Immortal Warriors 01 - Return of the Highlander

by Sara Mackenzie

  MacLean was holding his breath, all sensible thought vanished from his mind, leaving only a hot and desperate yearning.

  Bella gasped again, twisting on her bed, and the shirt rose even higher. Her breast was half exposed now, the dark pink nipple contrasting with her lush creamy skin.

  MacLean felt the yearning within him grow almost painful. He stretched out his hand toward her, tentative, wondering if a miracle might happen and that he might feel.

  Because he wanted to. More than anything in a very long time, he wanted to feel the marvelous softness of her skin, bury his face against her and breathe in her scent, her warmth, her tranquility. He needed her and it looked to him as if she needed him.

  His shaking fingertips touched flesh. He bit back a groan. So soft, so smooth, so warm. Not daring to think in case it ended, he began to explore the curve of her breast, fingers shaking more than ever, holding his breath, afraid that the slightest sound might make it all stop.

  Were women's bodies always this beautiful? he asked himself feverishly, as he ran his fingers over her nipple and felt it tighten and harden. He wanted to close his eyes and savor the sensation, but he dared not linger. In another moment he could be a wraith again, feeling nothing, hovering between life and death and not really inhabiting either.

  She had calmed down, the nightmare passing, and now she made a little sound and turned her face away, presenting him with the curve of her jaw and ear and the delicate line of her neck. He touched her breast again, stroking the warm fullness, dizzy with the knowledge that he could feel again. And that she could feel him. Dinna stop, he thought. Dinna let it stop. I promise to go back to my hell without a fight if you dinna let it stop just yet…

  His fingers glided down over her ribs to the rounded swell of her belly, and he cupped his palm over her hip. She shifted slightly, but not to move away. In her sleep she was pressing closer. Braver now, he trailed his fingers down to the edge of her trousers, where they rode low across her midriff. The cord was untied, making them loose, and when he slid his hand beneath there was no resistance.

  Bella opened her legs, as if to invite him to touch. She murmured in her sleep. He let his hand follow its path down, through the warm soft hair that covered her mound, down into the slick, womanly folds.

  His heart was pounding. The muscles and sinews of his body were taut, as though he were readying himself for battle. His breath was hurting his chest and his throat as he struggled to calm himself. It was so good. As he stroked her, felt the heat of her, he knew he had never felt anything so good, nor anything he had wanted so much.

  She arched her back, pushing against his hand. Her own hands moved aimlessly across the rumpled quilt and sheets, and her lips parted as she murmured something, a word.

  "MacLean."

  "Bella," he whispered, his body alive and tingling and no longer a useless imitation of a man.

  Asleep, she had shed the doubts and uncertainties that seemed to plague her waking self. She was all woman, beautiful and warm and passionate, and as he gently pressed his fingers into the core of her, she surged against him, seeking to bring herself to her peak. She moaned softly, then louder as he flicked his thumb against that tight, eager nub. She reached out and her fingers wrapped around his forearm, gripping him tightly, holding him just where she wanted him.

  He laughed in delight, watching her, enjoying her. His own body was rigid with lust, but he didn't care about that. For so long he had not felt, and now he had no need to sate himself to experience the ultimate pleasure. Watching her was enough.

  She was rubbing herself against him, gasping a little as the sensation built, the moisture on his hand telling him she was almost done. And then at last she peaked, crying out so wildly that he laughed again, pleased and admiring.

  Here was a woman not afraid to enjoy herself! This was the real Bella, hot and sensual, unashamed of her body. His Bella, a woman to spend a lifetime with.

  Suddenly MacLean realized she had gone very still.

  Her fingers, still wrapped about his forearm, had relaxed and loosened. Now they tightened again, convulsively, and with a shriek she leapt away from him to the other end of the bed. He heard a thud as she fell off and hit the floor.

  His body was aching with incompletion, but he did not mind. Observing her, pleasing her, had been enough for him for now, and such a thing did not even seem strange to him. He watched, amused, as her tousled hair appeared over the top of the mattress, and then two big eyes. He wondered what she would do when she saw him, and waited, his breath held.

