Highlander of Mine

by Red L. Jameson

  However, why would she need him?

  He was broken in so many ways. He was only a fiend of a man, living within armies and only knowing how to communicate with men. Was he doing this right? Holding her the way she wanted?

  Of course not. He was hard against her, and she just needed comfort.

  Jesus, what could he give her to make her need him too?

  “When they took me,” she whispered, “all I could think about was you. I thought I heard you in the wind, calling out for me.”

  He held her in a firm embrace of his own then. He had called out to her. “I—I’d search for ye until I found ye, Fleur. I’d search through hell for ye.”

  She tightened her hold on him, rubbing her cheek against his. He winced as he realized her refined skin caught against his beard.

  “I’m sorry. I need to shave.”

  “I don’t mind it.”

  He sighed. “I feel like I’m doin’ this all wrong. Am I hurtin’ ye?”

  She shook her head against his. “No. You’re perfect.”

  Lord, if that didn’t boost him and his idiotic cock. Then she kissed his cheek. And kissed it again. That was when he realized she was working her way closer to his suddenly dry mouth. He swallowed. Or tried to. He hadn’t kissed a woman in...God, years. He’d be bad at it, and she would need someone who wouldn’t slobber over her face, someone who remembered how to kiss.

  “Lady Fleur? Lady? Are you out here?”

  It was torture, as if someone told him he’d been granted his one wish, only to take it away at the last moment.

  “I believe that’s Timothy, probably establishing ye aren’t abducted again.”

  She sighed and pushed herself a little ways from him, enough to give him a smile. That grin held so much promise, it nearly had him collapse from his heart’s skipping beats.

  Then she stood and held a hand out for him as she called over her shoulder, “I’m over here.”

  Duncan hoisted himself up, holding her hand just to embrace it for a moment. Timothy’s footfalls were close. He had to turn from the lad, trying to hide the evidence of his desire for Fleur. Jesus, this was as bad as if he was a lad of sixteen, wishing he’d thought of wearing a sporran to weigh down his plaid. But he’d been too hurried to think of little else other than Fleur.

  “Ah, there ye be.” The young voice sounded pleased. “With Lieutenant MacKay, I told the Captain he worried over nothin’.”

  “He’s looking for me?”

  “Aye. But I told him it was for naught. Ye’d be fine with Duncan.”

  It took a bit, but the sound of Timothy’s changing voice helped with Duncan’s condition, so he could finally wheel around and smile at the lad.

  “She’s fine. As ye can see with yer own eyes.”

  The lad did a quick scan of Fleur, but the look was that of a young man appreciating a tad too much the sight of the lady. The second before Duncan was ready to pommel him, Timothy smiled and nodded.

  “I’ll go tell the Captain.”

  “Oh my gosh, you’re bleeding,” Fleur said, which stopped Timothy in his tracks.

  She placed her dainty fingers atop Duncan’s chest, gently opening the rip in his shirt to reveal his wound.

  “’Tis nothin’,” Duncan said, but gasped when she pulled the sticky fabric of his shirt from his even stickier wound. Lord, he felt masculine with that huff of his.

  “Nothing. I don’t think so.” She glanced up with narrowed eyes, then gauged his injury again.

  “I was searching for spider webs to stop the bleeding for myself and Greggor, yer . . .” Duncan paused not sure how Fleur might feel about him caring for her abductor.

  “Greggor’s injured?” She looked up again from her inspection. “How?”

  He thought about telling her. He truly did. But one look at the impressionable Timothy made him think twice before sallying Rory’s name. Besides, who was he to accuse Rory of wrong doing? While he’d...as if beheading a man wasn’t bad enough, but when the other sliced his own neck wide, blood had sprayed along the valley floor, painting it a disgusting brown. Nay, he would not reproach Rory of wrongdoing, not after what he’d done this day, and especially not in front of Timothy who needed to know his leader was a hero.

  Duncan nodded. “He’s injured. ‘Tis deep enough it persists to bleed, but the man claims he’s fine.”

