Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  "Step back while I go through," he commanded.

  "Ladies first," she said sweetly.

  He shook his head. "You would bound off faster than a hare if I were such a fool." He grasped her shoulders and pulled her dose. "I would advise against running from me. I would catch you easily, and the chase would only arouse me." When she tried to shrug his hands off her shoulders, he said, "Is this the fashion in which you thank me for freeing you?" he teased. "You might grant me a boon for my efforts." He rested his gaze on her lips, making it clear what boon he had in mind. When she wet them nervously, he dropped his head closer, taking it as a sign of compliance.

  But the contrary lass flattened her wee palms on his cheeks and held him at bay. "Fine. Go first, then. Age before beauty," she added sweetly.

  "Arrogant lass," he said with a snort, grudgingly admiring her audacity. "Give me your pack." After producing the remarkable fire from within it, he was confident she wouldn't try to flee him without it in her possession.

  "I'm not giving you my pack."

  "Then you're not moving," he said flatly. "And the longer I stand here, in such tempting proximity—"

  She smacked him in the chest with it, hard, and he laughed. Her cheeks flushed when he said, "Temper, temper, wee English. 'Tis truly most becoming to you." What a lovely spitfire she was, scarce taller than a child but voluptuously curved and plainly old enough for carnal pleasure.

  Aye, he'd take her back to Castle Keltar; mayhap she would prove an amenable companion, mayhap more. Mayhap she could be his fifth betrothed, he thought wryly, and perchance he'd actually get her to the altar. He'd not met a woman so uncowed by him. It was refreshing. With his height and size, not to mention whispers circulating about the MacKeltar in the Highlands, he frightened lasses more oft than not.

  He maneuvered himself through the opening, then took her hands and helped her scramble through, enjoying the feel of her small hands in his. Transferring his grip to her waist, he lifted her out. He didn't lower her to her feet right away but gazed challengingly into her eyes as he slid her down his body, enjoying the firm thrust of her nipples against his chest. The friction was delicious, and he felt her knees wobble for a moment before she found her feet.

  If retreat was the measure of her desire, she desired him fiercely. She scrambled away from him with an alarmed expression the moment her toes touched the ground. He stared at her nipples, now puckered peaks beneath her chemise. She glanced down and defiantly crossed her arms across her lovely breasts, baring her teeth in a ferocious little scowl. He laughed, because she succeeded only in pushing the generous mounds together and up, increasing his desire to bury his face in her plump cleavage tenfold.

  "I said doona run from me," he reminded. "You could not hope to outdistance me." He looked her up and down. Her skin—and he was seeing a splendid amount of it—was smooth and unscarred, bearing no sign of disease. Her waist was slim, her belly had the slight swell he adored on a wench, and although her hips were lush, he suspected she'd not yet born bairn. The harsh light of day—oft unflattering to a wench—paid this one naught but tribute, and he bit back a groan. He'd not felt so intensely desirous of a woman ever before in his life.

  "Stop looking at me like that," she snapped.

  His gaze collided with hers; she had eyes the color of a wild Scottish sea, and there was clear evidence of a storm brewing in the icy blue depths. "Why are you so prickly, English? Is it because I am a Scot?"

  "It's because you are overbearing, domineering, and pushy."

  "I am a man," he replied easily.

  "If men are allowed to behave in such an atrocious fashion, how are women supposed to act?"

  "Appreciative. And among my clan we like them demanding in bed," he added with a smile. When her gaze grew even cooler, he said, "You do not respond well to a jest. Be easy, Gwen Cassidy I seek but to lighten your fears. You need fear naught, lass. I will care for you, despite your bad blood. Even the English can learn. On occasion," he added, just to provoke her.

  She growled—actually growled low in her throat, as if he'd so irritated her that she'd like nothing more than to kick him. He found himself hoping she would. He was aching for an excuse to tussle with her and take her soft body down beneath his. Then he'd make her growl low in her throat for an entirely different reason: a moan of desire as he buried himself between her thighs.