  She blinked, slowly, looking about the room. Looking at him, then past him, then through him.

  Disappointment ravaged him, compounding the ache he was already suffering. She couldn't see him. He reached out but didn't dare to touch her again. He couldn't face the anguish if his hand passed through her.

  Bella stood up, swaying a little, and pushed her hair out of her eyes. The bedclothing hugged her curves and he felt his body stir again. He wanted her, but what was the point of trying to ease his body on a woman who didn't know he was there? What if he fell right through her as if she were water?

  He wanted to feel the warmth of her, her soft living flesh beneath him, her mouth against his. He wanted her eyes looking into his eyes. He wanted her to need him as much as he needed her.

  "Dear God," she murmured. She reached and with shaking hands flicked on the light by the bed. Nothing happened. So she searched around, fumbling and cursing, and lit a candle. Then she sat down on the side of the bed and put her head in her hands.

  MacLean looked at the dejected curve of her spine. He wanted to comfort her, but it was not something he excelled at—comforting women hadn't been part of his position as chief of the clan. But he was no longer a chief, and Bella needed kindness and understanding… Once again he went with his instincts.

  "I didna mean to hurt you," MacLean said in his deep, slightly husky voice.

  And Bella froze.

  * * *

  Chapter Ten

  His voice! She jumped up again and spun around. Nothing. The room was the same, messy and empty of all but shadows. There was an ache low in her belly and her head was spinning, and she kept remembering the hand on her body, touching, urging her, until she had climaxed harder and stronger than she could remember doing for a very long time.

  If ever.

  She had thought she was dreaming, like before, when he had made love to her by the Cailleach Stones. It was only after the climax that she realized it wasn't a dream after all. The man was real. She could feel his wrist beneath her hands, the rough hairs and the powerful muscles corded under his skin, the bones within. And his pulse, as real warm blood pounded through his veins.

  He was here and he was real.

  Except, when she peered over the side of the mattress, he wasn't here after all. There was no one here, and certainly a man wouldn't have had time to rush from the room and down the stairs, not without her seeing him, hearing him…

  But she had heard him.

  That deep Scottish voice—like warm whiskey seeping into her every pore. A shiver that had nothing to do with fear zigzagged through her body, and she was acutely aware of the lingering ache between her thighs.

  "Where are you?" she asked the empty room. Because he was here! She knew it. Felt it. And deep down she had known it for a while.

  "I'm seated on your bed, lass."

  Her gaze found the source of the voice. Nothing. Except… She squinted. There was an indentation on the side of the mattress, and now that she looked more closely she could see it was a very large indentation for a very large… ghost?

  "I can't see you," she whispered.

  "You saw me once," he whispered back.

  Bella blinked. The night in the kitchen after Brian had left, the brief but vivid image of the Scotsman in the kilt. Big, tall, dark-haired, with pale eyes the color of the evening sky. MacLean. It had been his hand, his fingers, inside her just now, knowing just what she liked, j
ust where to stroke.

  She didn't know whether to laugh in amazement or cry with embarrassment.

  "Why are you here?" Her voice was sharp.

  The dent moved, flattened out, and then she heard the floor creaking from the approach of a heavy weight.

  Suddenly she was frightened. He was much bigger than her, and he was invisible.

  "Stay away!" she cried. "Don't come near me."

  The creaking stopped, and she heard him sigh. "Verra well," he said. "I dinna know why I'm here. I canna answer you."

  "You're… dead?"

  "I dinna think so."

  "But you must be!"

  He laughed, that soft husky sound that caught her low in the belly and intensified the ache. "I'm far from dead at the moment, believe me."

  "Who are you?" But she knew; she'd known all along.

  There was a pause, and Bella waited, and then he spoke again. "I am the MacLean."