  Fleur nodded once, but cocked her head to the side, studying him. Then she glanced at Timothy and bit her bottom lip adorably.

  “Spider webs. My Na used them on some of her own wounds. I’ll help you find some.”

  Timothy joined in, searching over the crag for cracks that luckily housed many webs.

  When Fleur found a large one, she’d balled it up in her wee hand. Before Duncan could protest, not that he would, she unlaced Duncan’s shirt in front of Timothy. But the opening wasn’t low enough, so she tore through his top without a word and dabbed her web along Duncan’s injury.

  “Is that how it’s done?” she asked while absorbed in her work.

  It stung like a son of a bitch, her little fingers piercing into his cut. But she touched him so intimately, as if they were already lovers. So Duncan didn’t mind the pain. In fact, it was helpful to keep his simmering body in control after she’d ripped his shirt. Jesus, that had been...well, that had been something spectacular, it had.

  He’d grunted out something, then looked up at Timothy, smiling.

  “I might have a wound that is still bleedin’, let me check,” the lad said while he chuckled at his own mirth.

  Fleur gave him an arched brow, but then smiled at Duncan’s chest. “It works! It really works. You’re not bleeding anymore.”

  Duncan inspected his cut, and couldn’t help but laugh a little at her excitement. “Aye.” He tried to cover himself by relacing his shirt together, but she pushed his fingers aside and tied the laces herself. Assertive little lady.

  And he adored her for it.

  He watched her, so close to him, so focused on her hands, on what she was doing, not paying heed that he studied her from above. Her brows furrowed and formed that perfect wee line above her nose. Her lips pursed, but then relaxed once she got his shirt into a more put-together fashion. God, those lips. So full, such a deep color of pink, like a rose.

  He’d been so scared when she had been gone, and it had become glaringly evident for him how he needed her. The only complication was how to have her need him too. He couldn’t seem to help himself but let his fingers feather along her slim hips. Wanting nothing more than to draw her close. Plant his lips against hers.

  Timothy cleared his throat. Then Fleur lifted her face to Duncan. “Will you be all right if we ride back to Durness?”

  Her concern made his heart trip then start to thunder. “Aye.”

  “Do you think Greggor will be all right? What will happen to him?”

  It was difficult to twist his mind away from the seduction of his desirous thoughts, but he’d do anything for her, so he tried.

  He shrugged. “We’ll check on Greggor, aye? Make sure he’s all right. And the laird will deem what’s best for him.”

  Fleur’s face tightened. “He—he was nice to me. I don’t think he meant—God, I sound like I have Stockholm Syndrome.”

  “Pardon? Ye were in Stockholm?”

  Fleur looked flustered then, but smiled. “I’ll explain later.” She quickly reached her arms around his waist and held him for a second, then pirouetted, walking around the boulder to where the others waited.

  Timothy followed her with his gaze then looked back at Duncan with a sly smile. “She fancies ye.”

  Duncan tried to shrug again, but something warm was cracking through his heart and made him grin just a tad.

  Timothy chuckled slightly. “Lord, I hate to break that to Captain Rory.”

  Duncan winced slightly, agreeing.

  “’Tis for the best, that she fancies ye. Ye are the best man, after all.” And with that the half-man child scampered off,
probably trying to catch up with Fleur.

  Duncan looked down at the web he’d found for Greggor, still balled in his palm. He found himself needing a moment to clear his mind, because suddenly he didn’t feel such a fool to fantasize about Fleur, but more than that he thought the warmth that coursed through him might be hope. Something he’d last dredged for before Albert had married his mother. This feeling was so foreign, so dark and beautiful he needed a second more to compose himself, so he didn’t race away from the crag skipping.

  Chapter 17

  As soon as Fleur attempted to tend to Greggor, Rory scooped her away from him. Ewan, funny blond boy, promised he’d care for Greggor as she’d tried to protest against Rory carrying her away in his arms.

  Before she knew what was happening, he had her back on his horse and ordered everyone to ride again. She’d never seen this side of Rory before and didn’t know if she liked it. No, she was fairly certain she didn’t, considering he wasn’t listening to her and was already riding ahead of his troops.

