Lusting for the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Lydia Kendall

  Warmth bloomed inside of her as they kissed, followed by a heady dizziness that made her feel almost tipsy. A part of her told her to stop, to think about what was happening. But the rest of her, most of her, was falling into the pleasure of her first real kiss. On the back of her neck, she could feel Gregor’s strong fingers massaging small circles in the tender skin there. Then, beneath her, his lap shifted, and she slid forward so that her chest was pressed tightly up against his.

  His lips tasted like the wine; a dark, oaky red that made her head spin. Morgana felt a craving she never knew fill her, and boldly, she ran her tongue across Gregor’s bottom lip. A feral growl escaped from his chest, and she moaned as his tongue slid between her lips to deepen the kiss.

  Slowly he massaged her tongue with own, letting their lips break and come together passionately as they kissed. His lips had looked so firm, yet they had molded to hers softly, carefully. As if he hadn’t wanted to scare her.

  Then, as quickly as the kiss had started, it had stopped. In a flurry of movements, Morgana was suddenly standing on swaying feet and Gregor was several paces away, his back to her. Even in the dim light of the fire she could see he was shaking.

  “Please forgive me, me lady.” His voice was but a deep rumble from his chest, sounding more beast than man. He shook his head. “I daenae ken what came over me.”

  Still dizzy from the kiss, Morgana shook her head. She too was shaking.

  Had it been so cold before?

  Or had his body just been so warm? She wanted to feel him again. Her palms itched to do so. She wanted to touch him too, with her hands. Taken by surprise, they had simply stayed on his shoulders. But she wanted more.

  “It’s–it’s alright,” she whispered, still trying to find her breath. She took a step toward him and he quickly turned around. Pain was written on his face, and she felt her heart twist for him. She took another step forward, but this time he took several steps back.

  “That was wrong of me,” he apologized again, heading toward the door.

  “My Laird, please,” Morgana pleaded, wanting to know what had suddenly happened.

  “You should get some rest,” he said in response, not turning to look at her again. “I should too. I’ll be back to help as soon as I can.”

  The church door opened and shut, and Morgana was left alone. Confusion and embarrassment welled up in her as she began to pace the floor.

  What had happened?

  Had she been too willing? Too rigid? A deep blush of shame filled her cheeks at the idea of Gregor thinking either.

  Something akin to grief filled her, and fighting back tears, Morgana returned to the medicine. The brew had finally turned the right color, and could be removed from the fire. Wanting something to keep her mind busy, she pushed sleep aside and started the next stage of the process.

  From the pulpit, the priest slowly backed away until he could reach the door that led to the cellar stairs. Without making a sound he descended quickly down them and out the secret entrance. He had seen the Laird of Henwen stride into the church and he had been prepared to confront him. The witch’s spells were clearly not working, and it was time for him to return to the church. Mass was in two days’ time and the congregation needed their House of God back.

  He had been prepared to take a stand, to tell the Laird that the witch needed to go, but then he saw something interesting. The fiery redhead, so beautiful, so deceivingly pure, had told the Laird things that only he could know. Then he watched, horrified, as he fell under her sensual spell.

  The priest had finally breathed in relief when the Laird had broken free and left the witch. But how long would it be until she had her clutches in him again and was bringing the Devil to their village? She was not at all what she seemed to the Laird. Lust was clouding his vision.

  The woman was dangerous, he could feel it in his bones, hear it in his ears as if Christ himself was warning him. Something needed to be done. He would do whatever he needed to do to protect the souls of the village. Even if it meant angering the Laird that overlooked it.

  Chapter 10

  The taste of Morgana’s kiss burned on Gregor’s lips like the cinnamon whiskey their village made. When he had breathed her in her scent was the same and he had lost himself. The kiss had been as much of a surprise to him as it had been to her. Yet when he finally had her in his arms and was feeling that heavenly body press into his, he realized just how badly he had wanted her from the moment he first saw her.

  She wanted him too. He had felt it in the way her body melted into him like warm butter. Then, when her tongue had so coyly tasted his lips he’d nearly gone mad with need. The desire to strip her dress from her and explore her there on the flagstones had been almost impossible to deny.

  Then he remembered where he was, where they had been on their wedding day. Isabel’s pure, innocent face had appeared in front of him and guilt had washed over him. Suddenly he was half way across the room, wondering what in God’s name he had done.

  Morgana looked so hurt, so confused as he left. Gregor’s heart twisted when he saw the pain in her eyes, but he couldn’t stay. Immediately leaving the church Gregor went to rouse Hermes from his sleep, and of all things found the horse and Zeus asleep in his stall. How the large black beast had managed to get in there he had no clue, but there he was, sleeping soundly right up next to Hermes.

  The sight had calmed him somehow, but not enough to stop his need to visit Isabel and Ian’s graves. He made the journey alone and on foot, despite the dangers that lurked at night. His heartache, need, and confusion had fueled every step needed to reach their spot on the hill. Once there he had dropped to his knees and prayed for Isabel’s forgiveness.

