He was really going to have to start trusting her. They had so much to talk about, if he’d only trust her.
Gwen sighed as they entered the Greathall. She’d greeted the day with optimism, only to end it in defeat. She’d accomplished no more than she had last night, and she finally realized that although he was being courteous, he found her story amusing, nothing more. Three times he’d made reference to her “weakness of wit.” He thought she was crazy, she realized sadly. And she began to see that the more she spoke of the future, the crazier he would think her.
Tirelessly, he’d dragged her from merchant’s shop to stall, making certain everyone in the village saw her, toting her about until she was suffering medieval overload. Not once had he touched her again—in fact, he’d hardly even looked at her.
It had been an exhilarating and fascinating foray into the past, with scents and sights that had left her gaping on more than one occasion. But not once had he permitted her to steer the conversation to the issue that was most important: that he would be abducted and his clan destroyed in approximately a month.
Each time she brought it up, he’d shoved her into yet another booth or wandered off into the throng to greet someone.
On the ride back to the castle, he’d been so tense behind her that she’d finally leaned forward as far as she could and clutched the black’s mane. She’d given up and simply reveled in the beauty of the sunset as it had tinted the heathery fields a deep violet. She’d glimpsed a mischievous pine marten darting about the meadow, pausing to stand with its furry little paws upon a stump, nose questioning the breeze. A luminous snowy owl had hooted softly in the branches of the forest beyond. The steady hum of frogs and crickets had filled the air with song.
Full night had fallen by the time they entered the open gates of the castle.
Don’t you ever close the gates? she’d asked, frowning. The barbican, constructed of massive stones, sported a formidable portcullis that looked as if it hadn’t been lowered in a century. The gate itself was fashioned of wood three feet thick and shod with steel.
And standing wide open.
Not one guard sat the barbican.
He’d laughed, the epitome of arrogant male. Nay, he’d replied easily. Not only do the Keltar house the largest garrison beside the king’s, there’s been naught but peace in these mountains for years.
Well, perhaps you should, she’d said worriedly. Just anyone could wander in.
Just anyone has, he’d replied with a pointed look. The only thing within leagues of my demesne that fashes me currently rests astride my horse.
“I am not a threat to you,” she said, picking up the thread of the conversation where it had left off a few moments ago. “Why can’t you simply consider what I’ve told you? You saw for yourself that no one knew me in Balanoch. For heaven’s sake, if it looks like a skunk and smells like a skunk, it probably is a skunk,” she said, exasperated.
Drustan unsheathed his sword, propped it by the door, and glanced at her with a perplexed expression. “A skunk?”
“A mammal, weasel family, one of those smelly—okay, so that probably wasn’t the best metaphor.” She shrugged. “What I meant was, be logical. If you simply listen and ask the right questions, you’ll find that my story makes sense.”
He said nothing, and she heaved another sigh. “I give up. I don’t care if you believe me, if you’ll just promise me two things.”
“My hand in marriage is already given, lass.”
Gwen closed her eyes and sighed. “Don’t let Dageus go to the Elliott’s.”
“ ‘Tis too late. He rode out this morn shortly after we did.”
Gwen eyes flew back open. “You must go after him,” she cried.
“Doona fash yourself, lass. I sent a full complement of guard with him—”
“What if that’s not enough? I don’t know how big the battle was!”
“He rides with over two hundred of the finest fighting men Alba boasts. No trivial battle between clan will have such numbers. A clan dispute is usually naught more than a score or two of angry brothers and kinfolk.”
Gwen eyed him. “Are you sure that it might not be a bigger battle?” He did know his century. Somehow, she’d gotten the idea that medieval battles were all as grand as she’d seen in Braveheart. Probably from watching Braveheart.
“The Campbell and Montgomery frequently feud, and ne’er have they sent full armies to meet one another. Even if they did, an extra two hundred on the Montgomery’s side would make them victorious. My men are well-trained.”
