Highlander in Love

by Julia London

  “You have no such promise from me, sir,” she said, laughing, and taking his hand firmly in hers, dragged him to the middle of the old rug. She pivoted about, determined there was enough room, and faced him. Holding her skirt, she curtsied deeply before him. “Will you do me the honor, sir?”

  “Aye. I said I would.”

  Still bent in a deep curtsy, she peeked up at him through her lashes. “Yes, I realize that you did. But now you should offer your hand to help me up.”

  He immediately stuck out his paw of a hand and pulled her, a little roughly, to her feet. And stood there, woodenly holding her hand, staring into her eyes.

  “If you’d like, you might kiss the back of a lady’s hand,” she said softly.

  His gaze unwavering, he brought her hand to his mouth and touched his lips to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. Arush of heat swept over her; she felt strangely unsteady in her skin.

  Liam slowly lifted his head. “Now supposing that the lady has agreed to dance with the likes of me,” he murmured, still holding her hand, “which dance has she chosen?”

  “The waltz,” Ellen said, a little breathlessly. “Do you remember?”

  “Oh, aye, I do.”

  His gaze steady on hers, he slowly pulled her to him until she was standing close enough that he could put his hand on her waist, his palm covering almost all of her rib cage. Liam was staring at her, his gaze boring right through her, seeping down into her very depths, and Ellen felt strangely exposed, as if he could actually see who she had been, who she had become, what the future held for her.

  Her skin flushed dark and hot; she looked away, unable to endure the intensity of his gaze, in spite of wanting to feel the burn of it.

  “What is it then, lass? Have ye forgotten the waltz?” he asked softly.

  “Ah…no, I just—”

  “If I recall properly, it goes something like this,” he said, and began to move, slowly and deliberately, his eyes never leaving her face. “One, two, three, one, two, three,” he murmured, moving her cautiously but fluidly from side to side. “Ye are the teacher, Ellie. Ye must tell me how I do.”

  How did he do? She could scarcely speak at the moment, her heart and body feeling the flow of silent music through them, her mind returning to days long since lost to her, days in which she would dance and laugh and feel a man’s arms around her. How long had it been? Years, certainly. Decades, centuries. A lifetime since she had known a man’s touch, since she had felt immortal.

  Liam began to hum, moving her across the room, his steps growing more fluid, the rhythm of his body a natural grace. “Tell me, Ellie,” he said, his voice husky. “Tell me how I do.”

  She realized she was staring at his neckcloth and glanced up at the man who had kissed her so passionately, saw the pink scar in the shadows of his face, the intense green eyes, the strong jaw, and thought him the most handsome of men, a prince.

  “Well?” he murmured.

  “Astonishingly well.”

  “That’s right kind of ye,” he said, and suddenly pulled her tightly into his body, twirling her around. Ellen felt her skirts swirl away from her body, a sensation as natural as it was ancient, one that snapped something in her—a need, a desire, she didn’t really know—but Ellen closed her eyes and let her head drop back, unwilling to stop her fall into the bliss of carefree dancing.

  They danced to his low hum, Liam an expert now, twirling her this way and that, letting her float along with him, making her skirts swirl wide and full around their legs. It was glorious, magical, transporting her back to a happier time. His arm snaked behind her back; he drew her even closer into his body, so that she could feel the hardness of his torso and thighs, the sheer masculinity beneath his native clothing. Her body hungered for him to hold her, to crush her between his arms.

  He must have read her very thoughts; without warning, he suddenly touched her exposed neck with his lips, brushing the hollow of her throat, the curve to her chin, and around to the soft spot just below the ear.

  She was dancing in a dream. This felt exactly like so many dreams—intoxicating, dizzying—and Ellen, dancing in her dream, lifted her head, put her hands on either side of his head and drew him to her.

  He was Liam.

  And Liam said not a word when she kissed him, just lifted her from where she stood, walking with her in his arms as her lips found his ear, her tongue the length of his scar. He moved to the broken settee and let go his grip of her, letting her slide the length of his body to the floor. She could feel his hardness beneath the kilt, the rigid length and width of it, pressed against her groin. It had been so long, so very long…Her body was quivering—the caress of a single finger felt like a thousand little fires on her skin. Every touch of his lips drenched her in an ethereal silkiness.

  “God forgive me, Ellie,” he whispered into her neck. “But I want to take ye now, make love to ye. I would show ye how mad with desire ye’ve made me, how I adore ye.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, feeling almost delirious now. “Yes, yes, make love to me, Liam…”

  Meet Griffin Lockhart, the hero of HIGHLANDER IN DISGUISE, the second novel in the Lockhart family trilogy, and Anna Addison, the saucy, highborn young woman who catches his eye and steals his heart.

  “I told ye to dress in something less priggish, did I no’?”

  Confused, Anna looked down at her gown. It was a pale blue silk, adorned with tiny pink rosebuds and gathered at her back into a long train; it had cost her father a small fortune to commission. “But I did dress less priggishly!”

  With a shake of his head, Lockhart strode across to where she stood. “A man likes to see a wee hint of what is beneath.” He frowned at her bosom, then lifted his hand as if he meant to touch her bodice. Anna froze. He hesitated. She let out a quick sigh of relief.

  And then he did it. Just put his hand on the bodice of her gown—dug into her bodice, actually, his fingers curling around the fabric and his knuckles sinking into the round flesh of her breasts. She gasped; he frowned and forced the bodice of her gown down, so that it just barely covered her breasts.

  “There,” he said, more to himself, and pulled his fingers from her dress. “Aye, there ye are,” he said again. He had not, as yet, lifted his gaze from her bosom, and in between her shock and the shaking of her knees, she caught her breath and held it.

