The Highlander's Touch (16 page)

“Repeating the same question three times, in slightly different ways, does not make me more inclined to answer
you. Don’t talk to me as if I’m a child. And don’t even think you’re going to blame this one on me.” Lisa sniffed and averted her face. “I certainly would never have told anyone I was marrying you. Leaving my chamber didn’t get us betrothed.
You
did that all by yourself.”

Circenn studied her through narrowed eyes, then lowered his head menacingly near hers. “Perhaps I will wed you, lass. Do you know that a wife must obey her husband in all things?” he purred against her ear. He stopped scowling abruptly. “Renaud!” He clapped another Templar on the shoulder and smiled painfully.

“We are pleased, milord,” Renaud de Vichiers said formally.

“Thank you,” Circenn replied. “If you will excuse me, Renaud, my betrothed is feeling a bit faint. She grows swiftly overtaxed.” With a dismissive nod to Renaud, he whisked Lisa away from the crowd and pushed her into a corner of the hall, uncaring what anyone thought. For the moment, they were as alone as they could be in the crowded room.

“I do
not
grow swiftly overtaxed. I am the picture of calm, considering all I’ve been through. And I am
not
marrying you,” she said defiantly.

His response chilled her blood: “In three months’ time, lass, neither of us will have any choice. Now I will escort you to your room, and you will remain in it this time.”

Glibly informing the room at large that his wife-to-be was overexcited by the commotion—a fib that Lisa resented because it made her appear fragile—Circenn guided her abovestairs, his hand a steely vise on her arm. He stopped at her door and informed her that if she left the room, he would ensure that she had extreme cause to regret it.

She opened the door and began to step in, when he suddenly spun her around into his arms.

Without a word, he closed his mouth over hers brutally.

Too shocked to resist, Lisa stood motionless, her lips parting at the insistence of his tongue. He darted it between her lips in blatant mimicry of sexual play, probing firmly, receding, only to thrust again. She tipped back her head, her body sparking to life. He was angry, she could feel it in the bruising crush of his lips, and it fed her own anger.

Then it occurred to her that kissing was quite a useful and fascinating way to express anger, so she worked diligently at putting every bit of her irritation and displeasure into her response. She bit, she nipped, she fought his tongue with hers. When his tongue withdrew, she followed it with hers and sucked it hard back into her mouth, priding herself on how nicely she won
that
battle. When he kissed her so deeply she couldn’t breathe around it, she dropped her hands to his waist, then dipped lower, just to show him she was completely in control.
Tight, muscled ass;
the thought was accompanied by a surge of excitement as she imagined his powerful hips tensing in a timeless rhythm.

When his teeth nudged against hers, a moan blossomed in her throat. She brought up her hands and plunged them into his hair, sliding her fingers through black silk. Her fingers moved down the nape of his neck, then she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back so uninhibitedly that he stiffened abruptly, stepped back, and gazed at her with a startled expression.

Briefly, he looked pleased, then his eyes narrowed swiftly. “I doona like you, and I will
not
tolerate you complicating my life.”

“Ditto,” she clipped through swollen lips.

“Then we understand each other,” he said.

“Mm-hmm,” she said. “Perfectly.”

“Good.”

They stared at each other. She noticed that his lips were slightly fuller.
She
had done that. Her own lips felt tingly, warm, and most assuredly not finished expressing her anger.

“Doona forget who’s in control in this castle, lass,” he snarled before stalking off down the hallway.

If that was how he asserted his control, she might just have to challenge his authority more often.

What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend?

—Shakespeare,
Sonnet 53

T
HE JOURNEY FROM
D
UNNOTTAR TO
I
NVERNESS AND
from there to Castle Brodie would live long in Lisa’s memory. With dismay she tallied each day of their journey that ticked by, knowing it was one more day she was losing in the future, and the thought made her miserable. She feared that the farther they rode from Dunnottar, the slimmer her chances became of returning home. She knew it probably wasn’t true, because if anything had the power to return her, it was the flask, and she suspected Circenn wouldn’t permit it out of his care. Still, each step she took deeper into his lush, wild land made her feel she was moving a step farther away from her own life, farther into a realm in which she had no control and might lose herself entirely.

Shortly after Circenn had deposited her in her room—or more accurately left her reeling in the hallway—he’d sent Duncan and Galan to whisk her out of the keep, and the three of them had ridden off ahead. Circenn and the rest of his entourage had joined them hours later. She was acutely aware that the knights studied her far too intently for her comfort. They were not men she wished to slip up
around, so she spoke as little as possible, choosing her words with great caution.

The first night they journeyed across Scotland, a nearly full moon hung above the shadowy ridges and valleys, and the thunder of more than a hundred horses carrying packs and heavily muscled men was deafening. The ground trembled as they galloped the hills. Cold despite the thick plaid covering her gown, she was awed by the miles of untouched, open country. Although her body ached after riding only a few hours, she would have ridden all night to savor the untamed vista.

