Beyond the Highland Myst

by Highlander 01-08

  * * * * *

  Drustan rounded the corner at a full charge and crashed abruptly into Nevin.

  "Milord!" Nevin gasped, flying backward.

  "Sorry." He grabbed the priest by the elbows and steadied him on his feet.

  Nevin smoothed his robes, blinking. "Nay,'twas my fault. I fear I was lost in thought and didn't hear your approach. But'tis grateful I am for our encounter. I was coming to seek you out, if you have a moment. There's a wee matter I wished to discuss with you."

  Drustan tamped down a flash of impatience, then got angry that he was feeling impatient to begin with. It was her fault. He'd whiled away many a fine hour talking with Nevin and not once suffered impatience; he liked the young priest. He took a deep, calming breath and forced a smile. "Is aught amiss with the chapel?" he asked, the cameo of patient interest.

  "Nay. It goes well, milord. We have but to replace the altar stones and seal the new planking. It will be finished in ample time." Nevin paused. " 'Twas a different matter I wished to speak with you about."

  "You needn't hesitate to speak your mind with me," Drustan assured him. Nevin seemed reluctant to broach whatever topic was worrying him. Had he seen the bampot chasing him about? Was the priest concerned about his upcoming betrothal? God knows, I am, he thought darkly.

  "'Tis my mother again…" Nevin trailed off, sighing.

  Drustan released a pent breath and relaxed. It was only Besseta.

  "She's been agitated lately, muttering about some danger she thinks I'm in."

  "More of her fortune-telling?" Drustan asked dryly. Was the estate to be overrun with addled women spouting dire predictions?

  "Aye," Nevin said glumly.

  "Well, at least now'tis you she's worried about. A fortnight past, she was telling Silvan that my brother and I were 'cloaked in darkness,' or something of the like. What does she fear will happen to you?"

  "'Tis the oddest thing. She seems to think your betrothed will harm me in some fashion."

  "Anya?" Drustan laughed. "She's but five and ten. And, I've heard, a most biddable lass."

  Nevin shook his head with a rueful smile. "Milord,'tis futile to seek sense in it. My mother is not well. If you should encounter her and she carries on like a madwoman,'tis because she's worsening daily. I believe the walk to the castle is beyond her abilities, but should she somehow manage it, I beg you be gentle with her. She's ill, very ill."

  "I'll warn Da and Dageus. Doona fash yourself, we'll simply guide her back home should she roam." He made a mental note to be kinder to the old woman. He hadn't realized she was so ill.

  "Thank you, milord."

  Drustan started down the corridor again, then stopped and glanced back. He enjoyed Nevin's philosophical mind and wondered how the priest reconciled a fortune-telling mother with his faith. It might also shed light on his tolerance for the MacKeltar. Drustan knew Nevin had been in residence long enough to have heard most of the rumors by now. Men of the Kirk generally held staunch views on pagan doings, but Nevin radiated some inner understanding that defied Drustan's comprehension. "Do any of her predictions ever come true?"

  Nevin smiled serenely. "If there is aught of truth in her yew castings, 'tis because God chooses to speak in such manner."

  "You doona think pagan and Christian are breached by an irreconcilable chasm?"

  Nevin considered his answer a moment. "I know'tis the common belief, but nay. It offends me not that she reads her sticks; it grieves me that she thinks to change what she sees therein. His Will will be."

  "So has she been right or not?" Drustan pressed. Nevin was oft evasive, difficult to pin down. But Drustan sensed he didn't intend to be evasive, he was merely nonjudgmental to an extreme.

  "If someone is to harm me,'tis my Father's will. I shan't naysay Him."

  "In other words, you won't tell me."

  Nevin's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Milord, God doesn't bear any of His creations ill will. He give us opportunities. 'Tis all in the way you view it. My mother has a suspicious mind, so she sees suspicious things. Keep your eyes open, milord, for the chances He gives you. Keep your heart true, and I bid you, use what gifts He may have given you with love, and you will never wander from His grace."

  "What do you mean, 'gifts'?"

