And by God, he did—live, that is. Mayhap none other of his clan did, but he was alive, and once he got to his stones he would find out what had gone wrong. He was apprehensive about this world of hers, this wagon of hers, but to arrive at Castle Keltar today he would have ridden a fire-breathing dragon.
He prayed that by some miracle Silvan might have lived and fathered children—even at his advanced age, it wasn’t impossible—and that he would find descendants alive and well. He prayed that if not, he would at least find his castle unscathed by time, that he would secure the tablets and by midnight tomorrow eve be standing safely in his own century again. No abrasive noises, no awful odors, no unnatural rhythm of Gaea herself.
Kicking aside the hard white shoes with strings that she’d thrust under the door moments ago, he put his boots back on. He balled his fists inside the T-shirt, having absolutely no idea why it was called a T-shirt as opposed to an A-shirt or a B-shirt, and stretched the fabric so it wasn’t quite so restrictive around his neck and chest.
Opening the door, he paused a moment and swept his gaze over her petite, shapely body. They would fit well, although he suspected she wouldn’t believe that until he demonstrated, and he hoped to demonstrate many times.
He liked Gwen Cassidy—prickly, stubborn, a touch domineering and bossy—in addition to aching to rip her clothes off and push her down on her back in sweet heather. Spread her legs and tease until she begged for him. Bury his face between her breasts and taste her skin. Their kiss had only whetted his appetite for her and he groaned, recalling how difficult it had been to peel those blue trews down over his swollen shaft.
He stood in the doorway, looped his sporran about his hips, fastened one of his leather bands atop it, and thrust his sword through it. He moved silently behind her and closed his hands on the slender span of her waist. Grinning, he slipped his hands lower. She had a luscious ass, soft and womanly and shaped like a plump upside-down heart, and he’d take advantage of every opportunity to touch it. He was about to press a finger intimately between her twin globes when she tensed and shot out of his grasp.
He arched a brow at the saleslady. “My wife is still growing accustomed to me. We haven’t been wed long.” Hmm, he quite liked the way “wife” had sounded on his tongue, he thought, eyeing Gwen.
“Nice sword,” the saleslady purred, looking nearly a foot to the left of it.
Gwen pivoted on her heel. “Come on,” she said to Drustan. “Husband.” The look he gave her sizzled with passion, and she was beginning to wonder just how long she was going to be able to keep him under control. If she’d ever really had him under control to begin with.
“I’d like to grow accustomed to you,” Miriam murmured, as she watched the magnificent man guide his wife out the door with a possessive palm to the small of her back.
He tossed her a flirtatious grin over his shoulder.
Gwen’s spirits lifted a few blocks from the café, buoyed by the tantalizing aroma of fresh-ground coffee beans wafting on a gentle breeze. In a matter of moments she would be ordering cappuccino and chocolate bread. Cranberry-and-orange scones. Gwen released a heartfelt sigh of pleasure as they entered the café.
“Lass, there are so many people,” Drustan said uneasily. “Does the entirety of this village belong to one laird?”
Gwen glanced at him and decided she should have gone with the white T-shirt, because Drustan MacKeltar, clad from head to toe in unbroken black, was, as her girlfriend Beth would say, just downright fuckable. She was still experiencing shivers of resonance from their kiss that were never going to stop unless she quit looking at him, so she glanced hastily around the shop. Families with children, seniors, and young couples—mostly tourists—were seated at dozens of small tables. “No, they’re probably all from different families.”
“And they’re peaceable? All these different clans eat together and are happy about it?” he exclaimed, at sufficient volume that several people turned to look at them.
“Shh…you’re drawing attention to us.”
“I always draw attention. Even more so in this time. Wee little folks, the lot of you.”
She glared at him. “Just be quiet, behave, and let me order.”
“I am being have,” he muttered, then moved away to gawk at the shiny silver machines grinding and perking and steaming.
