[Highlander 04] - Kiss of the Highlander

by Karen Marie Moning

  Pondering his situation, he realized that for now the how and why of his abduction were irrelevant. He would find no answers in her time. What mattered was action: He’d been blessed enough to have been awakened and had both the chance and the power to correct things. Yet to do so, he must be at Ban Drochaid by midnight on Mabon.

  He glanced at her again, but she refused to look at him. Dusk had long since fallen, and they’d made good time, putting many miles between them and the horrifying, noisy village. In the moonlight her smooth skin shimmered with the warm richness of pearl. He indulged himself, envisioning her nude, which wasn’t hard to do when she wore so little. She was all woman and brought out the most primitive man in him, a fierce need to possess and mate. Her nipples were clearly visible beneath her thin shirt, and he ached to suckle them in his mouth. She was a fiery wee lass with a spine of steel and curves that would lure even his devout priest Nevin’s gaze. He’d gotten hard the moment he’d opened his eyes and looked at her and had been uncomfortably erect since. One flirtatious glance from her would return him to a painful state, but he didn’t worry overmuch that she might cast him such a look. She hadn’t spoken to him in hours, not since he’d refused for the hundredth time to release her. Not since he’d told her he would toss her over his shoulder and carry her if he had to.

  It intrigued him—that she’d neither screamed, nor fainted, nor pleaded for release. His first impression of her had not been entirely accurate; although it was difficult to discern, what with her strange manner of speaking, she did possess a dash of intelligence. She’d demonstrated fine reasoning abilities while trying to talk him out of taking her along, and when she’d realized there was no possibility of him relenting, she’d treated him as if he simply didn’t exist. Bravo, Gwen, he thought. Cassidy is Irish for clever. Gwendolyn means goddess of the moon. Quite a fascinating lass you’re turning out to be.

  Whereas initially he’d thought her an orphan or survivor of a clan massacre, a woman willing to barter her body to secure a protector—thus explaining her clothing and demeanor—it had since occurred to him that she might simply be typical of her time. Mayhap in five centuries women had changed this much, become tenaciously independent. Then why, he wondered, did he sense a silent sadness, a brush of vulnerability in her that belied her bravado?

  He knew she thought that he’d dragged her off because he desired her, and would that it were that simple. There was no denying that he found her mesmerizing and was impatient to bed her, but things were suddenly much more complicated. Once he’d discovered he was stranded in the future, he’d realized he needed her. When they arrived at the stones—if the worst was true and his castle was gone—there was a ritual he must perform, his conscience be damned. There was a possibility the ritual would go wrong, and if that happened, he needed Gwen Cassidy standing by his side.

  She was growing weary, and he felt a pang of regret for causing her distress. When she stumbled over a tree root and fell against him, only to hiss and jerk away, he softened. He would give her this one night, for after tomorrow there would be no stopping. She nearly fell where she stood, so he cupped one arm behind her shoulders, the other behind her knees, and deposited her on the mossy trunk of an enormous tree that had fallen to the floor of the forest. Perched upon the massive trunk, with her feet dangling several inches above the ground, she looked wee and delicate. Warrior hearts did not always come in warrior-strong bodies, and although he could hike three days without rest or food, she would not fare well under such conditions.

  He boosted himself up onto the trunk beside her.

  “Gwen,” he said gently.

  There was no response.

  “Gwen, I truly will not harm you,” he said.

  “You already have,” she retorted.

  “You’re speaking to me again?”

  “I’m chained to you. I had planned to never speak to you again, but I’ve decided that I don’t feel like making things easy for you, so I’m going to tell you incessantly and in vivid detail precisely how miserable I am. I’m going to stuff your ears with my shrill complaints. I’m going to make you wish you’d lost your hearing when you were born.”

  He laughed. This was his scornful English again. “You are free to torment me at every opportunity. I regret causing you discomfort, but I must. I have no choice.”

  She arched one brow and regarded him with disdain. “Let me be certain I understand this situation. You think you are from the sixteenth century. What year, exactly?”

