Kiss of the Highlander (26 page)

He froze, his gaze fixed on her lips. Then he shook himself and scowled. “I am a betrothed man, lass,” he said stiffly.

“Remind me to remind you of that the next time you kiss me like you did today,” she said pointedly. “You can’t just go about kissing one minute and hiding behind a fiancée the next. As you said—you aren’t married
yet
.”

“And as I recall you didn’t care for that sentiment.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“And I kissed you only because you threw yourself upon me—”

“Oh, hardly. You kissed me because you wanted to,” she said coolly. “I may not understand much about emotion, and I may be new to sex, but one thing I
do
know is that you want to kiss me.”

She pivoted and stomped up the stairs.

His mouth suddenly dry, Drustan watched her go. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She was right. He did want to. Again and again and again. Until she melted against him and begged him to take her. New to tupping? He’d like to teach her anything and everything.

And, furthermore, he didn’t think he could
ever
grow weary of looking at Gwen Cassidy.

         
18
         
 

She was going to seduce him.

That was the solution.

When he’d kissed her yesterday, she’d glimpsed a tiny bit of her Drustan in his eyes. She was simply going to have to
kiss
him back to his senses. Perhaps with each caress he’d reclaim a dim fragment of memory.

She rather liked that idea.

And his fiancée?
her conscience whispered.

All’s fair in love and war,
her heart growled.
Sorry, Anya,
she appended apologetically.
I’m not really a man-stealing girl, but I’ve fallen in love with him and I’m not giving up without a fight.

Eyeing herself in the mirror, she smoothed the silk gown and examined herself. The deep-indigo dress made her eyes look bluer than usual. With her cosmetics bag in God-only-knew-what dimension (the scientist briefly pondered a sort of Flatland, wouldn’t that be a hoot?), she was grateful her lashes were thick and dark and her skin smooth. But she’d give a lot for her Chap-stick, her toothbrush, and even one pair of panties.

Not bad, she decided, turning from side to side. She fluffed her bangs with her fingers, tousling them. She felt rather…soft and curvy and pretty. She hadn’t realized that wearing a long silky gown might affect a woman’s attitude. It made her feel far more inclined to be feminine than a lab coat ever had. It accentuated all her curves and emphasized her slim waist. The scooped bodice made much of her cleavage.

Drustan had adored her breasts, and she planned to make certain he got to see a lot of them today.

Whatever his feeling for his fiancée, it didn’t seem to have diminished his attraction to her one bit.

Bending over at the waist, she cupped her hand beneath one breast, then the other, fluffing them higher in the snug chemise. When she stood back up and looked in the mirror, she blushed.

One must work with what one has,
she reminded herself. He’d said so himself only yesterday.

“Good morning, Silvan. Where’s Drustan?” Gwen asked brightly as she slid into a seat next to him at the table.

Nose buried in a book, Silvan didn’t glance up, merely finished swallowing a bite of his porridge, then mumbled, “Be with you in a moment, m’dear.”

Gwen waited patiently, knowing how much she hated being disturbed when she was reading. Hoping Drustan would saunter in soon, she tipped her head back and admired the elegant balustrade that encircled the upper floor of the Greathall, then dropped her gaze to skim the brilliant tapestries adorning the walls.

The castle was lovely and every bit as lavishly appointed as any of the modern-day castles she’d seen on the tour. Each piece of furniture she’d seen—from the dining table to the assortment of serving and end tables to the towering armoires, chests of drawers, and beds—was fashioned of burnished cherry and painstakingly embellished with intricate designs. The chairs were high, with carved arms and tall backs, topped with bright cushioned pillows and draped with soft woolen throws. The rugs were silky lambskins and woven woolens. Fragrant flowers and herbs were stitched in lace packets, tied with ribbon, and strewn about window ledges.

When she’d come down, she’d passed dozens of maids scurrying through the corridors, airing out down mattresses and beating rugs. Castle Keltar was efficiently run and well-maintained.

All in all, it was amazingly cozy and inviting. The only major difference she could see was a lack of plumbing and lights, and in the winter, of course, lack of central heating would be a nuisance.

But, she mused, with so many fireplaces—most of them tall enough to stand in—and a big brawny Highlander in her bed, a woman might forgive a lot of things….

She wiped the dreamy smile off her face when Nell sailed in and placed a platter of soft poached eggs and fat strips of ham on the table beside a bowl of peach slices, berries, and nuts in a lake of sweet cream. Next, she plunked down a tray of warm oatcakes and honey.

Gwen’s stomach growled as she eyed the laden table. If she had Scotch tape, she could forgo eating and just tape the stuff directly on her hips and thighs, ceding to the inevitable. Her usual bowl of raisin bran before work had never inspired appetite, nor had it inspired the scales to tip heavier.

“Put yer book down, Silvan,” Nell chided. “Ye have a guest at the table.”

