Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  Silvan and Dageus must be pressing their ears to the doors, waiting for his explosion, she thought, but they'd misjudged him. This was not a man who exploded—he seethed quietly and infinitely more dangerously.

  "Answer me," he demanded, shaking her. "Are you such a fool that you have no fear of me?"

  She'd rehearsed her speech a dozen times, yet when he stood so close to her, it was difficult to remember where she'd decided to begin. Her lips parted as she stared up at him. "Please—"

  "Please what?" he said silkily, lowering his head to hers. "Please kiss you? Please take you the way you accuse me of already having had you? I've had a long time to think today, English, and I must confess that I find myself fascinated by you. I rode for hours before stopping in the tavern. I drank for hours, yet fear all the whisky in fair Alba wouldn't cleanse you from my mind. Have you spelled me, witch?"

  "No, I have not spelled you, I am not a witch, and please don't kiss me," she managed. God, she wanted him! Whether he knew her or not, it was her Drustan, damn it all, just a month and five centuries younger.

  "Och, that's a rare request from a woman," he mocked. "Especially one who says she's already tasted my loving. Do you now disparage my intimate attentions?" His gaze was silver ice, challenging. "Was I less than satisfying? You claim we're lovers; mayhap we should be again. It would seem I've left a less than favorable impression." He closed his hand about her wrist and tugged her toward the bed. "Come."

  She dug her heels in, a feat in soft slippers on a planked wood floor.

  Her protests whooshed from her lungs when he scooped her into his arms and tossed her onto the bed. She landed on her back, sank deep into velvet-covered feather mattresses, and, before she could scramble away, he was on top of her, his body stretched the length of hers, pinning her with his weight.

  She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his beautiful, angry face. She would never be able to carry on a meaningful conversation with him in this position.

  "Drustan, please listen to me. I'm not trying to trap you into marriage, and there's a reason why I said what I said this morning, if you'll just listen," she said, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

  "There's a reason why you lied? There's never a reason to lie, lass," he growled.

  "Does that mean you never lie?" she said snidely, opening her eyes a slit and peeping at him. She was still miffed that he hadn't told her the entire truth before sending her back.

  "Nay, I doona lie."

  "Bullshit. Sometimes, not telling all of the truth is exactly the same thing as lying," she snapped.

  "Such language from a lady. But you're no lady, are you?"

  "Well, you're certainly no gentleman. This lady didn't ask you to throw her in your bed."

  "But you like being beneath me, lass," he said huskily. "Your body tells me much your words deny."

  Gwen stiffened, horrified to realize she had hooked her ankles over his legs and was rubbing a slipper against one muscular calf. She pushed at his chest. "Get off me. I can't talk to you when you're squishing me."

  "Forget about talking," he said roughly, lowering his head to hers.

  Gwen shrank back deeper into the pillows, knowing the moment he kissed her she would be lost.

  Just as his lips brushed hers, the boudoir door opened and Silvan stepped briskly in.

  "Ahem." Silvan cleared his throat.

  Drustan's lips froze against hers. "Get out of my chamber, Da. I will handle this as I see fit," he growled.

  "But you didn't tup her last eve, eh?" Silvan remarked mildly, his gaze sweeping over them. "Things look cozy to me, for being strangers and all. Aren't you forgetting something? Or should I say someone'? The lass told me you were in danger; the only danger I perceive is that of you botching yet another perfectly good—

  "Hand yer wheesht!" Drustan roared. Stiffening, he pushed himself off her and sat back on his heels on the bed. "Da, you are no longer chieftain here, remember? I am. You quit. Get out." He flung an impatient hand toward the door. "Now."

  "I merely came to see if Gwen required assistance," Silvan said calmly.

  "She requires no assistance. She wove this web with her lies. Doona be blaming me for knotting her up in it."

  "M'dear?" Silvan asked, eyeing her.

  "It's all right, Silvan. You can go," she said softly. "Dageus too."

  Silvan regarded her a moment more, then inclined his head and backed out of the room. When the door closed again, Drustan got off the bed and stood several paces away from her.

