As she started to go down, he snaked an arm tightly around her waist, holding her up.
“Good. I’d hate to think you were falling for me.”
She didn’t miss the amusement in his voice, nor the absurd reality that she’d indeed just quite physically fallen, from a mere touch. And he hadn’t even grazed her clitor—
“Oooh!” A whoosh of air escaped her and she didn’t even bother trying to stand anymore, just let him have her weight. Dimly, she could hear him panting against her ear, his breathing rough and labored, as if he’d been running for a very long time. Her climax was right there, she was on it, about to go over . . .
“Christ, Gabrielle, you make me—”
“Well, now, isn’t this pretty,” a deep voice mocked. “Looks like she’s primed and ready for me. I can’t wait to finish what you’ve started. Remember how we used to do that, Adam? How you and I used to share? Or is that yet another of those things you like to pretend never happened along with those few thousand years you pretend you never lived? Does she know what we can do to her? Have you told her how we used to play with mortals?”
Gabby jerked violently in Adam’s arms, that oh-so-desperately-needed orgasm dying an instant death, though none of the attendant arousal did. Her throat worked convulsively as the sardonic voice penetrated her sensual stupor. She tried desperately to shake it off, to speak through it, to warn Adam that Darroc had found them again, but her treacherous vocal cords had locked up on her every bit as completely as they had back on Fountain Square. She was frozen from head to toe, rooted in place.
As she stood, unable to manage even the smallest squawk of warning, she was stunned and relieved to realize that somehow he knew.
Yanking his hand from her jeans, he turned her roughly in his arms and pulled her against him, snarling viciously. “Bloody hell.”
Gabby’s eyes fixed with horror on the tall copper-haired Fae standing just beyond Adam’s shoulder. Head tilted back, she stared up at Darroc.
Its iridescent eyes a cool shade of ice, it pursed perfect lips that held a twist of cruelty and blew her a mocking kiss over his shoulder.
Her mouth opened on a scream.
But they were already sifting.
They sifted place for hours.
At first she was still in such a sensual daze that she could hardly even think, didn’t even bother trying to speak. Her whole body was caught in a suspended, painful state of erotic awareness that was taking much too long to dissipate.
Well, at least one part of the Book of the Sin Siriche Du had been accurate, she brooded, the part about: so sates a lass that she is oft incapable of speech, wits muddled.
For not even fear for her life, it seemed, had much of a dampening effect on the storm of desire Adam had stirred in her.
Then again, she half-suspected she might be getting a little numb to fear; repeated exposure and all.
Still . . . the passion he’d awakened in her was like nothing she’d ever felt before. Nothing she’d ever thought possible to experience. Quite simply, being touched by Adam Black made her whole body feel gloriously, intensely, addictively alive.
It was just as she’d always feared: a few Fae kisses and a woman was lost.
And it wasn’t as if she were a novice where kisses were concerned. She’d kissed a lot. In fact, she suspected she’d kissed a whole lot more than most women. Because she was a virgin and men were . . . well, men, her dates had put extraordinary effort into foreplay with her, each determined to be The One That Scored, like it was some kind of competition.
Hours of expert, seductive kissing, and she’d always seen her dates firmly to the door.
Yet after a few kisses from Adam, she’d not only been hovering absurdly close to orgasm, she’d been about to fall—literally—into bed, or rather on the floor, or any damn where he’d wanted her.
He was addictive. It had been bad enough looking at him and wondering what he would be like in bed, but now she had a clear idea, and she was never going to be able to look at him again without thinking about it. In great detail. Now that she’d gotten a taste of him, she was finally able to put into words what she’d sensed about him from the very beginning, what had been wreaking havoc with her senses since day one: Adam Black was more man than most men.
He was strong and sensual and certain of himself, an uninhibited hedonist, every last glorious gold-velvet inch of him. He adored sex, savored it, everything about it. He was controlling, yet in a way that fed a woman’s fantasies. He would be, she now knew, a whole lot dominant in bed and a little bit dirty. He would take her every way she’d ever imagined and, she was quite certain, a few ways she probably hadn’t.
