Hero in the Highlands (25 page)

With a low growl Gabriel shoved her thighs apart, lifting one knee to open her further, and buried his cock inside her. Fiona groaned aloud, her eyes closing as she concentrated on the filling heat of him.
Good God.
Already ripples of convulsive pleasure shivered through her. And then he began to move.

He began a slow, deep rhythm, sinking onto his elbows so he could continue to fondle her breasts, lightly pinching her nipples. She could barely remember to breathe, all of her clinging against him, feeling the deep, tight, satisfying slide.

Almost immediately she climaxed, shivering in spasms of delight, moaning in time with his thrusts. Everything vanished but the two of them, heaving and sweating, entwined. Again and again he entered her, pushing her ecstasy past any coherent thought.

When he finally moaned and held himself inside her, she could only dig her fingers into his shoulders and gasp. He climaxed hard, then with a deep exhalation lowered his head to her shoulder.
Sweet saints and sinners.
Fiona didn't think she'd ever be able to move again. She didn't want to ever move again. Her heart pounded so hard and fast she couldn't count the beats. “That was very bonny,” she finally sighed, half to herself.

Out of breath as he was, Gabriel chuckled at her words. “Very bonny,” he echoed, kissing the soft skin of her shoulder and neck.

The silky softness of her surprised and intrigued him. Fiona Blackstock was outspoken, practical, and very willing to help mend fences, shovel manure, or do whatever else Lattimer—MacKittrick—required. On the inside she didn't seem to fear anything. At the same time, though, his slightest touch could make her shiver. She was soft and delicate and sensitive, and damned well gave as good as she got.

He could see himself protecting her, protecting this. In another life, this could be everything he wanted. Fiona could be everything he wanted. But twelve years ago he'd signed papers, sworn an oath, and donned a uniform. He fought when and where king and Crown needed him to fight, because that was his duty. There were people—and land and property—to be protected. This, here, at Lattimer, this was … a holiday. She was a holiday. Or so he'd thought. But nothing about this, about her, felt momentary.

Reluctant as he was to remove himself from her, neither did he want Fiona to begin pointing out again that she wasn't his mattress. Taking a breath, he pulled out and sat on the edge of the bed to clean himself off.

She sighed luxuriously. “I ken these are from rifle or musket balls,” Fiona said, running her fingers up his back to brush the round scar just beneath his rib cage on the right side, and the new one on his forearm. “I reckon this long, straight one's from a sword or a saber, like the one on yer face.” A finger traced the white line running down his left hip to his arse. “But what's this one?” She tapped his right shoulder blade.

“Which one is that?” he asked, so she would continue touching him.

Her finger made three, close-together, almost horizontal strokes. “It looks like a cat got ye, almost. A very large cat.”

“Ah, that. My men and I chased some smugglers into an old fort. One of the bastards pulled an old iron mace off the wall and swung it at my head. He missed, mostly.”

Her fingers stroked the scars again. “So ye've nearly been killed by weapons both modern and ancient.”

“I suppose so. It keeps things interesting.”

“What would ye have done, do ye reckon, if one of these holes had stopped yer soldiering?”

“I don't think about that.”

She sat up behind him to drape her arms loosely about his shoulders. Joined together, comfortable—it felt … new, and yet somehow like he'd found the last missing piece to something he hadn't even realized he'd lacked until that moment.

“That's a mite foolish, isnae?” she suggested. “To nae consider the consequences?”

He shrugged against her, a deep part of him wishing this night would go on forever. “I consider the circumstances of failure, and I plan for things as best I can. Knowing what could go wrong is one thing; dwelling on it is counterproductive. It's … difficult to put into words. I move forward. An enemy tries to stop me or turn me aside. I stop them so I may continue forward.”

“Do ye save people, or just kill enemies?”

“I make an effort to keep civilians from harm, if that's what you mean. I try not to send my men straight at a cannon when they could go around it—unless the task itself is to charge the cannon.”

For a moment she remained silent, her fingers idly caressing his skin. “The people ye keep from harm. Do ye see them after? Do they thank ye?”

