“Like as no’ ”—his lips twitched—“such a fanfare was started by your own Silvanus and his friends. But I promise you, the greatest magnificence I see in this room is you.
“Nor”—he slid his hands down her sides, locking his arms around her hips—“did I bring you here to be taught a history lesson. You forget—I am history!”
“That’s not why I told you.” Mindy glanced aside. “It’s just that—”
“It’s about us, sweetness. This.” His gaze not leaving her, he ripped away the large Celtic brooch at his shoulder, then threw off his plaid. “Nothing else matters. This night, we make our own history.”
Mindy stared at him, her heart pounding.
He grinned and pulled his shirt over his head. Then he kicked off his shoes.
He was wearing nothing else.
His naked skin gleamed in the candle glow, the dusting of cinnamon-colored hair covering his broad, powerfully muscled chest glistening like gold. He stood proud, totally unself-conscious when her gaze dipped low, seeing at once how much he wanted her.
Mindy gasped and bit her lip. She should’ve been prepared, but she wasn’t. She swallowed, her entire body flushing. “Dear God, you’re so—”
He grinned. “It’s the fine, brisk air o’ Barra, what does it!”
Raising his arms above his head, he cracked his knuckles, clearly enjoying her perusal. And there was a great deal of him to see.
Mindy tore her gaze away, sure she’d catch fire if she kept looking.
“Now you.” He reached for her jacket, whipping it off her with incredible speed. He plucked at her shirt’s buttons and her pants zipper, then dropped to his knees and used his teeth, as well, tearing her clothes away, bit by bit, until she stood before him, equally unclothed.
“Mother of God, you’re lovely.” His gaze raked her, making her tingle everywhere. He ran his hands up and down the backs of her legs, holding her before him as he rubbed his face against her naked thighs and the damp curls between them.
She held on to his shoulders, breathless as he kissed his way across her stomach. Then he looked up at her, holding her gaze as he slowly licked his way lower and lower until, flashing a wicked grin, he eased her legs apart and swept his tongue along the wet, heated length of her.
“Och, lass.” He breathed the words against her skin in a husky whisper. “I could taste you forever.”
“Ahhhh . . .” Mindy dug her fingers into his shoulders when he licked her again. White-hot bolts of pleasure shot through her.
She swayed against him, every inch of her catching flame as she opened her legs wider to give him better access.
“You’re so sweet, Mindy-lass.” He turned his head, gently nipping the inside of her thigh before once again letting his tongue probe and swirl, each curling sweep flooding her with sensation.
No man had ever done this to her.
And when he paused to look up at her, the tip of his tongue poised to flick across her most sensitive spot, she thrust her fingers into his hair, holding fast.
She was about to shatter.
“No-o-o,” she cried when his tongue touched her there, circling lightly. “Not this way . . . yet. I want—”
“And I want to pleasure you.” His eyes darkened and he suckled that spot. “This way and all ways, Mindy- lass. I’ve burned to taste you and—”
“But I’m going to—” She couldn’t finish, only gasped and arched against him, trembling, trying so hard not to give in to the pleasure about to sweep her.
“Please, Bran, wait. . . .”
“Ach, as you wish . . .” He lifted his head, turning his attention to her breasts. He spread his hands over their swells, squeezing and plumping, circling her nipples with his thumbs, before leaning close to lick and suckle, each swirl of his tongue making her ache for more.
The climax she’d just managed to stave off threatened to break again as waves of electrifying sensation streaked through her, making her deepest female places clench with hot, tingly need.
“Bran . . .” She was trembling. “Please . . .”
He stood and plunged his hands into her hair, holding her fast, as he kissed her roughly, plundering her mouth. Then—she’d waited so long—he scooped her up and carried her across the room, lowering her to the bed.
Stretching out beside her, he pulled her close so that they were flush against each other, naked skin to naked skin. She loved the feel of his hard, warm length beside her as he stroked and caressed her everywhere. His touch turned her skin to flame and made her quiver with longing such as she’d never known. She started rocking her hips against him, this time wanting more than a thigh climax.
As if he knew, he pushed up on his elbows to look down at her, his eyes dark and smoldering with heat. “The whole of me, Mindy- lass.” Not taking his gaze from her, he reached between them, sliding his hand between her legs to probe and caress her.
Mindy almost shattered then.
Bran grinned, knowing. He nudged her thighs apart, tracing the hot, slick center of her, circling his thumb across her most sensitive place. His fingers worked magic, making her melt and burn.
When she jerked and cried out, lifting her hips off the bed, pushing against his hand, he slid over her. He kissed her deeply as he plunged inside her, making her his at last.
He began moving, heated tingles sweeping her as he kissed her again and again, using his tongue to match the rhythm of his hips. He kept one hand between them, his questing fingers teasing and stroking, driving her closer and closer to a glittery, mind-blowing climax.
As it broke, her body tightened and she cried out. Hot, shimmering waves of sensation rolled through her, carrying her into a tingly whirl of spinning, endless pleasure.
