The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

  A hand flew to her throat and her eyes widened. He’d struck something sensitive. Ruthlessly he pursued it: “Would it be so much to ask that you give a bit of your precious time to help someone in need—the way they wish to be helped, rather than the way you think they should be helped?”

  “You’re making it sound like everything is my fault. You’re making it sound like I’m the one who’s crazy,” she protested.

  “If what I say is true, and I vow it is, you do seem most unreasonable to me,” he said calmly. “Has it occurred to you that I find your world—without any knowledge of the ancients, with limbless, leafless trees and clothing with formal appellations—as unnatural as you find my story?”

  Doubt. He could see it on her expressive face. Her stormy eyes widened further, and he glimpsed that mysterious flash of vulnerability beneath her tough exterior. He disliked provoking her, but she didn’t know what was at stake and he couldn’t possibly tell her. He didn’t have time to go out into her world and seek another person. Besides, he didn’t wish any other person. He wanted her. She’d discovered him, she’d awakened him, and his conviction that she was supposed to be involved in helping him correct things increased with each passing hour. There are no coincidences in this world, Drustan, his father had said. You must see with the eagle’s eye. You must detach, lift above a conundrum, and map the terrain of it. Everything happens for a reason, if you can but discern the pattern.

  She massaged her temples, scowling at him. “You’re giving me a headache.” After a moment, she blew out a resigned breath, fluffing her bangs from her eyes. “Okay, I give up. Why don’t you tell me about yourself. I mean, who you think you are.”

  A rather begrudging invitation, but he would work with what he could get. He hadn’t realized how tense he had been, awaiting her response, until his muscles smoothed beneath his skin. “I have told you that I am the laird of my clan, despite the fact that my father, Silvan, still lives. He refuses to be laird anymore, and at three score and two I can scarce blame him. ’Tis a long time to bear such responsibility.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I had a brother, Dageus, but he died recently.”

  He didn’t mention that his betrothed had been killed while accompanying Dageus back to Castle Keltar for the wedding. The less said about any of his betrotheds to another woman, the better. He was touchy about the entire subject.

  “How?” she asked gently.

  “He was returning from the Elliott’s estate when he was killed in a clan battle that wasn’t even our own but between the Campbell and the Montgomery. Most likely, he saw the Montgomery was severely outnumbered and tried to make a difference.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

  He opened his eyes to find compassion shimmering in her gaze, and it warmed him. When he lowered himself from the massive trunk of the fallen tree and pulled her leg over the trunk so she faced him, she didn’t resist. With him standing on the ground and her perched upon the trunk, they were at equal eye level, and it seemed to make her feel more comfortable. “Dageus was like that,” he told her with a mixture of sorrow and pride. “He was ever one to fight others’ battles. He took a sword through the heart, and one bitter morn I woke up to the sight of my brother, trussed across the back of his horse, being escorted home by the captain of the Elliott guard.” And grief rips at my heart. Brother of mine, I failed both you and Da.

  Her brows puckered, mirroring his sorrow. “Your mother?” she asked gently.

  “My father is widowed. She died in childbirth when I was fifteen; neither she nor the babe survived. He has not remarried. He vows there was only one true love for him.” Drustan smiled. His da’s sentiment was one he understood. His parents’ match had been made in heaven: he a Druid and she the daughter of an eccentric inventor who’d scoffed at propriety and educated his daughter better than most sons. Unfortunately, educated lasses were hardly in abundance in the Highlands, or anywhere else for that matter. Silvan had been lucky indeed. Drustan had longed for such a match himself, but time had worn him down, and he’d given up hope of finding such a woman.

  “Are you married?”

  Drustan shook his head. “Nay. I would not have tried to kiss you were I betrothed or wed.”

  “Well, score one point for men in general,” she said dryly. “Aren’t you rather old never to have been married? Usually when a man hasn’t married by your age, there’s something wrong with him,” she provoked.

