Kiss of the Highlander (33 page)

Drustan gazed down at her, marveling. She was so beautiful; her cheeks flushed, her eyes stormy with passion, her lips half parted on a soft gasp. She was his soul mate, smart, lovely, and tenacious. He would love her to his dying breath, and beyond if such was possible for a Druid and his mate. He would show her with his body all the things he felt for her, and mayhap she would murmur those tender words he’d so longed to hear back in the circle of stones when she’d given him her virginity.

She whimpered when he rasped his unshaven jaw against her nipples. She arched up, hungry for more. He shifted his body so the thick, hot length of him rested between her thighs, moving his hips in slow, even thrusts.

Then he pulled back, driving her mad, and proceeded to taste her from head to toe.

Starting at her toes.

Gwen tossed her head back in ecstasy. Long, velvety strokes of his tongue on her calves and ankles. Bending her legs, he traced silky kisses on the backs of her knees. Wet, hungry kisses on her thighs, teasing flickers against the sensitive skin where her hip met her leg.

Then deep, warm, wet kisses where she needed him the most. Lapping and nibbling, his hands glided up her body to tease her nipples as he kissed and tasted her until she shuddered against his mouth, arching her hips up for more.

Resonance built to an exquisite peak, and she shattered, crying his name.

While she was still resonating with tiny tremors, he rolled her over and ran his tongue down her spine to the hollow where her back met her hips. Then kissed and tasted and nipped every inch of her bottom. Kneading, plumping, caressing, dangerously near the hottest part of her. But not quite there. She was going to die if he didn’t get inside her, she thought, gritting her teeth. She burned, she ached for want of him.

Slipping his hand between her and the sacks, he palmed her woman’s mound and pulled her back against him, resting the heavy ridge of his cock in the cleft of her bottom. As he rubbed against her lush softness, he caught her tiny nub with his fingers, flicking lightly back and forth.

He savored the tiny cries she made, the soft pants and breathy moans, listened intently to discover just what touch elicited each sound, then played her again and again, bringing her dangerously near the peak—

—then denying for the pleasure of hearing her cries grow wilder, of feeling her hips buck back against him, of seeing such evidence of her desire. She knew what he was, and
still
wanted him with such hunger. It was more than he’d ever dreamed of having. If only she would say the words, those three simple words he longed to hear…Aye, he was a warrior, he was strong and manly, but, by Amergin, he
wanted
those words. He’d passed a lifetime believing a woman might never say them to him.

“Drustan!” she cried. “Please.”

I love you,
he thought, willing her to hear it. Willing her to say it. He traced a finger over her taut nub before slipping it inside her. He closed his eyes and groaned as she clenched around him. When she bucked back against him wildly, the last vestige of his control snapped. He became mindless with need. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he thrust into her in one sleek motion.

She sobbed with pleasure, begged him not to stop, then murmured something so raggedly that he nearly missed it.

But nay, he would not let such words slip by him!

Trembling, he stopped mid-stroke and whispered hoarsely, “
What
did you just say?”

“I said ‘don’t stop,’” Gwen whimpered, pressing back against him.

“Not that—the other thing you just said,” he demanded.

Gwen went still. It had slipped out without conscious thought—an impassioned declaration of her feelings—God, how she loved him! She, Gwen Cassidy, was utterly and deliriously in love. She spoke quietly, savoring the warmth of her feelings, putting every ounce of her heart and soul into the words. “I love you, Drustan.”

Braced on his elbows, Drustan swayed, the words hit him with such impact. “Say it again,” he breathed.

“I love you,” she repeated softly.

He sucked in a harsh breath and was silent a long while, relishing her words. “Ah, Gwen, my lovely wee Gwen, I thought I might ne’er hear such words.” He lifted her hair away from her face and kissed her temple tenderly. “I love you. I adore you. I will cherish you all the days of my life,” he vowed. “I knew even back in your century that you were the one for me, the one I’d longed for all my life.”

Gwen closed her eyes, treasuring the moment, hugging his words to her.

When he moved again, thrusting into her yielding warmth, she arched back to meet him. Moving his hips, entering her slow and deep, he tipped her face to the side and kissed her with the same tempo. Increasing the pace, never breaking the kiss…

It was a mating of raw need and mindless melding. As if they could somehow crawl inside each other if they got close enough.

He thrust; she screamed. She clenched; he roared.

He slid his hands up her body and cupped her breasts, pulling her back against him as he drove inside her. The buttery was filled with sounds of passion, scented with the erotic musk of man and woman and sex.

