[Highlander 04] - Kiss of the Highlander

by Karen Marie Moning

  “You do have fire—”

  “I have a lighter,” she interrupted defensively. “But I don’t smoke,” she hastened to add, not in the mood to entertain the disdain of a man who was clearly an athlete of some kind. She’d taken up smoking two years ago during the Great Fit of Rebellion, right after she and her parents had quit speaking permanently, and then she’d ended up addicted. Now, for the third time, she’d quit, and by God she was going to be successful this time.

  His fingers closed over the lighter, and he assumed possession of it. As she stood beside him in the darkness, as he took her lighter away and the flame flickered out, she sensed that he would do the same with anything he wanted. Casually assume possession. Wrap his strong hand around it and claim it.

  She was surprised when he fumbled for several moments before he managed to press the little button that released the flame. How could he not know how to use a lighter? Even a health fanatic would have seen someone light a cigar or a pipe, if only on TV or in a movie. She suffered another attack of the shivers. When he resumed the pace, she followed him—the only alternative to remain by herself in the dark, and that was no alternative at all.

  “English?” he said softly.

  “Why do you call me that?”

  “You haven’t given me your name.”

  “I don’t call you Scotty, do I?” she said irritably. Irritated by his strength, his arrogance, his blatant sexuality.

  He laughed, but it didn’t sound like his heart was in it. “English, what is the month?”

  Oh, boy, here we go, she thought. I did fall down one of Alice’s rabbit holes.

  3

  Drustan MacKeltar was worried. Although there was nothing he could put his finger on—apart from the remarkable fire she possessed, her shameless attire, and her unusual manner of speaking—he couldn’t shake the feeling that an even more significant fact was eluding him. Initially, he’d thought mayhap he was no longer in Scotland, but then she’d informed him he was a mere three-day hike from his home.

  Mayhap he’d lost several days, even a week. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He felt the same as he had once before when as a young lad he’d had a high fever and woken over a week later: confused, thick-witted, his normally lightning-fast instincts slowed. His reactions were further dulled because lust was thundering though his veins. A man couldn’t think clearly when he was aroused. All his blood was being sucked to one part of his body, and while it was one of his finer parts, cool and logical didn’t describe it.

  The last thing he remembered, prior to awakening with the English lass sprawled so wantonly atop him, was that he had been racing toward the little loch in the glen behind his castle and growing unnaturally weary. From there, his memories were blurred. How had he ended up in a cave, a three days’ hike away from his home? Why couldn’t he remember how he had gotten here? He didn’t seem to have suffered any injury; indeed, he felt hearty and hale.

  He struggled to recall why he had been running toward the loch. He paused, as a tide of fragmented memories washed over him.

  A sense of urgency…distant voices chanting…incense and snatches of conversation: He must never be found, and a curious reply, We will hide him well.

  Had his petite English been there? Nay. The voices had been oddly accented, but not like hers. He quickly discarded the possibility that she had aught to do with his plight. She didn’t seem the brightest lass, nor particularly strong. Still, a woman of her beauty didn’t need to be; nature had given her all the gifts she needed to survive. A man would use all his skills as a warrior to protect such lush beauty, even had she been deaf and mute.

  “Are you all right?” English nudged his shoulder. “Why did you stop, and please don’t let the light go out. It makes me nervous.”

  Skittish as a foal, she was. Drustan pressed the tiny button again and flinched only mildly this time when the flame issued forth. “The month?” he asked roughly.

  “September.”

  Her reply hit him like a fist in his stomach: the last afternoon he recalled had been the eighteenth day of August. “How near Mabon?”

  She regarded him strangely, and her voice was strained when she said, “Mabon?”

  “The autumnal equinox.”

  She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “It is the nineteenth of September. The equinox is the twenty-first.”

  Christ, he’d lost nearly a month! How could that be? He pondered the possibilities, sorting and discarding until he struck upon one that horrified him because it seemed the only explanation that fit the circumstances: once he’d been lured to the clearing, he’d been abducted. But assuming he had been abducted, how had he lost an entire month?