It seemed to go on and on and she clung to him, almost dizzy, near blinded by the glory of it. How good it felt to have him inside her. Then, even through the languorous haze, she could tell that he’d withdrawn. He wasn’t kissing her anymore, either, but he was lying hot and heavy on top of her. His wonderful beard tickled her chin, and his weight was starting to bear down on her, almost suffocating. . . .
Bran of Barra was a big man.
Mindy let her arms slide away from his back, but he didn’t roll off her. She tried to ease out from under him without disturbing him—she could tell he’d fallen asleep—but it was making her so hot to lie beneath him.
She twisted her head to the side, just to catch her breath. But when she opened her eyes, she screamed. The richly embroidered bedcovering of Bran’s bedchamber was gone. She was eyeball- to-weave with the tangled mess of her overly thick red-tartaned duvet at the Anchor.
It was the heavy duvet piled on top of her that was taking her breath and making her sweat.
Mindy shoved it aside, leaping off the bed.
Horror washed over her.
She wasn’t in Bran’s splendiferous bedchamber out on the islet, having just been ravished and made love to by the man she knew she couldn’t live without.
She was in the tiny bedroom at the Anchor.
It couldn’t be, but it was.
Yet, she was sure she’d been with Bran. She could smell the sharp musk of sex in the air and—she had to do it—when she slipped a finger between her legs to check, it came back wet and glistening with evidence they had been together.
She was also naked, her breasts still flushed with excitement and—this really ripped her—she could see the red imprints of large hands on her hips, just where Bran had gripped her.
“Oh, God!” She sank to her knees, pressed her forehead against the edge of the bed, and cried.
She had been with Bran.
And she’d been there with him in his time and it’d all been so real. She could still remember her terror at crossing the bay in the teensy medieval coracle. The horrid creature called Serafina and Bran’s friend, the dark-haired, laughing-eyed man, Saor MacSwain.
Dear, sweet Gibbie and his meaty bones. They’d all been there, plain as day and all around he
r.
Most of all, Bran had been real.
Their lovemaking the best she’d ever had.
Now . . .
Something had gone terribly wrong. She knew it with a worse certainty than ever before. This time Bran really was gone from her.
And a dreadful chill Margo and the good folk at Ye Olde Pagan Times would call her sixth sense told her that this disaster was one that even Bran, with his ghostly magic, wouldn’t be able to breach.
Their lovemaking must have violated some unwritten code of behavior between ghosts and nonghosts.
And now they were both being punished. Mindy would never see him again.
It was over.
Chapter 15
Bran of Barra was going to kill someone.
He hoped it wasn’t Serafina.
He’d never in all his days laid a hand to a woman in anger. Not in seven hundred years of living. Or unliving, as some folk would surely insist. But if the sultry Saracen beauty had anything to do with Mindy’s disappearance, he might be persuaded to adjust his thinking.
A raging ache already blazed between his eyes.
His skull was splitting.
And—the very worst of it—he hadn’t imbibed a drop. An ale-clouded, wine-befuddled head wasn’t the reason for his misery. The libations and delicacies that he’d ordered to his room, hoping to seduce and delight Mindy’s appetites, remained untouched.
Neither he nor Mindy had indulged.
Save that he’d carried her to his bed and made love to her.
“Odin’s balls!” Scowling, he tore away the bedsheets. He dropped to his knees and peered beneath his great four-poster, half hoping, but not really expecting, to find her beneath, sleeping on the floor rushes.
She wasn’t there.
Just as he’d known she wouldn’t be.
“Nae!” He threw back his head and roared the denial.
Then he ran to the windows, dashing from one to the other and opening the shutters. Cold morning wind rushed in, chill and bracing, but not a single damning gust gave a hint as to where Mindy had gone.
Yet he knew he’d brought her to his world—the ghostly place he held together with the sheer strength of his will.
It wasn’t as if they’d coupled in her world, a place where she could have brushed off their mating and gone about her business as if nothing but a wink and a smile had passed between them.
He’d brought her here, summoning all the power he had to whisk her into his own fourteenth century. And, may the Great Ones scald and flay him, but she’d seemed impressed.
Oohing and aahing as she’d noted the fineries of his Barra. And, he was sure, deeming each wonder grander than what she had in her own day of the moderns, where, he hoped, she wasn’t whiling just now.
He’d used so much of his strength to bring her here.
It could take days—maybe even weeks—before he could summon enough power to set things right if she was indeed gone from him.
He’d left her only to visit the jakes.
To think such a simple need, sought in the middle of the night, might have cost him so much.
It was beyond bearing.
“Skirt of the Valkyries!” He snatched his clothes off the rush-strewn floor, still fragrant with meadowsweet and petals of roses. Cursing, he pulled on his shirt, threw his plaid around his shoulders.
Mindy couldn’t have returned to her world.
Not without him sending her there.
His long years of ghostdom had taught him that.
He’d brought her here and she’d come willingly. That being the way of it, she couldn’t have left without him granting her leave to do so. And—he could have laughed if the truth didn’t pain him—he certainly hadn’t sent her away.
He burned for her!
His head was breaking in two.
Scowling, he scrubbed a hand over his face, doing his best to ignore the pain. Though he did grind his teeth and clench his fists as he glared again around his bedchamber, searching for clues.