When she peaked again, he exploded, crying her name.

He kept her in the buttery nigh as long as she’d kept him in the garderobe. Unable to stop touching her, loving her. Unable to believe that it had all worked out, that she’d indeed cared for him in her century, that she’d given him back the binding vows, that even though he’d failed to give her full instructions, she’d tenaciously persevered. Unable to comprehend that Gwen loved him for exactly what he was. Needing to roll it over and over in his mind as if savoring the finest brandy.

He made her tell him again and again as he reacquainted himself with every inch of her luscious body.

It was full night before he poked a cautious head out, retrieved their clothing, then swept her into his arms and carried her up to his bed.

Where she would sleep each night, he vowed, till the end of forever.

         
22
         
 

Besseta Alexander sat motionless, one hand
clutching her yew sticks, the other her Bible. She grimaced at her own foolishness. She knew which one was more useful, and it wasn’t the fat tome.

She’d had her vision again. Nevin, blood dripping from his lips, the woman weeping, Drustan MacKeltar scowling, and that fourth nameless presence who seemed also to be troubled by her son’s death.

What could one old woman do to defy fate? How could she, with too many years on her bones and too little vigor in her veins, avert the impending tragedy?

Nevin wouldn’t heed her pleas. She’d begged him to give up his post and return to Edinburgh, but he’d refused. She’d pretended to be grievously ill, but he’d seen through her ploys. Sometimes she wondered that the lad had sprung from her loins, so implacable was his faith in God, so resistant was he to her “sight.”

He’d forced a promise from her that she would not harm Drustan MacKeltar. In truth, she didn’t wish to harm anyone. She only wanted her son alive. But she’d begun to realize that she was going to have to harm someone or lose Nevin.

She sat rocking for time uncounted as morning slipped away into afternoon and blended with gloaming, fighting the yawning darkness in her mind.

It was full twilight, the Highlands alive with the hum of frogs and soft hooting of owls, when she heard bells jingling, voices shouting, and the thunder of horses approaching the cottage.

Besseta pushed herself from her chair, scurried to the door, and opened it a crack.

When she saw the gypsy caravan, she closed it to a hairbreadth, for the wild gypsies frightened her. She counted ten and seven wagons in the caravan, gaily decorated and pulled by prancing horses draped in silks. They thundered past, toward Balanoch.

Nevin had told her some time ago that the gypsies camped each summer near the MacKeltar estate, where they hosted a trading fair in Balanoch, told fortunes, and mingled with the village folk. There would be wild dancing and bonfires and, next year, babes with dark eyes and skin.

Besseta shuddered, closed the door, and leaned against it.

But as a possibility slowly took shape in her mind, she struggled to rise above her fears. With the gypsies’ dark arts, she could remove the threat without harming anyone. Well…not
really
harming anyone. The Rom sold powerful spells and enchantments cheek by jowl with their more ordinary wares. They cost dearly, but she knew where to find an illuminated gold-leafed tome that would more than cover the price for anything she sought. The longer she considered it, the more appealing the solution seemed. If she paid the gypsies to enchant the laird, she wouldn’t really be harming him; she would just be…suspending him. Indefinitely. So that Nevin might live out his life in safety and peace.

It would mean she would have to seek those wild creatures out, brave their bawdy, sinful camp, but for her beloved Nevin, she would brave anything.

Silvan and Nell had fled their perch the moment Gwen released Drustan from the garderobe.

Nell hadn’t needed to wait around to see what was going to happen next. During Drustan and Gwen’s intimate talk, she’d been surprised the door itself hadn’t gone up in flames.

She’d followed Silvan in a blind dash to his tower, where they’d collapsed on his bed, huffing and sorely out of breath from their mad race up the hundred stairs.

When her heart finally stopped pounding, she realized, with much consternation, where she perched. On the laird’s bed! Next to him! She tensed to move away.

With strong hands on her waist, he caught her before she could flee and turned her face toward his with a firm hand beneath her chin. His eyes were brimming with emotion as he searched her gaze. Deep in their brown depths, tiny golden flecks glittered. She couldn’t look away for anything. She gazed at him mutely.

Then slowly, so slowly that he gave her a thousand lifetimes to turn away, he lowered his lips toward hers.

Nell’s breath hitched in her throat. It had been twelve years since she’d kissed a man. Did she even recall how?

“It has been long since I last kissed a lass, Nellie,” he said huskily, as if sensing her fears. “I beg you be patient. You might need to remind me of the finer nuances.”

