The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

Drustan growled near her ear.

  “Besides, for what other reasons would you use them? On some secret mission?” she scoffed. “And it wouldn’t be personal reasons; it would be to save your clan,” she added. “I think that’s important enough to merit using them.”

  “Enough, lass. I will not continue this discussion.”

  “But—”

  “Enough. No more buts. And quit squirming.”

  They rode the rest of the way to the village in silence.

  Balanoch, although they called it “the village,” was in truth a thriving city. Drustan believed a more prosperous and peaceful city had never existed, and those who resided in Balanoch kept quiet about it when they traveled, to preserve the serenity of their Highland home.

  The Keltar–Druids kept a careful watch over Balanoch, performing the ancient rituals to ensure fertility of clan and crop. They’d also placed strategic formations, known as wards, about the countryside, which worked to dissuade the curious traveler from venturing too far up the mountain.

  It was their city; they would always nurture and protect it.

  Aye, he thought, his gaze skimming the thatched rooftops, it was a lovely village. Centuries ago, hundreds had settled in the rich vale protected by the Keltar. Over the centuries, hundreds had become thousands. Far enough away that they had few visitors, yet near enough to the sea to trade, Balanoch housed four Kirks, two mills, chandlers, tanners, weavers, tailors, potters, blacksmiths, an armorer, shoemakers, and sundry other craftsmen.

  It was to the goldsmith they were going first, so Drustan could check on the intricate gold leaf with which the talented craftsman was embellishing one of Silvan’s treasured tomes.

  As they entered the outskirts of the village, Drustan observed Gwen as dispassionately as possible, which was difficult with her squarely between his thighs. He’d dreaded placing her upon his horse, but there’d simply been no other alternative. It was clear the lass had never sat a horse before.

  Schooling his lustful thoughts, he studied her. She craned her neck this way and that, drinking in the sights.

  They rode past the tanner’s and butcher’s stalls, whose shops were at the perimeter of the city, where the odor from the dung used to soften the hides might more readily dissipate and the drippings from freshly butchered meat could be safely drained. On avenues further in were the sweltering ovens of the blacksmiths, set apart from the gentler merchants so the din of metal against metal would not interfere with quiet business.

  The houses and shops, constructed of stone with thatched roofs and broad shuttered faces, opened to the street. The main thoroughfare housed the chandlers, clothiers, weavers, shoemakers, and such. The top shutters, which opened horizontally, were raised and propped up with poles to form an awning, while the bottom shutter lowered, and wares were laid out in enticing displays. The village had its own council that strictly enforced codes set by the Keltar, whereby they regulated trade, sanitation, and other matters of craftsmanship.

  She was curious as if she’d not seen such a city before, Drustan thought, as she tried to peer in every direction at once. The moment they’d entered the town, she began firing questions. The smiths, hammering red-hot steel, sparks flying, fascinated her. She gawked at a young apprentice making wire by drawing hot metal through a template hole with pincers.

  The butcher made her queasy, and she refused his offer of a strip of salted venison. As they passed the tanner, she saw steam rising from several shallow vats and bid him pause so she could watch the merchant shave a skin with a two-handled currier’s knife.

  His eyes narrowed. She was the most convincing little actress he’d ever encountered. Her madness seemed a sporadic thing, manifesting itself infrequently, albeit spectacularly. So long as she wasn’t talking of being from the future or making wild claims about him, she seemed merely unusual, not crazed.

  When she leaned back and pressed a hand against his leather-clad thigh, every muscle in his body contracted and his leg went rigid beneath her palm. He closed his eyes, telling himself it was but a hand, an appendage, absolutely nothing to drive him to senseless arousal, but lust had been thundering through his veins since he’d placed her on the horse. The warmth of her wee, generously curved body between his thighs had kept him in a permanent state of arousal. When she was near, his mind slackened, his body stiffened, and he became useless but for one thing.

  Bed play.

  He’d like to wrap his fists in the fabric of her gown and rip it down the front, baring all those rosy curves for his pleasure. She made him feel primitive as his ancient ancestors who’d taken women as barbarically and unapologetically as they’d conquered kingdoms. For a brief moment he was flooded with the strange idea that he had every right to take her to his bed.