“By the time a village is safe enough to hold a parade I'm generally far away from it, taking back the next village.” He twisted his head to look at her, her chin resting on his shoulder. “Why all the questions?”

“I was just wondering if ye'd ever stayed in one place long enough to see that what ye did somewhere made a difference. To see if any roots tried to sprout from the soles of yer boots.”

“I don't need to see that. And roots, literal and figural, would slow me down.”

“Then I dunnae think ye ken what ye're fighting fer,” she returned. “Ye follow commands like a hunting dog, and ye never get to enjoy the meal ye've fetched fer someone else.”

Whatever this conversation was becoming, he abruptly didn't like it. Kissing and sex was much simpler than conversation. “Have you ever set foot outside the Highlands, Fiona?” he countered. “Outside Maxwell land, even?”

Her brow furrowed, and she moved back away from him. “Nae, I havenae. But what does that—”

“Then stop trying to judge the motives of people with whom you have nothing in common,” he suggested, standing to retrieve his breeches and shrug them on. She had no damned right to criticize how he lived his life. She knew nothing about it.

“I see what this is. Ye dunnae like what I'm saying, so ye dive in to counterattack. Sometimes a question's just a question, Gabriel. It's nae part of a battle.”

“Everything is a battle,” he retorted. Picking up his boots and the rest of his scattered clothes, he padded barefoot for the door. He wasn't finished with her yet by any means, but he knew her well enough to realize that she enjoyed poking and prodding at him. His hard travel cot would give him a better night's rest, though he doubted he would be doing much sleeping.

No, he hadn't quite decided what he wanted of her, what he needed of her, but he had more than a hunch that it wouldn't end with the capture of sheep thieves. But that wasn't anything he could decipher in her presence. Not tonight. First he needed to decide who, precisely, he was becoming and whether either of them could live with this new version of himself or not.

*   *   *

Gabriel unbolted the door to Fiona's bedchamber and inched it open—and was immediately grateful for the hard-learned lessons of caution. A figure strolled up the hallway, shadowed in the scant candlelight but silhouetted well enough that he could make out the frock coat and narrow-legged trousers. Silently he closed and bolted the door again.

“What is it?” she whispered from right behind him.

Gabriel nearly dropped a boot. Of course she'd followed him; she wouldn't want him to escape with the last word. “Artur Maxwell,” he murmured back, gesturing her away from the door and lowering his gaze to her naked backside as she retreated toward the bed.

“His room's on the other side of the stairs,” she muttered, pausing to retrieve her night rail from the footboard and pulling it on over her head. “What the devil is he doing here?”

Her door handle dipped and righted itself again. “I can guess,” Gabriel returned, his general annoyance with the arrogant fop deepening into a possessive hatred. Fiona belonged with him. His fingers balled into a fist. He'd been the one to bolt her door. If he hadn't, Maxwell would have been in her room by now.

“That snake,” she exclaimed, her voice thankfully still hushed. Her tone mollified him a little, but didn't make him want Artur any less bloodied.

The handle lowered and lifted again, more emphatically this time. Fiona had been with other men before him. Was Artur Maxwell one of them? Did she call their encounters bonny, too? Scowling, he glared at her. “Is this his custom when he visits, then?”

“What? Nae. He makes my skin crawl.”

Good.
“You've been with other men, though.”

“Aye. And ye've been with other women. Shut yer gobber, Gabriel, before ye get both of us hanged. Ye can go on aboot being jealous later.”

Was that it? Jealousy? It felt far more … deadly than the word poets and novelists bandied about so readily. “What—”

A quiet knock sounded at the door.
The bastard.
Gabriel started forward, but stopped when Fiona grabbed his arm. “Nae. If ye answer that door, someone'll end up dead.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. Nearly every encounter he had with people who counted themselves his enemies ended with someone dead. “It won't be you, and it won't be me.”

“Go hide under the bed, ye lummox.”

Under the bed
.
Him
. “No.”

“Then…” She glanced around the room, then padded over to the tapestry hanging on one side of the fireplace. Swiftly she pressed a pheasant design on the wood panel beside it, and the tapestry swung out on one side. “Come on with ye, Gabriel. Please.”

