The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

  “All right, m’dear,” Silvan said. “You win. No more questions until you speak with Drustan. But if I know my son, he’ll not cooperate.”

  “He must, Silvan,” Gwen said desperately. “We don’t have all that much time.”

  “Is he truly in danger?”

  Gwen closed her eyes and sighed. “You all are.”

  “Then we will make him listen to you.”

  Gwen opened her eyes and scowled. “And how do you plan to make him do that? Lock him in a room with me?”

  Silvan smiled faintly, deepening the lines about his mouth. Elderly though he was, he was a handsome man with no small amount of charisma. She wondered why he’d never married again. Surely not for lack of women being interested.

  “Not a bad idea, m’dear. Will you do as I say?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.

  And he bent his head close to hers and began whispering.

  15

  Hours later, an anxious Gwen paced before the fire in the Silver Chamber. The day had dragged endlessly on with no sign of Drustan. If he’d only return, she’d clear things up and they could set about figuring out who the enemy was.

  After a scrumptious breakfast of poached eggs, potatoes, and dried, salted fish in the hall with Silvan, Nell had given her a brief tour, pointing out garderobes and the like. She’d spent a few hours in the library, then had retired to her chamber to await Drustan.

  Dageus had ridden in a few hours ago, without him. He said they’d parted ways at the tavern. Silvan had drawn his younger son—younger by a mere three minutes—into their plan, and Dageus, grinning and casting Gwen steamy glances—did he have to drip as much raw sex appeal as Drustan?—now held the door to the corridor ajar a crack, watching for Drustan’s approach. He’d been spotted riding into the stable a quarter hour past.

  “I can’t believe you placed her in the chamber that adjoins Drustan’s,” Dageus said over his shoulder.

  Silvan shrugged defensively. “She said his name last night, and besides, ’tis the third nicest in the castle. Yours and Drustan’s are the only two more lavishly furnished.”

  “I’m not certain she should be sleeping so close to him.”

  “Where should I move her? Nearer to your chamber?” Silvan countered. “Drustan denies knowing her. You kissed her. Who poses more of a threat to her?”

  Gwen flushed, grateful that Dageus didn’t point out that she’d demanded he kiss her. He glanced at her sidewise and flashed her a seductive look. God, he was gorgeous, she thought, watching his glossy waist-length hair slide silkily as he angled his head to argue over his shoulder with Silvan. How could two such devastating men exist in one castle? Not that she was attracted to him, but she’d have to be dead not to appreciate his raw male virility.

  “Why are you helping me?” she asked Silvan, nudging the conversation in a less disconcerting direction.

  He smiled faintly. “Doona fash yourself over my motives, m’dear.”

  “You would be wise to fash yourself over his motives, lass,” Dageus cautioned dryly. “When Da bothers to involve himself, he always has ulterior motives. Schemes within schemes. And inevitably, he knows more than he lets on.”

  “Do you?” She peered at the charming, grandfatherly man.

  “Innocent as a little lamb ambling the hillside, m’dear,” Silvan said mildly.

  Dageus shook his head at her. “Doona believe a word of it. But nor should you waste your breath trying to get more out of him. He’s quiet as the grave with his little secrets.”

  “I’m not the only one who keeps secrets around here, lad,” Silvan said with a sharp glance. Father and son battled with their gazes a few moments, then Dageus dropped his eyes and looked back out into the corridor.

  An awkward silence reigned, and Gwen wondered what she was missing, what secrets a man like Dageus kept. Feeling like the perpetual outsider-looking-in, she changed the subject again. “Are you sure he won’t listen? Are you certain we need to go to such extremes?” A pile of wood planks and bolts lay near the adjoining door, and the longer Gwen looked at it, the more nervous she became.

  “M’dear, you accused him of taking your maidenhead. Nay, he’ll not speak to you if he can avoid it.”

  Dageus nodded agreement. “He’s coming,” he warned them.