  “Rory?” She turned and looked at him.

  She sat sidesaddle again, her hip against his groin, and he kept pulling her closer and closer to that area in particular.

  The day had been so hot, but dark blurry clouds framed the northwest horizon and sent a chilly wind to warn of the storm approaching. Funny how now that she’d spent some time with Duncan she knew which direction was northwest.

  Rory looked down at her briefly, the sun still high enough in the sky to set his hair on fire with gold, his skin held a hue of gold too, making him look all the more handsome. His bright blue eyes shone out at her, and his instant smile had something in it that Fleur had never seen before. Whatever he was feeling appeared intense.

  “Sorry, did ye need more time to rest? Ye’ve been up since yesterday. I just wanted to beat the rain that’s sure to pour any moment.”

  Fleur nodded, thinking that was a good excuse. “I—yeah, I’m fine. We can push on.”

  But she glanced over one of his wide shoulders and saw that the troops were slow to obey, and then she caught Duncan’s face. He’d been applying a web to Greggor’s stomach, it looked like, but he stalled and looked at her.

  He held unmistakable outrage and perhaps a twist of betrayal in his eyes. That look knifed right through her heart.

  What was she doing with Rory? Back on his horse? She straightened and looked ahead, trying to think of what to do.

  Behind that boulder, she had sat on Duncan in a provocative way, and she’d known it. She’d meant to do that. All she could think of was to get some kind of response out of him. He didn’t seem to give a crap if she had survived getting kidnapped or not. He’d ignored her, as if he’d merely come along to help Rory, not to save her himself. That had hurt so much. She’d felt...she didn’t have many friends, excluding Rachel and Ian. She didn’t let people in. But she had let Duncan into her heart, into her dreams, and when he’d neglected her it had hurt deep down to her bones.

  Before she’d been kidnapped, she really hadn’t cared about her former life, except in the moments when she thought of Rachel. Besides that one exception, she’d wanted this—Helen and Duncan—to continue. She liked it here, liked baking bread on a fire, as Na had taught her to do once, liked making fried bread for Helen to eat until her little belly was full, liked—no, loved talking through the night with Duncan.

  The heat they shared, the shy ways they talked—it was a completion of something so perfect. It was undefined, like the definition within derivative calculus. Undefined was an answer to a problem. It meant that it was beyond all known perception. It was beyond our expectations. It had no limits. However, it could be finite. Or not. It was a most frustrating answer, but the beauty of it, the far reaches of it, was too poetic to ignore.

  Whirling through Fleur’s mind was a derivative formula that was undefined. She and Duncan were undefined.

  No limits. No limits. No limits.

  Her brain faltered. And only one thought radiated through. No, it wasn’t a thought.

  She felt the limitless, dark, poetic beauty she saw in Duncan eyes. Only in his eyes.

  “I was so worried,” Rory said into her ear, jarring her with the reminder of where she was.

  She looked at him and glued a smile into place.

  “I’m so glad ye’re fine. Ye are fine, aye?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled her closer as his grin grew. “We may not ken each other well, but I’ve grown rather fond of ye.”

  She patted his shoulder. “Me too. You’re a nice man, Rory.”

  “Ye’re a nice woman...Fleur.” It was the first time he’d called her by her first name, but she didn’t mind. After all, she’d been calling him Rory for a while now.

  Suddenly her manners kicked in. “Thank you—thank you for saving me. I’m—” Tears pricked her eyes before she could say another word.

  He wrapped his one free arm around her and held her close. “’Tis my pleasure,” he whispered in her ear.

  She knew she should have said something, especially as it was apparent that part of him was getting a little excited at the close contact. But she spun her head forward again, stiffening, and tried to scoot away from his crotch.

  She’d wanted this reaction from Duncan, and it had somewhat surprised her when she’d gotten it. Through all their talks, she knew her reaction to him was strong and from time to time she needed to remind herself not to jump on him, as she had behind that boulder. But Duncan had always been so careful, almost painfully so. It had made her wonder if he wasn’t attracted to her. Then she remembered holding him while behind that boulder, the feel of him pressed against her, his steel chest smashed against her breasts, of needing him so badly she’d thought about wiggling until his kilt rode up and then there would be nothing between them.