Being have, with a long A? His command of language baffled her. But then she thought about it a moment: be good—being good; be quiet—being quiet; behave—being have. There was an unsettling consistency to his madness. What was it Newton had said? I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies but not the madness of people.
While Gwen ordered, Drustan circled the interior of the coffee shop, missing nothing. He seemed fascinated by everything, picking up stainless-steel mugs, turning them around and upside down, sniffing the bags of coffee beans, poking at the straws and napkins. Then he found the spices. She caught up with him at the condiment stand just as he was slipping the little jars of cinnamon and chocolate in the pocket of his running pants.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, removing the lids from their coffee. She angled her back so the patrons of the café couldn’t see that he was breaking the law. “Take those out of your pocket!”
He scoffed. “These are valuable spices.”
“You would steal?”
“Nay, I’m no thief. But this is cinnamon and cocoa. ’Tis not so easy to come by, we’re nearly out, and Silvan loves it.”
“But it’s not yours,” she said, trying to be patient.
“I am the MacKeltar,” he said, clearly trying to be patient. “Everything is mine.”
“Put them back.”
His grin was pure male challenge. “You put them back.”
“I am not rooting around in your pockets.”
“Then they stay where they are.”
“You are so stubborn.”
“I am? I? Woman who insists everything be her way?” He fisted his hands at his waist and shifted his voice into a higher octave, imitating her: “You must wear hard white shoes. You must remove your weapons. You must travel in a car. You must not kiss me even though I wrap my legs around you when you do.” Shrugging irritably, he reverted to his deep brogue. “Must must must. I weary of that word.”
Cheeks flaming over the jibe about her unruly legs, Gwen thrust her hand in his pocket and closed her fingers around the small glass bottles.
“Silvan will be most unhappy,” he said, stepping closer with a wolfish smile.
“Silvan died five centuries ago, according to you.” The moment she said the words, she regretted them. A flash of pain crossed his face, and she could have kicked herself for being so callous. If he was ill, he might genuinely believe everything he was telling her, and if so, the death of his “father”—real or imagined—would hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. She sprinkled cinnamon on their frothy cappuccinos. Then, to atone for her unkind words, she slipped the bottle back in his pocket, trying to ignore the dually disturbing facts that she was aiding and abetting a criminal and that she was so close to his “sock,” which rhymed nicely with cock, and oh, it had been an eyeful in those jeans.
Angrily, he plunged his hand into his pocket, pulled both bottles out, and plunked them on the little condiment stand. Without a word, he turned his back to her and stalked out the door.
Gwen hastened after him, and as she passed a table where a distinguished-looking man sat with his wife and son, she heard the boy say, “Can you believe they were going to steal the cinnamon and chocolate? They didn’t look poor. Did you see his sword? Wow! It was better than the Highlander’s!”
Embarrassed, Gwen tucked the bag of pastries beneath her arm, juggled both cups of coffee, and struggled with the door.
“Drustan, wait. Drustan, I’m sorry,” she called to his broad, stubborn back.
He stopped midstep, and when he turned around he was smiling. Was that how brief the duration of his anger? She ca
ught her breath and held it. He was simply the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and when he smiled…
“You like me.”
“I do not,” she lied. “But I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
He was undaunted. “Aye, you like me, lass. I can tell. You called me by my given name and you are frowning, with dewy eyes. I forgive you for being cruel and thoughtless.”
She changed the subject hastily and addressed something that had been bothering her since they’d left Barrett’s and that snooty Miriam. “Drustan, what does nyaff mean?”
He looked startled, then laughed. “Who dared call you a wee nyaff?”
“That snotty woman in Barrett’s. And quit laughing at me.”
“Och, lass.” More laughter.
“Well, what does it mean?”
“Do you wish the whole gist of it, or a simple one-word summary? Not that I can think of one at the moment,” he added. “It’s a uniquely Scots word.”
“The whole gist of it,” she snapped.