  Even though she'd known what he was going to say, the name made Bella dizzy. She thought about lying down on the bed, but she didn't dare in case he saw it as an invitation. This was the MacLean, the Black MacLean, the man she had been fantasizing about ever since she saw his portrait.

  "Then you must be dead," she said as matter-of-factly as she could, "because the MacLean died over two hundred years ago."

  "Two hundred and fifty," came the dry reply.

  Suddenly it was too much for her.

  "Go away," she whispered. "I… I need to dress. Can you wait downstairs?"

  Another sigh. "Aye. I willna go verra far," he said, and she had the feeling he was mocking her. The heavy footsteps moved toward the door, and then it closed very quietly, all by itself, and he was gone.

  Bella sat down and tried to order her thoughts. She had known there was a ghost in her cottage, but there was a difference between knowing and knowing.

  But was he a ghost? A man who said he wasn't dead, whom she'd only seen once but who'd made his presence felt by moving objects, touching her, speaking to her.

  Did that make him real?

  He'd felt real a moment ago, when he'd sent her into blissful orbit.

  Bella took a deep breath, and then another. She had heard, somewhere, that sometimes the spirits of the dead walked the earth because they did not realize they were dead. They needed someone to explain it to them, guide them gently on their path to wherever they were meant to be, and then they would just… vanish.

  She felt a stab of disappointment. She didn't want him to go away. She had an eighteenth century Highland chief in her cottage. They had been together in bed… She squeezed her eyes tight shut. Oh God, this was the man Brian had accused her of having steamy thoughts about, and she had, but Bella knew she wasn't ready for that kind of relationship with a… a ghost. And what if he now expected her to be his sexual plaything? It was true, he had left the room when she asked him to, so perhaps he could be trusted. Come to think of it, he had been very polite. Thoughtful, even. A gentleman.

  Except he wasn't, not according to the legend.

  She mustn't be lulled into trusting him; this wasn't the time to let her emotions overrule cold good sense.

  Grabbing up a sweater, she pulled it over her pajama top, and some baggy trousers over the bottoms, then tugged on some warm socks. It seemed a bit silly to cover herself up now, when he had seen so much of her, but it gave her confidence.

  Wondering if she was completely insane, Bella picked up the candle and made her way cautiously down the stairs.

  The kitchen was empty.

  Bella wasn't deceived. He was there, she could feel his presence like warm breath against her skin. Nervously, she edged into the room. "MacLean?"

  "Lass."

  His voice came from right behind her and she jumped and backed away, trying to steady her breathing. Her gaze flicked about, but there was nothing to see but shadows.

  "I saw you… I think I saw you once. Are you wearing a kilt and a black jacket?"

  "Aye, a plaid and a velvet jacket, and I have my claidheamh mor at my side. I am like the painting you have a likeness of, only without the trews."

  "The tr-trews, of course." She flicked a glance at the painting. "You sound very tall."

  "Aye, I'm tall. Six foot and four inches. I canna stand straight in your wee house."

  He was complaining about the height of her ceilings? Bella cleared her throat. It was bizarre; she was talking to someone who wasn't here, and yet she could see him in her mind. Tall, stooping beneath the ceiling, his dark hair falling forward, his pale eyes fixed on her. MacLean was here in her cottage, and tonight he'd made her feel so wonderfully alive she could still feel the aftershocks.

  "Why are you here?" Her voice shook, but she hoped he didn't know why. Please don't let him be able to read my mind.

  "Here?"

  "In this cottage."

  "I dinna know."

  "Are you sure you're not dead? Maybe you are and you don't know it. Maybe you need to accept it and then go on your journey."

  He made a scornful sound, and she felt her face flush.

  "I was taken by the Fiosaiche and I have been sleeping in the between-worlds for two hundred and fifty years. Now I am awakened and my task is before me, but I dinna know what it is except that I am to become the man I should always have been. To fail means I must return to the between-worlds, and believe me that is not a place anyone would wish to go."

  Bella sat down and tried to make sense of this. Between-worlds? Where had she heard this recently? It sounded crazy, but then the whole thing was insane. "What is the Fiosaiche? I've heard that name."

