Kiss of the Highlander (24 page)

Ha,
he thought she didn’t know what a furlong was, but she knew all kinds of measurements. A furlong was roughly an eighth of a mile, which meant the village was approximately two and a half miles, and while it certainly wouldn’t take her all day, there was her predisposition toward inertia to consider.

He stopped and tossed her a look that said
last chance.
Shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand against her brow, she scowled up at him. Again, he wore leather trews, that cased his powerful thighs, a linen shirt, his leather bands, and leather boots. There was just something irresistible about a well-muscled man in leather. His dark hair spilled unbound over his shoulders, and as she gazed at him he gave that achingly familiar lionlike toss of his mane, and her hormones roared in response. She refused to think about what she knew lay in his snug leather trews. Knew from personal experience. Because she’d had her hand wrapped around it. Because she’d like to wrap her lips around it….

She tucked her bangs behind her ear with a dismal sigh.

When he nudged his mount near, she skittered back.

A corner of his lip rose in a mocking smile. “So there
are
some things you fear, Gwen Cassidy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “There’s a difference between fear and lack of familiarity. Anything one does for the first time can be daunting. I have no experience with horses, therefore I have not yet developed proper responses.
Yet
is the significant word there.”

“Then come, O brave one.” He extended his hand. “ ‘Tis apparent you won’t be able to ride on your own. If you doona ride with me, you’ll have to walk. Behind me,” he added, just to irritate her.

Her hand shot up toward his.

With a snort of amusement, he clamped his fingers about her wrist and lifted her, deftly sliding her into position on the saddle in front of him. “Easy,” he murmured to his mount. Or was it to her? She wasn’t sure which of them was more skittish.

He adjusted her lightweight cloak and encircled her waist with his arms. Gwen closed her eyes as a wave of longing flooded her. He was touching her. All over. His chest was pressed against her back, his arms around her to guide the tethers, his thighs pressing against hers. She was in heaven. The only thing that could make it better would be for him to remember her, to know her and look at her the same way he had their last night together in the circle of stones.

Was it possible that the memory was somewhere in him and, if she only found the right words, he would recall? On a cellular level, wouldn’t he
have
to possess the knowledge? Perhaps deeply buried, forgotten and ethereal as a misty dream?

She silently savored the contact, then realized that neither he nor the horse was moving. His breath was warm, fanning the nape of her neck. It took all her will not to shift in the saddle and plant a deep, wet kiss on those lips that were only a turn of her head away.

“Well? Don’t we move forward or something?” she asked. If they stayed still, touching like this, she couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. Some of his silky hair had fallen forward over her shoulder, and she fisted her fingers to prevent them from reaching up and caressing it. What was he doing back there? It wouldn’t do her any good to start fantasizing about him. This Drustan was a month younger than hers and a
lifetime
short of a lick of common sense. He was taking her to Balanoch to see if anyone recognized her, the dolt!

“Aye,” he said hoarsely. His thighs tensed and he spurred the horse into motion.

Gwen nearly lost her breath as the animal moved beneath her. It was frightening. It was dizzying. It was exhilarating. Mane ruffling in the breeze, the horse made occasional soft horsey grunts as it galloped over the emerald and heather-filled field.

It was an incredible experience. In her mind’s eye, she envisioned herself bent low over its back, soaring through the meadows and hills. She’d always wanted to learn to ride, but her parents had dictated her strenuous educational curriculum, and it had permitted no outside activities. The Cassidys were thinkers, not doers.

There was one more way she could distance herself from them, she decided. She could become a doer, and think as little as possible.

“I would like to learn to ride,” she informed him over her shoulder. She was going to be there awhile, after all, and it certainly couldn’t hurt to acquire some medieval skills. She couldn’t bear being without the freedom of transportation. In her century, when her car was in the shop, she felt trapped. She suspected it would be wise to gain all the independence she could. What if he
never
believed her? Married his bimbo and refused to return her to her own time? Panic flooded her at that thought. She definitely needed some basic skills.

“Mayhap the stable master can fit you into his schedule,” he said against her ear. “But I hear tell he makes his apprentices shovel out the stables.”

She shivered. Had his lips brushed it deliberately, or had the horse’s gait pressed him suddenly forward?

“Perhaps Dageus could teach me,” she countered waspishly.

“I doona think Dageus will be teaching you a blethering thing,” he said in a dangerous voice, and that time his lips did brush her ear. “And I bid you keep your lips off my brother, lest I confine you to your chambers.”

What game was he playing? Had that been jealousy lacing his deep brogue, or wishful thinking on her part?

“Besides, as long as you fear the horse, he can sense it and will not respond well. You must respect him, not fear him. Horses are sensitive, intelligent creatures, full of spirit.”

“Kind of like me, huh?” she said cheekily.

He made a sound of strangled laughter. “Nay. Horses do as they’re told. I doubt you ever do. And you certainly have a lofty opinion of yourself, doona you?”

“No more so than you.”

“I see spirit in you, lass, but you demonstrate naught else, and so long as you continue to lie to me, respect will never be part of it. Why not tell the truth?”

“Because I already did,” she snapped. “And if you don’t believe me, then why don’t you take me
back
through the stones?” Gwen suggested, inspired by a sudden thought. If he would only take a short one-day jaunt into the future, she could show him her world, her cars, show him where she’d found him. Why hadn’t she thought of that last night?

“Nay,” he said instantly. “The stones may
never
be used for personal reasons. ’Tis forbidden.”

“Ha! You just admitted that you
can
use them,” she pounced.

Drustan growled near her ear.