  Somewhere between the prayers and curses Gregor found rest of some sorts lying in the little cemetery, and he dreamed. Isabel came to him, and he choked back a sob as he saw her again. This time she was holding their son and wearing a fawn-colored dress that bared the shoulders. Her long, honey-colored hair was flowing loosely down her back, and her big, beautiful doe eyes were full of peace and love.

  “Me love,” she breathed, smiling.

  Gregor felt the breath still in his chest. She held out her free hand to him and immediately he closed the space between them, wrapping his arms tightly about her and their babe.

  “Isabel,” he choked, kissing her temple repeatedly, trailing a line of them down her face and over her neck. “Oh me love, how I’ve missed ye.” He breathed in her wild, familiar scent of heather and it was so real that he thought for sure he had finally crossed over to the other side to join them.

  In her arm, the bairn stirred, cooing happily. Gregor pulled away only so he could look down at the beautiful boy. As he did, his heart so full it would nearly burst. He laid a gentle kiss on his forehead, and the babe responded with an affectionate, tiny smile.

  “Such a strong little lad,” he whispered, full of awe. He could see the boy’s familiar dark green eyes set above his mother’s nose. Love poured out of his chest for the babe, and he kissed him again. Everything felt so real, honest, that he forgot he was dreaming.

  “Gregor,” Isabel implored, her voice sounding hauntingly beautiful. Her hand reached out to cup his cheek and drew his gaze back to her.

  He kissed her again, but this time her lips felt different, lighter. As if they weren’t there.

  “This is not why we’re here,” she told him, her eyes shining with sadness. “Ye have to stop this. Ye have to find the water.”

  Gregor watched, confused, as Isabel’s big brown eyes slowly started to turn blue.

  “What?” he asked, taking a step back. He shook his head, not sure what was happening. In her arm, Ian slowly vanished. Isabel’s chocolate wavy brown hair began to curl and turn a familiar fiery red as she repeated her words.

  “Ye have to find the water, Gregor. Ye have to save them.”

  Before him Isabel was gone completely now. In her place stood Morgana, soaked to the bone and wearing a simple but be
autiful white dress. Her eyes were full of fear and they were looking directly at him. Suddenly her arms shot out, as if someone were pulling at them. He moved to help her but quick as a flash she was far out of reach and below him somehow.

  “Save us,” Morgana begged, her eyes pleading with him as she looked up. “You have to get the water.”

  Breath rushed into Gregor’s lungs so quickly that when he woke up he began choking. Immediately he sat up, and his body groaned in protest from sleeping on the hard, bare ground. He let out a curse as he attempted to get his bearings. Above him the sun was high, making it nearly eleven in the morning and for a moment he was in shock. It had been years since he’d slept past dawn.

  “Good rest?”

  Gregor cursed at the sound and was up on his feet instantly. He swiveled around, prepared to fight, but relaxed when he saw his Uncle Jamie and three of the village guards sitting on horses outside of the graveyard. Tied to his uncle’s horse was Hermes, who looked perturbed to be tethered to such a slow animal.

  “Uncle,” Gregor greeted, his voice husky.

  “Good mornin’ to ye,” Jamie replied wryly. “How’d ye sleep?”

  “Like the dead,” Gregor joked morbidly, cracking first his back and then his neck. His mind flashed back to the image of Isabel and Ian and surprisingly, he didn’t feel the normal wave of grief crush over him. In fact, he even felt a little revitalized.

  Jamie tossed him a waterskin full of Morgana’s specially boiled water. He caught it in the air and all but drained it, his throat feeling parched. The moment the liquid touched his tongue an epiphany thundered suddenly through his brain. His dream. The water. That was the second thing ailing his people.

  I have to find the water.

  When he had first suspected water causes, he had sent his men out to different streams to look for what could have possibly made them ill but when they’ve found about the milk, they had dropped that search. Now, however, his eyes were opened. What if the pollutant had been further up the near the river before the streams and brooks forked? What if all the streams were polluted?

  “We have to go,” Gregor commanded, the suddenness of it making everyone jump. He strode over to his uncle and began untethering Hermes from his uncle’s saddle.

  “Wait a minute there now, balach,” Jamie retorted, pushing Gregor’s hand away from the ties. “Daenae ye think ye should be telling me why it is ye never made it back to the castle last night, and we’re finding ye out here passed out like a drunkard at damn near noon on yer late wife’s grave?”

  Gregor laughed. Though he knew his uncle was being serious, to him the question had sounded like the start of a great joke. He threw a glance toward the older man though and it was quite clear that he found nothing funny about it.

  “I’ll tell ye on the way,” he promised, climbing up onto Hermes’s saddle. “Now listen.”