  So what the hell was she doing with Rory?

  She agonized over the answer until the sun set and the warm torch light of Durness grew in the twilight. So sick with herself, Fleur flew away from Rory when he’d stopped in front of Helen’s large house. She raced toward the welcoming big black door as soon as she saw it opening, and a tearful Helen holding her arms wide.

  Helen’s embrace was firm and comforting. “Oh, my lass, my lass.”

  As Helen petted her hair from her too hot face, she burst into tears as she thought about the fact that all she had wanted to do was run away from Rory and to cling to Duncan. But she hadn’t said a word, been too much a coward. She hadn’t asked for what she wanted, needed.

  Who the hell was she to let someone get in her way of what she wanted? Who the hell was she?

  Helen held onto her cheeks, gazing deeply into her eyes. “Yer safe now, aye?”

  Fleur burst into more tears, hiding her head on Helen’s bony shoulder, knowing she wasn’t merely crying from her fear being kidnapped, although that had been traumatic enough.

  It was then Fleur realized that her abduction was a perfect metaphor for her life. Only it wasn’t a metaphor. It had really happened. But in her old life, she’d gotten so lost. Granted, being dropped in Texas had been hard as well as the consequential years, but she had been the one who had hidden herself away until she could no longer find her soul, her spirit. Maybe initially she’d had a good reason to kidnap her spirit. But she didn’t anymore.

  She could have asked Rory to stop, to take her to Duncan. But she’d been too scared, too scared of Rory’s reaction—although he’d never done a thing to frighten her. She’d also been too scared of her reaction. Too fucking scared.

  She was inconsolable then. Her sobs against Helen were brutal, and Fleur forced herself to stop, afraid she might hurt Duncan’s kind but fragile mother.

  Helen held her face in her hands again, studying her. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through. But yer here now. Safe.”

  Fleur wrapped her hands around Helen’s fingers. The comfort she gave in those words, the nonjudgmental, blessed words Fleur knew her spirit had wanted to hear for so long
. It finally gave her to courage to say it to Helen, to herself, “I’m all right now.”

  The men worked out shifts to guard the house, while Helen prepared a bath for her. It was way too much work for the woman, so Fleur got her tears under control and did the rest. She wanted Duncan to come in and help, but he was nowhere in sight.

  Fleur didn’t blame him.

  She’d ridden off with Rory. Maybe that was why Duncan had initially ignored her after she’d been saved from her abductors. She’d been with another, while he had done all the work of the actual rescuing.

  God, she really needed to talk to him, try to understand...explain.

  Helen helped her clean herself. After two days straight of riding on a horse, no sleep, and then finally sliding into milky warm water, Fleur’s lids kept closing of their own accord. Yet she reminded herself that she needed to talk to Duncan.

  She woke in the dead of the night. The wide window’s curtains had yet to be drawn, allowing the silver light from the moon to illuminate that she was completely alone. How had she gotten into bed? Checking the shift she wore, Fleur also couldn’t recall how she’d gotten it on. It was a flimsy white thing. But it was what lay under the fabric that called to her. Her body and heart craved Duncan. She had to talk to him.

  Wrapping a light blue plaid around herself, she padded out of the bedroom, er, chamber. It had been the lads’ room, Helen had explained, and had only one large bed, larger than a king size, where the now grown men could sleep together. However, Helen had said sadly, many of them would still sleep in the barn, even after their father’s death.

  The room was filled with blankets and plaids and a few wooden swords, but little else. Once Helen had received news of her sons’ whereabouts, she’d sent their clothes and other personal material. Fleur didn’t understand why Helen didn’t want to leave Scotland, why she insisted on Duncan staying here, or why she insisted on the lads staying in America. Oh, she understood Helen thought the lads were better off, but why not go to America too then? Why not have their eldest join them?