Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  Swallowing a catlike growl, Gwen moved to stand guard outside the fitting room, tapping her foot impatiently. A swoosh of fabric alerted her that he'd removed his plaid, and Gwen tried hard not to think about him standing behind the flimsy door, nude. It was harder than trying not to think about a cigarette, and her disobedient thoughts handled it as badly: The more she tried to not think it—the more she thought it.

  "Gwen?"

  Dragging herself from a fantasy in which she was about to drip chocolate syrup on him, she said, "Um?"

  "These trews… och! By Amergin!"

  Gwen snorted. The MacKeltar was pretending to discover zippers, and if he was wearing the plaid true to the sixteenth century (according to what their tour guide had told them), he had no underwear on. She heard a few more muttered curses, then a zzzzzp! Yet another curse. He sounded so convincing.

  "Come out and let me see you," she said, struggling to keep a straight face.

  His voice sounded strangled when he replied, "You'll have to come in."

  Sneaking a furtive glance at Miriam, who had conveniently been accosted by a pimple-faced teenage boy, Gwen entered the dressing room. He was regarding himself in the mirror and his back was to her, and, heavens, but she would have been much better off if she'd never seen his tight muscled ass in a pair of tight faded jeans. His long black hair rippled over his shoulders and down his back, inviting her to plunge her fingers in it and trail them down the splendid ridges of muscle—

  "Turn around," she said, her mouth suddenly dry.

  He did so, with a scowl.

  She eyed his bare chest and, with effort, forced herself to remember she was supposed to be looking at the jeans. Her gaze skimmed downward over his rippled abdomen and lean hips and—

  "What have you stuffed in your pants, MacKeltar?" she demanded.

  "Nothing that wasn't God-given," he replied stiffly.

  Gwen stared. "There's no way that's part of you. You must have gotten a sock or… something… stuck. Oh, my." She pried her gaze from his groin. A muscle worked in his jaw, and he was dearly in discomfort.

  "I doona believe you intended to torture me—nay, I saw other men on the street in such clothing—so I will not take putative measures. However, I think the problem is much the same as my feet," he informed her.

  "Your feet?" she repeated dumbly, her gaze dropping. They were large.

  "Aye." He gestured toward hers. "In your time you bind your feet in constrictive boots, whereas we wear soft, supple leather."

  "Your point?" she managed.

  "They have more room to grow," he said, as if she were simpleminded.

  Gwen blushed. Of all things to play a joke on her about. Stuffing socks in his pants, indeed! "MacKeltar, I do not believe for one minute that that"—she gestured at the bulge in his jeans—"is you. I may be gullible, but I do know what men look like, and that is not what men look like."

  He flattened her up against the door of the dressing room, and his sensual mouth, much too close for safety, curved in a cocksure smile. "Then you will simply have to see for yourself. Touch me, lass. Feel my… sock." His silver gaze sizzled with challenge, as he unzipped his zipper.

  "Uh-uh." She shook her head for added emphasis.

  "Then find me a pair of trews that doona threaten to sever my manparts."

  "Uh-huh," she agreed, trying not to think about that unzipped zipper.

  "Doona let this frighten you, lass. We will fit together well when I make love to you," he purred.

  Wed was how it came out, and his lovely brogue, coupled with his "sock," were nearly all the persuasion she needed to set to removing his jeans with her teeth. She closed her eyes. "Back up, bud, or I'll help you fit in those trews," she threatened. "With your sword, if necessary."

  "Look at me, Gwendolyn," he said softly.

  "Gwen," she snapped.

  "Gwen," he acquiesced. Right before he kissed her.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Heat lightning, Gwen thought. His touch is electrifying. Attraction sizzled between them, and she knew he felt it too, because he drew back and looked at her strangely. Then, nudging her lips apart with his thumb, he opened her mouth and brushed his firm lips back and forth over hers, creating a light and irresistible friction.

  Yes, she thought. This is what I've needed. I feel… ooh! He tilted her head at the perfect angle—just like Lancelot did Guinevere in that single kiss between them in the movie First Knight—and sealed his mouth over hers. She shivered when his tongue plunged between her lips, hot and silky and raw man.