  The unnatural exhaustion he’d experienced while running toward the glen suddenly made sense. Someone had drugged him in his own castle! That was how his captors had managed to take him, and apparently they’d been keeping him drugged.

  And that someone could even now be returning to the cave to force him to slumber again. They would not find him so easy to take captive a second time, he vowed silently.

  “Are you all right?” she asked hesitantly.

  He shook his head, his thoughts grim. “Come,” he warned before he dragged her along behind him.

  She was so small that it would have been easier to toss her over his shoulder and run with her, but he sensed that she would vociferously resist such treatment and he cared not to waste time arguing. She was fine-boned and petite, yet prickly as a hungry boar. She was also lushly curved and scandalously clad and stirred a cauldron of lustful urges in him.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. Whoever she was, wherever she was from, she was unaccompanied by a man, and that meant she was going home with him. The lass made his heart pound and his blood roar. When he’d awakened to find her on top of him, he’d responded fiercely. The moment he’d touched her, he’d been loath to let go, had slipped his hands up her silky legs and been captivated by the notion that mayhap she removed all her body hair. He would find out as soon as his plight permitted.

  In the fierce Highlands of Scotland, possession was nine-tenths of the law, and Drustan MacKeltar was the other one-tenth: Drustan was brehon, or lawgiver. He could recite the lineage of his clan back for millennia, directly to the ancient Irish Druids of the Tuatha de Danaan—a feat worthy of a Druid bard. No one questioned his authority. He’d been born to rule.

  “Whence do you hail, English?”

  “My name is Gwen Cassidy,” she said stiffly.

  He repeated her name. “ ‘Tis a good name; Cassidy is Irish. I am Drustan MacKeltar, laird of the Keltar. My people made their home in Ireland for many centuries, before we took these Highlands as our home. Have you knowledge of my clan?”

  Why had he been abducted? And once taken, why not killed? What must his father be making of his disappearance? Then a worse thought occurred to him: Was his father still alive and unharmed?

  Fear for his father’s safety gripped him, and he repeated his question impatiently, “Have you news of my clan?”

  “I’ve never heard of your cl—family.”

  “You must hie from across the border. How came you here?”

  “I’m on vacation.”

  “On what?”

  “Vacation. I’m visiting,” she clarified.

  “Have you clan in Scotland?”

  “No.”

  “Then whom do you visit? Who accompanies you?” Women did not travel without escort or clan, and certainly not dressed as she was. Although she’d knotted a blue fabric about her waist before they’d left the main cavern, it failed to conceal her shocking undergarments. The woman had no shame at all.

  “No one accompanies me. I’m a big girl. I do perfectly well on my own.”

  There was a defiant note in her voice. “Have you any clan left alive, lass?” he asked more gently. Mayhap her family had been massacred and she displayed her body reluctantly, in hopes of finding a protector. She comported herself with the stiff bravad
o of an orphaned wolf cub, conditioned by savagery and starvation to snap at any hand, no matter that it might hold food.

  She glared at him. “My parents are dead.”

  “Och, lass, I’m sorry.”

  “Shouldn’t you be busy trying to find a way out of here?” she changed the subject swiftly.

  He found the display of toughness, affected by a woman so obviously wee and helpless, touching. It was evident that the loss of her clan was still difficult for her to speak of, and far be it from him to press such a discussion. He knew too well the pain of losing a loved one. “Och, but ’tis just ahead. See the daylight sifting through the stones? We can break through there.” He let the flame go out, and they were swallowed by darkness, broken by a few thin trickles of light a dozen yards ahead.

  As they drew nearer, Gwen eyed the rubble blocking the tunnel with disbelief. “Even you can’t move those boulders.”

  She knew so little about him. The only question was whether he would do it using his body or his other…arts. Eager to be quit of the cave, he knew using his Druid skills would be the fastest way out.