  “I’ve been betrothed,” he protested indignantly, not about to tell her the number of times. It wasn’t a fine selling point, and she was closer to the truth than he would have liked. There was indeed something wrong with him. Once women spent a bit of time with him, they packed up their bags and left. It was enough to make a man feel uncertain of his charms. He could see she was about to press the issue, so he said hastily, hoping it would end the discussion of the subject, “She died before the wedding.”

  Gwen winced. “I’m so sorry.”

  They were silent a few moments, then she said, “Do you want to get married?”

  He arched a teasing brow. “Are you offerin’ for me, lassie?” he purred. If only she would, he’d like as not snatch her up and marry her before she could change her mind. He found himself more intrigued by her than he’d ever been with any of his betrotheds.

  She flushed. “Of course not. I’m merely curious. I’m just trying to figure out what kind of man you are.”

  “Aye, I wish to wed and have bairn. I simply need a good woman,” he said, flashing her his most charming grin.

  She wasn’t unaffected by it. He saw her eyes widen slightly in response and she seemed to forget the question she’d been about to ask. He breathed a silent thank you to the gods who’d gifted him a handsome face and white teeth.

  “And what would a man like you consider a good woman?” she said after a moment. “Wait”—she raised a hand when he would have spoken—“let me guess. Obedient. Adoring. Definitely not too bright,” she mocked. “Oh, and she’d just have to be the most gorgeous woman around, wouldn’t she?”

  He cocked his head, meeting her gaze levelly. “Nay. My idea of a good woman would be one I loved to look at, not because another found her lovely, but because her unique characteristics spoke to me.” He brushed the corner of her mouth with his fingers. “Mayhap she would have a dimple on one side of her mouth when she smiled. Mayhap she would have a witch-mark”—he slid his hand up to the small mole on her right cheekbone—“high upon one cheek. Mayhap she would have stormy eyes that remind me of the sea I so love. But there are other characteristics far more important than her appearance. My woman would be one curious about the world, and like to learn. She would want children and love them no matter what. She would have a fearless heart, courage, and compassion.”

  He spoke from the heart, his voice deepening with passion. He freed what was bottled up inside him and told her exactly what he wanted. “She would be one who would talk with me into the wee hours about anything and everything, who would savor all the tempers of the Highlands, who would treasure family. A woman who could find beauty in the world, in me, and in the world we could make together. She would be my honored companion, adored lover, and cherished wife.”

  Gwen drew a deep breath. The skeptical look in her eyes faded. She shifted uncomfortably, glanced away from him, and was silent for a time. He didn’t interrupt, curious to see how she would respond to his honest declaration.

  He smiled wryly when she cleared her throat and glibly changed the subject.

  “Well, if you’re from the sixteenth-century Highlands, why don’t you speak Gaelic?”

  Give nothing away, lass, he thought. Who or what hurt you that makes you so conceal your feelings? “Gaelic? You wish Gaelic?” With a wolfish smile, he told her exactly what he wanted to do to her once he removed her clothing, first in Gaelic, then in Latin, and finally in a language that had not been spoken in centuries—not even in his time. It made him hard, saying the words.


  “That could be gibberish,” she snapped. But she shivered, as if she’d sensed the intent behind his words.

  “Then why did you test me?” he asked quietly.

  “I need something to prove it,” she said. “I can’t just go on blind faith.”

  “Nay,” he agreed. “You doona seem to be a woman who could.”

  “Well, you had proof,” she countered, then added hastily, “of course, pretending that what you claim is true. You saw cars, the village, my phone, my clothing.”

  He gestured at his attire, his sword, and shrugged.

  “That could be a costume.”

  “What would you consider sufficient proof?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “I can prove it to you at the stones,” he finally said. “Beyond any doubt, I can prove it to you there.”

  “How?”

  He shook his head. “You must come and see.”

  “You think your ancestors might have some record of you, a portrait or something?” she guessed.