  He stood there like a mute, staring at her breasts for what seemed an eternity, but then suddenly stepped back and away from her as he lifted his gaze to her eyes. “There, then, do ye see, lass? A woman’s bosom is to be politely admired…” His gaze flicked to her breasts again. “No’ hidden away,” he muttered, and abruptly turned away.

  Anna released her breath.

  “Perhaps ye should bring a slate and take notes of what I tell ye. When ye are in the presence of a man ye admire,” he said, his back to her, “ye’d do yerself well to use such a…bonny bosom to yer advantage.”

  “Use it?”

  “Aye. To catch his eye.”

  “By exposing myself?” a perplexed Anna asked.

  “No’ expose them—Diah! Aman doesna want to see them until he has the lass in his bed. But he very much wants to imagine, and he needs a wee bit of help in that regard!” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Ye’ve no idea what I mean, aye?” he asked, frowning a little, and pivoted about, once again closing the distance between them.

  And once again, before Anna could determine what he was about, he grabbed her hand in his, then snaked an arm around her back so that his hand was on the small of her back, and pulled her into his chest as if they were dancing.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  He grinned, a boyish, devilish grin. “I’m pretending to stand up with ye, lass. And ye may pretend ye coerced me into doing so, if ye prefer—”

  “I did not coerce you!”

  “Uist! Ye complain too much!” he said, and stepped backward, awkwardly dragging her with him. “All right, then, pretend ye are dan
cing with yer dandy Mr. Lockhart, will ye, light as a fairy on yer pretty little feet, and ye’d like him to pay close attention to what ye say. How, then, do ye drag his attention away from yer bonny sister across the room?”

  She frowned as he moved backward, dragging her along. “It’s quite impossible to pretend anything without at least the hint of music.”

  “Ach, Anna! Can ye no’ use just a wee bit of yer imagination? We’ve only begun to dance!” He smiled; his gaze dipped to her bosom again. “Go on, then,” he said, his voice softer. “How do ye gain his attention?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said irritably. “I suppose I’d say something like…‘You seem to enjoy dancing, sir.’”

  Grif suddenly paused in his strange little dance, looked at her as if he expected her to say more. “Is that the best ye can do, then?”

  She thought about it. “Yes,” she said with a firm nod. “If I make polite conversation with a gentleman, he should respond in kind.”

  Grif sighed heavenward, as if she were intentionally taxing him. “ ‘If ye make polite conversation, a gentleman should respond?’” he mimicked her. “If ye want a man to see only ye, to think of only ye, then ye must do more than make polite conversation!”

  “Really?” she said uncertainly. “What more should I do?”

  “Mary Queen of Scots,” he groused. “Mind what I do now. Do ye see how far away I hold ye from me?”

  “Yes. A proper distance.”

  “Aye. ’Tis a proper distance for grandmothers and spinsters. But if ye want him to hold ye close like a lover, then ye will move just so,” he said, prompting her with a hand at the small of her back, pushing her closer to him. Anna took one step. Then two, at his urging, and a third, so that now her bosom was brushing against his coat.

  He grinned appreciatively. “Now ye have me undivided attention. And ye say…?”

  “I say…‘Do you enjoy dancing?’”

  “No, no! Ye look up into me eyes, through those lovely lashes…lean forward now, lean forward…aye, there ye have it! And say, ‘Ye’re a bloody fine dancer, Mr. Lockhart,’” he said in a falsetto voice while batting his lashes. “ ‘What other talents might ye be hiding from me, then?’”

  Anna couldn’t help herself. She burst into laughter.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “What other talents might you be hiding?” she repeated, and laughed again.

  “Then give me one better!” he challenged her. “Show me how ye’d gain yer love’s attention, and God blind me if ye mention the bloody weather!”

  She laughed again, laughed deeply at her situation, which suddenly seemed ridiculously absurd.

  With a dangerous grin, Lockhart yanked her into his chest, holding her so tightly that she could scarcely catch her breath. “Ah, there ye are,” he said low. “A bonny laugh ye have, Anna.”

  That was the moment Anna felt something inside her trip and fall, something come clean away from all the snares and traps and tangles of the propriety in which she’d been steeped all these years. And as he began to move, she pressed into him as he had shown her, looked up at him from beneath her lashes as he’d directed, and said, in a purring voice, “My, my, sir, how well you move us about the dance floor! One can’t help but wonder if you move as well in other, more intimate circumstances,” she said, and let her lips stretch into a soft smile.

  It worked. Grif’s grin faded; he slowed his step a little and blinked down at her for a moment. But that dangerous smile slowly appeared again, starting in his eyes and casually reaching his lips. “If ye were to pose such a question to me, lass, I’d say, ‘As fast or as slow, as soft or as hard as ye’d want, leannan. Pray tell, how would ye want?’”

  The tingling in her groin was a signal that she was on perilous ground. Anna looked into his green eyes, so dark and so deep that she couldn’t quite determine if this was a game they were playing or something far more dangerous. And her good sense, shaped and controlled from years of living among high society, quietly shut down, allowing the real Anna, the Anna who yearned to be loved, to be held and caressed and adored and know all manner of physical pleasure, to slide deeper into the circle of his arms.

  “I don’t rightly know how I’d want, sir, other than to say…” Her voice trailed away as she let her gaze roam his face, the perfectly tied neckcloth, the breadth of his shoulders, his thick arms. And then she lifted her gaze to his, saw something smoldering there, and recklessly whispered, “…that I’d most definitely want.”