  "What did Silvan mean by someone'?" she asked. "Botching a perfectly good what?"

  He eyed her in stony silence.

  She scrambled up and eyed him warily and, although she could see desire glittering in his gaze, she could also see that he'd thought better of trying to have sex with her for the moment. She was both relieved and disappointed.

  "Talk. Why have you come here, and what is your purpose?" he asked stiffly.

  * * * * *

  When she was seated before the fire, Drustan poured a glass of whisky and leaned back against the hearth, facing her. He took a generous swallow, studying her discreetly over the rim of his glass. He had a difficult time thinking clearly in her presence, partly because she was so damn beautiful and partly because she'd put him on the defensive with her outrageous claim the moment he'd laid eyes on her. The intensity of his attraction to her upset him more greatly even than her lie. She was the last thing he needed, right before his wedding. Walking—nay, lushly sauntering—temptation to make a fankle of things.

  Initially, he'd meant merely to intimidate her by pushing her back on the bed, but then he'd touched her and she'd looped her ankles over his calves, and he'd gotten lost in the welcoming softness of her body beneath him. Had his father not interrupted, he'd like as not still be atop her. The moment he'd walked into the castle tonight, he'd felt the wee English within his walls. He responded fiercely to her; all it took was one glance at her to stir feelings in him he couldn't explain.

  He'd told the truth when he said he couldn't get her out of his mind. Not for one moment. He knew the scent of her, had been able to recall it even while sitting amidst the smelly ale-soaked rushes in the tavern. Hers was a clean, cool, and sensual fragrance, a blend of spring rain, vanilla, and mysteries. As he'd sat in the tavern, he realized that somehow he knew she had a dimple on one side of her luscious mouth when she smiled, although he couldn't recall having seen her smile.

  "Smile," he demanded.

  "What?" She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind.

  "I said smile," he growled.

  She smiled weakly. Aye. Plain as day. A dimple on the left side. He sighed heavily.

  His gaze drifted over her features, lingering on the witch-mark on her cheekbone, and he wondered how many others she had, in more intimate places. He'd like to search, connect the patches with his tongue, he thought, his gaze lingering on the creamy expanse of cleavage above the scooped bodice of her gown.

  He shook his head impatiently. "Out with it. What's so important, English, that you lied to gain my attention this morn?"

  "Gwen," she corrected absently. She was pinching her plump lower lip between her thumb and forefinger, and the gesture was making him damn uncomfortable.

  Goddess of the moon, he translated silently, and she looked every inch a goddess.

  "You already know my name, and since you claimed such familiarity with me, I won't stand on ceremony and insist you call me 'milord'."

  Her immediate scowl made his lips twitch, but he kept his face impassive. She did not respond to his comment. Her self-control chafed him; he'd far prefer her off-balance, reacting blindly. Then he'd feel more in control.

  She eyed him warily. "I don't know where to begin, so I ask that you hear me out completely before you start getting angry again. I know once you hear my whole story, you'll understand."

  "You're going to tell me something else to upset me? What else have you left? You've already accused me of taking your
maidenhead, yet you claim you doona seek to trap me into marriage. What do you seek?"

  "Do you promise to hear me out? No interruptions until the end?"

  After a moment's consideration, he conceded. Silvan had said she claimed he was in some kind of danger. What harm was there in listening? If he left the room without letting her have her say, he'd have to be on constant guard lest Silvan lock him in the garderobe so she might shout at him through the door. And until he'd cleared things up, he was quite certain he wasn't going to see a single batch of kippers and tatties from Nell. There'd been none of his thick, black exotic coffee all day either. Nay, he had to set things to rights. He enjoyed his comforts and didn't intend to suffer one more day without them. Besides, the sooner he cleared things up, the sooner he could pack her off and get her out of his sight.

  Shrugging, he gave his pledge.

  She nibbled her lip, hesitating a moment. "You're in danger, Drustan—"

  "Aye, I am well aware of that, though I suspect we're not referring to the same thing," he muttered darkly.

  "This is serious. Your life is in danger."