  “Gwen, you must decide whether I am mad or I am telling the truth. I cannot prove it to you until we reach our destination. Once we reach Ban Drochaid, if you still doona believe me, there at the stones, when I have done what I can to offer you proof, I will ask nothing more of you. What have you to lose, Gwen Cassidy? Is your life so demanding and full that you cannot spare a man in need a few days of your time?”

  He’d won. He could see it in her eyes.

  She looked at him in silence for a long time. He met her gaze steadily, waiting. Finally she gave a tight nod. “I will make sure you get to your stones safely, but that doesn’t mean for a minute that I believe you. I am curious to see what proof you can offer me that your incredible story is true, because if it is…” She trailed off and shook her head. “Suffice it to say, such proof would be worth hiking across the Highlands to see. But the moment you show me whatever it is you have to show me, if I still don’t believe you, I’m done with you. Okay?”

  “Okay?” he repeated. The word meant nothing to him in any language.

  “Do you agree to our deal?” she clarified. “A deal you agree to honor fully,” she stressed.

  “Aye. The moment I show you the proof, if you still doona believe, you will be free of me. But you must promise to stay with me until you actually see the proof.” Deep inside, Drustan winced, loathing the carefully phrased equivocation.

  “I accept. But you will not chain me, and I must eat. And right now I am going for a short walk in the woods, and if you follow me it will make me very, very unhappy.” She hopped down from the fallen tree trunk and skirted around him, giving him wide berth.

  “As you wish, Gwen Cassidy.”

  She stooped and reached for her pack, but he moved swiftly and wrapped his hand around her wrist. “Nay. If you go, it stays with me.”

  “I need a few things,” she hissed.

  “You may take one item with you,” he said, reluctant to interfere if she had womanly needs. Mayhap it was her time of the moon.

  Angrily, she dug in the pack and withdrew two items. A bar of something and a bag. Defiantly, she stuffed the bar in the bag and said, “See? It’s only one thing now.” She turned abruptly and headed for the woods.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he whispered when he was certain she was out of hearing range.

  He had no choice but to make her his unwitting victim. Larger issues than his own life depended upon it.

  Gwen hurriedly used the “facilities,” anxiously scanning the forest around her, but it didn’t appear that he had followed her. Still, she didn’t trust a thing about her current situation. After relieving herself, she devoured the protein bar she’d grabbed. She rummaged through her cosmetics bag, flossed, then dabbed a touch of toothpaste to her tongue. The taste of mint boosted her flagging spirits. A swipe of a medicated pad over her nose, cheeks, and forehead nearly made her swoon with pleasure.

  Sweaty and exhausted, she felt more alive than ever. She was beginning to fear for her own sanity, because there was a part of her that wanted to believe him, wanted desperately to experience something outside of her everything-can-be-explained-by-science existence. She wanted to believe in magic, in men who made her feel hot and weak-kneed, and in crazy things like spells.

  Nature or nurture: Which was the determining factor? She’d been obsessing over that question lately. She knew what nurture had done to her. At twenty-five, she had a serious intimacy problem. Aching for a thing she couldn’t name, and terrified of it at the same time.

  But what was her nature? Was she truly brilliant and cold like her parents? She recalled all too well the time she’d been foolish enough to ask her father what love was. Love is an illusion clung to by the fiscally challenged, Gwen. It makes them feel life might be worth living. Choose your mate by IQ, ambition, and resources. Better yet, let us choose him for you. Already I have several suitable matches in mind.

  Before she’d indulged in her Great Fit of Rebellion, she’d dutifully dated a few of her father’s choices. Dry, intellectual men, they’d regarded her more often than not through eyes red-rimmed from constant peering into a microscope or textbook, with little interest in her as a person, and great interest in what her formidable parents might do for their careers. There’d been no passionate declarations of undying love, only fervent assurances that they would make a brilliant team.

