The Dark Highlander

by Karen Marie Moning

  And just before she drifted off in his arms, beyond replete, exhausted and sore in places that had never been sore before, she knew that she’d gone and done what she’d been determined not to do: She’d fallen head over heels for the strange, dark Highlander.

  The moon was silvering the heather when Dageus finally stirred from his doze. He was sprawled on the plaid with Chloe in his arms, the lush curves of her plump backside pressed to his front, their legs twined together. Had he been a weeping man, he might have wept then from simple pleasure.

  She’d taken him as he was. All of him. He’d been wild with the darkness goading him, beyond kindness, his humanity slipping, and she’d brought him back to himself. He’d tried to make it up to her with tender loving, slower and gentler than he’d ever taken a woman.

  However he’d taken her, she’d met him and matched him. He’d been right, Chloe was wanton, had a wildness of her own. She’d been ready to lose her innocence, eager to be awakened, to be taught, and he’d relished every moment of it. Relished knowing he was her first lover. Her last, too, he thought possessively. She was a daring wee lass, loving every part of sex just as he’d known she would.

  After they’d gone to Balanoch (which he’d scarce even seen, too consumed by the wee woman between his thighs on the horse), they’d lazily sunned themselves naked beside the tumbling brook that fed the pool. They’d run their hands over each other’s body, learning every plane and curve. Tasting all the hollows and crevices. They’d shared more spiced wine and talked.

  They’d talked.

  She’d told him about her childhood, what it was like to grow up without parents. She’d made him laugh with stories of her elderly grandda warily taking her shopping for her first bra, (making him picture Silvan trying to choose female undergarments—och, that would be a sight!) and having The Talk with her about what she called “the birds and the bees.” Try as he might, Dageus couldn’t grasp that colloquialism. What birds and bees had to do with tooping, was beyond him. Horses he could understand. But bees? Unfathomable.

  He’d spoken a bit about his childhood—the finer parts, growing up with Drustan, before he’d been old enough to know that the Keltars were feared, during those years he’d still harbored a young lad’s dreams and fancies. He’d sung her bawdy, outrageous Scottish ditties as the sun had raced across the sky, and she’d laughed until tears filled her eyes. He was astonished by her every expression, so open and unguarded. Amazed by her resilience. Amazed by the emotions she stirred in him, feelings he’d long forgotten.

  She’d asked him questions about Druidry and he’d told her of the myriad Keltar duties: performing the seasonal rituals on Yule, Beltane, Samhain, and Lughnassadh, tending the earth and the wee creatures, preserving and guarding the sacred lore, using the stones on certain necessary occasions. He’d also explained, as best he could, how the stones worked. The physics of it had flummoxed her, and when her eyes had begun to glaze over, he’d spared her further edification. He’d told her what little they knew about the Tuatha Dé, and how the Keltar had formed an alliance with them many thousands of years ago—though he wisely avoided the subject of oaths.

  So the Tuatha Dé really existed? she’d exclaimed. An actual race of technologically advanced people? Where did they come from? Do you know?

  Nay, lass, we doona ken. There is very little we know about them for a certainty.

  He’d known the precise moment she’d truly accepted it; her eyes had sparkled, her cheeks had flushed, and he’d half-feared she was going to rush right back to the stones to examine them further. He’d swift given her something else to examine.

  Och, aye, his mate was wanton. . . .

  Strangely, she’d not brought up “the curse,” nor had she pressed to know what he was searching for, and for that he was endlessly grateful. He had no doubt it was only a temporary reprieve and that she’d hammer him with questions before long, but he’d take what he could get. He sensed that she’d been as determined as he to steal a day with no worry for the morrow. ’Twas a gift he’d never expected her to give him, a gift that humbled him. If he had naught ever again, he’d had this day.

  She knew he was a Druid, knew how ancient and strange his bloodline, and hadn’t feared him. He’d shamelessly milked it for all it was worth and basked in her acceptance.

  Now, as she slumbered in his arms, he nudged her a bit so the palm of his right hand slipped between her breasts, coming to rest above her heart. He shifted himself so the palm of his left rested above his own.