She was of a far different mind the next morning, though, and wouldn’t have ridden at all had it been left to her discretion. She’d arrogantly thought she was in good condition, but riding a horse was quite different from rappelling or tumbling, and she quickly realized that her athletic skills had better trained her for falling off the horse properly than for staying on it with any degree of finesse.

The second thing that lingered in her mind was Circenn Brodie, who rode beside her the entire way, not speaking, but watching every move she made, every expression. She hid her discomfort well, determined not to reveal any weakness to the indefatigable warrior. Since leaving Dunnottar the man had scarcely uttered two words to her, had not so much as touched her to help her dismount; she could tell he was seething. He moved away from her side occasionally to talk with his men in low voices.

In every village they passed through, she noted the people heralded Circenn as befitted royalty, and he comported himself with regal reserve. If he appeared a bit detached, none of the villagers seemed to mind. Children gazed at him with awe; old men clapped him on the shoulder and
smiled proudly; the gazes of young warriors followed him admiringly. It was clear that the man was a legend in his own time. With each admiring, flirtatious glance flashed by a woman beneath lowered lids, Lisa felt a surge of irritation. In more than one village, women found a reason to approach him and try to lure him off “to discuss a most private matter, milord.” She was relieved to see that none of them succeeded. However, she wasn’t certain if it was because he genuinely wasn’t interested or because they were riding so hard. They rarely slept more than a few hours each evening, but she was used to inadequate sleep from working two jobs.

The third thing that weighed upon her mind was the flask, which she now knew that Circenn had with him, because she’d caught a glimpse of it one night as he rummaged in his satchel. Unfortunately he was such a light sleeper that trying to get the flask while he was asleep would be a fool’s venture. Better to bide her time, waiting for the right moment.

It was the last night of their ride, however, that would live longest in her memory—the night they approached the perimeter of Castle Brodie. Throughout the physically punishing journey, Lisa had worried about Catherine, wondering who was taking care of her, weeping silently under cover of darkness. All the while Scotland was subtly invading her veins, and despite her fear and feelings of helplessness, she knew she was falling in love.

With a country.

It was too early for spring in the Highlands, but she could sense the dormant earth waiting to burst into bloom. Although she knew she must find a way home, part of her ached to remain in the past long enough to glimpse the
valleys filled with heather, to watch the golden eagles fly above the mountains, to see the carpet of bracken and brush turn lush and bud with spring.

The final night of their journey, the weather warmed slightly. Due to exhaustion, her emotions bubbled dangerously near the surface, and in the past few hours she’d gone from euphoria over the beauty of the Highland night to utter terror at what her future might hold. Lisa wasn’t certain what she had expected of Castle Brodie but it wasn’t the elegant stone structure she’d caught glimpses of from the tops of distant hills, as she’d strained in her saddle to see as much as possible.

They descended into a valley, and the castle was again hidden from sight. The silence was broken only by the beat of hooves against the sod and the occasional sighs of men glad to be returning home. The sky was deep royal blue, minutes from becoming black—it was “gloaming,” their word for twilight. The path they were traveling climbed a ridge that stretched across the horizon, and beyond it lay Circenn’s home. As they topped the crest, her gaze swept up and she sighed at the sight that greeted her.

Castle Brodie was as magnificent as the man who owned the palatial structure. Brilliantly lit by torches, it seemed something from a dream. Beyond an arched gate that gleamed palely in the moonlight rose a structure of square towers and turrets, high spires, and low walkways connecting the various wings. A great wall encircled the estate, and with the gate shut, it would be an insurmountable fortress. Guards stalked the parapets and paced the perimeter. She could just imagine the dozens of servants and their families inside, scurrying to and fro, their children’s laughter filling the air. Safe. Warm and surrounded
by clan, governed by a warlord who committed his life to protecting them.

Lisa felt a twinge of impossible longing. What a life this was. Someday he would wed in truth and carry his wife home to this magical place. This was his world—this magnificent castle shining pale gray in the moonlight, these men surrounding him who fought on his command and would lay down their lives for him.
What an incredible world to be part of
, she thought.

She felt torn. Her need to get back home battled an overwhelming desire to belong in a place like this, to be surrounded by family.

Exhausted beyond the ability to deceive herself any longer, Lisa confronted a truth she’d been trying desperately to avoid.

She knew she had no real future to look forward to in either place or time.

*   *   *

Circenn cornered Duncan and Galan in the stables of Castle Brodie. He backed them against a wall with the sheer force of his glare.

“I heard you laughing, Duncan,” he accused, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Circenn had been simmering for the past week, seeing the amused light in Duncan’s eyes, hearing his laughter, and unable to reprimand him in front of the Templars. Already his Templars had directed curious glances his way, puzzled by his sullen temper on the journey.

Duncan was the portrait of innocence. “If you mean on the trip here, Galan and I were merely reciting bawdy poems, nothing more.”

“Galan?” Circenn snorted disbelievingly. “Galan could not recite a bawdy poem if the outcome of a battle depended upon it.”

“I could,” Galan protested. “I am not quite as bad as you make me out to be.”

“Do you realize that I am utterly compromised? Do you realize that I made a pledge to Adam to kill her and to Robert to marry her?” Circenn demanded irritably.