  "She who decides our fate when we die. The Fiosaiche has powerful magic. She can send a soul to the world of the dead or punish them in the between-worlds, or she can return you to the mortal world, as she did with me."

  "You mean a sort of witch? A sorceress?"

  "Aye."

  "So the between-worlds is something between life and death?"

  "Aye, a place of punishment and waiting."

  "Do you mean purgatory?"

  "It is no' called that." He sounded impatient. "Many souls are gathered there to hear their ultimate fate, but there are other creatures, too. The ancient ones who walked this land before man, and monsters and beings we know only through fable and legend. The between-worlds is their home."

  Bella remembered then where she'd heard of the between-worlds—the hag in her dream. "Is there a—a doorway into it?" she asked cautiously.

  "Aye, but it is closed."

  "Are you sure?"

  MacLean didn't answer, but whether because he was considering her question or because he found it simply too foolish, Bella was uncertain.

  "You say you have a task to perform, that you have to 'become the man you should always have been,' and the Fiosaiche hasn't told you how you're going to achieve this?" Bella frowned, concentrating on the moment in case she ran screaming out the door. "Her planning isn't great, is it?"

  That laughter again, so sexy it made her shiver. He was standing beside her. She wondered if she reached out her hands whether she would feel him, big and solid. She clenched them tighter in her lap.

  "Did the Fiosaiche send you here?"

  "I had nowhere else to go but home," he said bleakly. "I dinna imagine it would be destroyed and everything gone. I thought I would come home and live here again, become the man I used to be."

  Bella wondered what he would have done if there had been someone resident in his castle. Throw them out? Run his sword through them? Perhaps it was best not to ask. This man was possibly both brutal and violent, and she must not forget that and lower her guard. She was dealing with an eighteenth century Highlander, a barbarian with a surface veneer of sophistication, and according to legend that veneer was very thin. She needed to be extremely careful.

  "So what are you going to do?"

  "Do?" he asked, although it was more like a demand.

  "Yes, do. You have no home, so you've taken up residence in my cottag
e. I think I have a right to know your plans. What are you going to do?"

  "Wait."

  "I see." Bella looked up to where she thought he was. "But I live here. I'm finding it a little difficult coming to terms with the fact that you're here with me and I can't see you."

  She heard the smile in his voice. "I will sing if you like, so that you won't be frightened and you will always know where I am."

  "I'm not frightened," Bella said levelly, although she was.

  It occurred to her that it might be difficult to get any work done with a singing ghost. Bad enough that she sang to herself, but if MacLean did it, too…

  "But… won't you get bored? What do you do all the time?"

  "I watch you," he said, "and I walk with you."

  She went cold. "I don't understand."

  "You are the only one who can see me, hear me, feel me. No one else can. I want to stay here with you."

  Bella had a ghostly stalker. "My lease runs out in four weeks, but apart from that I don't think I want you to stay here."

  "These are my lands. You are the interloper, Bella."

  Oh God, he knew her name. Goose bumps rose on her skin; she rubbed her arms vigorously. "How long have you been here?"

  "I was born in 1716 and I—"

  "This time, I mean."

  "Since your man left you."

  "I knew you were here, I knew it. The mug moving—that was you, wasn't it?"

  "Aye. No' that it was easy, mind!"

  "You've never touched me before, though."

  "I've tried," he said promptly. "This is the first time you've felt me."

  Bella swallowed, refusing to let her imagination distract her with memories of his warm fingers.

  "You've walked right through me many times," he added with a note of complaint.

  That explained the zings she'd been getting.

  "You couldn't talk before, you couldn't touch before. What's happening?"

  "I dinna know exactly, but I think it has something to do with you, Bella. The Fiosaiche is giving me back these things, rewarding me, whenever I please her. I'm just no' sure what I am doing right and what I am doing wrong." He sounded petulant, as if he wasn't used to being subordinate to another.