Eyes sparkling, a brow mischievously arched, he said, “As you wish. It means one who is irritating, much like a midge, one whose capacity to annoy and inspire contempt exceeds her diminutive size but not the cockiness that accompanies it.”
Gwen was seething by the time he finished. She turned around and stomped back toward Barrett’s to tell perfectly plucked Miriam precisely what she thought of her.
“Hold, lass,” he said, catching up with her and closing his hand about her upper arm. “ ‘Tis plain to see she was merely jealous of you,” he told her soothingly, “for having a fine braw man such as me at your side, especially after she beheld me in those blue trews.”
Gwen plunked her fists at her waist. “Oh, could you be any more pleased with yourself?”
“You’re no nyaff, lass,” he said, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “She was like as not far more envious of the look on my face when I gaze upon you.”
Well. Her sails deflated. Gwen felt suddenly much more charitable toward Miriam, and it must have shown on her face because he smiled arrogantly.
“Now you like me even more.”
“I do not,” she said, stiffly pulling her arm from his grasp. “Let’s go get that rental car and get out of here.”
God forgive her, she was beginning to more than like him. She was feeling territorial, protective, and downright lusty.
SEPTEMBER 20
7:32 P.M.
8
One flat tire—in the company of a man who had no idea how to change one, and no jack—a pit stop for his weapons, three rest stops, four coffees, and a very late lunch later, they arrived at the outskirts of Alborath just as dusk was falling.
Gwen sneaked a glance at him and wondered if the color would ever return to his face. She’d pushed the shuddering car up to seventy but quickly relented when he’d gripped the sides of his seat so tightly that if she’d tapped him with a fingernail, he might have shattered.
It was a good thing she’d slowed down, because the tire had gone flat two miles outside of Fairhaven, and they’d had to walk back and get a person from the rental agency to arrange for a serviceman to get the tire changed. She’d tried to rent a different vehicle, but as all were under contract, it was this one or none until tomorrow evening.
Tire changed, they’d resumed their drive, and eventually he’d relaxed enough to turn his attention to the coffee and pastries. After complaining because she’d gotten no kippers and tatties, he’d consumed the coffee and chocolate with gusto. The pleasure he’d exhibited over such mundane items had further irritated her. God help her, but she was nearly beginning to believe him. They hadn’t talked much on the drive, although not for her lack of trying. He simply hadn’t seemed able to relax enough to speak.
Now, as the lights of Alborath came into view, nestled in a lush valley, his complexion was ghastly in the gloaming.
“Would you like to stop in the village?”
“Nay,” he replied tersely. He pried his fingers from the edge of the seat and pointed to a road north of the village. “You must guide this metal beast to the crest of that ben.”
Gwen eyed the mountain to which he pointed. There were two hundred seventy-seven mountains in Scotland, so said her brochure, that exceeded three thousand feet, and he was pointing to one of them. Sighing, she circled the village, downshifting when she reached the mountain. She’d been hoping to coax him to have dinner and secure a reprieve before confronting the extent of his delusions.
“Tell me about your home,” she urged. The day had been a trial for both of them, and she felt a sudden spear of concern. She was about to take him “home,” and what if there wasn’t one there? What if the next few hours critically stressed his already damaged mind? She was supposed to stay with him until tomorrow night to see his proof, although technically she’d fulfilled her end of the bargain: She’d gotten him safely to Ban Drochaid. She had a feeling technically didn’t mean much to a man of his ilk.
“Doona think you’ll be leaving me now,” he said, placing his hand over hers on the gear stick.
Gwen glanced sharply at him. “What are you? A mind reader?”
He half-smiled. “Nay. I’m merely reminding you that your bargain with me was that you would stay to see my proof. I will not let you fail me now.”
“What are you going to do, chain me again?” she said dryly.
When he didn’t answer, she took another look at him. God above, but the man looked dangerous. His silver-metal eyes were cool and frighteningly calm and—yes, he would chain her again. For a split second, in the eerie, bruised half light of gloaming, he looked as if he had truly stepped forward five centuries, a barbaric warrior intent on his quest, and nothing or no one would get in his way.