  Take that, Miriam.

  Dizzied by a rush of desire, her head plopped limply back against the dressing-room door. She slid her hands up the rippling muscles of his arms, over his shoulders, then locked them firmly behind his neck. She hadn't gone to Scotland, fallen in a hole, and met a madman. She'd died and gone to heaven, and he was her reward for putting up with her parents for so many years. He closed his hands on her waist, then slid them intimately upward as he deepened the kiss, lingering over each curve. When he flattened his palms roughly over her breasts, her thighs popped open so smoothly that she wondered why she didn't just have a placard taped across them that said SQUEEZE HERE FOR SEX. She arched her back, rubbing her hard nipples against his callused palms. The sock she'd accused him of having was the hardest sock she'd ever felt and dangerously close to being smack-dab between her thighs.

  And she wanted him there, by God.

  She wanted to feel him silky and hot inside her, naked, with nothing between them.

  He brushed her nipples with his thumbs as his tongue glided deeper, slick and hungry, so deep it coaxed soft little mewling noises from her throat. With a subtle turn of their bodies, he shifted his erection into the vee of her thighs and thrust his hips with the same ruthless, insistent rhythm as he thrust his tongue into her mouth. When he cupped her bottom and lifted her against him, she vaulted happily onto him, wrapped her legs around his waist, and kissed him frantically.

  She arched against him, trying to get as dose as possible, with so much irritating, restrictive clothing between them. She threaded her fingers into his silky hair, she suckled his tongue, desperate for more of him. He made a kind of laughing, satisfied male sound deep in his throat, clamped her head between his hands, and kissed her so hard he drew her breath into his body. His tongue glided into her mouth, withdrew, and returned. She felt her skin rippling with kinetic energy where he touched her; she was soaking it up and growing hotter at the core. This man knew her natural frequency and was making her resonate to perfect pitch. And as fine crystal, if vibrated continuously at its natural frequency, would shatter, she hovered mere caresses away from a similar explosion.

  "Might I find you a different size or style?" chirped Miriam beyond the dressing-room door, inspiring the only benevolent feeling Gwen would ever entertain about her, for rescuing her before she shucked her virginity on a fitting-room floor to a madman. With a door that ended a foot above the floor.

  Drustan groaned, then deepened the kiss.

  How embarrassing! Gwen's sanity returned in degrees. The man kisses me and I just hop right on him like he's the hottest new ride at Disneyland. Have I lost my mind? She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and bit his tongue.

  "Ouch. I doona think that was necessary," he whispered, passion blazing in his eyes, coupled with irritation that someone had dared interrupt them. He was clearly not a man who liked to stop anything he'd begun. He looked downright dangerously aroused.

  "Ma'am?" Miriam said in a pinched tone.

  Gwen was mortified to realize she was making soft panting noises. She took a deep breath, forced herself to unwrap her legs, and slid down his body. His hands tightened on her hips, until she threatened his shoulders with her nails again. Reluctantly, he lowered her to the floor, then promptly tried to kiss her again. "Stop it," she whispered furiously.

  After drawing another shaky breath she called to Miriam, "Yeah. Um. Clothes, right. How about
… uh, a pair of those khakis. The loose-fit brand in a thirty-two—wait a minute." She shook her head, trying to dear it. To accommodate his muscular thighs, they would have to be loose on his waist. "Bring a thirty-four, thirty-six-, and thirty-eight-inch waist," she corrected.

  "And a belt." She closed her eyes and drew several more deep breaths. Her heart was thundering like a battering ram against the wall of her chest.

  "Ma'am?" Miriam cooed so sweetly that only another woman would have heard the bitchiness.

  "Yes?"

  "I realize Americans are… different… and perhaps your feet were no longer on the floor because you were perched on the chair admirin' the state-of-the-art video-cams we recently installed, but there are children in the store, and in Scotland we take the upbringin' of them seriously. These dressing rooms are not coed."

  Her face flamed. "Get off me, you oaf," she hissed, pushing at his chest. He gave her a look that promised they would continue where they'd left off—and soon—before stepping back.

