The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3)

by Barbara Longley

  “They fostered me, aye, but . . .” He frowned. “Sky, have you given no thought to my desire to wed you? Are my wishes so insignificant that you canna even spare them a few moments of consideration?”

  “I have given it a great deal of thought. We are no’ suited. It does no’ please me to think that every emotion I carry would be so easily discerned by my husband.” She moved away from him and clasped her hands together. “Erin explained to both of us how genetics work. You and I are both gifted with fae abilities. Would you risk the chance of our bairns being even more fae than the two of us combined? Would you risk the chance of our bairns being even more of an oddity than the both of us?”

  He hadn’t considered that. The granite boulder he’d studied earlier somehow found a place in the pit of his stomach. “She also said the possibility existed that genes can mix in such a way that none of the fae characteristics will show in a bairn. Thomas is no’ gifted.”

  “Aye, but neither is Da. One out of the six of us is without the curse, Hunter. One out of six, and that is with only one of our parents carrying the fae gene.” She shook her head. “Nay. I wish for my sons and daughters to have a greater chance at a normal life than the two of us can offer.”

  “You too see our abilities as a curse? Why have you said naught about this before now?” They’d taken the well-worn path to a secluded spot on the lakeshore—a spot where lovers oft hid for a few moments of privacy.

  “I do see it as a curse.” She nodded, her eyes downcast. “You are only recently returned. When would I have spoken to you about such?”

  “If I could find a way to rid myself of the fae abilities, I would do so in a trice.” He leaned over and picked up a few flat stones, skipping one across the surface of the loch. “I live in fear that I will be discovered. ’Twould lead to suspicion, isolation . . . or worse.” He glanced askance at her. “I could no’ bear it.”

  Tossing another stone, he followed the trajectory as it skipped along the surface. “Still, wouldn’t we both be better off together? At least then there would be understanding between us. We’d have no need to keep our abilities and heritage a secret from one another, aye?”

  “Do you love me, Hunter? Does your heart cease beating for an instant when you behold me?” She stared at him in that intense way she had and awaited his response.

  “I do love you, aye.” He hadn’t lied.

  “Granted, as a dear sister, but does the very sight of me set your blood on fire? Do you feel passion for me?”

  He couldn’t answer. He kent full well she’d recognize the lie as soon as he gave it voice. A lump rose to his throat. “Mayhap in time . . .”

  “Nay.” She shook her head. “Time will no’ make a difference. I mean to marry Oliver, the earl of Mar’s grandson. He’s a good man, and—”

  “The earl’s son. In truth, ’tis my lack of land and a title that makes me unsuitable and no’ my fae blood. Isn’t that so, lass?” He hurled the rest of the stones out over the water to rain down in a flurry of tiny splashes and ripples. “I kent as much.”

  “How many times must I say it? Your lack of a title or land means naught to me.”

  Her words rang with truth, but he chose not to pay them heed. “What if I were to perform some service to our king? He might grant me land and a title, albeit none so lofty as an earldom.” Desperation tore at him. His dreams were slipping through his fingers like water through a cracked ladle, and he could do naught to stop it. “Then would you consider marrying me?”

  “Hunter . . .”

  “Will you wed this Oliver fellow out of duty alone? Do you love him? Does he steal your breath and send your pulse racing?”

  Her lips compressed into a straight line. She too refused to give voice to a lie. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. “I ken you as well as you ken yourself, lass—as you do me. There can never be lies between us, and that is a good basis upon which to build our lives. What will Oliver make of you once he sees you are no’ like others? What will he do when he discovers you are part fae?” He cast her a hard look. “When your husband turns from you out of suspicion and fear, what will you do then, lass?”

