by Gwyn Cready
Abby started. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, my powers are nothing compared to hers, but it took nothing like magic to see there was something going on between the two of you at dinner.”
Abby dove under the water to hide her reddening face. The memory of MacHarg’s lips on hers had stirred her half the night. Even Rosston’s quarrel-filled late-night visit had not erased the memory. She’d been sorely tempted to accept MacHarg’s awkward but well-meaning invitation. She smiled to think of the intriguing sparkle in his sapphire eyes and those arresting calves. If only Nora hadn’t been there….
But dallying with an outsider was a risk she couldn’t afford. Rosston was pressing her to announce their agreement to marry. He’d already told the men closest to him the ceremony would be at Michaelmas, which had only made her feel even more coerced. She dreaded the thought of marrying him, but a clan chief, especially a woman without the full support of her men, does not always get to marry whom she chooses. If she had to marry Rosston, she would, but if she could get the canal financed before the money was gone, she wouldn’t have to depend on an alliance with him to save her clan.
She surfaced, flipping soaking strands of dark hair over her shoulder.
“I am inclined to take your silence as an affirmation of my suspicions,” Serafina said, smiling.
“You are as much a fortune-teller as I, then,” said a voice behind them.
Abby turned. Undine stood on the high bank, having apparently emerged from the rosebush-lined path the rise hid from view. Her face glistened with the perspiration that always comes with a summer carriage ride.
“You’ve returned!” Abby cried. “I trust things went well?”
“Well enough, I think.” Undine threw down her bag and began unbuttoning her gown. “I spoke to my contact, who was eager to discuss his own troubles as well. He promised to do what he could to settle the army’s agitation and send a private message.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“And I stopped at the castle before coming here. William is doing better.”
“Thank you, Undine.”
“But for now, I think I must examine your face. Something has changed.” Undine’s dress dropped at her feet and she skimmed off her chemise. With a trim dive, she entered the water, her limbs as lithe and powerful as a mermaid’s tail.
In an instant, her head cleared the water directly in front of Abby. She examined Abby’s face with bladelike sharpness. Abby knew protestation was futile.
“You kissed him!” Undine declared. “Great skies! You kissed him!”
“Keep your voice down.” Abby fought the smile that appeared, uninvited, on her face.
Undine turned to Serafina. “What happened at dinner? What did I miss?”
“There was a palpable cloud of attraction hanging over the table,” Serafina said, grinning. “’Twas hard to see the food, the air was so thick with it.”
Abby sputtered. “That’s…that’s outrageous. ‘A cloud of attraction’? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Serafina laughed. “I cannot account for the hours after dinner, however.”
“The hours after dinner were spent bemoaning Sir Alan’s refusal to negotiate a loan,” Abby protested.
“Sir Alan will change his mind,” Undine said with her usual certainty. “And that is all the ‘bemoaning’ you will admit to?”
Abby squawked. “For heaven’s sake! I barely know the man.”
“And yet…” Undine tilted Abby’s chin with a finger. “And yet ’tis quite clear you kissed him.”
“I…well…a kiss.” Abby shrugged, the thump of blood in her ear.
Serafina squealed. “He is very handsome. And big!”
Undine chuckled. “If only we knew. I suspect he casts a noble shadow.”
“Undine!”
Serafina clapped her hands. “Perhaps that’s what changed Abby’s mind,” she said. “I believe until she escorted him to his bedchamber, she was quite against him joining us at dinner.”
Undine smiled. “’Tis astonishing what the sight of a deftly prepared joint does for one’s appetite.”
“Ha. Ha.” Abby sent a spray of water in their direction. “You two should be on the stage. Surely, some Covent Garden theatre is looking for entertainers. I shall have my fastest carriage prepared.”
Undine added with a flash of sympathy, “’Tis a shame Abby is betrothed to another.”
“Betrothed?!” Serafina said. “No! To whom? Can’t your magic help her, Undine?”