  It would also be the fastest way to ensure he would never get her in his bed. A display of such unnatural power had driven three of his betrotheds from his life. The fourth had been killed two weeks past—nay, he amended, a month and a half ago if it was truly almost Mabon—with his brother Dageus, who’d been escorting her to Castle Keltar for the wedding. He closed his eyes against a fresh wave of grief. It still felt like two weeks to him.

  He’d never met his bride-to-be. Although he mourned her death, he grieved the loss of a potential wife, grieved the cutting short of so young a life, not the woman herself.

  Dageus, on the other hand…Ah, that was a bitter and burning grief within his breast. He closed his eyes, firmly corralling the pain to be dealt with at a later time.

  Since his brother had died, it was even more critical that he beget an heir. And soon. He was the last MacKeltar left to sire sons.

  He glanced speculatively at Gwen.

  Nay. He would use no Druid magic to move the stones in her presence.

  He studied the stone blockade for a few moments before launching a simple physical assault. But he didn’t merely put his arms into the job, he put his entire body into it, aware that she had dropped to her knees on the floor of the tunnel and was watching his every move. He might have flexed a bit more than necessary, to demonstrate what a prize she might enjoy in her bed. Anticipation was an important part of bed play and heightened the woman’s ultimate satisfaction immeasurably. Never let it be said he wasn’t an expert and attentive lover. The seduction began long before he removed a woman’s clothing. Women might not like the thought of wedding with him, but they vied in masses for the pleasure of his bed.

  Digging them out was a time-consuming task. From how tightly the stones were packed, the crevices between them sealed with the dust of time, he guessed this branch of the tunnel had collapsed a long time ago and been forgotten. He dug and tossed and cleared out the smaller rocks before turning his attention to the larger ones, using his ax as a lever to push and roll them. Before long, he had cleared a small passage. Thick foliage camouflaged the opening, and he could see why the tunnel had been forgotten. What had once been an entrance lay secluded between boulders and covered by bramble. Who would think to look for a cave in such a place? It was apparent that he hadn’t been brought in via this tunnel. That much foliage couldn’t have grown in a month.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. She raised a guilty gaze from his legs, and he grinned. “You have naught to fear,” he assured her. “Freeing us is easy. ’Tis the hike that will be tiring.”

  “What hike?”

  He didn’t bother to answer her but returned to his labor. The sooner they got out, the sooner he could devote attention to her seduction. Of course it would have to happen while they were traveling back to his castle, for he dare not waste time. After widening the opening, he used his sword to hack through the dense overgrowth obscuring the entrance. When he’d finally cleared a passage he deemed safe enough to accommodate them, she hurried to his side. He realized she would bolt out the opening and sprint away if he gave her the opportunity.

  “Step back while I go through,” he commanded.

  “Ladies first,” she said sweetly.

  He shook his head. “You would bound off faster than a hare if I were such a fool.” He grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. “I would advise against running from me. I would catch you easily, and the chase would only arouse me.” When she tried to shrug his hands off her shoulders, he said, “Is this the fashion in which you thank me for freeing you?” he teased. “You might grant me a boon for my efforts.” He rested his gaze on her lips, making it clear what boon he had in mind. When she wet them nervously, he dropped his head closer, taking it as a sign of compliance.

  But the contrary lass flattened her wee palms on his cheeks and held him at bay. “Fine. Go first, then. Age before beauty,” she added sweetly.

  “Arrogant lass,” he said with a snort, grudgingly admiring her audacity. “Give me your pack.” After producing the remarkable fire from within it, he was confident she wouldn’t try to flee him without it in her possession.

  “I’m not giving you my pack.”

  “Then you’re not moving,” he said flatly. “And the longer I stand here, in such tempting proximity—”

  She smacked him in the chest with it, hard, and he laughed. Her cheeks flushed when he said, “Temper, temper, wee English. ’Tis truly most becoming to you.” What a lovely spitfire she was, scarce taller than a child but voluptuously curved and plainly old enough for carnal pleasure.