“I have no intention of reneging,” she said stiffly.
“I assume reneging means to act with dishonor?” he said flatly. “Good, for I would not permit it.”
They drove in silence for a time.
“Do you enjoy a bard’s rhymes, Gwen?”
She glanced sharply at him. “I have been accused of enjoying poetry from time to time.” Romantic poetry, the kind never read at Chez Cassidy when I was a child.
“Would you grant me a boon?”
“Sure, why not,” she said with a sigh a martyr would envy. “I’ve already done fifty gazillion, what could one more possibly hurt?”
He gave her a faint smile, then spoke quietly and clearly: “Wither thou goest, there goest I, two flames sparked from but one ember; both forward and backward doth time fly, wither thou art, remember.”
She shrugged, confused. It had started out rather romantic, but hadn’t ended that way. “What does it mean?”
“Have you a good memory, Gwen Cassidy?” he evaded.
“Of course I do.” Oh, God, he was losing it.
“Re-say it to me.”
She looked at him. His face was pale, his hands fisted in his lap. His expression was deadly serious. For no other reason than to appease him, she made him repeat it, then repeated it without error. “Is there a point to this?” she asked when she’d said it three times, perfectly. It was permanently etched in her mind.
“It made me happy. Thank you.”
“That seems to have become my purpose in life,” she said dryly. “Is this another one of those things that will become clear to me in time?”
“If all goes well, nay,” he replied, and something in his voice made a shiver kiss her spine. “Pray you need never understand.”
She changed the subject uneasily, and for the duration of the ride they spoke of innocuous things while her tension mounted. He described his castle lovingly, first the grounds, then the interior and some of the recent renovations. She spoke of her mindless job but said little else of significance. Gwen had been conditioned not to overdisclose: The more a man knew about her, the less he ended up liking her, and for reasons she couldn’t explain to herself, she wanted Drustan MacKeltar to like her. It seemed they
were both suddenly eager to fill the silence or it would swallow them alive.
By the time they reached the top of the mountain, Gwen’s hands were trembling on the steering wheel, but when he lifted a hand to rake his hair from his face she saw that his were too. She didn’t miss the significance of the fact: He was not playing with her. He genuinely hoped to find his castle at the top of this mountain. Firmly grounded in his delusion, he also feared that it might no longer stand. Sneaking cautious peeks at him, she grudgingly conceded that he was not suffering amnesia or playing some strange game. He believed he was what he claimed he was. The realization was far from reassuring. A physical injury would heal, a mental aberration was much more difficult to cure.
Steeling herself, she backed off the gas, reluctant to complete the journey. She wished she’d hiked it with him, so she wouldn’t have to face this moment now. If she’d done it his way, she could have postponed it for another twenty-four hours.
“Turn north.”
“But there’s no road there.”
“I see that,” he said grimly. “And considering the ones upon which we’ve traveled thus far, one would think there should be, a fact that concerns me.”
She turned left, and the headlights of the car limned a grassy knoll.
“Up the hill,” he urged softly.
Drawing a deep breath, Gwen obeyed. When he snapped at her to stop, she didn’t need the command, for she’d monkeyed the clutch and was about to stall anyway. The tips of the towering stones of Ban Drochaid loomed over the crest of the hill, black against a misty purple sky.
“Um, I don’t see a castle, MacKeltar,” she said hesitantly.
“ ‘Tis beyond the fell; the mon conceals it because it sits farther back, past the stones. Come. I will show you.” He fumbled with the door latch, then burst from the car.
Fell and mon must mean hill or crest, she decided as she killed the lights and joined him. The tremor in her hands had spread to the rest of her body, and she was suddenly chilled. “Wait, let me grab my sweatshirt,” she said. He waited impatiently, his gaze fixed upon the tops of the stones, and she knew he was desperate to get up over the crest to see if his castle still stood.
The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 99