  But feeble-minded though she might be, she knew better than to provoke contact—he could see it in her storm-filled eyes. Her lack of intelligence didn't seem to have precluded common sense. He drew a deep breath of fresh air and smiled. He was free of the cave, alive, and would soon be home. He would uncover the traitors and reward himself with the feisty Briton. Life was rich, thought the laird of the MacKeltar.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  Not a woman prone to violence, Gwen was taken aback by her desire to kick Drustan MacKeltar. Not to slice and dissect him verbally, which would have been the mature thing to do, but to punch him, maybe even bite him the next time he touched her. Her mind went on instant, extended sabbatical, just looking at him. She'd never met a man so hopelessly chauvinistic. He provoked the worst in her, dragging her down to a level as base and primitive as his own. She wanted to launch herself at him and pummel him. He was behaving as if, because he'd found her atop him, he owned her. Scottish lords obviously hadn't changed much over the centuries.

  She hadn't missed his proclamation that he was an authentic "laird"; rather, she'd chosen to ignore it. He'd seemed to expect a curtsy or maidenly swoon, and she would not pander to his conceit. It appeared that centuries of submission to the English hadn't taught the Scots one damn thing about submission. He was likely one of those stuffy aristocrats who was fighting to restore Scotland's independence so he could swagger about in his kilt and regalia like a little king. He even preferred the archaic manner of speech affected centuries past.

  And he was definitely a womanizer. Smooth-talking, sexy, and entirely too touchy-feely. Probably dumb as a box of rocks, however, because all that brawn couldn't possibly couch too much brain.

  "I have to return to the inn now," she informed him.

  "There's no need for you to seek shelter in a common tavern. You will be generously housed in my demesne. I will see to your needs." Possessively, he cupped his hand at the nape of her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair. "I like the way you keep your hair. 'Tis unusual, but I find it most… sensual."

  Bristling, she tossed her bangs out of her eyes. "Let's get something straight, MacKeltar. I am not going home with you. I am not going to bed with you, and I am not wasting one more moment arguing with you."

  "I promise not to mock you when you change your mind, lass."

  "Oooh. Contrary to what you might think, arrogance does not work as an aphrodisiac on me." It was only a small lie. Arrogance alone didn't, but this particular arrogant man was a walking lollipop, and she was certain that latching her lips onto any part of him would satisfy the relentless oral craving she'd been fighting for ten days, seven hours, and forty-three minutes, not that she was counting.

  "Aphro-di-si-ac," he repeated slowly, brows furrowed. He was silent a moment, then he said, "Ah, Greek: Aphrodite and akos. Mean you a love potion?"

  "Sort of." How could he not know that word? she wondered, eyeing him warily. And why break it into Greek parts?

  When he grinned cockily, she dropped her gaze and pretended a sudden fascination with her cuticles. The man was too damn sexy for his own good. And standing way too close.

  He slid his hands into her hair and tugged gently, forcing her to look at him. His silver eyes glittered. "Tell me you doona feel mating heat between us. Tell me you doona desire me, Gwen Cassidy." His gaze dared her to lie.

  Dismayed, she realized he could sense how much she wanted him, just as she could sense that he wanted to be all over her, so she did what handling insurance claims had taught her to do best: Deny, deny, deny.

  "I doona desire you," she mocked lightly
. Yeah, right. The sexual tension between them nearly qualified as a fifth force of nature.

  He inclined his head. A dark eyebrow rose and his gaze was amused, as if he were somehow privy to her internal dissenting opinion. One corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. "When you finally speak the truth, it will be so sweet, wee English. It will make me hard as stone, the mere words upon your lips."

  She felt it imprudent to point out that he already was. When he'd buried his hands in her hair, he'd brushed that part of him against her. She was shocked to realize she was actually contemplating having impulsive sex with him, trying to decide what was the worst that could happen if she did as many people she knew did—just hopped into bed with a stranger. God, he was so tempting. She wanted to experience passion, and when he looked at her the way he was looking at her right now, she felt an epiphany might be a hot, slippery kiss away.

  But he was headstrong, too gorgeous for anyone's peace of mind, a wildly unpredictable variable in a risky equation, and she knew what those could do—create chaos. The nervous flutter in her stomach, the desire she felt was too novel a sensation for her to act upon it without careful consideration.