He would be inventive and inexhaustible and utterly devoted to pleasure.
There was now no doubt in her mind that he could do as he’d said: leave her so limp, so dazedly and thoroughly sated that she’d not even be able to summon up the strength to feed herself, to lift her head from the pillow, or the floor, or wherever else he chose to leave her when he was done with her.
A woman could hurt herself on Adam Black in bed.
And out of it, O’Callaghan, that faint inner voice warned.
Oh, yes, she didn’t bother arguing. And out of it. And that was something she needed to devote careful thought to, and not while he was touching her either. And she would, just as soon as things settled down a bit.
Not that she was making excuses for herself, but as crazy as her life had gotten, she was pretty much being forced to constantly react, not getting a chance to think things through and act.
She didn’t need to dredge up one of Gram’s many pertinent adages to understand what a dangerous way that was to live.
But, heavens, she thought, with droll exasperation, it would certainly help her think more clearly if she could just figure out what her odds of survival were. When one didn’t know how much longer one might live, discipline and self-denial had a funny way of flying right out the window alongside calorie-counting.
It was quite some time before her body calmed from its wild fever-pitch arousal enough that she was able to relax in his arms while they sifted. Even then, she did it very carefully. Avoiding contact with that part of him that was still rock-hard and would only make her feel so miserably turned on again. She noticed that he, too, was trying to avoid contact for a change, and when she inadvertently brushed against him at one point, he made a harsh sound and snarled, “Don’t touch that. It hurts. Christ, I’m not made of stone.”
“Sorry,” she said instantly, though inwardly an utterly feminine part of her beamed, delighted to know she wasn’t the only one having such a hard time recovering. That she wasn’t the only one their intimacy had affected so intensely. (And he certainly felt like he was made of stone, at least there anyway.)
She was shocked, sometime later, to find they were back in the hotel room, where Adam grimly snatched up their luggage. She opened her mouth to ask what in the world was so important that he’d risked returning for it—really, clothes and toiletries were eminently replaceable—but he’d sifted place again and she’d learned her lesson about keeping her mouth shut while doing so. (Fortunately they encountered no lakes on their itinerary this time; she was grateful they weren’t near the coast, materializing in shark-infested waters would have been way worse than being dunked with tadpoles.)
They continued sifting until she’d completely lost track of time, then boarded another passenger train.
Once on the train, he took a seat and pulled her down to sit between his legs, though maintaining space between their lower bodies. He drew her shoulders to his chest, wrapped his arms around her, and rested his jaw against her hair.
She was startled to realize he was shaking. It was almost imperceptible, but there was a deep tremor running through his powerful body.
“What’s wrong, Adam?” she asked nervously. What could make Adam Black shake? Did she even want to know? Had she missed something? Were they still not safe yet, even after all their
frenzied sifting?
“What’s wrong?” he growled. “What’s wrong? Bloody hell, I screwed up, that’s what’s wrong! Do you know how lucky we were that he let me see and hear him? If he hadn’t, there’s no telling what might have happened. Christ, I’m not used to this being-powerless shit; I’m no frigging good at it.” A long pause, then a muffled oath. “I should never have stopped for the night, Gabrielle. I shouldn’t have stopped until I had you in Scotland and knew you were safe. I was a bloody arrogant fool.”
Arms snug around her, he lapsed into stony silence.
Gabby blinked and fell silent herself. Her heart did a dangerous little flip-flop inside her chest. I was a bloody arrogant fool, he’d said. Not words she’d ever expected to hear from your average imperious Fae.
But then, nothing about Adam was proving to be what she’d been raised to expect from the average imperious Fae.
And the line in her mind between man and fairy was getting ever more blurred.
Closing her eyes, she leaned back into him, telling herself to try to get some sleep while she could, because it was anyone’s guess when or where she might get to sleep next.
