Revenge (Book 3 of Lost Highlander series) (8 page)

Pietro started, forgetting completely that they called him Connor, his middle name that he’d first given Bella in a panic, afraid his first name sounded too foreign. Well, he didn’t really mind it.

He nodded formally. “Pleased to meet ye, Lady Gwendolyn,” he said, hoping this was proper and he hadn’t just made an ass out of himself. She raised an eyebrow and helped him into a chair. A plate of food was dropped in front of him before he was even completely seated.

“Ye must call me Gwen,” she insisted kindly.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asked. Everyone seemed so settled in, he had a bad feeling it was more than just a night’s rest.

“Two days, lad,” she answered, then shook her head at Quinn. “I wanted to call the physician.”

Two days! It was a wonder the entire Glen clan hadn’t besieged them by now. Bella was safely upstairs, and everyone seemed calm enough. Maybe the worst was over, and hadn’t even been that bad.

Pietro assured Gwen he was feeling much better, even though his bones felt like wormwood, and took a bite of bacon to prove it to her.

“Where’s Bella?” Catie asked, earning herself a swat on the arm by her aunt. “Lady Bella,” she corrected.

“That’s no’ what I was smacking ye for, lass, though it may as well have been,” Gwen corrected her crossly. “Ye shouldna ask Connor where the lady is, because how could he know, having so recently come from his bed?”

“I beg yer pardon,” she said, barely hiding a snicker. She flinched away from Quinn’s hand just in time to avoid his smack. “I thought it would be fun to have ye visit,” she complained. “I dinna need another person beating me.”

Pietro found himself charmed by the homey atmosphere and the friendly bickering that was going on around him. He was an only child, so knew nothing of sibling relationships. Supposedly, he and his family were written about, posted on Piper’s family tree. Why hadn’t he demanded to know everything she knew of his future, her distant past? He’d been too rattled by the unreality of it.

He’d just have to wing it, and hope Bella let him close enough ever again for any chance at them having children.

She came into the kitchen, looking fresh and dewy, her hair back in a long braid, a few tendrils winding their way down the front of her gown, resting on her creamy cleavage. He turned away abruptly and focused on his plate of food so he wouldn’t be caught staring at her.

She bid everyone a good morning and looked askance at his attire, as if he were reflecting poorly on her by wearing his night gown to the breakfast table. His face flamed.

“I couldn’t find my jeans,” he said, abashed.

“Is that what ye call them?” Catie asked. “I’ve given them to be washed. Where are ye from that they dress in that manner?”

“He’s from Edinburgh,” Bella supplied tartly when Pietro just sat there dumbly. “He’s the master of the horse of a verra prestigious home there. And that’s what they wear.” She gave Catie a look that dared her to speak again any time that day and Catie actually looked down at her plate with a respectful nod.

Pietro was both impressed and disturbed that the lie rolled so easily off her tongue.

“I’ve no other clothes,” he admitted sadly.

If the clothes he’d worn when they arrived were being washed, would he have to wear the dressing gown all day? His headache was coming back, probably exacerbated by stress and the extremely salty breakfast.

“Ye can wear one of my late husband’s plaids, may heaven rest him. His shirts should fit ye as well, though ye’re a bit taller than he was.” Aunt Gwen stood up and headed out of the room, and not knowing what else to do, he stood and followed her.

She opened a worn wooden chest, letting the top fall with a thunk. Sighing down at the neatly folded pile of kilts, she nodded once and turned to Pietro with a tremulous smile.

“This is kind of ye,” Pietro said, taking a muted version of the Ferguson plaid.

“Ah, well, we can’t have ye fighting in yer dressing gown,” she said. “And Quinn says Lachlan owes ye a great debt.”

Did he? That was interesting. He supposed it was true if Piper’s existence depended on him and Bella ever getting together. Pietro didn’t have to spend five minutes with the man to notice how important Piper was to him. Not that he wasn’t already under a great deal of stress, this little reminder made his eye start to twitch. He covered his eye with his hand and smiled crookedly.

