[Highlander 04] - Kiss of the Highlander

by Karen Marie Moning

Nell paused in her frantic kneading and bit her lip. When she looked at Gwen, her eyes were pained. “Dinna be sayin’ such things,” she said quietly.

  “In twelve years haven’t you and Silvan ever—”

  “Nay.”

  “But you care for him, don’t you?”

  Nell blew out a slow breath. “I loved a laird once. It cost me my babes and nearly my life.”

  “What happened? I don’t mean to pry…” Gwen trailed off uncertainly.

  “What happened? Ye truly wish to know what happened?” Nell’s voice rose. She punched the mound of dough several times before kneading furiously.

  “Er…yes,” Gwen said warily.

  “I was a fool, ’tis what happened. I loved a laird who had a wife of his own, though there was no love betwixt them. An arranged match, it was, made on land and alliances. I resisted him for years, but the day my mam died, thick in grievin’, I weakened. ’Twas not what I believed proper, but och, how I loved that man.” She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I suspect my mother dyin’ made me realize we dinna have forever.”

  How true, Gwen thought. She certainly hadn’t had forever. She’d always thought she and her parents would mend fences; she’d never dreamed they wouldn’t live another twenty, thirty, even forty more years.

  “We were discreet; still, his lady learned of our involvement. She shrieked and raged, but she’d given him no heirs, and by then I’d given him two sons.” A shadow crossed her features. “Then one afternoon he was killed while hunting. That very eve, she took my children and set her kin upon me. They left me for dead near Balanoch.”

  “Oh, Nell,” Gwen breathed, her eyes misting.

  “I lost what would have been our third child in the dust. ’Twas Silvan who found me. Ne’er will I forget starin’ up at the sun, waitin’ to die, wishin’ to die, only to see him”—a bittersweet smile curved her lip—“like a fierce angel, standin’ o’er me. He took me in and stood by my bed and demanded that I live, in such a voice that I feared to die and defy him.” Her smile deepened. “He tended me himself, for weeks….”

  “What about your children?” Gwen asked hesitantly.

  Nell shook her head. “As she’d had none, she claimed them as her own. ’Tis said she’s barren, and my son will one day be laird, as his only heir.”

  “You’ve never seen them again?”

  “Nay, but occasionally I hear bits of gossip. My Jamie is fostered outside of Edinburgh. Mayhap when she’s no longer alive I’ll see them again, but they willna know me. They were but one and two when I was driven out. They believe she’s their true mam.”

  “Didn’t Silvan try to get them back for you?”

  “And I could give them what?” Nell snapped. Then she sighed and muttered, “I never told him what happened. And that bletherin’ fool has not once asked. In twelve years! Imagine that.”

  “Maybe he was afraid to pry once you’d healed,” Gwen suggested. “He might not have wanted to bring up painful memories. Maybe he’s been waiting for you to bring it up.”

  “Mayhap,” Nell said stiffly, blowing a wisp of hair from her face, “ye put a rosy hue on things that arena so rosy. Go on with ye, now,” she said crossly. “There are some things ’tis too late for. Dinna fash yerself over me. I’ve passed many a peaceful day here. If ye wish to give me happier ones, fall in love with one o’ those lads and give me bairn to cuddle again.”

  “Um…what if it’s Drustan?” Gwen said nervously. “Would you think I was terrible if I tried to make him care about me before he marries his fiancée?”

  Nell cocked her head and met Gwen’s gaze levelly. “I suspect I have a few special gowns I could alter for ye, lass. He’s overfond of purple, did ye know that?”

  Gwen beamed.

  “Now go,” Nell shooed her, flipping a cloth at her.

  She started to walk out, then turned back abruptly, squeezed Nell’s shoulder, and kissed her floured cheek. Then she dashed hastily off, embarrassed by her impulsive display of affection.