  “Now you resort to cruelty to bend me to your will?” She glared at him. “I thought you cared for me, but I see now you are like every other man—selfish and somehow entitled to trample upon the feelings of a mere woman.” She turned on her heel and marched away from him. “Mayhap I will find a way to the future. I hear tell the men there are far more enlightened and much less fearful,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Shite.” He leaned down, scooped up a handful of pebbles and flung them out over the loch with all the force he could muster. Once again he’d failed to find the right words to persuade her. Instead of gentleness, sentiment and ardent words, he’d behaved like a petulant lad, resorting to bullying to have his way.

  ’Twas Meghan who addled his thoughts and had him behaving like a man grasping at straws. Once she was away, he’d go about persuading Sky in a more logical, rational manner. At least he kent Sky hadn’t given her heart to the earl of Mar’s grandson.

  “Just out of curiosity . . .”

  He nearly leaped from his skin at the sound of Meghan’s voice. Whipping around, he scowled at her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I saw a lot of splashing out over the water and came to investigate.” She toed the pebbles beneath her boot. “What did the lake ever do to you to deserve such abuse?”

  She still wore her hose and tunic. Her hair hung over her shoulder in a tight braid, and once again she called to mind the warrior queen Boudicca. ’Twas not safe to be so near her in this secluded place. Her wide-set eyes, fixed upon him so earnestly, held warmth and concern. How was he supposed to resist her when with every action and word she entranced him? “I beg your pardon?”

  “All those rocks being hurled . . .” She gestured toward the loch. “At first I thought maybe some of the boys were trying to out-throw each other, or maybe they were skipping stones.” She picked through the pile at her feet, chose a smooth, flat stone and sent it skimming across the surface of the water. “But the way the rocks were coming down, it seemed less like fun and more like an expression of frustration . . . or anger.”

  “Humph.”

  “Humph?” She arched a brow. “Use your words, Hunter. What’s eating at you today?”

  He blew out a breath and chose a flat stone at his feet. He sent it skipping, pleased when his throw outdistanced hers. “’Tis frustration.”

  Meghan picked up a smooth stone, aimed carefully and threw. Her effort outdid his by several hands. He couldn’t let that happen. Picking up just the right specimen, he judged the weight of it in his hand before putting a bit more muscle into his next toss. “Ha! Beat that if you can, lass.”

  “Oh.” She blinked up at him in feigned innocence. “Are we competing? Because if we are”—she searched the shore—“you don’t stand a chance.”

  “Think you?” he shot back. “Do your best, Beag Curaidh. ’Twill be for naught, for you dinna possess the strength to match mine.”

  “Of course you’d think it’s all about muscle.” Her eyes narrowed. “Watch this.” She stepped closer to the water’s edge, surveyed the loch and shifted the stone from one hand to the other. Finally, she brought her arm back and flung it out over the loch. Six skips, and the stone traveled well beyond his last effort. “See?” She twirled in triumph, her features lit with satisfaction.

  He laughed, drew her into his arms and brought his mouth down to hers before he kent what he was about. Her arms circled his waist, and her nearness, her scent, intoxicated him. She returned his kiss, and he was lost. With her warmth and the feel of her curves fitted so sweetly against him, the kiss took on a life of its own, deepening until his rigid control gave way.

  He ran his tongue along the seam of her mouth, and she opened for him. He slid his tongue aro
und hers in a mating dance, and a soft moan escaped her. The need to claim her overwhelmed him. Hard, aching—and yes . . . desperate, he backed her into the trunk of the nearest oak and pressed against her. Cradling her face between his palms, he slanted her head to gain better access, delving deeper into the sensuous feast she offered up so sweetly.

  Meghan ran her hands over his chest, then over his shoulders to stroke his back. He ran his palms down to her tiny waist to hold her hips, bringing her up against his hardness, cursing the clothing that separated them. Rational thought burned away in a conflagration of desire.

  He had to stop this before he took her right here in the copse. Mustering his will, he broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers, so close they shared the air between them. Every fiber in his being protested. He labored to breathe, and his heart beat against his rib cage in castigation against his restraint.

  “Why are you here, Meghan?”