Gwen nibbled her lip worriedly. Perhaps that was all they needed to do to keep Dageus safe. Already things had been changed. Initially, according to what Drustan had told her in her century, Dageus had gone with only a dozen guard.
“In addition, I instructed the captain that under no circumstances may Dageus engage in battle. Robert would truss Dageus to his horse and flee battle before defying my orders.” He sighed before adding, “I also told Dageus what you claimed, before he rode out. He will exercise caution. Nay,” he said, when she looked at him hopefully, “not because I believe you, but because I will take no chances, however remote, with my brother’s life. We will see if the battle you claimed truly does come to pass.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” she exclaimed. “Will you believe me then? If it does?”
His expression grew shuttered. “Off to your chambers, lass. I will have Nell send up a bath and food.”
“Oh, get real, Drustan. You don’t really believe I could get two clans to go to war against each other just to make my point, do you? That’s ridiculous.”
His gaze swept her from hair to slippers and back again. “When I look at you, lass, I doona know what I believe and, at the moment, I’m damned weary of looking at you.”
“I guess that means I don’t get a good-night kiss, huh?” she said, hiding her wounded feelings behind a teasing little pucker.
He froze, his gaze fixed on her lips. Then he shook himself and scowled. “I am a betrothed man, lass,” he said stiffly.
“Remind me to remind you of that the next time you kiss me like you did today,” she said pointedly. “You can’t just go about kissing one minute and hiding behind a fiancée the next. As you said—you aren’t married yet.”
“And as I recall you didn’t care for that sentiment.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“And I kissed you only because you threw yourself upon me—”
“Oh, hardly. You kissed me because you wanted to,” she said coolly. “I may not understand much about emotion, and I may be new to sex, but one thing I do know is that you want to kiss me.”
She pivoted and stomped up the stairs.
His mouth suddenly dry, Drustan watched her go. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She was right. He did want to. Again and again and again. Until she melted against him and begged him to take her. New to tupping? He’d like to teach her anything and everything.
And, furthermore, he didn’t think he could ever grow weary of looking at Gwen Cassidy.
18
She was going to seduce him.
That was the solution.
When he’d kissed her yesterday, she’d glimpsed a tiny bit of her Drustan in his eyes. She was simply going to have to kiss him back to his senses. Perhaps with each caress he’d reclaim a dim fragment of memory.
She rather liked that idea.
And his fiancée? her conscience whispered.
All’s fair in love and war, her heart growled. Sorry, Anya, she appended apologetically. I’m not really a man-stealing girl, but I’ve fallen in love with him and I’m not giving up without a fight.
Eyeing herself in the mirror, she smoothed the silk gown and examined herself. The deep-indigo dress made her eyes look bluer than usual. With her cosmetics bag in God-only-knew-what dimension (the scientist briefly pondered a sort of Flatland, wouldn’t that be a hoot?), she was grateful her lashes were thick and dark and her skin smooth
. But she’d give a lot for her Chap-stick, her toothbrush, and even one pair of panties.
Not bad, she decided, turning from side to side. She fluffed her bangs with her fingers, tousling them. She felt rather…soft and curvy and pretty. She hadn’t realized that wearing a long silky gown might affect a woman’s attitude. It made her feel far more inclined to be feminine than a lab coat ever had. It accentuated all her curves and emphasized her slim waist. The scooped bodice made much of her cleavage.
Drustan had adored her breasts, and she planned to make certain he got to see a lot of them today.
Whatever his feeling for his fiancée, it didn’t seem to have diminished his attraction to her one bit.
Bending over at the waist, she cupped her hand beneath one breast, then the other, fluffing them higher in the snug chemise. When she stood back up and looked in the mirror, she blushed.
One must work with what one has, she reminded herself. He’d said so himself only yesterday.
“Good morning, Silvan. Where’s Drustan?” Gwen asked brightly as she slid into a seat next to him at the table.