  "As you wish. Wife," he purred, then opened the door with a flourish and a courtly bow.

  Gwen blushed. So much for hoping he hadn't heard her snap at Miriam earlier. She stepped out, and there stood the infernal Miriam, staring past her at Drustan MacKeltar clad in tight unzipped jeans and no shirt. "Oh, my." Miriam wet her lips. "I'll just get those khakis."

  But Miriam didn't move an inch, and Gwen wanted to kick her. Better yet, smack her eyeballs back into her head.

  "You were going to get those pants," Gwen reminded stiffly.

  "Oh, yes," Miriam said, flustered. "If the khakis don't cover… er, fit… perhaps he could try running pants. They're quite… roomy." She flashed a brilliant smile at Drustan, her gaze darting from the barely covered bulge at his groin to his ringless hand.

  "Fine. Bring some of those too." Gwen glared at

  Drustan, then pulled the door tightly shut. She leaned back against it and sighed, trying to collect herself.

  "I want purple trews, lass," Drustan called over the door.

  "No," she said irritably.

  "And a purple shirt."

  Absolutely not, she thought. His black hair and dark skin would look incredible offset by such a vibrant color. Maybe black would make him look drab. One could always hope. When, after a few moments and unintelligible curses later, she heard his jeans hit the floor, she imagined him nude and wondered if someone might have slipped her an aphrodisiac in the past twenty-four hours.

  Find a man you want to talk with into the wee hours, a man you can argue with when necessary, and a man who makes you sizzle when he touches you, Beatrice had said. Well, the sizzle was there, and they certainly could argue…

  She shook her head, refusing to entertain the notion that a madman might be her potential soul mate.

  Might he have a point about his feet? Did things truly grow larger if unconfined? It certainly hadn't felt like a sock. More like that can of tennis balls on the shelf behind the cash register. She glanced down at her breasts. Should she stop wearing a bra and start wearing snugger panties?

  How was she going to look at him now?

  * * * * *

  The running pants were tolerable, Drustan decided, relieved. The blue trews had dearly been a torture device and would have strangled a man's seed. Mayhap men were fashioned differently in her time. He hadn't seen one other bulge out there on the street; mayhap they all had wee carrots in their trews. Mayhap there were hundreds of unsatisfied women in this century. Although at the moment, only one woman's satisfaction was of paramount interest to him, and he was rapidly becoming obsessed with her.

  Gwen Cassidy did something unnatural to him. Made him feel weak-kneed and powerful at the same time. Made him feel the potency and virility of his Druid blood hammering in his veins. When he touched her, everything in the world made perfect sense, as if constructed of elegant mathematical equations. He should fear her because, when holding her, he forgot everything he should be worrying about.

  Druids maintained that the larger an object, the more impact that object had upon the space in which it existed, and the greater the pull it exerted on other objects. Drustan had always considered himself walking proof of such a postulation; but Gwen, tiny Gwen, had very little mass, yet a monumental impact on his world. She defied the laws of nature.

  Sighing, he forced his thoughts away from her firm little body and studied himself in the mirror. The black trews (named Adidas) were fitted yet baggy, with remarkable, stretchy stuff at the waist and ankles. They were by far the most suitable selection. He admired the black fabric, densely woven; he suspected it might repel water. Purple would have been better, but black was acceptable. Not royal—still, not serf colors.

  The blue trews had been painful, and a terrible dye job to boot, as if the color hadn't set in. No weaver in his clan would have owned up to such terrible craft. And those bland "khaki" trews, although a reasonable fit, would have branded him a crofter, which the Keltar wasn't. His own plaid of royal purple and black, shot with costly silver threads, he rolled neatly around three of his leather bands and stuffed under his arm. Her people clearly did not adhere to brehon law. There'd been racks of purple attire, for simply anyone to purchase, arrayed throughout the store. The Keltar, centuries past and with much pomp and ceremony, had been gifted the full use of the seven colors by a Gael king. The MacKeltar lairds were entitled to wear purple so long as a Keltar lived.