  Nell blinked and smiled, eyeing the empty corridor. Aye, she was going to like the lass a lot. She and Silvan had been worrying for months about Drustan wedding the Elliott lass. Neither of them held much hope for the match. They both sensed the quiet desperation in Drustan and knew he was plunging blindly into something that was bound to become a fankle. Duty weighed on him; he needed heirs. Anya Elliott was ten and five, and Drustan MacKeltar would patently terrify the child. Oh, he might get a bairn or two off her, but he’d pay for it with a lifetime of misery. As would the unsuspecting Anya. Drustan needed an educated lass, a lass with fire and mettle and curiosity.

  Yestreen, Silvan had asked a favor of her (not looking at her, of course, as if noticing her hair earlier had been an unforgivable sin), and she had done her part as he’d requested. Gwen Cassidy now knew Drustan was a Druid.

  She could scarce wait to tell Silvan how Gwen had reacted—with an open mind and heart—just as Silvan had predicted. She’d glimpsed no signs of madness in the lass—och, she was odd, but that didn’t make a person mad, or the eccentric Silvan would be maddest of all.

  Her smile faded at the thought of Silvan, as she recalled what Gwen had said about him having feelings for her.

  Might it be? She and Silvan scarcely spoke but for conversation about the lads, the crops, or the weather. Long ago she’d once thought he’d been interested, but he’d retreated and she’d tried to forget.

  She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and glanced down at her bosom. It was still fluffable.

  Had he truly glanced down her bodice? She was never comfortable looking at him when she was standing close. The man could peek anywhere he wanted and she’d not notice.

  Mayhap, she mused, while stitching Gwen some tempting fashions, she might deepen the bodice of her new gown that was nearly finished.

  Silvan was waiting on the terrace, at a table centered in a puddle of sunshine, beneath rustling oaks.

  Gwen took the seat opposite him and glanced about with delight. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said with a contented sigh. A brilliant yellow butterfly swooped the board, lingering a moment before fluttering off again.

  “Aye, our mountain is the finest in all of Alba,” Silvan said proudly, as he finished setting up the pieces.

  When he was done, Gwen turned the heavy board around, reversing it.

  He glanced askance at her.

  “I have to be black. I don’t like to go first,” she explained, fingering the ebony figurines. An honest-to-God medieval chess set, she thought wonderingly. It would be worth a fortune in her time. The pieces were fashioned of ebony wood and ivory tusk. The rooks were solemn little men, the bishops had long beards and wise little faces. The knights were kilt-clad warriors on prancing destriers, the royalty wore flowing robes trimmed with fur and stood several inches above the rest. The board itself was fashioned of alternating squares of ivory and ebony. The surrounding perimeter was a solid rectangle of ebony, carved with a complex design of Celtic knotwork that represented infinity. How on earth had the twenty-first century gotten the idea that medieval men were ignorant? she wondered. She was beginning to suspect that perhaps they were more in tune with the world than her century would ever be.

  Silvan pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “Why do I think I might be in for a time of it?”

  “Why do I think you might be able to give as good as you get?” she countered.

  “How long have you been playing?”

  “All my life. You?”

  “All my life. Which has been considerably longer than yours,” he said dryly as he moved a pawn with swift certainty.

  Two games later—one win to Silvan, one to Gwen—they were into a more interesting variation. Normal chess was too much of a draw between them, so Gwen had proposed they play progressive chess, wherein pawns didn’t “queen” but rather increased in power with each square they advanced. In progressive chess, a pawn on the fifth rank had the power of play of a knight, on the sixt
h a bishop, seventh a rook, and on the eighth a queen.

  When she declared checkmate, with her two queens, a bishop, and three knights, he clapped his hands and saluted her.

  “And Drustan thinks you’re a bampot,” he murmured, smiling.

  “He told you that?” she asked, feeling wounded. “Forget it,” she added hastily. “It doesn’t matter. Just tell me this: Do you know of anyone who might wish your clan harm, Silvan?”

  “None. ’Tis a peaceful land, and the Keltar know no enemies.”

  “No clans who wish to conquer you?”

  “Ha,” Silvan scoffed. “None that would dare try.”

  “How about…um…the king?” she grasped at straws.

  Silvan rolled his eyes. “Nay. James likes me. I performed magic tricks for the boy-king when last I was in Edinburgh. His council seeks no battle in our Highlands.