  “Fifteen hundred and eighteen.”

  “And in fifteen hundred and eighteen, you lived somewhere near here?”

  “Aye.”

  “And you were a lord?”

  “Aye.”

  “And how is it that you ended up sleeping in a cave in the twenty-first century?”

  “That is what I must discover.”

  “MacKeltar, it’s impossible. You seem relatively sane to me, this delusion excluded. A bit chauvinistic, but not too abnormal. There is no way a man can fall asleep and wake up nearly five centuries later. Physiologically, it’s impossible. I’ve heard of Rip Van Winkle and Sleeping Beauty, but those are fairy tales.”

  “I doubt the fairy had aught to do with it. I suspect gypsies or witchcraft,” he confided.

  “Oh, now, that’s infinitely reassuring,” she said, too sweetly. “Thank you for clarifying that.”

  “Do you mock me?”

  “Do you believe in fairies?” she countered.

  “Fairy is merely another name for the Tuatha de Danaan. And yes, they exist, although they keep their distance from mortal man. We Scots have always known that. You have lived a sheltered life, have you not?” When she closed her eyes, he smiled. She was so naive.

  She opened her eyes, favored him with a patronizing smile, and changed the subject as if not wont to press his fragile mind too hard. He bit his lip to prevent a derisive snort. At least she was talking to him again.

  “Why are you going to Ban Drochaid, and why do you insist on taking me with you?”

  He weighed what he might safely tell her without driving her away. “I must get to the stones because that is where my castle is—”

  “Is, or was? If you expect to convince me you are truly from the sixteenth century, you’re going to have to do a little better with your verb tenses.”

  He glanced at her reprovingly. “Was, Gwen. I pray it stands still.” It must be so, for if they arrived at the stones and there was no sign of his castle, his situation would be dire indeed.

  “So you’re hoping to visit your descendants? Assuming, of course, that I’m playing along with this absurd game,” she added.

  Nay, not unless his father, at sixty-two, had somehow managed to breed another bairn after Drustan had been abducted, which was highly unlikely since Silvan had not tupped a woman since Drustan’s mother had died, as far as Drustan knew. What he was hoping for was some of the items in the castle. But he couldn’t tell her any of that. He couldn’t risk scaring her off when he needed her so desperately.

  He needn’t have bothered searching for a suitably evasive reply, because when he hesitated too long for her liking, she simply forged ahead with another question. “Why do you need me?”

  “I doona know your century, and the terrain between here and my home may have changed,” he offered the incomplete truth smoothly. “I need a guide who has knowledge of this century’s ways. I may need to pass through your villages, and there could be dangers I would not perceive until it was too late.” That sounded rather convincing, he thought.

  She was regarding him with blatant skepticism.

  “Gwen, I know you think that I’ve lost my memory, or am ill, and am having fevered imaginings, but consider this: What if you are wrong, and I am telling the truth? Have I harmed you? Other than making you come along with me, have I injured you in any way?”

  “No,” she conceded grudgingly.

  “Look at me, Gwen.” He cupped her face with his hands so she had to l
ook directly into his eyes. The chain rattled between their wrists. “Do you truly believe I mean you ill will?”

  She blew a strand of hair out of her face with a soft puff of breath. “I’m chained to you. That worries me.”

  He took a calculated risk. With an impatient movement he released the links, counting on the mating heat between them to keep her from outright fleeing. “Fine. You are free. I misjudged you. I believed that you were a kind and compassionate woman, not a fainthearted lass who cannot abide anything that she does not immediately understand—”

  “I am not fainthearted!”

  “—and if a fact doesn’t adhere to your perception of how things should be, then it cannot be.” He gave a derisive snort. “What a narrow vision of the world you have.”

