what she was lying on without actually looking at it.
She nudged it with a hipbone. It gave slightly, and it did not feel like soil. I’m going to be sick, she thought. It feels like a person.
Had she fallen into an old burial chamber? But, then, wouldn’t it be nothing but bones? As she debated further movement, the sun reached its zenith, and a brilliant shaft of sunlight bathed the spot where she’d fallen.
Summoning all her courage, she forced herself to look down.
Gwen screamed.
2
She’d fallen on a body. One that, considering she hadn’t disturbed it, must be dead. Or, she worried, perhaps I killed it when I fell.
When she managed to stop screaming, she found that she’d pushed herself up and was straddling it, her palms braced on its chest. Not its chest, she realized, but his chest. The motionless figure beneath her was undeniably male.
Sinfully male.
She snatched her hands away and sucked in a shocked breath.
However he’d managed to get here, if he was dead, his demise had been quite recent. He was in perfect condition and—her hands crept back to his chest—warm. He had the sculpted physique of a professional football player, with wide shoulders, pumped biceps and pecs, and washboard abs. His hips beneath her were lean and powerful. Strange symbols were tattooed across his bare chest.
She took slow, deep breaths to ease the sudden tightness in her chest. Leaning cautiously forward, she peered at a face that was savagely beautiful. His was the type of dominant male virility women dreamed about in dark, erotic fantasies but knew didn’t really exist. Black lashes swept his golden skin, beneath arched brows and a silky fall of long black hair. His jaw was dusted with a blue-black shadow beard; his lips were pink and firm and sensually full. She brushed her finger against them, then felt mildly perverse, so she pretended she was just checking to see if he was alive and shook him, but he didn’t respond. Cupping his nose with her hand, she was relieved to feel a soft puff of breath. He isn’t dead, thank God. It made her feel better about finding him so attractive. Palm flush to his chest, she was further reassured by his strong heartbeat. Although it wasn’t beating very often, at least it was. He must be deeply unconscious, perhaps in a coma, she decided. Whichever it was, he couldn’t help her.
Her gaze darted back up to the hole. Even if she managed to wake him and then stood on his shoulders, she still wouldn’t be near the lip of the hole. Sunshine streamed over her face, mocking her with a freedom that was so near, yet so impossibly far, and she shivered again. “Just what am I supposed to do now?” she muttered.
Despite the fact that he was unconscious and of no use, her gaze swept back down. He exuded such vitality that his condition baffled her. She couldn’t decide if she was upset that he was unconscious, or relieved. With his looks he was surely a woma
nizer, just the kind of man she steered away from by instinct. Having grown up surrounded by scientists, she had no experience with men of his ilk. On the rare occasions she’d glimpsed a man like him sauntering out of Gold’s Gym she’d gawked surreptitiously, grateful that she was safely in her car. So much testosterone made her nervous. It couldn’t possibly be healthy.
Cherry picker extraordinaire. The thought caught her off guard. Mortified, she berated herself, because he was injured and there she was, sitting on him, thinking lascivious thoughts. She pondered the possibility that she’d developed some kind of hormone imbalance, perhaps a surfeit of perky little eggs.
She eyed the designs on the man’s chest more closely, wondering if one of them concealed a wound. The strange symbols, unlike any tattoos she’d ever seen, were smeared with blood from the abrasions on her palms.
Gwen leaned back a few inches so a ray of sunshine spilled across his chest. As she studied him, a curious thing happened: the brightly colored designs blurred before her eyes, growing indistinct, as if they were fading, leaving only streaks of her blood to mar his muscled chest. But that wasn’t possible…
Gwen blinked as, undeniably, several symbols disappeared entirely. In a matter of moments all of them were gone, vanished as if they’d never existed.
Perplexed, she glanced up at his face and sucked in an astonished breath.