Nose buried in a book, Silvan didn’t glance up, merely finished swallowing a bite of his porridge, then mumbled, “Be with you in a moment, m’dear.”
Gwen waited patiently, knowing how much she hated being disturbed when she was reading. Hoping Drustan would saunter in soon, she tipped her head back and admired the elegant balustrade that encircled the upper floor of the Greathall, then dropped her gaze to skim the brilliant tapestries adorning the walls.
The castle was lovely and every bit as lavishly appointed as any of the modern-day castles she’d seen on the tour. Each piece of furniture she’d seen—from the dining table to the assortment of serving and end tables to the towering armoires, chests of drawers, and beds—was fashioned of burnished cherry and painstakingly embellished with intricate designs. The chairs were high, with carved arms and tall backs, topped with bright cushioned pillows and draped with soft woolen throws. The rugs were silky lambskins and woven woolens. Fragrant flowers and herbs were stitched in lace packets, tied with ribbon, and strewn about window ledges.
When she’d come down, she’d passed dozens of maids scurrying through the corridors, airing out down mattresses and beating rugs. Castle Keltar was efficiently run and well-maintained.
All in all, it was amazingly cozy and inviting. The only major difference she could see was a lack of plumbing and lights, and in the winter, of course, lack of central heating would be a nuisance.
But, she mused, with so many fireplaces—most of them tall enough to stand in—and a big brawny Highlander in her bed, a woman might forgive a lot of things….
She wiped the dreamy smile off her face when Nell sailed in and placed a platter of soft poached eggs and fat strips of ham on the table beside a bowl of peach slices, berries, and nuts in a lake of sweet cream. Next, she plunked down a tray of warm oatcakes and honey.
Gwen’s stomach growled as she eyed the laden table. If she had Scotch tape, she could forgo eating and just tape the stuff directly on her hips and thighs, ceding to the inevitable. Her usual bowl of raisin bran before work had never inspired appetite, nor had it inspired the scales to tip heavier.
“Put yer book down, Silvan,” Nell chided. “Ye have a guest at the table.”
Gwen bit her lip to hide a smile. Everything Drustan had told her about his father and the housekeeper was true. They had a unique relationship, wherein Nell didn’t mince words or defer to his position. When Nell glanced at her, Gwen smiled and asked hopefully, “Is there coffee again this morning?”
Silvan put his book down and glanced absently at Gwen. His gaze dropped to her cleavage, and a single white brow shot up. He blinked several times.
“There certainly is,” Nell said, circling the table. She stopped behind Gwen and draped a linen cloth over her shoulder, so it tumbled from her neck like a bib.
“Peel yer eyes off the lass’s breasts,” Nell said sweetly to Silvan.
Gwen turned twenty shades of red, sneaked a hand beneath the bib, and tugged at her bodice, trying to jiggle them back down a little. Mortified, she devoted her attention to eyeing the medieval dining ware—plates and goblets made of heavy silver, a fat spoon and broad knife, and heavy blue bowls.
“She’s the one who fluffed them up,” Silvan protested indignantly. “I didn’t mean to look, but they were…so…there. Like trying not to see the sun in the sky.”
Nell arched a brow and circled round the table again. “I hardly think ’twas ye she fluffed ’em for, was it, lass?”
Gwen glanced up and gave an embarrassed shake of her head.
Nell bent over Silvan’s plate, fetching his empty mug for a refill, and her bodice gaped. When Silvan peered down it, Gwen nearly laughed, but the laugh died in her throat when she saw Silvan’s eyes change instantly.
Oh, my, she thought, going very still. Silvan might have looked at her breasts, but he’d looked at them as a man might eye a pretty flower or a well-bred mare.
Now, glancing down Nell’s bodice, he wore an expression of pure hunger, a look both tender and fierce.
Gwen’s smile faded and she stared, filled with a wistfulness she wasn’t certain she even understood. But it had something to do with a man wanting breasts that were much older and not nearly as firm—all because of the woman they belonged to, not because of the breasts at all.
