The Highlander's Touch (20 page)

Who was he to argue with fate? If that was what his time held, who was he to be so arrogant to think he could change it? He had sworn this would not happen, yet all events had consistently carved the path to it, from the first day she’d arrived.

He would be the worst kind of liar if he tried to convince himself that he’d hoped to see anything different.

He sucked in a shallow breath as he watched the nude woman reflected in the shield roll astride his naked body. His abdomen tightened and his cock hardened painfully as she straddled him and lowered her hot, wet sheath onto him inch by inch. In the shield, he had a clear view of her, as if he were lying on his back, looking up at her as she rode him. Her full breasts bobbed tantalizingly above him, her nipples tight. His hands swept up to palm them roughly, to tease the puckered crests. She arched her back, tossing her head and baring the column of her neck. The muscles in her neck were taut with passion as she strained for her pleasure, and it aroused him immeasurably. His hot gaze swept down over her breasts, followed the hollows and planes of her stomach, to the soft curls between her thighs, and he stared, fascinated, as she impaled herself upon his shaft, watched as the thick column of his cock was revealed, then buried again in her mound. She had a tiny dark mole on the inside of her left thigh, and in his vision, his fingers splayed over it. He ached to kiss it, to run his tongue over it.

He could nearly feel her body clench around him: tight, hot, and slick with that woman’s wetness that made a man feel invincible—the measure of which bespoke his prowess: the wetter the woman, the more desired the man.

When the shield finally went dark, he came to himself
with his hand on his cock. It was swollen and aching for release.

“So, that is what is to be,” he mused aloud. “Fate.”

He couldn’t deny that he’d wanted it since the day he first saw her; he’d had to forcibly restrain himself from taking her on several occasions. The vision had just confirmed that he would indeed have her, and that she would indeed be willing.

Why do you fight it?
Adam had asked him angrily on more than one occasion.
Why can you not glory in what you are and enjoy the power of being Circenn Brodie? You possess the ability to give and take more pleasure than most mortals ever know. Soar, Circenn. Drink of the life of my kind. I offer you it; freely
.

Not freely
, Circenn scoffed.
There was a price
. He squeezed his eyes shut as the music thundered in his ears.

It was his fate that she would ride like a mighty, demanding Valkyrie upon his body.

She already sang like a siren to his heart, this woman of defiance and fear, of curiosity and contradiction. Naya had been soft and passive toward her lot in life, until the end when she’d turned bitter. Never before had he met a woman like Lisa, a woman with needs and desires and a mind of her own. Deep emotions roiled in her breast, cunning intelligence glowed in her eyes, and a fierceness that vied with the legendary Valkyries’ breathed in her veins.

Rules be damned. How could he argue with the future? It was written. He could only take it, enjoy it, and make the most of it, praying he would survive it when he lost his heart to her, then inevitably lost her in a short span of years. If he was going to be mad in the future, he may as well savor the present.

Circenn Brodie rose from his chair, ripped the machine from the future off his head, and did what he’d never dared do before:

He eased his control a tiny bit and encouraged the magic to throb inside him.

Dark angel
, Adam had inveigled him,
soar into my world and fear nothing
.

He tossed back his head and tasted the power running through his formidable body.

It was a very different creature who left the dark, hidden room to find his woman.

*   *   *

Adam Black smiled as he removed the tampon from the barrel of the rifle. Although Circenn had refused to use any of the weapons Adam had brought him, the warrior within him could not permit time to tarnish them. He snorted, dangling the tampon from its string. Only his fastidious Circenn Brodie would decide that the soft white swabs were to be used for cleaning.

Eyeing the rifle, Adam grinned. They
were
the perfect size to slip inside the barrel—it nearly seemed sensible. But he hadn’t brought tampons back to medieval Scotland for Circenn to play with; he’d brought them—and every gift he’d chosen—for another reason. Although if he had his way, there would be many nine-month intervals during which she would have no use for them.

“Y
ER A BEAUTY, LASS
,” G
ILLENDRIA SAID, CLAPPING
her hands. “I thought I could refashion it well, but ’tis the woman who makes this gown.”

Lisa stood before the mirror, gazing at herself with no small measure of shock.