His eyes were open and he was watching her. He had remarkable eyes that glittered like shards of silver and ice, sleepy eyes that banked a touch of amusement and unmistakable masculine interest. He stretched his body beneath hers with the self-indulgent grace of a cat prolonging the pleasure of awakening, and she suspected that although he was rousing physically, his mental acuity was not fully engaged. His pupils were large and dark, as if he’d recently had his eyes dilated for an exam or taken some drug.
Oh, God, he’s conscious and I’m straddling him! She could imagine what he was thinking and could hardly blame him for it. She was as intimately positioned as a woman astride her lover, knees on either side of his hips, her palms flat against his rock-hard stomach.
She tensed and tried to scramble off him, but his hands clamped around her thighs and pinned her there. He didn’t speak, merely secured and regarded her, his eyes dropping to linger appreciatively on her breasts. When he slid his hands up her bare thighs, she seriously regretted having put on her short-shorts this morning. A slip of a lilac thong was all that was beneath them, and his fingers were toying with the hem of her shorts, perilously close to slipping inside.
His heavy-lidded gaze reflected a languor that had nothing to do with having just awakened, and there was no doubt what was on his mind. But this is no safe cherry picker, Gwen thought, growing more concerned by the moment. This man looks like a cherry tree chopper-downer.
“Look, I was just about to get off you,” she babbled. “I didn’t plan to sit on you. I fell through the hole and landed on you. I was hiking and accidentally knocked my backpack down a crevice, and when I went to rescue it the ground gave way beneath me and here I am. On that note, why didn’t my falling on you wake you?” More important, she thought, how long had he been awake? Long enough to know that she’d copped a few perverted feels?
Confusion flickered in his mesmerizing eyes, but he said nothing.
“I’m usually groggy when I first wake up too.” She tried for a reassuring tone.
He shifted his hips, subtly reminding her that she didn’t wake up quite like him. There was something happening beneath her and, like the rest of him, it was in-your-face male.
When he smiled at her, revealing even, white teeth and a slight cleft in his chin, the part of her brain that made intelligent decisions melted like chocolate taffy left by the pool on a hot summer day. Her heart raced, her palms felt clammy, and her lips were suddenly parched. For a moment, she was too stupefied to feel anything but relief. So this was mindless sexual attraction. It did exist! Just like in the movies!
Her relief was doused by anxiety when he dragged her forward against his chest, cupped her bottom with both hands, and ground her pelvis against his. He buried his face in her hair and thrust upward, rubbing against her like a sleek and powerful animal. A hiss of breath escaped her, an involuntary reaction to a surge of desire that was far too intense to be sane. She was drowning in sensations: the possessive crush of his arms, the testosterone-laden scent of man, the sensual scrape of his shadow beard against her cheek when he caught the lobe of her ear with his teeth, and oh—that wildly erotic rhythm of his hips….
He squeezed her bottom, kneading and caressing, then one hand slid upward, lingering deliciously over the hollow where her spine met her hips, inching ever upward until he palmed the back of her head and guided her lips nearer his.
“Good morrow, English,” he said, a breath from her lips. The words were delivered in a thick brogue that sounded roughened by too much whisky and peat smoke.
“Let me go,” she managed, angling her face away from his. He’d fitted his erection snugly between her thighs, and a firm hand splayed across her bottom kept her locked precisely where he wanted her. He was rock-hard and hot through the lightweight fabric of her shorts. Expertly, he thrust against the most perfect spot nature had bestowed upon a woman, and Gwen coughed to camouflage a moan. If he treated her to a few more of those cocky strokes, she might have her first real orgasm without even sacrificing her cherry.
“Kiss me,” he murmured into her ear. His lips braised her neck; his tongue tasted her skin with lazy sensuality.
“I am not kissing you. I can understand how you might have gotten the wrong impression, waking up to find me sprawled on top of you, but I told you that I didn’t mean to land on you. It was an accident.” Aw, kiss him, Gwen, clamored a hundred perky eggs. Shut up, she rebuked. We don’t even know him, and until moments ago we thought he was dead. That’s no way to start a relationship.