“I’ve tried. I’m afraid my magic is powerless against Abby’s brand of determination.”
Abby sighed. “I do not wish to marry, believe me. But if I cannot fund the canal, the only way to hold the clan together will be through an alliance with the leader of another, wealthier clan.”
Serafina gasped. “Rosston.”
“Aye,” Abby said. “But you do not need to gasp. He is a good enough man—though a wee bit bullheaded at times.”
“A wee bit?” Undine did a backflip and disappeared under the water.
Serafina’s face grew serious. “Oh, Abby, forgive me for offering unasked-for advice, but you mustna marry a man you don’t love. I should have never said ‘aye’ to my fiancé. I had my reasons, ’tis true. But it turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life. I was very independent. I had an inheritance from my father. It wasn’t large, but it was enough for me to live on and run his small shipping business. Then I met Edward and, well, I think I was overcome by his kindness to me and the breathtaking blue of his eyes. ’Twas like standing atop Ben Cleuch and staring down into the loch below.”
Abby thought of Duncan’s shining eyes. “Oh?”
“And then each day, he did a little more and a little more. ’Twas just to take some of the burden of running the business off my shoulders, he said. But soon enough he made me feel as if I was unnecessary, and soon enough after that, I was unnecessary. ’Twould never happen with a man who truly loved you, of course, but with anything short of that…” Serafina paused, then added with a note of concern, looking at the spot where Undine had disappeared, “How long can she stay under?”
“A long time.” Abby smiled, but Serafina’s story had left her vaguely unsettled. “They say her mother was a naiad.”
Serafina’s eyes widened. “You’re joking?”
“No family is without its dark secrets, I suppose.”
Undine surfaced with hardly an intake of air. Her wet, blond curls clung to her back like scales on a fish.
“The bottom is especially clear today,” Undine said. “And there’s a spectacular school of shad down there, all blue and shimmery.”
“Ooh!” Abby swam toward the steep outcropping on the opposite bank. “I’m going to dive.”
Undine swam in a slow circle around Serafina. “When we finish here, the two of us must adjourn someplace quiet for a talk about your cargo.”
“Thank you. I don’t know when the ship is expected. It could be anytime between now and the end of the month. I just hope to be prepared.”
Then, in a louder voice for Abby’s benefit, Undine said, “But tell me, Serafina, do we think this nobility of Mr. MacHarg’s is ever going to be tested?”
Abby, who had been too busy weighing the bone-tingling excitement of MacHarg’s kiss against the risks of succumbing to that excitement to be bothered by a bit of teasing, sniffed. “I have no doubt I’d find it unwavering,” she said and dove into the water.
Eleven
Duncan made his way along the sun-swept path—if the lightly trod grasses could be called a path at all. The morning sky was a vibrant blue, but neither it nor the sun’s rays had been able to penetrate the gray unhappiness that hung over him since finding Rosston outside of Abby’s door. Nab had told him Undine would be returning that morning, and Duncan intended to flag down her carriage the insta
nt she arrived, so that he might press her for the spell needed to reverse the magic that had brought him here. Nab had also told him that Rosston was “as rich as a sultan,” which got Duncan wondering if Abby saw the marriage as a way to save her clan. She certainly didn’t display a lover’s affection for her fiancé in public.
Duncan made his way down the path Nab had recommended to reach the main road, rather than waiting inside. The day was fine, and in any case, Duncan was determined to put as much distance between him and the castle as possible. The last thing he wanted was to run into Rosston radiating self-satisfaction and bonhomie in the afterglow of a night in Abby’s bed.
Duncan’s first errand that morning had been to see Sir Alan, who, with the lure of a bit of salmon fishing, had been convinced to take a tour of the canal site and see the work done to date. Nab had said it was impressive, and Nab had been right. Sir Alan had left for Edinburgh far more open to the idea of a loan than he had been before the tour. In fact, he’d said he’d collect his overseer in Cumbria and return in a few days for another look. If Duncan could talk to Sir Alan uninterrupted, money man to money man, he was sure he could wrap up the deal. Abby would be thrilled, and Duncan couldn’t wait to see her face when he broke the news. Rosston may have won her hand, but what might Abby think when she realized the only man who could give her what she really wanted—a way to save her clan without marrying—was Duncan?