  “Do you mean in your century, or . . . ?”

  “Nay.” Hunter drew a long, steadying breath. “Here in this secluded place . . . with me. ’Tis dangerous to play with fire, lass.” A surge of heat and longing shot through him at the swift intake of her breath. He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted Meghan, and he was certain he never would again. May the saints preserve him, he prayed he never would again.

  She cleared her throat. “About the same time I noticed the shower of pebbles, I saw Sky heading for the keep. Judging by the look on her face, I figured the two of you had argued again. I thought maybe you could use a friend.”

  “Aye. We did argue.” He couldn’t seem to force himself to let go of her. He nuzzled her temple and ran his knuckles over the delicate skin of her cheeks. How was it his wee warrior had such soft skin?

  “What is it with you two?” She searched his face. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He closed his eyes. “The lady and I are at an impasse.”

  “Not too many would take the vow you made as a child seriously. Why do you persist? If you want Sky so badly, why am I pressed up against this tree with your . . . er . . . umm . . .”

  He backed away from her and faced the loch. His face burned, and his tarse throbbed. He ached all over with wanting her. “Mayhap ’twould be best if you returned to the keep.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it would be, but I’m not going to. I want to know what’s going on. Clearly Sky doesn’t want the same thing you do. Why do you keep it up?”

  Keep it up? She couldn’t possibly understand the implications of what she’d just said, or the effect her words had on him. “’Tis complicated.”

  “I’m smart. I don’t find complicated things daunting at all.” She huffed out a breath. “Maybe it would do you some good to talk it through with an outsider.”

  “Humph.”

  “Again . . . use your words, Hunter.” She came around to face him. “I’m leaving soon. What harm can there be in spilling your guts to me?”

  “Spilling my guts?” One side of his mouth quirked up. “Sounds quite painful.”

  “You know what I mean.” She lifted her chin and crossed her arms in front of her.

  Adorable, in a fierce kind of way. He took another calming breath. “Mayhap you have it aright.”

  “Of course I do.”

  Her boastful tone brought a smile to his face. “Our clans are patrilineal. I’ve ne’er met my kin on my father’s side. He disappeared before I was born—taken by Giselle into the future I am told, and he perished before the faerie could return him to us. I am a MacConnell through my da, and because of that, I’ve ne’er truly felt as if . . .” His throat closed up.

  “Give me a break.” She threw her hands in the air. “Don’t tell me you feel like you don’t really belong here with the MacKintosh.”

  He shrugged.

  “Hunter, not only do you belong to this clan, but you are adored by this clan to the point where it’s a little bit sickening.”

  Heat crept up his neck. “Think you?”

  “So, let me see if I understand this little drama correctly.” She shot him a wry look and wagged her finger at him. “You want to marry Sky, your foster sister, because you think doing so will somehow make you feel like you truly have a place with the MacKintosh—when in reality, you have always been a MacKintosh for real.” She shook her head. “Besides which, if clan identity comes from the father, your children will be MacConnells anyway, right?”

  The way she said it made him feel like a lad of eight or ten. “What do you ken about how I feel or what I want?”

  “Huh. I believe I’ve hit the nail on the head, or you wouldn’t be as miffed as you are right now. That’s called a defense mechanism. And by the way—you wear an entire suit of armor comprising the stuff.”

  “Enough, my lady,” he snapped a little too harshly. “You have given me much to think on, and for that I am truly grateful.”

  “Liar.”

  He growled low in his throat, outrage grinding his control down to a nub. “’Tis well past time I returned to my duties.” He bowed. “I bid you good day.”

  “Good day to you as well, Sir Hunter. I wish you well in your bogus quest of epic proportions. ”

  “Bogus? Is there even such a word?” He glowered. “By the saints, you can be most trying.”

  “By the saints, you are as blind as my grandma’s thirteen-year-old pug.”