  Although she wanted to change her life and was determined to lose her virginity, she was beginning to realize that it wasn't as easy to change one's ways as she'd thought it would be. Thinking about having sex with a virtual stranger was a whole lot different than actually plunging right into the heat and nakedness and rawness of it. Especially when that virtual stranger was so much man, a little odd, and a lot overwhelming. Her newfound feelings of desire scared her. The intensity of her body's reaction to him scared her.

  Perhaps she could do it with him on the last day of her trip, she mused. He was certainly willing. She could have what she knew would be heart-pounding sex, then fly back home and never have to see him again. She'd bought condoms before leaving the States, and they were tucked safely in her pack…

  Sheesh! Was madness contagious? What on earth was she thinking?

  A brisk shake of her head restored her sanity.

  "Come," he said.

  I'd like to, but you're way too dangerous, she thought with a sigh.

  Since he was heading down the hill in the general direction of the inn, she followed. "You don't have to hold my hand," she protested. "I'm not going to run off."

  His eyes crinkled with silent amusement as he released her. "I enjoy holding your hand. But you may walk beside me," he informed her.

  "I wouldn't walk anywhere else," she muttered. Behind would feed his ego, although she'd get to watch his incredible body, unobserved. In front, she'd be miserable, feeling his gaze on her. Beside him was the only tolerable place.

  He took long strides, his natural pace a lope for her, but she refused to complain. The faster he walked, the more quickly she could surround herself with the safety of the teeming village. She'd never dreamed she'd be so grateful to see a busload of senior citizens in her life.

  Busy plotting her polite but hasty retreat from his presence, she didn't realize he'd stopped until he was quite some distance behind her. She turned and gestured impatiently, but his eyes were on the village below.

  "Come on," she shouted. He didn't appear to hear her. She called for him again, waving her arms to get his attention, but he remained motionless, his gaze locked on the view.

  Fine, she decided, this is a great time to leave, and I have a head start. She broke into a sprint down the sloping hillside. Stretching her legs, as if running for her very life, she suddenly felt silly. If the man had truly planned to harm her, he could have done so long before now. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was leaving something incredibly dangerous behind her on the hillside—far more than a simple man—and it was wiser that she did so now.

  She ran for several seconds before the missile blasted her from behind. She stumbled and landed on her stomach in a springy patch of purple vetch, trapped beneath his body. He stretched her hands above her head and pressed her against the ground. "I said doona run from me," he gritted out. "Which word did you have difficulty with?"

  "Well, you stopped moving," Gwen argued. "I called for you. And ouch, dammit, now I hurt all over."

  When he didn't respond, only raised his body slightly off hers so she could breathe, she became aware of a subtle change in him. His heart was thundering against her back, his breathing was shallow, and his hands were trembling atop hers.

  "Wh-what's wrong?" she asked faintly. What horror could make such strong hands tremble?

  He pointed to a car, disappearing down the winding road beneath them. "What in the name of all that is holy is that?"

  Gwen squinted. "It looks like a VW but I can't tell from this distance. The sun's in my eyes."

  "A what?"

  "Volkswagen."

  "A what wagon?"

  "Volkswagen. A car." Was the man going deaf?

  "And that?"

  His cheek brushed her temple as she turned her head to gaze where he pointed. "What?" She blinked owlishly. He appeared to be pointing at the inn. "The inn?"

  "Nay, that bright thing with colors such as I have never seen. And what of all those leafless trees? What has happened to the trees? And why have they tied cords between them? Think you they will run away if not tethered? Never have I seen oaks so shamed!"

  Gwen eyed the neon sign above the inn and the telephone poles in wary silence.

  "Well, lass?" He took several slow deep breaths, then said unsteadily, "None of this was here before. I have seen naught of such oddities. It looks as if half the clans in Scotland have settled about Brodie's loch, and I am quite certain he wouldn't approve of all this. He is a most private man." He rolled off her and flipped her over, then pulled her up so she was on her knees facing him. He cupped her shoulders and shook her. "What is a car? What purpose has it?"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake—you know what a car is! Stop pretending. You've been pretty convincing as the archaic lord, but don't play any more games with me." Gwen glared at him, but beneath her anger he was frightening her. He had the most bewildered expression on his face, and she thought she glimpsed a hint of fear in his brilliant eyes.