  There were words he’d waited his entire life to say and he would not be denied them. Silvan had ever accused him of loving too much. If he did, he couldn’t help it. Once his heart made the decision, there was no arguing with it. She was his mate and, for however long the gods granted, he would belong to his woman completely.

  He kissed her till she stirred drowsily and murmured his name. ’Twould do him no good to say the vows whilst she slept; his mate must actually hear the words. Then he began speaking reverently, pledging himself to her forever, though the bond wouldn’t take on its full life unless she one day gave the words back.

  “If aught must be lost, ’twill be my honor for yours. If one must be forsaken, ’twill be my soul for yours. Should death come anon, ’twill be my life for yours.”

  He tightened his arm around her and drew a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to complete was irrevocable. She’d said no words of love to him (though she’d used it in a sentence once in Balanoch—she’d said she loved the way he made love—and had nearly caused his heart to stop beating). Completing the vow would seal him to loving her for all eternity, and if there were lives beyond this one, he would be bound to love her in those as well. In eternal torment, aching endlessly for her, if she never loved him back.

  “I am Given,” he murmured, holding her close. The moment he uttered the final words of the oath, a wave of intense emotion crashed over him. He couldn’t begin to imagine what it might be like were she ever to give the vow back. Completion, he suspected. Two hearts made as one.

  Deep inside him the ancient ones hissed furiously and recoiled. They hadn’t liked that at all, he brooded darkly. Good.

  “That was beautiful,” Chloe murmured. “What was it?” She poked her head up and peered over her shoulder at him. In the pearly moonlight her skin shimmered translucent, her aquamarine eyes were sleepy and sexy, sparkling. Her lips were still swollen from his kisses, achingly lush. Her tousled curls fell in a tumble about her face and he could feel himself growing hard again, yet knew it would be the morrow at least before he could have her again. Were he a patient man, he should give her a sennight to recover. He’d be lucky if he made it a few more hours. Now that he’d tasted her, tasted how sweet it was to make love to a woman he loved, he was starved for more.

  “Och, lass, you are so lovely. You fair take my breath away.” Trite words, he scorned himself, such weak words compared to what he felt.

  She flushed with pleasure. “Was that some kind of poem you recited?”

  “Aye, something like that,” he purred, rolling her over in his arms so she was facing him.

  “I liked it. It sounded . . . romantic.” She peered at him curiously, nibbling her lower lip. “What was it again?”

  When he didn’t repeat it, she mused a moment then said, “Oh! I think I’ve got it! You said ‘if aught must be lost—’”

  “Nay, lass,” he shouted, going rigid. Och, Christ, what had he done? He dare not let her give the vows back. If aught happened to him, she would be bound to him forever. And if something terrible happened, if—God forbid—he actually turned dark, would she then be bound to him, a beast from hell? She might be tied for all eternity to the rage and fury that was the Draghar! Nay. Never.

  Chloe blinked, looking wounded. “I just wanted to repeat it so I could remember it.” The little poem had made her feel funny, strangely compelled to say it back for some reason. They were the sweetest words he’d ever spoken, even if only a b
it of a poem, and she’d like it safely tucked away in her memory. He wasn’t a man who bandied idle words about. He’d meant something by it. Was that how Dageus MacKeltar spoke of his feelings? By reciting a few lines of a poem?

  Though she’d been drowsy when he’d spoken, she was pretty certain he’d said something like “my life for yours.” If only he might love her like that! She no longer wanted merely to be the woman who got inside Dageus MacKeltar, she wanted to be the one who stayed inside him. Forever. The last woman he ever made love to. She wanted it so fiercely that the mere wanting was a kind of pain.

  And by God, she wanted to hear those words again.

  She opened her mouth to press, but the moment she did, he slanted his mouth hard over her parted lips and—damn the man for being able to kiss a woman into a swarm of hormones buzzing about like drunken little bees!—in a few moments the only thing she was thinking about was the way he was touching her.