  He grinned faintly, gaze skimming her from head to her toes. "Och, wee one, and next you'll tell me you plan to save me, eh? Mayhap fight off my attackers yourself? Bite them in the knee?"

  "Oooh. That wasn't nice. And if you're too stupid to listen to me, I'll have to," she snapped.

  "Consider me warned, lass," he placated her. "I've listened, now go on with you," he said abruptly, dismissing her. "Tell Silvan I heard you out, so he'll call off his little siege. I have things to do."

  At the earliest opportunity he would have Nell secure her a position in the village, far from the castle. Nay, mayhap he'd have Dageus cart her off to Edinburgh and find her work there. One way or another, he had to get the bewitching lass out of his demesne before he did something foolish and irrevocable.

  Like toss her into bed and tup her until neither one of them could move. Until his muscles ached from loving her. Would she score his shoulders with her nails? he wondered. Arch her neck and make sweet mewling noises? He stiffened instantly at the thought.

  He turned his back on her, hoping it might lessen whatever spell she'd cast upon him.

  "Don't you even want to know what kind of danger?" she asked incredulously.

  He sighed and glanced over his shoulder, one sardonic brow arched. What would it take, he wondered irritably, to make the wee lass cower? A sword at her throat?

  "You said you'd hear the whole story. Was that a lie? You who claim you don't lie?"

  "Fine," he said impatiently, turning back around. "Tell me all of it and have it done with."

  "Maybe you should sit down," she said uneasily.

  "Nay. I will stand and you will speak." He folded his arms across his chest.

  "You're not making this easy."

  "I doona intend to. Speak or leave. Doona waste my time."

  She took a deep breath. "Okay, but I'm warning you, it's going to sound pretty far-fetched at first."

  He exhaled impatiently.

  "I'm from your future—"

  He stifled a groan. The lass was a bampot, addled, soft in the head. Wandering about naked outside, accusing men of tupping her, thinking she was from the future, indeed!

  "—the twenty-first century, to be precise. I was hiking in the hills near Loch Ness when I fell into a cave and discovered you sleeping—"

  He shook his head. "Cease this nonsense."

  "You said you wouldn't interrupt." She jumped to her feet, much too close for his comfort. "It's hard enough for me to tell you this."

  Drustan's eyes narrowed, and he backed up a step lest she touch him and he turn into a lustful beast again. She stood there, head tossed back. Her cheeks were flushed, her stormy eyes flashing, and she looked ready to pummel him, despite her diminutive size. She had courage, he'd give her that.

  "Go on," he growled.

  "I found you in the cave. You were sleeping, and funny symbols were painted on your chest. Somehow, my falling on you woke you. You were confused, you had no idea where you were, and you helped me get out of the cave. You told me the strangest story I'd ever heard. You claimed you were from the sixteenth century, that someone had abducted and enchanted you, and you slept for nearly five centuries. You said the last thing you recalled was that someone had sent you a message to go to some glen near a loch if you wished to know who'd killed your brother. You said you went, but someone had drugged you and you started getting very tired."

  "Enchanted?" Drustan shook his head in amazement. The lass had an imagination that could compete with the finest bard. But she'd made her first mistake: He didn't have a dead brother. He had only Dageus, who was alive and hale.

  She took a deep breath and continued, undaunted by his blatant skepticism. "I didn't believe you either,

  Drustan, and for that I'm sorry. You told me that if I accompanied you to Ban Drochaid, you would prove to me that you were telling the truth. We went to the stones, and your castle"—she swept a hand around the room—"this castle was a ruin. You took me into the circle." She deliberately omitted the intense passion they shared therein, not wishing to alienate him further. With a wistful sigh, she continued. "And you sent me here, to your castle, in your century."

  Drustan blew out an exasperated breath. Aye, she was truly a madwoman, and one who knew the old rumors well. He knew the villagers loved to repeat the old tale that their ancestors had seen two entire fleets of Templars enter the walls of Castle Keltar centuries ago, never to come out again. Apparently she'd heard that those "pagan Highlanders" could open doorways and had incorporated it into her madness.