She’d just begun to drift off into a light doze when he shook her gently; they disembarked and caught a shuttle to the airport.
“A flight’s leaving now, ka-lyrra,” he said, scanning departures. “There’s no time for me to play with their computers and get you a ticket. You’ll have to hold my hand. Come. We must hurry to catch it.”
Scotland. They were going to Scotland. Right now.
Blinking, stupefied by what her life had become, she slipped her hand into his.
Invisible, they passed through security and made for the gate. She glanced up at his profile. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed and focused straight ahead, and he was walking so fast that he was practically dragging her.
His pace didn’t slow until they’d boarded the plane.
It was Monday, she thought with a kind of distant wonder as she sank into a window seat beside him, holding tightly to his hand.
She should be home, at work. She should be getting ready to make her stand with Jeff. She had dry cleaning to pick up, plants that needed to be watered, a dentist appointment this afternoon, and dinner plans with Elizabeth tonight.
Instead, she was on a plane, cloaked by the féth fiada, temporarily noncorporeal, about to fly halfway across the world, being chased by otherworldly demons, and half-seduced by an otherworldly prince. Would have—if she had to be brutally honest with herself—probably been wholly seduced, if not for the interruption of said otherworldly demons, and wouldn’t that have made a fine mess of the already fine mess in her head?
It was a measure of how surreal her existence had become that, in the midst of all she could be worrying about, indeed, should be worrying about, her most prevalent concern was that she really, really hoped everyone had already boarded, and they would just stay in their own seats and not sit in her.
You were firing questions at me today, trying to get inside my head.
You asked if I believe in God.
I told you of course I do—I’ve always had a strong sense of self.
Your house is quiet now, you’re sleeping upstairs and I’m alone with this blasted, idiotic book that purports to tally the sum of my life, and the fact is, maybe I do.
But maybe, ka-lyrra, your God doesn’t believe in me.
—FROM THE (GREATLY REVISED) BLACK EDITION OF
THE O’CALLAGHAN Book of the Sin Siriche Du
16
Scotland. The Highlands.
In Adam’s opinion, there was no finer place in all the world. He’d passed much of his existence sporting a human glamour amid her lush vales and rocky tors. He’d lived for a time, back in the seventh century, in the guise of a battle-scarred warrior, with a Highland clan called the McIllioch, eaten and “tooped” and fought beside them. And when one of their many battles had grown too fierce, he’d bequeathed a Fae gift upon the McIllioch males, saving their line from extinction.
He’d set up his smithy here and there, for a time at Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea, for a time at Caithness, among too many other places to name. He’d infiltrated the Templars when they’d fallen, guiding them to Circenn at Dunnotar, to be used in battle by Robert the Bruce, and then to the Sinclair at Rosslyn, where to this day their fantastic legacy endured.
And the Keltar, well, he’d been fascinated by that Highland clan of Druids since the day they’d been chosen to negotiate and uphold The Compact with the Tuatha Dé, but he’d been especially fascinated by
the twin MacKeltars, Dageus and Drustan—dark, powerful, sometimes barbaric—sixteenth-century Highlanders who’d forsaken love, only to find it in the bleakest hours of their existence.
And now he was in human form, driving into those mountains at the side of a human woman, about to meet those very Keltar in the flesh.
What would they make of him? Would his reception be fair or foul? He was, after all, of the race that had made the Keltars’ lives so difficult; one of those responsible for generations uncounted of MacKeltar being feared, touted as “pagan” and “evil” for continuing to adhere to the Old Ways when Gaul abandoned their Druids first to the Romans and then to the equally tender mercies of Christianity.
Would they know of him? Would his reputation have preceded him? Would Dageus have any memory of Adam healing him? The mighty Highlander’s heart had stopped beating completely by the time Adam had knelt beside him on the Isle of Morar.
Would the Keltar, like Gabrielle, be reluctant to trust him? Reluctant to do what he needed them to do, or rather, not do?