The lush, green fields turned to rolling hills blanketed with heather, shrubs, and trees. As beautiful as it was, he was glad he’d convinced Nab to find him a pistol with real balls to shoot. One couldn’t be too careful in the borderlands, he knew. The path took a winding turn up and around a steep rise. At the top, he froze.
He was perched on the bank of a river. On the opposite bank, in full view of heaven and earth, stood a very naked Abby, toes gripped around a jutting ledge and arms curved over her head. Her breasts, lush and full, shone pale against the golden brown of her shoulders, and the damp triangle of raven curls below her belly glistened in the dappled light. She executed a precise arc, her perfect bottom the apex of the oval, and slid into the water with hardly a splash.
Undine and Serafina treaded in the blue pool with her, each as naked as Abby herself.
Duncan jumped out of sight, blood buzzing.
The breathtaking image was not only seared into his brain, it was galloping at a feverish clip through some less genteel parts of his body as well. In all his years, he had never witnessed anything as ball-gripping as Abby Kerr’s dive.
He hurried on, ducking to keep from being seen, then slowed and stopped, the sound of Abby’s laughter too enchanting to leave behind.
Nothing, of course, would induce him to return to the rise. That would be ungentlemanly. But as far as he knew, there was nothing untoward about listening to a naked woman. Well, perhaps there was, given the thoughts tumbling through his imagination. But what was in a man’s head was between a man and his conscience, no one else.
He walked a little farther, found a shady spot under a tree, and sat. Her nipples, small and rosy, had been stiff with the chill of the water. He wondered what it might be like to run his palm lightly over the tips or to take one between his teeth. Would she cry out or squirm—or arch like a satisfied cat?
The women were talking now—the lower notes of Abby’s voice mixed with Serafina’s higher soprano and Undine’s clipped cadence. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. They were talking like friends, in quick streams of banter and laughter.
Three naked women. Six creamy legs. Three glossy mounds.
He closed his eyes, imagining them in his bed as he watched, a tangle of warm limbs—Serafina, reticent but curious; Undine, aloof and practical; and Abby, lost in the pleasure. They would suckle and kiss and probe, their skin pink with their exertions, the scent of their joining like the lush, perfumed air of a tropical forest.
And he would come to the bed, weaving himself among them—
His eyes opened. No, no, no. Interesting but not quite right. He thought some more.
He would come to the bed, pulling Abby from the tangle, her cheeks flushed, and she would roll on top of him, tan and eager, as the other women faded into nothingness.
Aye, that was it. His eyes closed.
He would feel her perfect, round bottom straining against him, and he would cup it as she lowered herself over him, her flowery scent stirring a maelstrom of desire.
He was fully hard now, as hard as he’d ever been, the plaid folds tented comically over his cock. He reached under the fabric and grabbed it, his hand a poor but serviceable substitute for the heavenly tightness of Abby’s quim.
She would move slowly, eyes shut, working to find her own pleasure at first. And then she would have it, and those violet eyes would flutter, and his heart would catch, afraid the world-ending pleasure of their joining would be over if he made the slightest noise.
Hungering for a taste of her, he would roll her bud slowly, until his thumb was slick with her desire. Then he would suck the salty-sweet honey from it.
Oh God! His hand was moving so steadily, he was going to finish before he reached the part where he pleasured her. With effort, he slowed his movement and returned to his daydream.
She would ride him now, her arms extended over her head, as graceful as a dancer’s. Her breasts would be so smooth, so warm.
His hand quickened. His balls burned with single-minded need.
Mewling thickly, she would writhe over him, scorching his already-burning loins, and he would stare in awe of this stunning, smart, wicked-tongued woman who had stolen his heart, knowing he was completely in her power—
A twig snapped and his eyes flew open.