  And by God, he did—live, that is. Mayhap none other of his clan did, but he was alive, and once he got to his stones he would find out what had gone wrong. He was apprehensive about this world of hers, this wagon of hers, but to arrive at Castle Keltar today he would have ridden a fire-breathing dragon.

  He prayed that by some miracle Silvan might have lived and fathered children—even at his advanced age, it wasn't impossible—and that he would find descendants alive and well. He prayed that if not, he would at least find his castle unscathed by time, that he would secure the tablets and by midnight tomorrow eve be standing safely in his own century again. No abrasive noises, no awful odors, no unnatural rhythm of Gaea herself.

  Kicking aside the hard white shoes with strings that she'd thrust under the door moments ago, he put his boots back on. He balled his fists inside the T-shirt, having absolutely no idea why it was called a T-shirt as opposed to an A-shirt or a B-shirt, and stretched the fabric so it wasn't quite so restrictive around his neck and chest.

  Opening the door, he paused a moment and swept his gaze over her petite, shapely body. They would fit well, although he suspected she wouldn't believe that until he demonstrated, and he hoped to demonstrate many times.

  He liked Gwen Cassidy—prickly, stubborn, a touch domineering and bossy—in addition to aching to rip her clothes off and push her down on her back in sweet heather. Spread her legs and tease until she begged for him. Bury his face between her breasts and taste her skin. Their kiss had only whetted his appetite for her and he groaned, recalling how difficult it had been to peel those blue trews down over his swollen shaft.

  He stood in the doorway, looped his sporran about his hips, fastened one of his leather bands atop it, and thrust his sword through it. He moved silently behind her and dosed his hands on the slender span of her waist. Grinning, he slipped his hands lower. She had a luscious ass, soft and womanly and shaped like a plump upside-down heart, and he'd take advantage of every opportunity to touch it. He was about to press a finger intimately between her twin globes when she tensed and shot out of his grasp.

  He arched a brow at the saleslady. "My wife is still growing accustomed to me. We haven't been wed long." Hmm, he quite liked the way "wife" had sounded on his tongue, he thought, eyeing Gwen.

  "Nice sword," the saleslady purred, looking nearly a foot to the left of it.

  Gwen pivoted on her heel. "Come on," she said to Drustan. "Husband." The look he gave her sizzled with passion, and she was beginning to wonder just how long she was going to be able to keep him under control. If she'd ever
really had him under control to begin with.

  "I'd like to grow accustomed to you," Miriam murmured, as she watched the magnificent man guide his wife out the door with a possessive palm to the small of her back.

  He tossed her a flirtatious grin over his shoulder.

  * * * * *

  Gwen's spirits lifted a few blocks from the cafe, buoyed by the tantalizing aroma of fresh-ground coffee beans wafting on a gentle breeze. In a matter of moments she would be ordering cappuccino and chocolate bread. Cranberry-and-orange scones. Gwen released a heartfelt sigh of pleasure as they entered the cafe.

  "Lass, there are so many people," Drustan said uneasily. "Does the entirety of this village belong to one laird?"

  Gwen glanced at him and decided she should have gone with the white T-shirt, because Drustan MacKeltar, clad from head to toe in unbroken black, was, as her girlfriend Beth would say, just downright fuckable. She was still experiencing shivers of resonance from their kiss that were never going to stop unless she quit looking at him, so she glanced hastily around the shop. Families with children, seniors, and young couples—mostly tourists—were seated at dozens of small tables. "No, they're probably all from different families."

  "And they're peaceable? All these different clans eat together and are happy about it?" he exclaimed, at sufficient volume that several people turned to look at them.

  "Shh… you're drawing attention to us."

  "I always draw attention. Even more so in this time. Wee little folks, the lot of you."

  She glared at him. "Just be quiet, behave, and let me order."

  "I am being have," he muttered, then moved away to gawk at the shiny silver machines grinding and perking and steaming.

  Being have, with a long A? His command of language baffled her. But then she thought about it a moment: be good—being good; be quiet—being quiet; behave—being have. There was an unsettling consistency to his madness. What was it Newton had said? I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies but not the madness of people.