  “Into the boudoir with you, m’dear,” Silvan urged. “When you hear him enter his chamber, count to ten, then join him. I’ll block this door and Dageus will take the other. We won’t permit him to leave until you’ve had your say.”

  Squaring her shoulders, Gwen drew a deep breath and plunged into the boudoir. She listened intently for the sound of Drustan’s door opening and realized to her chagrin that she was trembling.

  She flinched when she heard the door open, and counted to ten slowly, giving Dageus time to sneak out of her chamber and blockade the door from the corridor.

  Silvan had chuckled when he’d told her that if Drustan refused to listen, he and Dageus would do their best to bar him in from the outside by hammering a plank or two over the doors. God, she hoped it didn’t come to that!

  Time was up. She turned the handle and quietly opened the door.

  His back was to her, and he was facing the fire, staring into it. He’d changed into snug leather pants, a billowy linen shirt, and boots. His silky black hair spilled unbound over his shoulders and down his back. He looked as if he’d stepped straight off the cover of one of those romance novels she ordered from Amazon.com so she didn’t have to be embarrassed by some supercilious male clerk in the bookstore.

  Ha, she thought. When she returned to her time, she was going to start buying them flagrantly, with no apologies. She’d never seen a man blush while buying Playboy.

  But she had to survive the wrath of Drustan MacKeltar first.

  Murmuring a silent prayer, she closed the door behind her.

  He spun around the moment it clicked shut, and when he saw her, his silver eyes glittered dangerously.

  Shaking a finger, he stalked toward her, and she skittered away from the door in case he planned to toss her out it again. He followed like a magnet to steel.

  “Doona even think, English, that I’ll be tolerating more of your lies,” he said with silky menace. “And best you get out of my chamber, because I’ve had enough whisky that I’m of a mind to taste the crime of which I’ve been accused.” His gaze drifted meaningfully to the massive bed, draped in silk and covered with velvet pillows.

  Gwen’s eyes widened. Indeed, his expression was a combination of fury and raw lust. The raw lust was perfectly wonderful; the anger she’d cheerfully do without.

  She was going to be cool and rational this time. No stupid comments, no emotional outbursts. She would tell him what had happened, and he would see reason. She hastened to reassure him. “I’m not trying to get you to marry me—”

  “Good, because I won’t,” he growled, closing the distance between them, using his body to intimidate her.

  She planted her feet and held her ground. Given that her nose came only to his solar plexus, it wasn’t as easy as she made it look.

  “What’s this?” he purred softly. “You doona fear me? You should fear me, English.” He closed his hands around her upper arms like bands of steel.

  Silvan and Dageus must be pressing their ears to the doors, waiting for his explosion, she thought, but they’d misjudged him. This was not a man who exploded—he seethed quietly and infinitely more dangerously.

  “Answer me,” he demanded, shaking her. “Are you such a fool that you have no fear of me?”

  She’d rehearsed her speech a dozen times, yet when he stood so close to her, it was difficult to remember where she’d decided to begin. Her lips parted as she stared up at him. “Please—”

  “Please what?” he said silkily, lowering his head to hers. “Please kiss you? Please take you the way you accuse me of already having had you? I’ve had a long time to think today, English, and I must confess that I find myself fa
scinated by you. I rode for hours before stopping in the tavern. I drank for hours, yet fear all the whisky in fair Alba wouldn’t cleanse you from my mind. Have you spelled me, witch?”

  “No, I have not spelled you, I am not a witch, and please don’t kiss me,” she managed. God, she wanted him! Whether he knew her or not, it was her Drustan, damn it all, just a month and five centuries younger.

  “Och, that’s a rare request from a woman,” he mocked. “Especially one who says she’s already tasted my loving. Do you now disparage my intimate attentions?” His gaze was silver ice, challenging. “Was I less than satisfying? You claim we’re lovers; mayhap we should be again. It would seem I’ve left a less than favorable impression.” He closed his hand about her wrist and tugged her toward the bed. “Come.”

  She dug her heels in, a feat in soft slippers on a planked wood floor.