  "But before I sent you back, using the stones in some pagan fashion"—he scoffed, not about to admit to such a thing—"I took your maidenhead, eh?" he said dryly. "I must confess, you've chosen a most unique way to try to trap a man into a wedding. Choose one about whom strange rumors abound. Claim he took your virginity in the future, thus, he can never argue conclusively against it." He shook his head and smiled faintly. "I give you credit for your imagination and audacity, lass."

  Gwen glared at him. "For the last time, I am not trying to marry you, you overbearing slack-jawed troglodyte."

  "Slack-jawed—" He shook his head and blinked. "Good, because I can't. I'm betrothed," he said flatly. That would put an end to her crazed claims.

  "Betrothed?" she echoed, stunned.

  His eyes narrowed. "'Tis plain that doesn't please you. Careful lest you further betray yourself."

  "But that doesn't make sense. You told me you weren't…" She trailed off, eyes wide.

  Yet another hole in her story, he mused darkly. He'd been betrothed for over half a year. Near all of Alba knew of his upcoming nuptials and were, like as not, watching with bated breath to see if he actually succeeded this time. And he would succeed. "I am. The match was agreed upon last Yuletide. Anya Elliott is due to arrive within the fortnight for our wedding."

  "Elliott?" she breathed.

  "Aye, Dageus is going to fetch her and bring her here for the wedding."

  Gwen turned her back to him, to conceal the shock and pain she knew must be etched all over her face. Betrothed? Her soul mate was going to marry someone else?

  He'd told her Dageus had been killed coming back from the Elliott's. He'd told her that he'd been betrothed, but she'd died. But he hadn't bothered to tell her they'd both been killed at the same time!

  Why? Had he loved his fiancée so much, then? Had it been too painful for him to speak of?

  Her heart sank to her toes. Not fair, not fair, she wailed silently.

  If she saved Dageus, she would be saving Drustan's future wife. The woman he wanted to marry.

  Gwen drew a shaky breath, hating her choices. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. She was supposed to tell him her story, together they would unmask the villain, get married, and live happily ever after. She'd planned it all out this afternoon, even down to the details of her medieval wedding dress
. She wouldn't mind staying in the sixteenth century for him; willingly she'd forfeit her Starbucks, tampons, and hot showers. So what if she couldn't shave her legs? He had sharp daggers, and eventually she'd quit nicking herself. Yes, it might be a bit rustic, but on the other hand, what did she have to go back to?

  Nothing. Not a damn thing.

  Empty, lonely life.

  Tears pressed at the backs of her eyes. She dropped her head, hiding behind her fringed bangs, reminding herself that she hadn't cried since she was nine and crying wouldn't help now. "This is so not happening," she muttered dismally.

  You can't let his clan be destroyed, no matter the price, her heart said softly.

  After a time she turned around and looked at him, swallowing the lump in her throat, acknowledging that there was no way she could stand by and watch him be abducted and his family be destroyed. So what that it might rip her to pieces in the process?

  So much for falling in love, she thought dismally.

  "Drustan," she said, striving for the calmest tone of voice she could muster, when inside she was unraveling at every seam, "in the future, the last thing you said was for me to tell the past you the whole story and to show you something. The something I was supposed to show you was my backpack, because it had things in it from my century that would have convinced you—"

  "Show me this pack," he demanded.

  "I can't," she said helplessly. "It disappeared."

  "Why does that not surprise me?"

  She bit her lip to keep from screaming with frustration. "The future you seemed to think you would be smart enough to believe me, but I'm beginning to realize the future you gave you a whole lot more credit than you deserve."

  "Cease and desist with your insults, lass. You provoke the very laird upon whom your shelter depends."

  God, that was true, she realized. She was dependent upon him for her shelter. Although she was a smart woman, she suffered more than a few concerns about how a misplaced physicist might fend for herself in medieval Scotland. What if he never believed her? "I know you don't believe me, but there is something you must do, whether you believe me or not," she said desperately. "You can't let Dageus go get your fiancée yet. Please, I'm begging you, postpone the wedding."