  He’d bet she’d not protest o’ermuch either, he thought darkly. If at all.

  “Did he make your…er, trews?” She gestured toward the tanner.

  “Aye,” he said roughly, pushing her hand away.

  “Forgive me for touching your glorious personage,” she said stiffly. “I just wondered if your trews were as soft as they looked.”

  He bit his lip to prevent a smile. Glorious personage, indeed. Where did she come up with her words? My trews may be soft, lass, he thought, but what’s in them isn’t. Had her hand crept a bit higher, she would have found that out for herself.

  “Might I get a pair?”

  “Of leather trews?” he said indignantly.

  She turned her head to look at him, and it put her lips a breath from his. His heart beat erratically and he went motionless so he might not do something abjectly stupid, like taste those luscious lying lips.

  “They look comfortable, Drustan,” she said. “I’m not used to wearing dresses.”

  His gaze seemed to have gotten stuck on her lips, and he scarce heard her reply. Such lips as only a witch would have—hot and succulent, moist and utterly kissable. Slightly parted, revealing straight white teeth and the tip of a pink tongue. For a moment, he watched her lips moving but couldn’t hear a word she said. It took a vicious shake of his head to make her voice fade back in.

  “And I always wanted a pair, but in my house—ha!—my parents would have killed me if I’d ever worn a pair of black leather pants.”

  “As well they should, were their daughter to don such trews.” Were he to glimpse her generously rounded bottom cased in snug-fitting black leather trews, he might just forget who he was and that he was getting married anon.

  “Please? Just one pair. Aw, come on. What harm could it do?”

  He blinked. For the first time since he’d met her, she sounded like a normal woman, but she wasn’t begging for a pretty gown, the contrary wench wanted men’s attire.

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” she pressed.

  Focused on your lips, he thought irritably, with all my other damned senses.

  An image of her clad in black leather trews and nothing else, golden hair spilling in wild disarray over her generous naked breasts, loomed in his mind. “Absolutely not,” he growled, spurring his horse forward and nodding farewell to the tanner. “And turn around. Doona look at me.”

  “Oooh. Now I’m not even allowed to look at you?” She snorted and sulked all the way to the goldsmith’s, but he noticed that it didn’t curb her curiosity. Nay, it merely meant she poked that luscious lower lip of hers out further, making him shift uncomfortably in the saddle.

  When at last they arrived at the goldsmith’s, he vaulted from the horse, desperate to put distance between them. He was about to knock on the door when she cleared her throat imperiously.

  He glanced warily back at her.

  “Aren’t you going to get me off this thing?” she said sweetly.

  Too sweetly, he realized. She was up to something. She was a vision, clad in one of his mother’s cloaks of pale mauve, her shimmering gold hair spilling over her shoulders, her eyes bright.

  “Jump,” he said stiffly.

  She narrowed her ey
es. “You haven’t had many girlfriends, have you? Get over here and help me. This beast is taller than I am. I could break an ankle. And then you’d be stuck carrying me around for God only knows how long.”

  Girlfriends? He puzzled over the word for a moment, breaking it into its base parts and analyzing it. Ah, she meant liaisons. Sighing, he calculated the odds that she might remain quietly mounted and give him some peace, then recalled his purpose in bringing her here. He wanted the villagers to see her, in hopes that someone would recognize her. He was certain she must have stopped in the village before walking to his castle. The sooner someone recognized her, the sooner he could put an end to her presence in his keep.

  He was going to have to remove her from the horse, for wee as she was, she would indeed hurt herself jumping, and then there would be hell to pay with Silvan.

  You made her jump from the horse? Silvan would exclaim.

  I had to. I was afraid if I touched her, I wouldn’t be able to stop touching her. Aye, that would go over well. His da would be wildly amused. He’d tell Dageus and they would laugh uproariously. He’d never live it down. Drustan MacKeltar, afraid to touch a wee wench who scarce reached his ribs. He prayed his future wife provoked similar feelings of desire in him.