  “Oh!” Gwen scowled, scooting away from him on the fallen tree trunk. She swung one leg across it, straddling the massive trunk, and sat facing him. “How dare you try to make me feel bad for not believing your story? And I assure you, I do not have a narrow view of the world. I’m probably one of the few people who doesn’t. You might be astounded by how broad and well-informed my vision of the world is.” She massaged the skin on her wrist, glaring at him.

  “What a contradiction you are,” he said softly. “At moments I think I see courage in you, then at others I see naught but cowardice. Tell me, are you always at odds with yourself?”

  A hand flew to her throat and her eyes widened. He’d struck something sensitive. Ruthlessly he pursued it: “Would it be so much to ask that you give a bit of your precious time to help someone in need—the way they wish to be helped, rather than the way you think they should be helped?”

  “You’re making it sound like everything is my fault. You’re making it sound like I’m the one who’s crazy,” she protested.

  “If what I say is true, and I vow it is, you do seem most unreasonable to me,” he said calmly. “Has it occurred to you that I find your world—without any knowledge of the ancients, with limbless, leafless trees and clothing with formal appellations—as unnatural as you find my story?”

  Doubt. He could see it on her expressive face. Her stormy eyes widened further, and he glimpsed that mysterious flash of vulnerability beneath her tough exterior. He disliked provoking her, but she didn’t know what was at stake and he couldn’t possibly tell her. He didn’t have time to go out into her world and seek another person. Besides, he didn’t wish any other person. He wanted her. She’d discovered him, she’d awakened him, and his conviction that she was supposed to be involved in helping him correct things increased with each passing hour. There are no coincidences in this world, Drustan, his father had said. You must see with the eagle’s eye. You must detach, lift above a conundrum, and map the terrain of it. Everything happens for a reason, if you can but discern the pattern.

  She massaged her temples, scowling at him. “You’re giving me a headache.” After a moment, she blew out a resigned breath, fluffing her bangs from her eyes. “Okay, I give up. Why don’t you tell me about yourself. I mean, who you think you are.”

  A rather begrudging invitation, but he would work with what he could get. He hadn’t realized how tense he had been, awaiting her response, until his muscles smoothed beneath his skin. “I have told you that I am the laird of my clan, despite the fact that my father, Silvan, still lives. He refuses to be laird anymore, and at three score and two I can scarce blame him. ’Tis a long time to bear such responsibility.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I had a brother, Dageus, but he died recently.”

  He didn’t mention that his betrothed had been killed while accompanying Dageus back to Castle Keltar for the wedding. The less said about any of his betrotheds to another woman, the better. He was touchy about the entire subject.

  “How?” she asked gently.

  “He was returning from the Elliott’s estate when he was killed in a clan battle that wasn’t even our own but between the Campbell and the Montgomery. Most likely, he saw the Montgomery was severely outnumbered and tried to make a difference.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said softly.

  He opened his eyes to find compassion shimmering in her gaze, and it warmed him. When he lowered himself from the massive trunk of the fallen tree and pulled her leg over the trunk so she faced him, she didn’t resist. With him standing on the ground and her perched upon the trunk, they were at equal eye level, and it seemed to make her feel more comfortable. “Dageus was like that,” he told her with a mixture of sorrow and pride. “He was ever one to fight others’ battles. He took a sword through the heart, and one bitter morn I woke up to the sight of my brother, trussed across the back of his horse, being escorted home by the captain of the Elliott guard.” And grief rips at my heart. Brother of mine, I failed both you and Da.

  Her brows puckered, mirroring his sorrow. “Your mother?” she asked gently.

  “My father is widowed. She died in childbirth when I was fifteen; neither she nor the babe survived. He has not remarried. He vows there was only one true love for him.” Drustan smiled. His da’s sentiment was one he understood. His parents’ match had been made in heaven: he a Druid and she the daughter of an eccentric inventor who’d scoffed at propriety and educated his daughter better than most sons. Unfortunately, educated lasses were hardly in abundance in the Highlands, or anywhere else for that matter. Silvan had been lucky indeed. Drustan had longed for such a match himself, but time had worn him down, and he’d given up hope of finding such a woman.