Her breath came out in a sudden rush, ending in a small moan. His admission dashed her fears. In all her years at Castle Keltar, she’d not once seen Silvan woo a woman. She’d thought he was simply discreet about his manly needs, mayhap went to the village to satisfy his urges, but was it possible he’d been as alone as she had? She wanted to ask how long but couldn’t bring herself to voice the question. No matter, for he read it in her eyes.

“Since my wife died, Nellie.”

She gasped.

“Would you kiss such an untried man?” he asked softly.

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.

His first brush was soft and tentative, much how she felt. And he didn’t try to plunge right in, nay, Silvan kissed her as if she were made of fine china. Kissed her lips, brushing back and forth, kissed her nose, her chin, then her lips again. Kissed the corners of her mouth.

Then pulled away and regarded her soberly.

She tried a tentative smile.

His second kiss was warm and encouraging. By the third touch of his lips to hers, a part of her she’d thought dead was dancing a Scottish reel. And remembering how to kiss as if she’d never stopped.
He
certainly hadn’t forgotten!

His fifth was deep and hungry with passion.

When he finally broke that kiss—she couldn’t have for anything—he drew back and said softly, “Och, Nellie, there is a question I’ve been wishing to ask you. And if I am prying, well, then prying I’ll be. ’Tis long past time we spoke freely with each other. Would you tell me, sweet lass, what on earth happened to you the night I found you?”

When tears misted her eyes, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly.

“There, lass,” he whispered. “I’ve been a damn fool for far too long. So many things I should have said, but I was…afraid.”

“Afraid?” Nell whispered incredulously. “What might Silvan MacKeltar fear?”

“Och, the possibilities were endless, the fears myriad. That I couldn’t make all your hurt go away. That I might make a fankle of things with you, and you’d leave, and my lads loved you so. That you might think me strange—”

“Ye
are
strange, Silvan,” Nell said seriously.

He sighed. “That you wouldn’t love me, Nellie.”

Words she couldn’t bring herself to say trembled on her lips. Words that frightened her, words that would make her heart vulnerable again.

So she offered those words to him silently by pressing her lips to his, hoping they might roll off in the kiss and find their way into his heart.

Dozens of candles shimmered in the laird’s bedchamber.

Drustan had made love to her yet another time, so many times, she’d lost count. Gwen’s body felt deliciously swollen by kisses and thorough loving from head to toe. In the candlelight, his dark skin shimmered golden, his silky black hair gleamed. She gazed at him, marveling. She had
her
Drustan back. She still couldn’t believe it.

“You really meant it when you said you were going to ‘toop me until my legs fell off,’ didn’t you?” she teased, wondering if she would be able to walk by morning.

“By Amergin, Gwen, it was killing me watching you walk around the castle! I was obsessed with you. As much as you spied on me, I watched you. And had you stopped, I like as not would have begun stalking you instead.”

“A shame I didn’t stop, then. I was getting rather sick of humiliating myself.”

He winced and stretched himself atop her, propping his weight on his elbows. Smoothing a wisp of hair behind her ear, he whispered, “Och, lass, forgive me.”

“For what? Being a stubborn medieval man and refusing to believe me right away?” she teased.

“Aye, for that and many other things,” he said sadly. “For not preparing you better. For being afraid to trust you fully—”

“I understand why you didn’t,” she cut him off gently. “Nell told me about your three betrotheds. She said they were frightened of you, and I realized the reason you didn’t confide in me was that you thought I’d leave you.”

“I should have believed better of you.”

“For heaven’s sake,” she protested, “you’d just woken up to find yourself five centuries in the future. Besides,” she admitted, “it wasn’t as if I trusted you either. I tend to hide my intelligence. If I’d been more honest, you might have been too.”

“Never hide it from me,” he said softly. “ ‘Tis one of the many things I adore about you. But, Gwen, there is more for which I must seek your forgiveness.”

“Marrying me without telling me?” she said lightly. “Have you any idea how flattered I am? We’re
really
married?” she pressed. “Could we get married in a church too? Formally, with a long dress and everything?”

“Och, we’re more married than the church could do, but aye, lass. I should like a church wedding,” he agreed. “You’ll wear a gown fit for a queen, and I’ll wear the full Keltar regalia. We’ll feast for days, invite the whole village. ’Twill be the celebration of the century.” He paused, his silvery eyes flickering with shadows. “But there’s still something more for which I must seek your forgiveness. There is the small matter of me abducting you and trapping you in my century.”