Silvan MacKeltar had deep feelings for his housekeeper.
She stole a furtive glance at Nell, who seemed oblivious to what Silvan was doing as she collected his mug and went back to the kitchen.
Silvan must have felt her gaze upon him, because he jerked slightly, as if coming out of a trance, and glanced at her.
“I wasn’t looking at her breasts—” he began defensively.
“Save it for someone who didn’t see the look on your face. And if you don’t make any funny comments about me fluffing myself, I won’t make any comments about what you feel for Nell.”
“What I feel for—what I—” he sputtered, then nodded. “Agreed.”
Gwen turned her attention to the platter of food, wondering why food tasted so much better in the sixteenth century. Was it the lack of preservatives? The smoky-peaty flavor of the meat? The genuine butter and cream? She slipped a knife beneath a soft poached egg and transferred it to her plate.
“So, why did you…er…” Silvan gestured toward her linen bib.
She sighed. “Because I thought Drustan might be at breakfast and I hoped he’d notice me.”
“Notice you, or drag you off to tup you?”
“I might have settled for either,” she said glumly, helping herself to another egg.
Silvan snorted with amusement. “Are you always so honest, m’dear?”
“I try to be. Dishonesty increases disorder exponentially. It’s hard enough to communicate when you’re telling the truth.”
Silvan paused, his mouth halfway closed around a bite of poached egg. He withdrew the laden fork from his mouth carefully. “What did you just say?” he asked softly.
“Lies,” Gwen said, her gaze on the thick slab of ham she was trying to spear with a misshapen fork. She pierced it with a tine, but it slipped off. “They increase disorder. Difficult to predict all the variables when you keep tossing more variables in.” She glanced at him. “Don’t you think?” she asked, with a nod for emphasis.
“Exponentially?” he asked, his brows furrowing together in a single point.
“Any positive consonant raised to a power,” Gwen said, cornering the ham against the lip of the platter. “It’s a function of math, used to express a large number. Like Avogadro’s number, 6.023 X 1023 and represents the number of atoms in a mole of any substance—”
“Atom?”
“The smallest component of an element having the chemical properties of the element, consisting of a nucleus, containing combinations of neutrons and protons and one or more electrons—hey, maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this!”
No, no, no, no physics over breakfast! “Yes, but who cares? Look at this scrumptious food.”
He sounded strained when he asked, “Do you play chess, m’dear?”
She brightened and, finally securing the ham, smiled. “Of course. Would you like to play?”
“On the terrace. In two hours, if you will.”
Gwen beamed. Drustan’s father wanted to spend time with her and play a game. She couldn’t recall a time her father had ever done such a thing. Everything had been work-oriented, and the one time she’d coaxed him into a game of Pente, he’d gone off on how one could calculate every possible outcome….
She shook her head, pushing that memory far to the back of her mind, and eyed Silvan speculatively. Maybe, if Drustan had told him her story, she could work on him. Perhaps he might be more inclined to listen. Winning his support would definitely help.
All while sitting in the sun and playing…
“I don’t usually show so much cleavage, Nell,” Gwen poked her head in the kitchen and said apologetically to Nell’s back. She had some time to pass before meeting Silvan and wanted to get better acquainted with Nell. She suspected the housekeeper probably knew everything that went on in the castle and might be a source of information regarding who might wish the MacKeltars harm. Plus, she didn’t want Nell to think badly of her. Next time she bared so much, she would make sure it was for Drustan and only Drustan. Her breasts were now demurely tucked beneath her bodice.
Nell glanced over her shoulder. Flour dusted her cheek and brow, and she had her hands in a mountain of dough. “I dinna think ye did, lass,” she said with a gentle smile. “Despite ye showin’ up bare as a babe. I know ofttimes a lass feels she has few choices. Ye needn’t barter yerself for shelter and food. I suspect ye’ve more choices than yer thinkin’ ye do.”
The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 112