  Silvan wasn’t a man given to lurking. Well, he hadn’t been until his sons had gone and taken mates, then it seemed he’d begun doing all sorts of things he’d not done before. Like eavesdropping on an embarrassingly personal and sizzling conversation between Drustan and Gwen that had ended with Silvan dragging Nellie off to bed. And wed to her a short time later.

  He grinned. A damn fine woman she was too. Knew more about the Keltar than the Keltar knew themselves. In her twelve years as his housekeeper, she’d learned nearly every secret in their castle, including one not even he had known: a secret place that had been forgotten for nearly eight centuries, according to the last entry he’d read in the journal he’d found therein.

  She said she’d discovered the underground chamber during a fit of spring cleaning a score of years ago. She’d not mentioned it because she thought he’d known—and besides, she’d added acerbically, that was when ye weren’t speaking to me. Silvan snorted softly. What a fool he’d been, denying his desire for her. So many wasted years.

  Are you wasting yet more time, old man? a caustic inner voice inquired. Aren’t there still things you refuse to say?

  He shoved that thought brusquely away. Now was not the time to brood on himself. Now was the time to focus on finding a way to save his son.

  The contents of the chamber were the reason he currently lurked in the shadows of the great hall awaiting Dageus’s return. There were texts and artifacts, relics Dageus needed to see. The sheer volume of material in the underground chamber was overwhelming. It could take them weeks simply to catalog it all.

  Silvan sensed his son before he entered the great hall, and began to rise, but at the last moment before the door opened, he heard a soft rush of throaty female laughter. Then silence that could only be filled with kisses. Then more laughter.

  Soft, faint, but Dageus’s laughter.

  He went motionless in a half-crouch above the chair. How long since he’d heard such a sound?

  Och, the darkness was still there beneath it, but whatever had transpired this day had granted Dageus a merciful reprieve. He didn’t need to see his son to know that his eyes would be—if not golden—at least lighter.

  When his son swung the door open, Silvan slipped back into the chair, gathering the gloom around him with a few soft words.

  His news would keep till the morn.

  20

  There’s something I haven’t told you, Chloe-lass, Dageus said, stepping forward from the shadowy circle of stones. His eyes said he wanted to tell her. His eyes said he was afraid to tell her. What might such a man fear? That he feared it, frightened her as well, and diminished her need to know substantially. For a novel change, her curiosity curled up and played dead.

  You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, she prevaricated, wanting the dreamy pleasure of their newfound intimacy to remain unspoiled by difficult truths. From the look on his face, difficult was a mild word for whatever he was withholding.

  The tendons in his strong neck worked and he opened and closed his mouth several times. He took a deep breath. Mayhap you should know—

  A sudden pounding at the door jarred Chloe instantly awake. Her dream shattered into tiny particles of sandman’s dust.

  When she jerked, Dageus’s arms tightened around her.

  “Are ye awake in there?” Nell was calling through the door. “Silvan’s nigh beside himself with impatience. He’s requestin’ ye both belowstairs.”

  “We’re awake, Nell,” Dageus replied. “Would you mind having a bath sent up?”

  “Dageus, yer da will get himself in a fankle. He’s been waiting to show ye what he’s found since early yestermorn and ye know he’s ne’er been the most patient man.”

  Dageus exhaled loudly. “A quarter hour, Nell,” he said, sounding resigned, “then we’ll be down.”

  “I wouldn’t be disturbin’ ye, were it left to me.” A soft laugh, and her footsteps faded down the corridor.

  Dageus rolled Chloe over on her side to face him, capturing one of her legs between his, cupping her full breasts possessively.

  “G’morning,” she said drowsily, flushing from the memory of what he’d done to her through the night. What she’d encouraged him, even begged him to do. She smiled. She was achy and sore and felt scrumptious. She’d spent the entire night in his arms. Funny, she mused, of all the things that were so difficult to believe, the past twenty-four hours with him seemed the most astonishing. Since she’d given herself to him, he’d been a completely different man. Warm, sexy, playful. Oh, still every inch dominant, basely sexual man, but infinitely more approachable. Where, previously, sometimes it had seemed he was there but not quite there—a part of him somewhere else entirely—in bed he was one hundred percent there. One hundred percent focused and involved.