  “Are you married?”

  Drustan shook his head. “Nay. I would not have tried to kiss you were I betrothed or wed.”

  “Well, score one point for men in general,” she said dryly. “Aren’t you rather old never to have been married? Usually when a man hasn’t married by your age, there’s something wrong with him,” she provoked.

  “I’ve been betrothed,” he protested indignantly, not about to tell her the number of times. It wasn’t a fine selling point, and she was closer to the truth than he would have liked. There was indeed something wrong with him. Once women spent a bit of time with him, they packed up their bags and left. It was enough to make a man feel uncertain of his charms. He could see she was about to press the issue, so he said hastily, hoping it would end the discussion of the subject, “She died before the wedding.”

  Gwen winced. “I’m so sorry.”

  They were silent a few moments, then she said, “Do you want to get married?”

  He arched a teasing brow. “Are you offerin’ for me, lassie?” he purred. If only she would, he’d like as not snatch her up and marry her before she could change her mind. He found himself more intrigued by her than he’d ever been with any of his betrotheds.

  She flushed. “Of course not. I’m merely curious. I’m just trying to figure out what kind of man you are.”

  “Aye, I wish to wed and have bairn. I simply need a good woman,” he said, flashing her his most charming grin.

  She wasn’t unaffected by it. He saw her eyes widen slightly in response and she seemed to forget the question she’d been about to ask. He breathed a silent thank you to the gods who’d gifted him a handsome face and white teeth.

  “And what would a man like you consider a good woman?” she said after a moment. “Wait”—she raised a hand when he would have spoken—“let me guess. Obedient. Adoring. Definitely not too bright,” she mocked. “Oh, and she’d just have to be the most gorgeous woman around, wouldn’t she?”

  He cocked his head, meeting her gaze levelly. “Nay. My idea of a good woman would be one I loved to look at, not because another found her lovely, but because her unique characteristics spoke to me.” He brushed the corner of her mouth with his fingers. “Mayhap she would have a dimple on one side of her mouth when she smiled. Mayhap she would have a witch-mark”—he slid his hand up to the small mole on her right cheekbone—“high upon one cheek. Mayhap she would have stormy eyes that remind me of the sea I so love. But there are other characteristics far more important t
han her appearance. My woman would be one curious about the world, and like to learn. She would want children and love them no matter what. She would have a fearless heart, courage, and compassion.”

  He spoke from the heart, his voice deepening with passion. He freed what was bottled up inside him and told her exactly what he wanted. “She would be one who would talk with me into the wee hours about anything and everything, who would savor all the tempers of the Highlands, who would treasure family. A woman who could find beauty in the world, in me, and in the world we could make together. She would be my honored companion, adored lover, and cherished wife.”

  Gwen drew a deep breath. The skeptical look in her eyes faded. She shifted uncomfortably, glanced away from him, and was silent for a time. He didn’t interrupt, curious to see how she would respond to his honest declaration.

  He smiled wryly when she cleared her throat and glibly changed the subject.

  “Well, if you’re from the sixteenth-century Highlands, why don’t you speak Gaelic?”

  Give nothing away, lass, he thought. Who or what hurt you that makes you so conceal your feelings? “Gaelic? You wish Gaelic?” With a wolfish smile, he told her exactly what he wanted to do to her once he removed her clothing, first in Gaelic, then in Latin, and finally in a language that had not been spoken in centuries—not even in his time. It made him hard, saying the words.

  “That could be gibberish,” she snapped. But she shivered, as if she’d sensed the intent behind his words.

  “Then why did you test me?” he asked quietly.

  “I need something to prove it,” she said. “I can’t just go on blind faith.”

  “Nay,” he agreed. “You doona seem to be a woman who could.”

  “Well, you had proof,” she countered, then added hastily, “of course, pretending that what you claim is true. You saw cars, the village, my phone, my clothing.”

  He gestured at his attire, his sword, and shrugged.

  “That could be a costume.”