Gwen bit her lip to hide a smile. Everything Drustan had told her about his father and the housekeeper was true. They had a unique relationship, wherein Nell didn’t mince words or defer to his position. When Nell glanced at her, Gwen smiled and asked hopefully, “Is there coffee again this morning?”

Silvan put his book down and glanced absently at Gwen. His gaze dropped to her cleavage, and a single white brow shot up. He blinked several times.

“There certainly is,” Nell said, circling the table. She stopped behind Gwen and draped a linen cloth over her shoulder, so it tumbled from her neck like a bib.

“Peel yer eyes off the lass’s breasts,” Nell said sweetly to Silvan.

Gwen turned twenty shades of red, sneaked a hand beneath the bib, and tugged at her bodice, trying to jiggle them back down a little. Mortified, she devoted her attention to eyeing the medieval dining ware—plates and goblets made of heavy silver, a fat spoon and broad knife, and heavy blue bowls.

“She’s the one who fluffed them up,” Silvan protested indignantly. “I didn’t mean to look, but they were…so…
there
. Like trying not to see the sun in the sky.”

Nell arched a brow and circled round the table again. “I hardly think ’twas ye she fluffed ’em for, was it, lass?”

Gwen glanced up and gave an embarrassed shake of her head.

Nell bent over Silvan’s plate, fetching his empty mug for a refill, and her bodice gaped. When Silvan peered down it, Gwen nearly laughed, but the laugh died in her throat when she saw Silvan’s eyes change instantly.

Oh, my
, she thought, going very still. Silvan might have looked at her breasts, but he’d looked at them as a man might eye a pretty flower or a well-bred mare.

Now, glancing down Nell’s bodice, he wore an expression of pure hunger, a look both tender and fierce.

Gwen’s smile faded and she stared, filled with a wistfulness she wasn’t certain she even understood. But it had something to do with a man wanting breasts that were much older and not nearly as firm—all because of the woman they belonged to, not because of the breasts at all.

Silvan MacKeltar had deep feelings for his housekeeper.

She stole a furtive glance at Nell, who seemed oblivious to what Silvan was doing as she collected his mug and went back to the kitchen.

Silvan must have felt her gaze upon him, because he jerked slightly, as if coming out of a trance, and glanced at her.

“I wasn’t looking at her breasts—” he began defensively.

“Save it for someone who didn’t see the look on your face. And if you don’t make any funny comments about me fluffing myself, I won’t make any comments about what you feel for Nell.”

“What I feel for—what I—” he sputtered, then nodded. “Agreed.”

Gwen turned her attention to the platter of food, wondering why food tasted so much better in the sixteenth century. Was it the lack of preservatives? The smoky-peaty flavor of the meat? The genuine butter and cream? She slipped a knife beneath a soft poached egg and transferred it to her plate.

“So, why did you…er…” Silvan gestured toward her linen bib.

She sighed. “Because I thought Drustan might be at breakfast and I hoped he’d notice me.”

“Notice you, or drag you off to tup you?”

“I might have settled for either,” she said glumly, helping herself to another egg.

Silvan snorted with amusement. “Are you always so honest, m’dear?”

“I try to be. Dishonesty increases disorder exponentially. It’s hard enough to communicate when you’re telling the truth.”

Silvan paused, his mouth halfway closed around a bite of poached egg. He withdrew the laden fork from his mouth carefully. “What did you just say?” he asked softly.

“Lies,” Gwen said, her gaze on the thick slab of ham she was trying to spear with a misshapen fork. She pierced it with a tine, but it slipped off. “They increase disorder. Difficult to predict all the variables when you keep tossing more variables in.” She glanced at him. “Don’t you think?” she asked, with a nod for emphasis.

“Exponentially?” he asked, his brows furrowing together in a single point.

“Any positive consonant raised to a power,” Gwen said, cornering the ham against the lip of the platter. “It’s a function of math, used to express a large number. Like Avogadro’s number, 6.023 X 10
²³
and represents the number of atoms in a mole of any substance—”

“Atom?”

“The smallest component of an element having the chemical properties of the element, consisting of a nucleus, containing combinations of neutrons and protons and one or more electrons—
hey
, maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this!”

Silvan snorted. “I know of what you speak. ’Tis a hypothetical particle of matter so small to admit no division—”

No, no, no, no physics over breakfast!
“Yes, but who cares? Look at this scrumptious food.”

He sounded strained when he asked, “Do you play chess, m’dear?”

She brightened and, finally securing the ham, smiled. “Of course. Would you like to play?”

“On the terrace. In two hours, if you will.”

Gwen beamed. Drustan’s father wanted to spend time with her and play a game. She couldn’t recall a time her father had ever done such a thing. Everything had been work-oriented, and the one time she’d coaxed him into a game of Pente, he’d gone off on how one could calculate every possible outcome….

She shook her head, pushing that memory far to the back of her mind, and eyed Silvan speculatively. Maybe, if Drustan had told him her story, she could work on him. Perhaps he might be more inclined to listen. Winning his support would definitely help.

All while sitting in the sun and
playing
…