  Another calm smile, and some fascinating awareness in Nevin's clear blue gaze.

  Drustan smiled uneasily and wound down the corridors to the Greathall.

  * * * * *

  Gwen had just walked into the hall and slumped into a chair when he came down.

  She nearly fell off her chair, so startled was she to see him walking toward her and not skulking out the back entrance. Her first instinct was to leap up, fling her arms around his leg like a child, and cling so he couldn't get away from her. But she reconsidered, thinking he might just shake her off him and stomp her, if the expression on his face was a true indication of his feelings about her at the moment. He was awe-inspiringly large.

  She decided to try the subtle approach. "Does this mean you've finally decided to listen to me, you pigheaded, stubborn Neanderthal?"

  He walked past her as if he hadn't even heard her.

  "Drustan!"

  "What?" he snapped, spinning around to look at her. "Can't you leave me in peace? My life was fine, wonderful until you appeared. Flitting about"—his gaze raked over her bountiful curves, nicely fluffed in her gown—"trying to tempt me into making a fankle of my wedding—"

  "Flitting? Tempting you! Could you show off your legs more? Walk around with no shirt on a bit more often? Oh, silly me, of course you couldn't, you're shirtless all the time."

  Drustan blinked, and she saw the hint of her Drustan's grin tugging at his lips, but he fought it admirably.

  Casually, he adjusted his sporran, hiking his plaid up a bit more. He tossed his silky black hair over his shoulder and arched a dark brow.

  Her hormones broke out party streamers and kazoos.

  She leaned forward, folding her arms beneath her chest. She felt the edging on her bodice graze her nipple. Two can play that game, Drustan.

  His silvery eyes changed instantly. Icy amusement was replaced by untamed lust. For a long, suspended moment, she thought he was going to duck his head, charge her, and carry her up the stairs to a bed.

  She held her breath, hoping. If he did, at least then she might be able to soothe him enough to get him to listen—after, of course, they made love nine million times and her own hormones had been properly soothed.

  She peeped at him from beneath her brows, her gaze a blatant challenge. A come-hither-if-you-dare look. She hadn't known she had it in her. But she was realizing there were a lot of things she hadn't known she had in her, until she'd met Drustan MacKeltar.

  "You know naught what you provoke," he growled.

  "Oh, yes, I do," she shot right back. "A coward. A man who's afraid to hear me out because I might prove inconvenient to his plans. I might dishevel his tidy world," she mocked.

  The flicker in his eyes blazed into flame. His gaze raked over her exposed bosom. She nearly gasped at the savagery in his expression; he was shaking, vibrating with suppressed… desire?

  "Is that what you want? You want me to tup you?" he demanded roughly.

  "If that's the only way I can get you to hold still long enough to listen to me," she snapped.

  "Were I to tup you, lass, you wouldna be speakin', for your mouth would be busy with other things, and I, of a certain, wouldna be listenin'. So give over, unless you're lookin' for a rough roll in the heather with a man who wishes he'd never laid eyes upon you."

  He spun on his heel and stalked out the door.

  When he was gone, Gwen sighed gustily. She knew that for a moment she'd almost had him, had almost provoked him into another kiss, but the man's willpower was nothing short of amazing.

  She knew he was attracted to her, it crackled in the air between them. She consoled herself with the thought that he must have some doubts or he wouldn't be so studiously avoiding her.


  Whatever his reasons, too many days were slipping by with nothing to show for them, and the arrival of his betrothed drew nearer, as did his impending abduction.

  Although she'd cornered him on two occasions, he'd jumped upon his horse and galloped away, and until her riding improved, it was an effective escape.

  She felt like a fool, trying to be everywhere, watching for a glimpse of him. She'd picked the lock on his chamber door last night, only to find he'd slipped out the window and scaled the damn castle wall to get away from her.

  When he'd crashed into the prickly bush, she'd stared with wide eyes, any thoughts of laughing firmly squelched by the sight of him nude. It had been all she could do not to fling herself out the window at him. He was magnificent. Watching him stroll around every day was killing her. Especially when he wore a kilt, because she knew from experience that he wore nothing beneath it. The thought of him hung heavy and naked beneath his plaid made her mouth go dry every time she looked at him. Probably because all the moisture in her body went somewhere else.