  “Come.” He reluctantly raised his hands.

  She brightened instantly, slid off the horse, and hopped into his arms.

  She hit him with enough impact that it caused his breath to leave his lungs in a soft whoosh of air and forced him to wrap his arms around her to keep her from falling.

  Her hair was in his face and smelled like the heather-scented soap Nell made in the kitchens. Her breasts were soft, crushed mounds against his chest, and her legs were sort of—nay, no sort of about it—they were wrapped around him.

  No wonder Dageus hadn’t resisted. It was a wonder his brother hadn’t tupped the lass right then and there.

  The muscles in his arms defied his brain’s command to release her. Perversely, they tightened around her.

  “Drustan?” Her voice was soft, her breath sweet, her body womanly and supple against his.

  It was futile, he thought darkly. He shifted her abruptly so that her lips were accessible and did what he’d been longing to do since the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He kissed her. Punishingly. In his mind he was erasing Dageus’s kiss from her lips, wiping the slate clean, imprinting himself and only himself upon her.

  The moment their lips met, a frantic energy sizzled the length and breadth of his body the likes of which he’d never felt in his life.

  And she kissed him back wildly. Her wee hands sank into his hair, her nails grazing his scalp. Her legs tightened shamelessly around his waist, capturing the hardness of him snugly against her woman’s heat. Hers was a hotter kiss, and more carnal in nature, than aught he’d ever received.

  He responded like a man starved for the touch of a woman. He cupped his hands beneath her luscious bottom, sliding the fabric of her skirt away from her legs. He kissed and kissed and kissed her, clamping her head firmly between his hands, nibbling and suckling and tasting her hot, lying mouth, wondering how it could be so sweet. Shouldn’t a lying tongue taste bitter? Not like honey and cinnamon.

  An image, startling in its clarity and strangeness, flashed through his mind: this woman, clad in strange garments—half a chemise and ruined trews—regarding him in a silvered glass as he struggled with a faded and dingy blue pair of trews.

  He’d ne’er worn such trews in his life.

  Yet his lust for her trebled at the onslaught of the image. Plunging his tongue into her mouth, he pressed his lower body against her and pulled her more tightly against his hard shaft. His wits were drugged by the scent of her, the taste of her, the raw mating heat of her.

  “Milord?” a faint, startled voice said behind him.

  Irritation flickered through his veins that someone dared interrupt. By Amergin, it was his choice if he chose to hang himself! This woman had placed herself in his castle, in his arms. He wasn’t married yet!

  There was the sound of a throat being cleared, then a gentle laugh.

  He closed his eyes, drew upon his Druid discipline, and thrust her away, but the wee witch sucked his lower lip as she went, causing his desire to peak feverishly. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips deliciously swollen.

  And he was hard as a rock.

  Disgusted with himself, he pasted a smile on his face, adjusted his sporran about his waist, and turned to greet the man who’d saved him from tupping the lass in the street without a thought for his betrothed.

  “Tomas,” he hailed the elderly, gray-haired goldsmith. He tugged Gwen forward by the hand and thrust her beneath the smith’s nose, watching intently for any flicker of recognition. There was none.

  The smith merely beamed, his gaze darting between the two of them. “Silvan must be delighted, just delighted,” he exclaimed. “He’s been longing for grandchildren and he’s finally goin’ to get his wedding. I saw the two of ye out the window and simply had to come see for meself. Welcome, milady!”

  As Tomas turned a beatific gaze on Gwen, Drustan realized the smith was laboring under the mistaken assumption that Gwen was his latest betrothed.

  Drustan clamped his teeth around the introduction he’d been about to make, not about to disabuse him of the notion. The last thing he needed was more rumors circulating in the village that Anya might one day overhear. Perhaps Tomas would simply forget what he’d seen or, after meeting the true bride, wisely keep his own counsel. The less said about it the better.

  “I vow, in all my life I’ve ne’er seen Drustan MacKeltar escort a lass about town. He’s of a certain ne’er stood and kissed one in the street for all to see. Och, but where are me wits? Addled by seein’ the laird in love, they be,” he said, bowing hastily. “Bidding ye welcome again, and please, do come in.”