  Aye, he’d take her back to Castle Keltar; mayhap she would prove an amenable companion, mayhap more. Mayhap she could be his fifth betrothed, he thought wryly, and perchance he’d actually get her to the altar. He’d not met a woman so uncowed by him. It was refreshing. With his height and size, not to mention whispers circulating about the MacKeltar in the Highlands, he frightened lasses more oft than not.

  He maneuvered himself through the opening, then took her hands and helped her scramble through, enjoying the feel of her small hands in his. Transferring his grip to her waist, he lifted her out. He didn’t lower her to her feet right away but gazed challengingly into her eyes as he slid her down his body, enjoying the firm thrust of her nipples against his chest. The friction was delicious, and he felt her knees wobble for a moment before she found her feet.

  If retreat was the measure of her desire, she desired him fiercely. She scrambled away from him with an alarmed expression the moment her toes touched the ground. He stared at her nipples, now puckered peaks beneath her chemise. She glanced down and defiantly crossed her arms across her lovely breasts, baring her teeth in a ferocious little scowl. He laughed, because she succeeded only in pushing the generous mounds together and up, increasing his desire to bury his face in her plump cleavage tenfold.

  “I said doona run from me,” he reminded. “You could not hope to outdistance me.” He looked her up and down. Her skin—and he was seeing a splendid amount of it—was smooth and unscarred, bearing no sign of disease. Her waist was slim, her belly had the slight swell he adored on a wench, and although her hips were lush, he suspected she’d not yet born bairn. The harsh light of day—oft unflattering to a wench—paid this one naught but tribute, and he bit back a groan. He’d not felt so intensely desirous of a woman ever before in his life.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she snapped.

  His gaze collided with hers; she had eyes the color of a wild Scottish sea, and there was clear evidence of a storm brewing in the icy blue depths. “Why are you so prickly, English? Is it because I am a Scot?”

  “It’s because you are overbearing, domineering, and pushy.”

  “I am a man,” he replied easily.

  “If men are allowed to behave in such an atrocious fashion, how are women supposed to act?”

  “Appr
eciative. And among my clan we like them demanding in bed,” he added with a smile. When her gaze grew even cooler, he said, “You do not respond well to a jest. Be easy, Gwen Cassidy. I seek but to lighten your fears. You need fear naught, lass. I will care for you, despite your bad blood. Even the English can learn. On occasion,” he added, just to provoke her.

  She growled—actually growled low in her throat, as if he’d so irritated her that she’d like nothing more than to kick him. He found himself hoping she would. He was aching for an excuse to tussle with her and take her soft body down beneath his. Then he’d make her growl low in her throat for an entirely different reason: a moan of desire as he buried himself between her thighs.

  But feeble-minded though she might be, she knew better than to provoke contact—he could see it in her storm-filled eyes. Her lack of intelligence didn’t seem to have precluded common sense. He drew a deep breath of fresh air and smiled. He was free of the cave, alive, and would soon be home. He would uncover the traitors and reward himself with the feisty Briton. Life was rich, thought the laird of the MacKeltar.

  4

  Not a woman prone to violence, Gwen was taken aback by her desire to kick Drustan MacKeltar. Not to slice and dissect him verbally, which would have been the mature thing to do, but to punch him, maybe even bite him the next time he touched her. Her mind went on instant, extended sabbatical, just looking at him. She’d never met a man so hopelessly chauvinistic. He provoked the worst in her, dragging her down to a level as base and primitive as his own. She wanted to launch herself at him and pummel him. He was behaving as if, because he’d found her atop him, he owned her. Scottish lords obviously hadn’t changed much over the centuries.

  She hadn’t missed his proclamation that he was an authentic “laird” rather, she’d chosen to ignore it. He’d seemed to expect a curtsy or maidenly swoon, and she would not pander to his conceit. It appeared that centuries of submission to the English hadn’t taught the Scots one damn thing about submission. He was likely one of those stuffy aristocrats who was fighting to restore Scotland’s independence so he could swagger about in his kilt and regalia like a little king. He even preferred the archaic manner of speech affected centuries past.