A reason she’d left him.
He found none.
Only red-hot memories of the night they’d shared. Each one crashed over him, stealing his breath and haunting him. He could taste the scent of her on the back of his tongue. His hands were branded with the feel of her, every curve and dip of her sleek, smooth skin a forever imprint he knew would never leave him. Their love had been poignant and sweet, blessed by the Heartbreaker. And, he knew, desired by the Auld Ones. They shared a love that had been divined before either of them had ever drawn their first breath.
Even so, their love hadn’t been a mere whim of the gods.
As was the way of such things, they’d had the choice to seek and acknowledge their bond.
Now that they had, he knew he couldn’t exist without her.
There could be no reason for her to have vanished without even saying good-bye. Unless someone in his household had confronted her, filling her with nonsense and lies. Sending her on her way before he’d wakened. He wouldn’t have believed it. Not even of Serafina. But he could think of nothing else that would explain why his bed loomed empty.
He’d expected to greet the morn with Mindy in his arms.
Instead, he stood alone in the cold gray of morning, frowning at his mussed bed. Temper rising, he balled his right hand and then pulled back his fist, slamming it into his left palm.
The pain was sharp and blinding.
He was, after all, a strong, hot-blooded man.
If need be, he’d punch holes in the fine, lime-washed walls of his silent bedchamber. He’d haul each member of his household, kinsman or friend, into his thinking room and question everyone until they broke with the truth.
In the worst case, he’d sift himself to Barra of the moderns and fetch her. And—the possibility gutted him—if she’d already hied herself back to Bucks County, he’d take himself there.
He would do anything to get her back.
They’d slept together so sweetly. They’d lain together in ways he’d never shared with another woman. After their loving, he’d held her, pulling her into his arms, knowing they could sort the complications of their differing times on the morrow, after the rising of the sun.
He’d never dreamed the new day would bring him sorrow.
He paced around his bedchamber, his brow creasing more deeply with every step. Gray light was beginning to seep into the room. Below his tower, he could hear the waves washing over the rocks, the morning wind beginning to rise.
And, he noted with annoyance, the embers of the night’s fire no longer even glowed. The messy pile of wood ash on the hearthstone didn’t even glimmer. Like Mindy herself, their night together was turning into a fast-fading memory.
Only he didn’t want it to!
“What can I do?” He growled the words to no one.
His gut twisted and he wheeled around to glare again at his empty bed. Scene of such happiness and wonder just a short time before, not that it mattered now. Soon, he would have to go belowstairs and confront his men. One of them would know something.
But, for now, he wasn’t ready to face anyone.
The shock and pain were still too great.
“Serafina had naught to do with it.”
Saor’s deep voice came from the door. Bran could have flown at him and strangled the lout. Instead, he pulled in a tight breath, trying for control. He didn’t want to glower at a man who surely meant well.
Even if hearing Serafina’s name grated on his last nerve.
“You’ll have good reason to defend her?” Bran eyed his friend across the room.
He wasn’t surprised when Saor’s face colored. “You know I am fond of her.” He came forward, hands spread. “She was with me the night through, Bran. I swear to you, whatever you might think of her, she did your American no harm.”
“Then where is she?” Bran knew Saor would understand whom he meant.
Truth was, Mindy’s name—her presence—hung in the air, tangible and vib
rant, as if she had only just slipped from the room and would return any moment.
Bran knew she wouldn’t.
He leaned against the window arch, welcoming the chill air pouring in through the open shutters. He needed the fresh, brisk air to think.
But no answers came to him.
Even Saor was silent, his most-times snapping, laughing eyes more solemn than Bran had ever seen them. “At least, the infernal building din has lessened,” Saor observed, crossing the room to pour a measure of morning ale.
“For a while”—he lifted the cup to his lips, draining it—“I was sure that everyone with ears, or even desirous of a good night’s sleep, would show us their back.
“It truly has been intolerable.” Saor set down the cup, wiping his mouth. “Let us be glad that chaos seems to be behind us.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Bran folded his arms.
He wasn’t in the mood to be good-spirited about anything.
Not even the cessation of the restoration havoc.
“Och, come.” Saor strode over to him, gripping his elbow. “You cannae hide yourself up here all morning. Folk are talking in the hall, wondering what ails you. Your American isn’t lost.” He gave Bran’s arm a shake. “I say she’s just slipped away to tend urgent business—”
“Humph.” Bran glared at him.
“And”—Saor ignored both glare and snort—“she’ll be all the more glad to run into your arms when you sift yourself back to her.”
“Think you it’s that simple?” Bran went to stand at a window, staring out at the cold, gray morning.
He clamped his mouth shut, refusing to say more. If the gods were kind, they’d take heart and encourage Saor to leave him be.
“I think . . .” Saor let the words trail off and—praise the saints—left him alone.
When his departing footsteps faded away, Bran lifted a hand to rub his shoulder. A terrible, crushing weight sat there and all Saor’s good words and encouragement hadn’t done a thing to help rid him of its burden.
Some Like It Kilted Page 26