“Besides, for what other reasons would you use them? On some secret mission?” she scoffed. “And it wouldn’t be personal reasons; it would be to save your clan,” she added. “I think that’s important enough to merit using them.”

“Enough, lass. I will not continue this discussion.”

“But—”

“Enough. No more buts. And quit squirming.”

They rode the rest of the way to the village in silence.

Balanoch, although they called it “the village,” was in truth a thriving city. Drustan believed a more prosperous and peaceful city had never existed, and those who resided in Balanoch kept quiet about it when they traveled, to preserve the serenity of their Highland home.

The Keltar–Druids kept a careful watch over Balanoch, performing the ancient rituals to ensure fertility of clan and crop. They’d also placed strategic formations, known as
wards
, about the countryside, which worked to dissuade the curious traveler from venturing too far up the mountain.

It was their city; they would always nurture and protect it.

Aye, he thought, his gaze skimming the thatched rooftops, it was a lovely village. Centuries ago, hundreds had settled in the rich vale protected by the Keltar. Over the centuries, hundreds had become thousands. Far enough away that they had few visitors, yet near enough to the sea to trade, Balanoch housed four Kirks, two mills, chandlers, tanners, weavers, tailors, potters, blacksmiths, an armorer, shoemakers, and sundry other craftsmen.

It was to the goldsmith they were going first, so Drustan could check on the intricate gold leaf with which the talented craftsman was embellishing one of Silvan’s treasured tomes.

As they entered the outskirts of the village, Drustan observed Gwen as dispassionately as possible, which was difficult with her squarely between his thighs. He’d dreaded placing her upon his horse, but there’d simply been no other alternative. It was clear the lass had never sat a horse before.

Schooling his lustful thoughts, he studied her. She craned her neck this way and that, drinking in the sights.

They rode past the tanner’s and butcher’s stalls, whose shops were at the perimeter of the city, where the odor from the dung used to soften the hides might more readily dissipate and the drippings from freshly butchered meat could be safely drained. On avenues further in were the sweltering ovens of the blacksmiths, set apart from the gentler merchants so the din of metal against metal would not interfere with quiet business.

The houses and shops, constructed of stone with thatched roofs and broad shuttered faces, opened to the street. The main thoroughfare housed the chandlers, clothiers, weavers, shoemakers, and such. The top shutters, which opened horizontally, were raised and propped up with poles to form an awning, while the bottom shutter lowered, and wares were laid out in enticing displays. The village had its own council that strictly enforced codes set by the Keltar, whereby they regulated trade, sanitation, and other matters of craftsmanship.

She was curious as if she’d not seen such a city before, Drustan thought, as she tried to peer in every direction at once. The moment they’d entered the town, she began firing questions. The smiths, hammering red-hot steel, sparks flying, fascinated her. She gawked at a young apprentice making wire by drawing hot metal through a template hole with pincers.

The butcher made her queasy, and she refused his offer of a strip of salted venison. As they passed the tanner, she saw steam rising from several shallow vats and bid him pause so she could watch the merchant shave a skin with a two-handled currier’s knife.

His eyes narrowed. She was the most convincing little actress he’d ever encountered. Her madness seemed a sporadic thing, manifesting itself infrequently, albeit spectacularly. So long as she wasn’t talking of being from the future or making wild claims about him, she seemed merely unusual, not crazed.

When she leaned back and pressed a hand against his leather-clad thigh, every muscle in his body contracted and his leg went rigid beneath her palm. He closed his eyes, telling himself it was but a hand, an appendage, absolutely nothing to drive him to senseless arousal, but lust had been thundering through his veins since he’d placed her on the horse. The warmth of her wee, generously curved body between his thighs had kept him in a permanent state of arousal. When she was near, his mind slackened, his body stiffened, and he became useless but for one thing.

Bed play.

He’d like to wrap his fists in the fabric of her gown and rip it down the front, baring all those rosy curves for his pleasure. She made him feel primitive as his ancient ancestors who’d taken women as barbarically and unapologetically as they’d conquered kingdoms. For a brief moment he was flooded with the strange idea that he had every
right
to take her to his bed.

He’d bet she’d not protest o’ermuch either, he thought darkly. If at all.

“Did he make your…er, trews?” She gestured toward the tanner.

“Aye,” he said roughly, pushing her hand away.

“Forgive me for touching your glorious personage,” she said stiffly. “I just wondered if your trews were as soft as they looked.”

He bit his lip to prevent a smile. Glorious personage, indeed. Where did she come up with her words?
My trews may be soft, lass,
he thought,
but what’s in them isn’t.
Had her hand crept a bit higher, she would have found that out for herself.

“Might I get a pair?”

“Of leather trews?” he said indignantly.

She turned her head to look at him, and it put her lips a breath from his. His heart beat erratically and he went motionless so he might not do something abjectly stupid, like taste those luscious lying lips.

“They look comfortable, Drustan,” she said. “I’m not used to wearing dresses.”

His gaze seemed to have gotten stuck on her lips, and he scarce heard her reply. Such lips as only a witch would have—hot and succulent, moist and utterly kissable. Slightly parted, revealing straight white teeth and the tip of a pink tongue. For a moment, he watched her lips moving but couldn’t hear a word she said. It took a vicious shake of his head to make her voice fade back in.

“And I always wanted a pair, but in my house—
ha!
—my parents would have
killed
me if I’d ever worn a pair of black leather pants.”

“As well they should, were their daughter to don such trews.” Were he to glimpse her generously rounded bottom cased in snug-fitting black leather trews, he might just forget who he was and that he was getting married anon.