“And not least, he owes ye for the bruises.”

He laughed and ran his hand over his still ragged face. “I may have partly deserved it,” he said begrudgingly. “Though I wish I might have gotten in a few of my own.”

“Ye may still get yer chance, lad,” she said. “I apologize on his behalf.” With a quick squeeze of his shoulder, she left the room so he could wrap himself in the yards of wool.

When he was suitably arrayed in the Ferguson plaid with a warm wool shirt underneath, a sense of ease finally began to settle in. Except for his modern short haircut, he looked like a Highlander of this time. If he was staying here, he would have to become one, well and truly, and this was a good start.

He went to find Bella to show off, hopefully get her to swoon a little at his legs, but when he went outside, the cool air and sunlight nearly knocked him off his feet. He grabbed a post in the yard to keep from toppling over. Breathing deeply and keeping his eyes tightly shut helped the pain to recede enough that he could open his eyes and try again.

“I thought ye might be on the mend,” Bella said, shaking her head at him when he opened his eyes.

So much for impressing her. He tried to smile and shake off her concern, closing the distance between them in what he thought were confident strides.

“No, ye’re no’ convincing me,” she said, taking his arm and turning him back to the house. “Come along, ye big handsome devil.”

She grunted at the effort it took to help him back up the stairs, but even through the blinding pain, he noticed she’d called him handsome and couldn’t help smiling.

She pushed him back onto the bed and he groaned as he jarringly hit the mattress. He felt the rope frame of the bed underneath him and rolled to find a more comfortable position.

“What’s wrong with me, Bella?” he asked, hearing the whinging tone of his voice, but unable to stop it.

He hated being sick, and it seemed so unfair, because sometimes it seemed like he was getting better. Why had he felt so spry earlier, only to drop like a stone again? She knelt at the edge of the bed and loosened the collar of his shirt, then pulled the blanket up around him.

“I dinna know, poor man,” she said softly. “At breakfast it seemed ye might be all right.”

“I was all right then, but it came back. It comes and goes.”

“What makes it go?” she asked, her voice a silky purr, her hand feather light on his forehead. “We must make it go.”

He lay there and tried to relax into her soft touch and gentle voice. “It seems to fade when I’m distracted,” he said after a while. He cracked an eye open and looked at her, unable to keep from smiling. “I feel a wee bit better just now, even.”

“Well, shall I distract ye, then?” she asked.

He stiffened instantly at her suggestion, all the blood in his body racing lower. Even lying down her words made him light headed.

“I’d like that,” he said huskily, turning to face her.

He watched as she took in the evidence of his desire. Her cheeks flushed and her tongue darted over her lower lip, causing another surge of lust as he imagined it gliding over the part she seemed so interested in.

She rearranged his blanket and smiled. “I could read to ye, or sing a song if ye like?” she suggested.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, radiating disappointment.

She smiled wickedly and pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps something else?”

She ran her finger along the edge of his collar, her fingertip brushing the tender skin of his neck and almost making him burst into flames.

“Oh my God, ye are so confusing,” he said.

“Perhaps ye are just slow,” she said, popping open more buttons on his shirt and tracing his collarbone.

He closed his eyes and prayed it wouldn’t stop. Even if this was a fever dream, he didn’t care. If he was dying right now, he would die happy. He heard himself mumbling and forced his mouth shut. Had he just said that out loud? He jerked open his heavy eyelids to find she had completely unbuttoned his shirt and had it spread open, both her palm splayed on his chest. She had a hungry, tender look in her eyes. He blinked several times and tried to sit up, but she pressed lightly, keeping him in place.

“I dinna really want ye to die,” she said, keeping her gaze locked with his.

The corner of her mouth quirked up and he shook his head. God, but what was she after? He couldn’t read her at all.