Rubbing his jaw, he stared out the window of the rental car, forcing himself to put aside thoughts of whether those two would welcome or revile him—what mattered was that they’d crossed the queen’s wards several leagues back, and Gabrielle was now on protected ground—he’d deal with whatever else came to pass. He’d spent most of the time in transit over the ocean mentally kicking his own ass for what had happened in Atlanta: Because he’d been so selfishly intent on seducing her, on binding her to him, he’d imperiled her life. Stupid, smug bastard; you’re not invincible anymore.
Rather than winning her, he could have lost his Sidhe-seer in that hotel room forever. Her fragile, precious life could have been snuffed out, freeing her soul to go places he could never follow, not even with all his powers restored. Merely thinking about it made his human body start knotting up all over again. Bad thing about being human and having so much muscle was that all that muscle could get tense. He’d gotten his first headache on the plane. He had no desire to get another one. Ever. Nor did he appreciate the sick feeling in his stomach no quantity of food had managed to assuage. Nothing but holding her tightly had seemed to help.
Exhaling slowly, he forced his attention outward, to the countryside, a vista of which he never tired.
At that moment, the car veered sharply to the left, then back just as sharply, and Adam bit back a smile, knowing she’d probably hit him if she saw it. Gabrielle had insisted on driving (if one could call it that) when they’d acquired the cramped, compact rental vehicle, arguing that the effects of the féth fiada enshrouding him might cause accidents were he to drive. Unaccustomed, however, to driving on the “wrong” side of the car, on the “wrong” side of the road, she was having a time of it.
For heaven’s sake, if the sheep would just stop catapulting themselves onto the road, I might have a chance! she’d snapped the last time he’d laughed. They come out of nowhere, like they’re dropping from the sky.
Poppycock. Sheep trundle. Slow as snails. If you’d quit rubbernecking, trying to look everywhere at once, you’d see them coming, he’d teased. By Danu, he adored her fine-featured face, the expressions that flitted across it, her temperament. She had an inner fire that begged provoking, just for the pleasure of watching it burn.
Right. I’m supposed to drive past Loch Ness and not look at it? What if Nessie pops her head up and I miss it?
You’ve been around for thousands of years. I’ve never been to Scotland. They should keep the damned sheep off the road. Put up fences. Why are there no fences in Scotland? Don’t they believe in protecting the tourists? And what’s wrong with two-lane roads? Have they never heard of two-lane roads?
If it’s not two lanes, ka-lyrra, how are you having such a hard time staying on your side of it?
She’d bared her teeth in a ferocious little scowl and he’d had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. Or dragging her into his arms and kissing her, which would have certainly resulted in a wreck.
Okay, one and a half lanes, she’d begrudged irritably. I’m trying to stay on my three-quarters of a lane of it.
And with a haughty glare, she’d promptly gone back to trying to look everywhere, while avoiding sheep and driving wrong-sided twice-over, spending more time off the road than on.
And he was back to trying not to laugh.
He relished her reaction to the land he’d long loved best, far more than Ireland, perhaps more even than anyplace on all of Danu. He could give it no rhyme or reason, Scotland and her people just did something to him. Always had. If Gabrielle’s inability to keep her eyes (and the car) on the road was any indication, Scotland was exerting the same ineffable pull on her too.
And how could it not? Late summer was breathtaking in the Highlands, the hills dappled with the colors of the waning season: the deep reddish-purple of bell heather, the pale pink cross-leaved heath, the heart-shaped silver heads of sillar shakles. It would be a few weeks yet before ling and heather truly began to paint entire hillsides with their purple-pink haze, and he found himself hoping they’d still be there to see it.
He’d like to see Gabrielle running through a field of heather; he’d like to strip her naked and push her down in it and have his wicked way with her.
And he would, he promised himself. Soon. Now that she was safe.
It wouldn’t be long before they were at the Castle Keltar. The lights of Inverness were even now fading away in his side-view mirror.
The Immortal Highlander Page 16