  Her antics had not gone unnoticed, nor had she missed that several of the maids and guards had taken to loitering about the castle proper, watching with unconcealed amusement.

  Love hath no pride…

  Yeah, well, Gwen Cassidy did, and humbling herself wasn't a whole lot of fun.

  She suspected that by the time she finally wore him down—as stubborn as he was—she was going to be downright pissed off.

  Didn't he know how dangerous it was to piss off a woman?

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  Gwen had a plan.

  Foolproof so far as she could see.

  She'd had ample time to reflect upon the errors of her ways. Although the list was long and inclusive of virtually everything she'd done since the moment she'd arrived in the sixteenth century, it was not beyond salvaging. She was still astonished by how thoroughly emotions could cloud one's actions. Never in her life had she done so many stupid things in such rapid succession.

  But she was under control now, and soon to be in control of him.

  She was going to tell him her story again, only this time he was going to listen to every single detail of it: From the moment he'd awakened in the cave to the moment she'd lost him, including what he'd eaten, said, worn, what she'd eaten, said, worn. And somewhere in it, she was convinced she'd find the catalyst that would make him remember. She'd pondered closed timeline curves for hours last night, along with the thermodynamic, psychological, and cosmological arrows of time. She was convinced the memory was imprinted in his DNA, and despite the arrows indicating one could only remember forward, not backward, she wasn't quite certain she believed that.

  She was going to give it her best shot to prove the theory wrong. After all, the quantum was rarely predictable. Even Richard Feynman, winner of the Nobel prize in physics for his work in quantum electrodynamics, had maintained that nobody really understood quantum theory. Mathematical theory was vastly different than the world implied by such equations.

  She'd concluded that there had never been two Drustans, merely two fourth-dimensional manifestations of a single set of cells. Rather like a solitary beam of light refracted by a prism, where the beam of light was Drustan, and the prism was the fourth dimension. Although the single light aimed into the prism would refract in multiple directions, it was still only one source of light. Were that light a person, why wouldn't his cells bear the imprint of his alternate journey? If the memory was there, perhaps remembering would be too confusing, so the mind would seek to resolve those "memories" by labeling them "dreams"; if recalled at all, discarded as nocturnal fancies.

  Drustan was going to listen to every word, if she had to talk herself hoarse.

  And she knew just how and where he was going to be doing it, she thought smugly, tucking the lance beneath her arm. She might be small, but she was not harmless. Enough shilly-shallying about, feeling wounded and ineffectual. It was time to do battle.

  * * * * *

  "Get in there and try it," Gwen told the guard.

  He cast her a dubious glance.

  "Go on, just try it," she said peevishly. "I'm not going to hurt you."

  The guard glanced at Silvan, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded, smiling. At his nod, the guard sighed and did as he was told.

  "Can you get out?" Gwen asked a few moments later.

  There was the sound of muffled thuds, kicks, and punches, then, "Nay, milady, I canna."

  "Try harder," Gwen encouraged.

  More thuds. Soft cursing. Good, she mused. Perfect.

  She and Silvan exchanged smug grins.

  * * * * *

  Drustan crept down the stairs, his bare feet silent on the stones. It was four in the morning, and although she was asleep, stealth was ever wise with her in residence. He'd heard her enter her chamber last eve, try the connecting door, then sigh and lean against it when she found it still barricaded. The bed ropes had squeaked for a time as she'd tossed, but finally all had grown quiet.

  He'd stretched out on his back in his bed, hands folded behind his head, refusing to think about her sleeping nude on the other side of the wall. But the tricky part about refusing to think about something was that you had to think about it in order to remind yourself what not to think about.

  And he knew she would. Sleep with nothing on, that is. She was a sensual wee lass who would enjoy the silky slide of velvet coverlets against her fine, smooth, creamy skin. Slipping with tender velvety abrasion over her puckered nipples, twining about her hips, probably twisting and turning to enjoy—

  Exasperated, Drustan gave a vicious shake of his head. Christ, he was going mad, that was all there was to it.