  Gregor informed the three guards to travel back to the village and have four teams of five each going out to different sections of the river. It was going to be a time-consuming task. The closest section of river itself was nearly half a day’s ride, but they had to investigate all four streams that fed into the valley. Then, once they found the pollutant they would have to figure out a way to remove it.

  “And where are you and I going, lad?” Jamie asked once the three guards were heading back to the village.

  “On ahead,” Gregor replied, nudging Hermes to ride ahead. “We can’t waste any time.”

  Jamie’s string of curses could be heard over Hermes’ pounding hooves, but Gregor didn’t slow down to let his uncle catch up. Soon he would talk to him, about what happened in the church and even his tormented feelings. For now though, he had to find a way to get his people better again.

  Chapter 11

  Thatcher’s Village

  Anger seethed from every pore on Fordun’s body. A dead end. A bloody dead end. He had made sure of it once he’d realized the witch had somehow led them around in circles. He was down one less soldier of God now, but it comforted him to know that he wouldn’t be forced into the presence of such stupidity again. It wasn’t the first time he had disposed of one of his own men, but his patience was wearing dangerously thin.

  The chase for Morgana had gone on for too long and what was once a fun game of cat and mouse had turned into a war he wasn’t getting any closer to winning. Morgana. He laughed bitterly to himself, clutching his cup of ale.

  Named after the famed Morgana Le Fay of the Arthurian Legends no doubt, the woman had only proved her evil by refusing to confront him. Just like the Morgana of the legends, she was a snake among the grass, she was elusive, able to move in the shadows like no mortal should.

  Fordun’s mind turned the memory of her over and over as he sat at an isolated table in the The Oak Tavern. Around him the local townspeople were drinking merrily and talking over one another in an excited fervor. He watched them with disgust, thinking of how dirty their souls were on the inside, despite their cheery faces. Feeding on his anger, he took another long draught from his ale.

  “My Lord.”

  Fordun didn’t look up at Bartholomew. He was still too disappointed in him with the false lead from the other guard to give him the respect of making eye contact.

  “Unless you’re bringing me the girl or more ale, you had better leave now.” The words hissed out of him like a threat. To prove his point, he swiftly drew his dagger and held it at Bartholomew’s femoral artery. His patience for their failures had worn out, and he was ready to be done with the lot of them.

  “Both, actually,” Bartholomew replied calmly, setting down a small pigeon scroll and a pint of ale in front of him. “It was sent from the Vatican.”

  Fordun snickered but picked up the pint and took a long swig. “Another wild chase? You must want to join your friend, Bartholomew.”

  The head guard didn’t flinch, but rather stared back at him coolly. After a long, intense stare down, Fordun pulled his blade away from Bartholomew’s inner thigh.

  “Go on,” Bartholomew urged him.

  Fordun looked at the scroll almost suspiciously before picking it up and breaking the religious wax seal. It was a letter from the Church, informing him of a witch that had taken over a house of God in Scotland, and that his services were needed there right away. The letter described the woman as beautiful, with long curling red hair, and a clean, ageless face with glittering blue eyes.

  She has charmed many with her gifts of herbs, but as man of the Church I know better.

  The priest from Henwen had written. It went on to explain how a sickness had come to their village not long after she had moved to their countryside, and now they were all suffering. He explained witnessing Morgana seduce the laird of the village in the very church she had him removed from, and was imploring the Vatican to send help to rid them of the witch.

  When Fordun finished the correspondence he looked at Bartholomew in disbelief. After months of no leads and a chase that led to nowhere, the location of the witch had been delivered to him by hands of God himself.

  “Behold the power of God,” Fordun murmured, reading the correspondence for a second time. The village nestled among the Highlands was named Henwen. He had never heard of it, but the priest that had written had provided a roughly drawn map of where Henwen was from the English/Scottish border.

  Fordun got up from his table immediately and motioned Bartholomew to follow him to his room upstairs. With the letter, his vigor had been returned. Yes, the witch had somehow led them in the exact opposite direction and wasted time. But he had her now, and with an ally he could now make sure that she stayed there.

  In his room he wrote back, expressing to the priest and the Church that he was on his way to perform his duty. He pressed the priest to make sure she didn’t suspect anything and, if possible, keep his disgust shielded so there would be no way for Morgana to foretell his coming. When he finished, he sealed it with wax and instructed Bartholomew to send the bird back.

  Afte
r his lead guard left, Fordun poured himself a finger of whiskey and after a prayer of thanks, downed the liquor and readied himself for bed.

  Tomorrow we will begin our journey to Henwen.

  This time, he would not let her leave. Their game of chase was going to finally draw to an end.

  Chapter 12

  Henwen, The Church

  “Gregor,” Morgana breathed, his name hanging off her lips like a bead of fresh honey. Pleasure coursed through her body as the Laird’s strong hands rubbed gentle circles into her exposed shoulder blades.