Who’s asking for a relationship? Kisskisskiss! her babies-in-waiting insisted.
“Lovely lass, kiss me.” He planted a hungry, openmouthed kiss in the sensitive area between her collarbone and the base of her throat. His teeth closed gently on her skin, his tongue lingered, sending chills up her spine. “On my mouth.”
She shuddered as the velvety stroke made her nipples pearl against his chest. “Uh-uh,” she said, not trusting herself to say too much.
“Nay?” He sounded surprised. And undeterred. He nibbled the underside of her chin while splaying his hand intimately between the cleft of her behind.
“No. No way. Nay. Understand? And get your hand off my butt,” she added with a squeal, when he squeezed again. “Oooh. Stop that!”
Lazily, he slid his hand up from her hips to her head, availing himself of the opportunity to thoroughly caress every inch in between. Burying both hands in her hair, he gripped her near the scalp and tugged her head gently back so he could search her eyes.
“I mean it.”
He arched a dubious brow but, to her surprise, he proved to be a gentleman and slowly relinquished his grip. She scrambled off him. Unaware that they’d been lying on a slab of stone that was several feet above the floor of the cavern, she stumbled to her knees on the floor.
He sat up on the slab gingerly, as if every muscle in his body was stiff.
He swept his gaze about the cavern, shook his head with the vigor of a drenched dog casting off rain, then gave the interior of the cave a second, thorough glance. He flipped his long dark hair over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes. Gwen witnessed the precise moment the confusion of deep slumber quit his mind. The seductive gleam in his gaze faded, and he folded his muscular arms across his chest. He glanced at her with an expression both startled and angry. “I doona recall coming here,” he said accusingly. “What have you done? Did you bring me here? Is this witchery, lass?”
Witchery? “No,” she said hastily. “I told you, I fell in through that hole”—she jerked her thumb up in the direction of the shaft of sunlight—“and you were already in here. I la
nded on you. I have no idea how you got here.”
His cool gaze roamed over the jagged opening, the loose stones and dirt scattered around the slab, the blood on her hands, her disheveled condition. After a moment’s hesitation, he appeared to deem it a plausible story. “If you did not come seeking my personal attentions, why are you so shamelessly attired?” he said flatly.
“Perhaps because it’s hot out?” she shot back, tugging defensively at the hem of her khakis. Her shorts weren’t that short. “It’s not like you have much on yourself.”
“ ‘Tis natural for a man. ’Tis not natural for a woman to cut off her chemise at the waist and doff her gown. Any man would make the assumption I did. You are wantonly clad, and you were draped most intimately across my loins. When a man first awakens, it sometimes takes several moments before he starts thinking clearly.”
“And here I thought it took several years, perhaps a lifetime for the average man’s intellect to kick in,” she said snidely. Chemise? Doff?
He snorted, shaking his head again, vigorously enough that it was giving her a headache. “Where am I?” he demanded.
“In a cave,” she muttered, feeling less than charitable toward him. First, he’d tried to have sex with her, then he’d insulted her clothing, and now he was behaving as if she’d done something wrong to him. “And you should apologize to me.”
His brows arched with surprise. “For waking up to find a half-clad woman lying on top of me and thinking she wished me to pleasure her? I doona think so. And I am not simple,” he chided. “ ‘Tis clear I’m in a cave. In what part of Scotland does this cave reside?”
“Near Loch Ness. Near Inverness,” she said. She backed away from him a few steps.
He blew out a relieved breath. “By Amergin, ’tis not too much of a fankle. I am but a few days and not many leagues from home.”
Amergin? Fankle? Who’d taught the man English? His brogue was so thick that she had to listen intently to decipher what he was saying, and even then not all of it made sense. Could the glorious man have grown up in some obscure Highland village where time stood still, cars were twenty years out of date, and the old ways and manner of speech were still revered?
The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 92