  It was devastating to be the focal point of such raw, relentless eroticism. He was everything she’d fantasized Dageus MacKeltar might be in bed and more. Wild and demanding, battering past all her inhibitions.

  Just as she was thinking how nice it was to see him at ease, his body as relaxed as a lion lazily sunning himself, he smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Oooh! Stop that. When you smile at me I want all of it.”

  “What?” He looked confused.

  Chloe slid her hands to his ribs, wondering if such a strong, disciplined man might be ticklish. He was, and it delighted her to discover that in some small way he was as helpless and as human as the rest of the world. She tickled mercilessly until, laughing, he captured her hands in his.

  “I punish wenches who tickle me,” he purred, stretching her arms above her head.

  “How?” she asked breathlessly.

  He ducked his dark head and caught one nipple in his mouth, suckling gently before releasing it and dragging his tongue over her breasts to capture the other. “You have perfect breasts, lass,” he growled huskily. “As to the punishing, I’ll need to think on that,” he purred against her skin. “None has e’er tickled me before.”

  “Gee, I wonder why?” she managed. When he circled a budded nipple with his tongue, her back arched and she inhaled sharply. Her breasts felt swollen, chafed by his shadow beard, and exquisitely sensitive. “Could it be because you’re always so reserved and in control? They were probably afraid to,” she said, gasping.

  He released her nipple and looked up at her, startled. “But you’re not, are you, Chloe?”

  “Smile,” she panted, not wanting to answer that. Not wanting to admit that some part of her was afraid of the intimidating man who danced between centuries. Not exactly of him, more afraid of the power he had over her because she had such intense feelings for him. With all the scorching, incredibly intimate things he’d done to her, he’d not said any of those words lovers were wont to say, words hinting at a future together. As he’d told her yesterday, he made no excuses and offered no pretty lies. No promises either.

  She wouldn’t mind one or two. Or ten.

  Taking her cue from him, she’d kept her feelings silent, resolved to be patient; wait and w
atch, try to catch some of those subtle little signs that were all Dageus ever revealed.

  He arched a brow and smiled as she’d requested.

  “Oh, that one was much better,” she said, smiling back. It was impossible not to smile back when he truly smiled. When he slid his hands down her arms, over her breasts, then to her hips, she shook her head warily. “Huh-uh. I can’t. Not now.” She deliberately teased him with, “It could be a week before I can again.” She topped it with a demure batting of her lashes.

  Growling, he tossed his head, his black mane spilling like dark silk over her skin. “Och, nay, lass, I doona think so. A bath will hasten your recovery.” He prodded her in the thigh, hard and ready. Did the man never tire? she wondered blissfully.

  Despite her extreme soreness, desire flared, hot and greedy, stirring all those battered nerve endings to life. He made her feel insatiable. Having sex with him made a woman feel like she was doing something forbidden somehow, and she could get downright obsessed with it. Though she felt bruised and tender, if they had the time, she’d be all over him, or rather, he’d be all over her, for he certainly liked the dominant position. “You heard Nell. We’re not getting a bath. Silvan wants us.” Chloe felt a sudden flush of embarrassment. She’d slept with Silvan’s son in Silvan’s castle. Though she hadn’t felt awkward about it with Nell at the door, for some reason she felt uneasy about it when she thought about Silvan, perhaps because he was of her grandda’s age.

  “Doona worry, lass,” he reassured her, guessing at her thoughts from her expression. “Silvan saw us come in last eve. He’ll no’ think less of you. Verily, he’ll be delighted. I’ve no’ had a lass in my chamber before.”

  “Really?” she asked a bit breathlessly. When he nodded, Chloe smiled radiantly: At least here in his bedroom, she was the only one. Though not what she’d prefer (like a declaration of undying love or a request that she have his babies), it was something. Then her eyes narrowed. The sun was spilling in the window behind her and Dageus’s eyes were golden, dappled with darker flecks. Smoky and sensual, fringed by thick dark lashes, but gold nonetheless. “What is with your eyes?” she exclaimed. “Is it part of being a Druid?”