He stared into the blue eyes of a living, breathing Fury, her chemise clinging to her damp breasts, her arrow pointed directly at his balls.
“You goddamned Peeping Tom,” Abby said. “Take your hand off your cock, and stand up and take your punishment.”
Twelve
Duncan jumped to his feet and raised his hands. If the arrow didn’t kill him, the shame of being caught ministering to what would undoubtedly be the last willing erection of his life would. On the whole, he thought he might prefer the arrow.
Abby scowled. “Tell me why I shouldn’t put this through your heart.”
Heart. Much better. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking—”
“Och, no? Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought. What exactly did ye see?”
“I…I…”
“Come, MacHarg. Don’t add lying to your list of sins.” She pulled the string tighter, and the bow made a terrifying groan.
“I saw you on the rock about to dive,” he admitted.
“And?”
His erection, which had faltered in the crosshairs of the bow and arrow, was finding its second wind. The wet chemise was more than even the fear of death could vanquish. He shook his head. “I can’t say.”
“Now you’ve found your modesty? Speak, MacHarg. My fingers are starting to ache.”
“You were naked,” he said quickly, hoping to stave off the coup de grâce.
“And?”
He wished he could jam his bloody cock between his legs. But he didn’t dare move. He closed his eyes. The shock of cold metal made him jerk back instantly, and he banged his head on the tree trunk. She had pressed the flat head of the arrow against the bottom of his chin.
“Closing your eyes is not a good idea in this kind of engagement,” she said.
“Nor is getting too close,” he said, summoning bravado. “I might make a grab for your arrow.”
She snorted. “I canna recommend it. Your shaft-grabbing skills are estimable, I know, but the arrowhead would split your windpipe like an ax through an apple before your grip even tightened.”
His throat felt very soft and exposed.
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br /> “What else did you see?”
He shook his head. She pressed the steel hard enough to pinch.
“Your nipples!” he cried. “The tan on your collarbone! A scar on your back! Jesus, what do you want to hear?”
She glared. “What about Undine and Serafina?”
“Who? Oh, right.” The fire in his cheeks rose. “Sorry. I barely noticed them.”
Abby’s squinted eye opened for an instant and just as quickly reverted to its former state.
She stared down the length of the arrow. With a disdainful hm, she lowered the bow. He dropped his arms and exhaled. Then she took his pistol and slipped it under her quiver strap. “Where is your home, MacHarg?”
He could feel the accusation in her words—only a spy or a fool hides himself within earshot of the clan leader—but no one would question Duncan’s loyalty to Scotland, not while he drew breath. “Edinburgh,” he said, squaring his shoulders.
“You’re a liar. You’re a Scot. That I can hear in your voice. But you’re something else too.”
Subtle changes happen every year in a dialect—word choices, rhythm. A Scots accent three or four hundred years ago was different than a Scots accent of the twenty-first century. Duncan could hear the difference himself. But he also knew eighteen months in New York City would alter a man’s accent more than five hundred years of natural changes. The last time his grand-da heard Duncan ask for a cup of “caw-fee,” he’d been horrified.
“My mother’s Dutch,” Duncan said and immediately regretted it. Was Holland Scotland’s ally or enemy now? He wished he knew his history a wee bit better. Three hundred years ago, alliances had changed practically every month.
“You dinna sound Dutch.”
“Because I’m an Edinburger, I told you. We’re on the same side.”
She made a dubious noise. “There are plenty in Edinburgh who would line their pockets by selling Scotland to the crown.”
This was history Duncan knew as well as he knew as his own name. Maybe better. Scotland was “sold” to England via the Act of Union in 1707, an agreement between the countries that deprived Scotland of independence and formed the country known as Great Britain. The year lived in infamy in the minds of Scotsmen. And the polarizing debate over whether or not the agreement should be entered into had begun in Scottish parliament in 1705. Duncan now knew in what time he’d landed, give or take a year.