  Having no idea what she meant, he let her have the last word. Clearly ’twas important to her to do so. Hunter strode across the bailey, rejecting out of hand all she had said. Meghan kent naught of the way of things in his century, and even less of him.

  Angus met him at the bottom of the stairs to the keep. “Hunter, a moment of your time?”

  “What is it?”

  “Two of Sir Cecil’s guards and pages left us this day.” His brow lowered until his bushy gray eyebrows nearly hid his eyes.

  “Aye.” Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter caught a glimpse of Meghan as she came in through the portcullis. He wanted to shake her by the shoulders and then kiss her senseless until she could challenge him no further. “Cecil told us he meant to send word to his kin of his plans to travel with us to Inverness, and he’s sending the pages home before him.”

  “The Cunninghams live no’ too far from the Sassenach border to the south, aye?”

  “Aye.” Hunter’s attention turned to the older man. “Why do you ask?”

  “I ask because I happened to be in the village when the Cunninghams took their leave.”

  “And?” The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he tensed.

  “They didn’t take the road south, lad.” Angus frowned. “They went north.”

  Hunter searched his mind for a plausible reason why Cecil would send his guards north. “There are crofters to the north, aye? Crofters with daughters who are of marriageable age. Mayhap one of the guards formed an attachment whilst here and wished to pay his respects before departing.”

  “Mayhap you have it aright.” Angus scratched his beard. “Still, ’twould ease my mind a bit if you took more than six men with you.”

  “I see no need, but I’ll increase the number to ten. Will you see to it?”

  “Aye. Think you to take an alternative route to the one you shared with Sir Cecil?”

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “This far from home and on our land, Cecil canna have too many soldiers at his disposal without our being aware of them. Have any of our scouts noticed anything out of the ordinary whilst doing their rounds along the borders?”

  “Nay. No’ a thing.”

  “I dinna fathom the reasons why Cecil would conspire against us, yet I canna shake the feeling that some form of treachery is afoot. If he and his handful of guards do mean to cause trouble, I’d just as soon settle the matter once and for all. We will no’ turn away from a fight if that’s what he seeks.�
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  “You do us credit, lad.” Angus slapped his shoulder. “Spoken like a true MacKintosh.”

  All of his fears and insecurities surged through him in a cold rush. Would Angus say “like a true MacKintosh” if he truly saw Hunter as anything but a MacKintosh? Damnation. This day could not end fast enough to suit him.

  Hunter sharpened his sword on the turning stone wheel in the armory, his mind doing inventory of the things he’d need to pack for the trip. He stopped the wheel and examined his blade. ’Twas as sharp as ’twould ever be. Slipping the claymore into its scabbard, he surveyed the chamber.

  On the morrow, he and ten of their best warriors would escort Meghan to Inverness to return her to her time. The notion caused a hollowness within him, and he rubbed his chest to ease the ache. She wanted to go home, and he’d vowed to see that she did. ’Twas for the best. It had to be done.

  Redirecting his errant thoughts, Hunter ran through the list of preparations, making sure all was ready for their journey. He’d told Tieren to pass along his instructions not to share any information with Cecil’s remaining guardsmen or his squire. All that remained for the evening was to sup with his foster family. He intended to retire early to get a good night’s rest. If sleep would come to him, ’twould be a miracle indeed.

  The door to the armory creaked open. Hunter looked up to find Tieren standing half in and half out. Angus stood behind him. “What is it?”

  The two men entered, closed the door behind them and approached. Tieren spoke first. “We’ve had a thought or two about the journey to Inverness.”

  “Aye?” Hunter had always been able to rely upon Tieren’s uncanny ability for strategy, and he sorely missed the closeness they’d once shared. He’d wracked his brain for some way around their current estrangement, but ’twas not he who had shown himself a false friend. It did not fall to him to rectify the matter.

  Angus continued. “Cecil believes you mean to bring six men with you, and we see no reason to upset whatever plans he might have by showing our hand.”