“That’s the nicest thing ye’ve ever said to me, Bella,” he said, reaching up to take her wrists in his hands. He felt stronger. “I think ye make me better,” he said seriously, kissing the insides of her wrists, and clasping her hands with his.

She sighed and looked down, but didn’t answer.

“I do love ye,” he said. “If I die, I won’t regret staying here with ye.”

She pulled her hands away from him and frowned. “Ye must no’ say things like that,” she said irritably. “I dinna know whether to believe them or no’.”

He pushed himself up against the wooden headboard and she hurried to get some pillows behind him. It seemed no matter what, she was going to be a good caregiver to him, as if she owed him something. Perhaps she was still grateful she had gotten away from a marriage to Lachlan, or anyone, and deemed him a suitable price to have to pay for the tiny mite of freedom she had.

“Ye are free, Bella, that is the truth. Maybe not from your father. I honestly don’t know enough about that to be able to speak, but if it comes to it and ye have to run, I’ll run with ye if ye think it will help.”

He pushed her chin up with his index finger to get her to look at him and beseeched her with his eyes to say something.

“Why?” she asked finally, after a range of emotions flickered across her face. “I willna have a dowry if my father does no’ approve our match. He’s so angry he may make me stay with Lachlan just to save face. He has a sizeable army, but the Fergusons are mad, like the berserkers from the old stories. He willna win if it comes to real fighting.”

“Yikes,” Pietro said. Her response was not at all what he had been expecting.

He thought he was giving her a possible choice. It seemed it was all she really wanted, a choice in her future, but it turned out it might not be so simple.

“What is yikes?” she asked. “Ye’ve said it before.”

“It means I don’t know what to say, that I don’t know how to respond, because what ye said was …” he trailed off, tipping his head to the side.

“Verra unsavory,” she supplied. He nodded. How did they go from him having his shirt nearly off to a conversation about a possible clan war. “Either way, I dinna think I shall win.”

“But what do ye want?” he asked, leaning forward so they were practically nose to nose.

Her eyes almost crossed and she leaned back in alarm. His frustration seemed to pass over to her because she slapped her palms angrily on the blankets around him.

“I wanted to marry Galwain so I could be an independent widow in a few years,” she said in disgust. “I hate myself for it, but ‘tis true. I never gave a thought to desiring a man until—” she clamped her mouth shut and turned away.

Pietro sat still for a moment, watching her chest heave with her turmoil. Very carefully he reached out and took her hand, holding his breath, not daring to look away from her, afraid if he blinked she would be gone, and in his state, he knew he wouldn’t be able to chase her far. But she didn’t pull away, even though she didn’t turn back toward him. He stroked her wrist with his thumb and tugged gently.

With a sigh, she faced him, her cheeks flaming. He pretended not to notice, and looked only into her eyes, continuing to pull her closer to him. At last, she relented and leaned over, resting her elbows on his chest.

“I dinna want to crush ye,” she whispered, glancing down at his bare chest, her eyes going dark whiskey brown.

He laughed and with a great effort, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, so their lips and noses brushed together. He waited there with his eyes closed, letting Bella decide what she wanted, almost going crazy with wanting her. After a lifetime, an eternity, probably three seconds, she pressed her lips against his, sighing softly.

He ran his hands down her back as she moved to get on top of him, their tongues tangling in sweet release. All the aches that dug deep into his bones loosened their grip, replaced with a pleasant kind of tightening. He felt quite good actually. She felt quite good.

Once she was astride him, she broke their kiss to look down at the blankets that came between them. He pressed her down against his hard length and smiled as her eyes widened and she grabbed the sides of his face, pressing her eager lips to his once more.

“Can ye move the blankets,” she said breathlessly, kissing him before he could answer.

He struggled and twisted to push the blankets down as she gyrated against him, but it was no use. Her motions were going to drive him mad if he couldn’t get more, and soon. He broke away from her hungry mouth and, gripping her hips, lifted her off him. With lightning speed he jerked away the blankets and rolled her to the side, lying close to her and pulling his face back slightly so he could look at her.