  “Maybe Drustan angered someone’s husband?” she pried none-too-subtly.

  “Drustan doesn’t tup married wenches, m’dear.”

  She smiled, pleased by that bit of knowledge.

  “Or maidens,” he said pointedly.

  She scowled. “Can I tell you my whole story?”

  “Nay.” At her wounded expression he added, “Words cost nothing, they buy nothing. Actions speak truth. You neatly trounced me at progressive chess. Were I to suspect you of aught, it wouldn’t be to think you mad but to believe you some sort of Druid yourself. Mayhap come to spy upon us—”

  “First Drustan thinks I’m crazy,” Gwen interrupted glumly, “now you think I’m a spy.”

  “—or, in the future, lasses are better educated. If you permit a man to finish, m’dear, you’ll see that I was merely pointing out possibilities. They are endless. Time will have out. I am interested in your heart, not your words.”

  “You have no idea how nice it is to hear someone say that.”

  One silvery brow rose.

  “Until I met your son, Silvan, I wasn’t even certain I had a heart. Now I know I do, and that bonehead is going to marry someone he’s never even met. She’s never going to be as right for him as I am.”

  “Bonehead,” he repeated, smiling faintly. His other brow rose. “You told me you didn’t wish me to make him wed you,” he said softly.

  “I don’t want you to make him. I want him to want to. I’m telling you, we’re perfect for each other. He just doesn’t remember that. If my story is true,” she added archly, “I could be carrying your grandson. Have you thought of that, O wise one?”

  Silvan burst out laughing. He laughed so long and loudly that Nell poked her head out, with a smile herself, to see what was going on.

  When he finally stopped, he patted Gwen’s hand. “None but Drustan has ever called me that in such a tone. Irreverent you are, clever and bold. Aye, Gwen Cassidy, I’ll give him a nudge or two in your direction. I’d planned to anyway.”

  Gwen tucked her bangs behind her ears and smiled at him. “Again?” she asked.

  As they began resetting the pieces, Nell came out on the terrace, depositing two mugs of warm ale.

  “Join us, Nell,” Silvan said. Nell glanced dubiously at Silvan, until Gwen patted the seat beside her.

  For the next few hours, Gwen watched Silvan and Nell in what she was certain had become a longtime ritual: his head turned, hers wouldn’t. Her head turned, his stayed down. They managed to look at each other only if the other wasn’t looking. Not once did the older couple make direct eye contact. Somehow they were so attuned that Silvan could sense when Nell’s gaze had wandered up to watch a golden eagle soar beyond the castle, and Nell could sense when Silvan was so intent upon the game that he’d not notice her watching him.

  It was amazing, really, Gwen realized. They were so in love with each other, and neither of them knew it.

  Maybe her own life was unraveling at the seams, but surely she could do something to bring those two together.

  When the sun had nearly completed its lazy crawl across the sky, smearing streaks of rose and liquid gold across the horizon, Nell pushed herself up and went off to prepare the evening meal.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder at Gwen and made a fluffing motion to her bodice. “Dinna be forgettin’ to dress for dinner,” she said with a wink. “He never misses a meal, and I made his favorite this eve—roast suckling pig, neeps, and tatties.”

  Oh, she’d dress, all right.

  But Drustan didn’t come to dinner that night.

  As a matter of fact, the stubborn man managed to hide from her for nearly a week.

  19

  Chaos had stormed his castle, dressed in lusciously low-cut gowns, silky slippers, and ribbons, Drustan brooded, raking his hair back and tying it with a leather thong.

  None of his fortress’s defenses were useful against her, unless he wished to declare open warfare, mount up the guards, and dust off the catapult.

  At which point, of course, his da and Nell would laugh themselves silly.

  He’d been avoiding her since the day he’d taken her to Balanoch.

  The next time he touched her, he’d tup her. He knew that. He fisted his hands at his sides, inhaling sharply.

  His only recourse was to avoid her completely until Dageus returned with Anya. When Dageus confirmed that no such battle had occurred, he would have her removed from his castle and sent far away.

  How far will be far enough? a most unwelcome voice asked. He knew that voice well. It was the one that endeavored daily to convince him that he had every right to take her to his bed.