  Her protests whooshed from her lungs when he scooped her into his arms and tossed her onto the bed. She landed on her back, sank deep into velvet-covered feather mattresses, and, before she could scramble away, he was on top of her, his body stretched the length of hers, pinning her with his weight.

  She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his beautiful, angry face. She would never be able to carry on a meaningful conversation with him in this position.

  “Drustan, please listen to me. I’m not trying to trap you into marriage, and there’s a reason why I said what I said this morning, if you’ll just listen,” she said, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  “There’s a reason why you lied? There’s never a reason to lie, lass,” he growled.

  “Does that mean you never lie?” she said snidely, opening her eyes a slit and peeping at him. She was still miffed that he hadn’t told her the entire truth before sending her back.

  “Nay, I doona lie.”

  “Bullshit. Sometimes, not telling all of the truth is exactly the same thing as lying,” she snapped.

  “Such language from a lady. But you’re no lady, are you?”

  “Well, you’re certainly no gentleman. This lady didn’t ask you to throw her in your bed.”

  “But you like being beneath me, lass,” he said huskily. “Your body tells me much your words deny.”

  Gwen stiffened, horrified to realize she had hooked her ankles over his legs and was rubbing a slipper against one muscular calf. She pushed at his chest. “Get off me. I can’t talk to you when you’re squishing me.”

  “Forget about talking,” he said roughly, lowering his head to hers.

  Gwen shrank back deeper into the pillows, knowing the moment he kissed her she would be lost.

  Just as his lips brushed hers, the boudoir door opened and Silvan stepped briskly in.

  “Ahem.” Silvan cleared his throat.

  Drustan’s lips froze against hers. “Get out of my chamber, Da. I will handle this as I see fit,” he growled.

  “But you didn’t tup her last eve, eh?” Silvan remarked mildly, his gaze sweeping over them. “Things look cozy to me, for being strangers and all. Aren’t you forgetting something? Or should I say someone? The lass told me you were in danger; the only danger I perceive is that of you botching yet another perfectly good—”

  “Haud yer wheesht!” Drustan roared. Stiffening, he pushed himself off her and sat back on his heels on the bed. “Da, you are no longer chieftain here, remember? I am. You quit. Get out.” He flung an impatient hand toward the door. “Now.”

  “I merely came to see if Gwen required assistance,” Silvan said calmly.

  “She requires no assistance. She wove this web with her lies. Doona be blaming me for knotting her up in it.”

  “M’dear?” Silvan asked, eyeing her.

  “It’s all right, Silvan. You can go,” she said softly. “Dageus too.”

  Silvan regarded her a moment more, then inclined his head and backed out of the room. When the door closed again, Drustan got off the bed and stood several paces away from her.

  “What did Silvan mean by ‘someone’?” she asked. “Botching a perfectly good what?”

  He eyed her in stony silence.

  She scrambled up and eyed him warily and, although she could see desire glittering in his gaze, she could also see that he’d thought better of trying to have sex with her for the moment. She was both relieved and disappointed.

  “Talk. Why have you come here, and what is your purpose?” he asked stiffly.

  When she was seated before the fire, Drustan poured a glass of whisky and leaned back against the hearth, facing her. He took a generous swallow, studying her discreetly over the rim of his glass. He had a difficult time thinking clearly in her presence, partly because she was so damn beautiful and partly because she’d put him on the defensive with her outrageous claim the moment he’d laid eyes on her. The intensity of his attraction to her upset him more greatly even than her lie. She was the last thing he needed, right before his wedding. Walking—nay, lushly sauntering—temptation to make a fankle of things.

  Initially, he’d meant merely to intimidate her by pushing her back on the bed, but then he’d touched her and she’d looped her ankles over his calves, and he’d gotten lost in the welcoming softness of her body beneath him. Had his father not interrupted, he’d like as not still be atop her. The moment he’d walked into the castle tonight, he’d felt the wee English within his walls. He responded fiercely to her; all it took was one glance at her to stir feelings in him he couldn’t explain.