  Probably from being spied on all the time. She thought he didn't know she lurked about watching him all the time, but he knew. She was a living heat, strolling about his castle, all lush curves and temptation.

  Thus such stealth to do a man's business. He could have gone outside, but it irritated him that he'd even briefly considered it. It was his castle, by Amergin! She was making him positively irrational.

  As he rounded the corner, he stubbed his toe and cursed in five languages. Glancing down, he made a mental note to have the pile of lances moved out to the armory. He couldn't imagine why they were lying beside the staircase in the first place.

  Shaking his head and muttering beneath his breath, he walked the few paces down the corridor and slipped into the garderobe.

  * * * * *

  Aha! Gwen shouted silently. Finally! She dropped down from the stone arch in the corridor. People rarely looked up, and the darkness in the corridor had provided further camouflage. She landed lightly on the balls of her feet, hurried to the hall, and plucked up several steel lances that were piled flush to the wall of the stairs.

  Creeping silently back to the door of the garderobe, she braced one end of the steel lance against the stone wall and then gently, oh-so-quietly, wedged it into place. She understood bracing and pressure points with the best of them.

  Two, then three, then five—although only two had held the helpful brawny guard just fine. Drustan was a large man, and she wasn't taking any chances that he might crash the door down on her head.

  A small giggle built inside her. Trapping the laird of the castle in his own garderobe appealed to her sense of humor. Then again, the fact that she'd been going without sleep for the past three nights, waiting for him to make a nocturnal journey, probably had a bit to do with it too.

  She stepped away from the door and ducked into the Greathall, thinking to give him a few minutes of privacy and time to discover he was locked in and get the worst of it out of his system.

  She soon found out she'd woefully underestimated how bad "the worst" would be.

  * * * * *

  Drustan raked a hand through his hair and fumbled in the dark for the door. When it didn't budge, a part of him was unsurprised. Yet another part of him met the fact with a kind of glad resignation.<
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  She wanted battle? Battle she would get. It would be a pleasure to have it out with her finally. Once he'd ripped the door from the framing, he would exact vengeance upon her wee body with gleeful abandon. No more honorable I-won't-touch-you-because-I'm-betrothed.

  Nay—he'd touch her. Any damn place and any damn way he wanted to. As many times as he wanted to.

  Until she begged and whimpered beneath him.

  She'd been trying to drive him mad? Well, he was giving in to it. He would act like the animal she made him feel like being. The hell with Anya, the hell with duty and honor, the hell with discipline.

  He needed to tup. Her. Now.

  He slammed his body against the door.

  It scarce shuddered.

  Howling, he flung himself at it again. And again, and again.

  It didn't give a hairbreadth. Furious, he slammed his fists on the door above his head. Another shudder, but nothing significant.

  He stepped back, eyeing it warily, telling himself he did not feel a bud of respect blossoming. Might the canny wench have wedged braces between the wall and the door, all the way up? Christ, he'd never get out! He knew how sturdy the door was, it had been hewn extra thick for privacy.

  "Open up!" he roared, pounding it with his fist.

  Nothing.

  "Lass, if you open up now, I'll leave you in one piece, but I swear to you, if you keep me in here one more moment I will tear you limb from wee limb," he threatened.

  Silence.

  "Lass! Wench! Gwen-do-lynnnnnn!"

  * * * * *

  Outside the door, Gwen eyed the five lances lodged at varying angles between the door and the stone wall. Nope. No way. He was never getting out of there. Not until she was good and ready.

  But it was pretty darned impressive how much the door shuddered each time his body hit it.

  "You might have to let him yell himself hoarse, m'dear," Silvan said, leaning over the balustrade.

  Gwen tipped her head back. "I'm sorry, Silvan. I didn't mean to wake you."

  He grinned, and Gwen realized where Drustan had gotten his mischievous grin. "I wouldn't have missed seeing my son getting barricaded in the privy by a wee lass for anything. Bonny fortune with your plan, m'dear," he said with a smile, then ambled off.