  A most dangerous, frighteningly persuasive voice.

  He groaned and closed his eyes. He enjoyed a blissful moment’s respite, until her laughter, lifted by the buoyant summer breeze, soared through the open window of his chamber.

  Eyes narrowed, he peered out, both dreading and anticipating what gown she might have donned today. Would it be purple, violet, indigo, lavender? It was almost as if she knew of his preference for the vibrant color. And with her golden hair, she looked splendid in it.

  This morn she wore sheer mauve with a golden girdle. No surcoat, in deference to the sunny weather. Succulent, creamy breasts rose from the simple scooped neck. She’d piled her blond tresses atop her head and, threaded with violet ribbons, it tumbled in delightful disarray about her face. She sauntered across his lawn, as if all his estate belonged to her.

  For the past week she’d been everywhere he’d wanted to be, driving him to seek seclusion wherever it could be found. He’d ducked into chambers in the castle he’d forgotten even existed.

  She hadn’t bothered to be subtle about it. The moment she saw him, she chased about after him wearing a ferocious scowl, jabbering away about “things” she had to tell him.

  Daily her tactics grew more sly and underhanded. Last night the audacious wench had picked the lock to his chamber! Because he’d had the foresight to barricade the door with a heavy armoire, she’d then gone to his door in the corridor and picked that lock. He’d been forced to escape out the window. Halfway down he’d slipped, crashed the last fifteen feet to the ground, and landed in a prickly bush. Since he’d not had time to don his trews, his manly parts had taken the brunt of his abrupt entry into the bush, putting him in a foul mood indeed.

  The wench sought to unman him before his long-anticipated wedding night.

  His every movement, every thought, every decision was being directly affected by her presence, and he resented it.

  Her finger was even in the food he ate in the garrison with the guards, safely away from her, as Nell had begun “experimenting” with new recipes, and he’d like to know what the blethering hell was wrong with the old ones.

  And she’d begun learning to ride, had indeed coaxed the stable master to teach her (probably for the cost of a smile with a dimple on one side, for he certainly hadn’t seen her shoveling out the stables). In midafternoon she could be found prancing about on a gentle mare across the front lawn of the estate, impairing his passage. He had to admit, she’d found h
er seat rather well. Any day now, when he vaulted astride his horse to escape her, she’d follow him.

  His life had been so orderly before her arrival. Now his life was ordered about her schedule and how to avoid her. He’d been heading toward certain success, all the things he’d longed for. Just the day before she’d appeared on their doorstep, he’d been dreaming of holding his first son in his arms within the year, God willing that young Anya would catch a babe so quickly.

  But now he dreamed of her. This morn, when he’d sneaked into his chamber for a change of clothing, he’d heard the splash of her bath. He’d paced from hearth to window and back again, convinced she was splashing far more than necessary just to force him to think of rosy breasts and thighs and silken gold hair, misted with glistening beads of water.

  Drustan stared out the window, scowling. She was driving him mad. How could so wee a wench create such havoc with his senses?

  Last night, after he’d fallen out his own window, he’d tried to catch a short nap in the hall. A short time later, she’d wandered down. There he’d been sitting, feet propped up, staring with heavy-lidded eyes into the fire, seeing golden tresses in the flames, when he’d caught a whiff of her unique scent and turned to see her standing on the stairs.

  Clad only in a diaphanous night rail.

  Drustan, you can’t keep avoiding me, she’d said.

  Without a word, he’d leaped to his feet and fled the castle. He’d gone to sleep in the stables.

  The laird of the castle, catching winks in the stables, by Amergin!

  But had he stayed within the walls, he would have made short work of her sheer rail, kissed and suckled and devoured every inch of her body.

  His traitorous father and Nell weren’t making things any easier. They’d welcomed her into their lives with the enthusiasm of parents who’d finally gotten the daughter they’d longed for. Nell sewed for her, dressing her in luscious creations, Silvan played chess with her on the terrace, and Drustan had no doubt that once Dageus returned he’d like as not set to trying to seduce the lovely witch.