  He’d told the truth when he said he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Not for one moment. He knew the scent of her, had been able to recall it even while sitting amidst the smelly ale-soaked rushes in the tavern. Hers was a clean, cool, and sensual fragrance, a blend of spring rain, vanilla, and mysteries. As he’d sat in the tavern, he realized that somehow he knew she had a dimple on one side of her luscious mouth when she smiled, although he couldn’t recall having seen her smile.

  “Smile,” he demanded.

  “What?” She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  “I said smile,” he growled.

  She smiled weakly. Aye. Plain as day. A dimple on the left side. He sighed heavily.

  His gaze drifted over her features, lingering on the witch-mark on her cheekbone, and he wondered how many others she had, in more intimate places. He’d like to search, connect the patches with his tongue, he thought, his gaze lingering on the creamy expanse of cleavage above the scooped bodice of her gown.

  He shook his head impatiently. “Out with it. What’s so important, English, that you lied to gain my attention this morn?”

  “Gwen,” she corrected absently. She was pinching her plump lower lip between her thumb and forefinger, and the gesture was making him damn uncomfortable.

  Goddess of the moon, he translated silently, and she looked every inch a goddess.

  “You already know my name, and since you claimed such familiarity with me, I won’t stand on ceremony and insist you call me ‘milord.’”

  Her immediate scowl made his lips twitch, but he kept his face impassive. She did not respond to his comment. Her self-control chafed him; he’d far prefer her off-balance, reacting blindly. Then he’d feel more in control.

  She eyed him warily. “I don’t know where to begin, so I ask that you hear me out completely before you start getting angry again. I know once you hear my whole story, you’ll understand.”

  “You’re going to tell me something else to upset me? What else have you left? You’ve already accused me of taking your maidenhead, yet you claim you doona seek to trap me into marriage. What do you seek?”

  “Do you promise to hear me out? No interruptions until the end?”

  After a moment’s consideration, he conceded. Silvan had said she claimed he was in some kind of danger. What harm was there in listening? If he left the room without letting her have her say, he’d have to be on constant guard lest Silvan lock him in the garderobe so she might shout at him through the door. And until he’d cleared things up, he was quite certain h
e wasn’t going to see a single batch of kippers and tatties from Nell. There’d been none of his thick, black exotic coffee all day either. Nay, he had to set things to rights. He enjoyed his comforts and didn’t intend to suffer one more day without them. Besides, the sooner he cleared things up, the sooner he could pack her off and get her out of his sight.

  Shrugging, he gave his pledge.

  She nibbled her lip, hesitating a moment. “You’re in danger, Drustan—”

  “Aye, I am well aware of that, though I suspect we’re not referring to the same thing,” he muttered darkly.

  “This is serious. Your life is in danger.”

  He grinned faintly, gaze skimming her from head to her toes. “Och, wee one, and next you’ll tell me you plan to save me, eh? Mayhap fight off my attackers yourself? Bite them in the knee?”

  “Oooh. That wasn’t nice. And if you’re too stupid to listen to me, I’ll have to,” she snapped.

  “Consider me warned, lass,” he placated her. “I’ve listened, now go on with you,” he said abruptly, dismissing her. “Tell Silvan I heard you out, so he’ll call off his little siege. I have things to do.”

  At the earliest opportunity he would have Nell secure her a position in the village, far from the castle. Nay, mayhap he’d have Dageus cart her off to Edinburgh and find her work there. One way or another, he had to get the bewitching lass out of his demesne before he did something foolish and irrevocable.

  Like toss her into bed and tup her until neither one of them could move. Until his muscles ached from loving her. Would she score his shoulders with her nails? he wondered. Arch her neck and make sweet mewling noises? He stiffened instantly at the thought.

  He turned his back on her, hoping it might lessen whatever spell she’d cast upon him.

  “Don’t you even want to know what kind of danger?” she asked incredulously.

  He sighed and glanced over his shoulder, one sardonic brow arched. What would it take, he wondered irritably, to make the wee lass cower? A sword at her throat?