He wouldn't have moved, except for that last word. Still frowning, he slipped through the hidden door and she pushed it closed behind him. Damp, stale air settled around him, dust and wood chips and the devil knew what else rough beneath his bare feet. Even with the pitch-darkness he sensed space beside him, but moving now would mean making noise. And he had no intention of being caught half naked in a priest hole while holding his clothes in his arms. Letting her confront Artur alone went against every instinct he had, but she'd asked, and so he would wait. For the moment.

Distantly he heard her door click open. “Artur? What's amiss?” Fiona asked, sounding believably sleepy.

“Naught's amiss,” the male voice answered. “Ye're a lovely lass, Fiona, and the night is long and cold.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw. Damned bloody interloper.

“I dunnae accept visitors to my bedchamber in the middle of the night, Artur, no matter how cold it is. Go to bed.”

“Ye're a lass alone, Fiona. Ye could benefit from having a man nearby who'd look after yer interests.”

“I can look after my own interests, thank ye very much. Good night, Artur.”

“Ye dunnae even ken what yer best interests are. How much longer do ye think ye'll be allowed to work here? Whatever pity anyone felt over ye being left on yer own is well faded by now.”

On to threats, already. The charm and pleading hadn't lasted long. Gabriel didn't doubt that Fiona could stand up for herself; she did so with him constantly. But this was bullying, and he didn't like bullying. Not in general, and definitely not here and not tonight. Not when her scent still clung to his skin. How difficult would it be to dispose of Artur Maxwell, compared against the stir his disappearance was likely to cause, anyway? That was a very large lake—loch, rather, as Fiona kept reminding him—just beyond the garden. Adding secret passages to that, and this became a rather simple exercise.

“If I'm nae mistaken, my employment's up to the Duke of Lattimer now,” she replied. “Dunnae make me say it again. Ye've had a bit much to drink, and ye need to be off to bed.”

“I reckon I'll stay here tonight, lass.”

At the sound of the door thudding and then something falling off the shelf beside the door, Gabriel reached forward to shove at the unfinished wall in front of him. He had no idea where the door release was, but he didn't much care. Breaking through it would serve just as well to get him into the room. Dropping his clothes, he angled his shoulder forward, tensing.

“I'm nae going to apologize fer busting yer beak,” Fiona's voice came, and he froze in mid-charge. “Ye make a stir in here and Lattimer will hear ye, ye ken. He's just doon the hallway. Now go to bed, fer God's sake.”

Her door closed, none too gently, just as Gabriel's questing fingers found the latch and turned it.

The firelight seemed bright as the sun after the hidden passageway, and Fiona's angry, upset expression was clearly visible as she turned to face him. “That man,” she muttered, and then couldn't finish because Gabriel kissed her.

He likely shouldn't have, given the fact that he'd come calling in a manner nearly identical to Artur's, but he couldn't stop himself. She'd defended herself when he'd wanted to do it for her. She'd forced one man to leave her be, while he remained. With her.

Fiona kissed him back, her fingers digging hard into his bare back. She opened her mouth to him, tangling her tongue with his. “Thank ye,” she mumbled against his mouth, pressing her body against his and making his cock throb all over again.

“For what? I didn't do a damned thing.” Swiftly he unfastened his white soldier's breeches and freed himself, then hiked her night rail up around her waist and lifted her onto the edge of the dressing table. With another deep kiss he buried himself in her damp, tight heat.

With a groan she wrapped her ankles around his hips and braced her arms on the table behind her. “Exactly,” she managed, flinging her head back as he rocked into her.

Gabriel didn't know what the devil that meant, but for the moment he didn't care. Only one thing mattered, and that was the woman splayed before him, around him. His, and not only for tonight, whether she realized it or not. Whether he knew how to accomplish that miraculous feat or not.

*   *   *

“I have no idea how you did this,” Kelgrove said, taking a brush to Gabriel's dust-and-cobweb-covered dress uniform, “but I'm thinking you need a half-dozen spare uniforms from now on.”