  Gwen cast Drustan an arch, heated glance that seared him to the bone, before following Tomas into the shop.

  He remained outside a few moments, taking longer than necessary to secure his horse, breathing deeply of the crisp, cool air. In love, my arse, he thought darkly. I’ve been bewitched.

  17

  Gwen was ecstatic. He’d kissed her. Kissed her just like he’d kissed her in her century, and she’d glimpsed her Drustan in his eyes. And the smith had thought they looked to be in love!

  There was hope, after all. In her century, he’d claimed he wouldn’t kiss a woman were he betrothed or wed. Well, she thought cheerily, he’d just broken that rule. Perhaps if she dug deep enough, reminded him of things they’d done in her time, he would somehow remember it all, given time. She’d save him and he’d break his engagement and marry her, she thought dreamily.

  Resisting the urge to fan herself, she glanced about Tomas’s cottage. Drustan was outside fiddling with the horse, but she knew that wasn’t the only reason he’d remained outside. He had responded exactly as he had in her century, and she knew Drustan was a man of strong passion. He didn’t like to stop once he got started.

  She hoped he was damn uncomfortable in those comfy-looking snug leather trews he’d refused to buy for her.

  It was possible that delight colored her impression of the tiny sixteenth-century cottage, but she found it lovely. It was cozy and warm, filled with a light floral scent, probably from all those herb thingies hanging upside down in the windows, she decided. A dazzling array of exquisite silver work, plates and goblets, beautifully lettered gold paternosters and religious tableaux were scattered about on tables and shelves. An illuminated manuscript lay on a long, narrow table, surrounded by half a dozen wax candles placed at a cautious distance. There were no oil globes in the room, only candles, and when she inquired, Tomas explained that the oil caused a residue when burned that was more damaging to his manuscripts and gold work than the fine candles he purchased. Indeed, he burned only certain types of wood in his hearth, to minimize the soot. His craft was so detailed and so well-loved by the laird of the MacKeltar, he’d explained,
that Silvan himself had paid to have the costly glass windows installed so that he might work by brightest daylight.

  “This is for Silvan,” he said, beckoning her over to see the tome, eager to display his craft.

  “It’s lovely,” she exclaimed, lifting the embossed cover with the devout care of a bookworm. The pages looked ancient and were written in yet another unintelligible language, with all kinds of symbols that danced just beyond her comprehension. The edges had been painstakingly gold-leafed, with delicate Celtic knotwork. She peered at Tomas. “What is this…er, tome about?”

  Tomas shrugged. “Verily, I have no idea. Silvan’s tomes are oft in unusual tongues.”

  Just then, Drustan swept into the cottage on a gust of warm, heather-scented air and closed the door with a bang. “Have you finished with it?” he said abruptly, eager to get on to the next stop to see if he could locate someone who recognized her.

  Tomas shook his head. “Nay. It will take a few days more. But here’s the other volume Silvan wanted. I dinna mind telling ye it took me nigh upon a year to get me hands on a legible copy.”

  When he offered the slim volume to Drustan, Gwen reacted instinctively and plucked it from his hand. “Oh, God,” she breathed, staring at it.

  She was holding a copy of Claudius Ptolemy’s geocentric view of the universe, which had proposed that the sun and planets orbited the earth and would not be decisively argued in published form until 1543, with Copernicus’s On the Revolution of Heavenly Orbs. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. It was all she could do not to pet the sixteenth-century copy.

  “I’ll take that,” Drustan snapped, taking it from her hands.

  She blinked at him, too astonished to protest. She’d had a sixteenth-century edition of Ptolemy’s work in her hands, touching her skin.

  “I’ll stop by in a fortnight for the other tome,” Drustan told Tomas. “Come,” he said to Gwen.

  Bidding Tomas farewell, Gwen pondered the significance of that volume. Drustan MacKeltar—sixteenth-century cosmologist? What a hoot, she thought. She’d tried so hard to turn her back on physics, but when her heart finally decided to get involved, it was with a man who studied planets and mathematics.