  Gwendolyn Cassidy, the sheltered daughter of famous scientists who had elevated themselves from stark poverty as children to esteemed positions at Los Alamos National Laboratory doing top-secret quantum research for the Department of Defense, had had a nearly impossible time getting a date outside of the cliquish scientific community in which she’d been raised. At college it had been even worse. Men had dated her for three reasons: to try to get in good with her parents, to see if she had any theories worth stealing, and, last but not least, for the prestige of dating the “prodigy.” Those few who’d been attracted by her other endowments (translated: generous C cups) hadn’t lingered long after learning who she was and what courses she was acing while they were hardly managing to skate by.

  She’d been frighteningly cynical by twenty-one.

  She’d dropped out of the doctorate program at twenty-three, carving an irrevocable schism between herself and her parents.

  Lonely as hell by twenty-five. A veritable island.

  Two years ago, she’d thought changing jobs—taking a nice, normal, average job with nice, normal, average people who weren’t scientists—would fix her problems. She’d tried so hard to fit in and build a new life for herself. But she’d finally realized it wasn’t her career choice that was the problem.

  Although she’d told herself that she’d come to Scotland to shuck her virginity, the small deception was how she concealed her deeper and much more fragile motives.

  The problem was—Gwen Cassidy didn’t know if she had a heart.

  When Drustan had spoken so passionately of what he was looking for in a woman, she’d nearly flung herself at him, madman or no. Family, talking, taking quiet pleasure in the simple lush beauty of the Highlands, having children who would be loved. Fidelity, bonding, and a man who wouldn’t kiss another woman if he were wed. She sensed that Drustan was a bit of an island himself.

  Oh, she knew why she’d really come to Scotland—she needed to know if love really was an illusion. She was desperate to change, to find something to shake her up and make her feel.

  Well, this certainly qualified. If she wanted to become a new person, what better way to start than to force herself to completely suspend disbelief, throw caution to the wind. To toss aside all that she’d been raised to believe and plunge into life, messy as it was. To rescind control over what was happening around her and entrust that control to a madman. Raised in an environment where intellect was prized above all else, here was her chance to act impulsively, on gut instinct.

  With a gorgeous madman, at that.

  It w
ould be good for her. Who knew what might come of it?

  She could feel a perfectly vicious cigarette craving coming on.

  “Come,” he said, when she returned. He’d built a fire in her absence, and she considered asking for her lighter back but was too exhausted to summon up the energy for a potential ownership dispute. Violating her privacy utterly, he’d rummaged through her pack and created a paltry bed by strewing her previously clean clothing upon the ground. A recent acquisition—a vibrantly crimson thong, adorned with black velvet silhouettes of romping kittens—poked out from between a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. She spent a moment calculating the odds that he would pull out the only thong she’d bought but never worn—the thong she planned to wear when she lost her virginity.

  Inconceivable. She glared suspiciously at him, certain he’d displayed her panties on purpose, but if so, he was the picture of innocence.

  “I cannot procure food for you this night,” he apologized, “but we will eat in the morning. For now, you must sleep.”

  She said nothing, merely cast an irritable glance at her clothes, strewn across twigs, leaves, and dirt. Further irritating her, he was standing at the perimeter of the light cast by the flames, making it difficult to see him clearly. But she didn’t miss that lazily sensual, lionlike toss of his head that sent his silky dark hair falling over his shoulder. It screamed come hither, and pissed her off even more.

  He met her glare with a provocative smile and gestured toward her clothing. “I made you a pallet upon which to sleep. In my time I would spread my plaid for you. But I would also warm you with the heat of my naked body. Shall I remove my plaid?”

  “No need to bother,” she sputtered hastily. “My clothes are fine. Wonderful. Really.”

  Despite the abysmal lowlands of her emotions and feverish highlands of her hormones, she was bone-weary and desperate for the plateau of sleep. She’d gotten more exercise today than she got in a month at home. The small pile of her clothing near the fire suddenly seemed as inviting as a down bed. “What about you?” she asked, reluctant to sleep if he was going to be awake.