  "What is a car?" he repeated softly.

  Gwen began to make a caustic comment, then hesitated. Perhaps he was sick. Perhaps this situation was infinitely more dangerous than she thought. "It's a machine powered by… er… battery and gas." She abruptly decided to humor him, giving him the short answer. "People travel in them."

  Soundlessly, his lips formed the words battery and gas. He was very still a moment, then, "English?"

  "Gwen," she corrected.

  "Are you truly English?"

  "No. I'm American."

  "American. I see—well, not truly, but… Gwen?"

  "What?" His questions were starting to scare her.

  "In what century do I find myself?"

  The breath locked in her throat. She massaged her temples, assailed by a sudden headache. It figured that a man who dripped such raw sex appeal had to be fatally flawed. She had no idea what to say to him. How did one answer such a question? Dare she get up and simply walk away, or would he tackle her again?

  "I said, what century is it?" he repeated evenly.

  "The twenty-first," she said, dosing her eyes. Was he playing a game? The bold block letters of a newspaper headline blossomed against the insides of her eyelids, crowding out all rational thought:

  DROPOUT DAUGHTER OF WORLD-RENOWNED PHYSICISTS ABDUCTED BY ESCAPED MENTAL PATIENT. SUBTITLED: SHE SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO HER PARENTS AND STAYED IN THE LAB.

  He fell silent, and when she opened her eyes he was scanning the village below: the boats on the loch, the buildings, the cars, the bright lights and signs, the bicyclists in the streets. He cocked his head, listening to the blat of horns honking, the buzz of motorbikes, and, from some cafe, the rhythmic bass of rock and roll. He rubbed his jaw, his gaze wary. After some time he nodded, as if he'd resolved an internal debate he'd been having. "Christ," he
half-whispered, aristocratic nostrils flaring like a cornered animal. "I haven't lost a mere moon. I've lost centuries."

  A mere moon? Centuries? Gwen pinched her lower lip between her finger and thumb, riveted.

  Then he looked back at her, eyed her shirt, her pack, her hair, her shorts, and finally her hiking boots. He tugged her foot out from beneath her, held it in his hands and studied it for a long moment before raising his eyes to hers again. His dark brows dipped.

  "You name your stockings?"

  "What?"

  He ran his finger over the words Polo Sport stitched on the thick woolen cuff of her sock. Then his gaze fixed on the small tab on her hiking boots: Timberland. Before she could form a reply, he said, "Give me your pack."

  Gwen sighed and started to hand it to him, then unzipped the main pouch first, not in the mood to get into a discussion about zippers. Considering the one on her shorts—if he truly didn't know how they worked—she wasn't in a hurry to teach him. Women should sew padlocks on their zippers with him around.

  He took the pack and dumped the contents on the ground. When her cell phone fell out, she was momentarily furious with herself for forgetting it, until she recalled that it wouldn't work in Scotland anyway. As he withdrew it from the jumble of her belongings, she realized it wouldn't work—ever again. The plastic casing had been crushed in one of her many falls, and it broke into pieces in his hands. He eyed the tiny technology inside with fascination.

  He sorted through her cosmetics, pried open a compact, and regarded himself in the small mirror. Her protein bars were tossed aside along with the box of condoms (thank heavens), and when he spied her toothbrush, his bewildered gaze swept from her long, thick hair to the tiny brush and back to her hair again. One brow arched in an expression of doubt. He picked up the latest issue of Cosmopolitan, eyed the picture of the half-clad model on the cover, then fanned rapidly through it, gawking at the brilliantly colored pictures. He ran his fingers over the pages as if stunned. "And Silvan thinks his illuminated tomes are lovely," he muttered. When he started sorting through her brightly colored panties, she'd had enough. She dosed her fist over the lime silk thong he was currently examining and firmly shook her head.