Gillendria had refitted a dress that she said had belonged to Circenn’s mother, Morganna. Now she slipped it over her shoulders, atop a shift of softest linen. Midnight-blue silk clung to her breasts, and the scooped neck slipped off her shoulders, accentuating her translucent skin and fine collarbones. It hugged her hips and fell to the floor in a rustle of blue embroidered with gold. At her waist, Gillendria had fastened a gold girdle that knotted low and from which hundreds of tiny gold moons and stars dangled. Matching slippers encased her feet, and a lovely gold torque that predated medieval times encircled her throat. An embroidered surcoat was tied below her breasts. Gillendria had curled her hair, carefully picking out the gold highlights and curling them a bit tighter so that they lay atop the wavy mass, then mussed it gently. A dab of some combination of root, herb, and flower colored her lips ruby.

Who was this woman in the mirror who looked like sin?
she wondered.
Like Sin’s
, she amended fancifully, for even she had to admit that the woman in the mirror now looked a suitable companion for the laird of the castle. For once she didn’t curse herself for being tall, because in this gown her height added an unmistakable touch of elegance.

“You’re incredible, Gillendria,” Lisa breathed.

“I am, aren’t I?” Gillendria replied without a trace of arrogance. “Although I have not had a woman with yer perfect figure to clothe for some time, I have not forgotten how. The laird will be well pleased.”

Lisa was well pleased. She’d never known she could look like this. At seventeen, she’d hoped one day to look like Catherine—a golden, striking beauty—but work had become all-consuming as she’d struggled to provide for her mother, and Lisa hadn’t spared another thought for her own appearance in five long years. Her mother would love—
Oh! Mom!

She shivered. How could she have forgotten even for an instant?

“Are ye cold, milady?” Gillendria asked. “I can fetch a wrap.”

“Nay,” Lisa said softly. “Just a momentary chill, nothing more. Go on with you now, Gillendria. I’ll find my way to the Greathall.”

After Gillendria left, Lisa sank down on the bed. Castle Brodie was the loveliest place she’d ever been, and there she sat in a dress made for a princess, about to have dinner with a man who was the stuff of her every romantic dream. For a few minutes she’d forgotten all about Catherine. She’d been too busy experiencing all the anticipation and excitement of a woman preparing for a special date.

But this was no date, and there would be no happily ever after. Her mother needed her desperately, and Lisa was doing something she had never before permitted herself to do: She was failing to carry out her responsibilities to Catherine. Failure was not a thing to which she was accustomed. She’d always been able to work harder, or for longer hours, to ensure, if not success, at least safety, food, and a roof over their heads. She had no right to feel even a brief moment of happiness, she admonished herself, until she found the flask and established her way home.

And then will you feel happy, Lisa?
her heart asked gently.
When you leave him and go home to sit at your mother’s bedside? When she’s gone and you are left alone in the twenty-first century? Will you be happy then?

*   *   *

Her resolve to feel no pleasure lasted all of an hour. Lisa finished her dessert and sighed contentedly. If she’d learned nothing else, she’d learned to appreciate the good things that were interspersed with the bad, and dinner had been the best. The formal dining hall was beautiful, lit by dozens of candles. She was warm, clean, and full. For the first time since she’d been in the fourteenth century she’d eaten a splendid meal. Admittedly, her meals back in her century had never been seven courses of heaven, but even White Castle hamburgers fared well against the bland, tough meat and hard bread to which she’d been subjected. During the past few weeks, she’d despaired of ever eating a decent meal again.

Twenty feet of table separated them—like in the old movies, she thought. She
needed
twenty feet between her and the lord of Brodie Castle. They’d dined mostly in
silence, and he’d been the epitome of a gracious host. He hadn’t scowled at her even once. In fact, several times she’d caught him regarding her with an admiring gaze. His previous bad temper seemed to have melted away without a trace, and he appeared as close to relaxed as she’d ever seen him. She wondered what had changed his mood; perhaps he was going to war soon, she decided, which would suit them both fine. He’d get to throw his weight around being the brash overbearing male, and she’d be free to tear the castle apart from top to bottom in search of the flask, without fear of his watchful gaze. He certainly wouldn’t carry such a valuable relic into battle. He’d have to leave it here somewhere. The idea made her feel positively magnanimous.

She glanced at him, feeling secure in the distance between them, and smiled. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“For what, lass?” He idly licked a swirl of fluffy topping from his spoon.

“For feeding me,” she replied, assuring herself that the mere glimpse of his tongue flicking over a spoon was not sufficient cause for her blood pressure to rise.

“I’ve fed you every day since you’ve been here and you’ve not thanked me before,” he observed mockingly.

“That’s because you never fed me anything worth eating before.” She watched as he licked a dab of cream from the tip of his spoon. “I think you got it all,” she said uneasily. Suddenly the cavernous room seemed to shrink and she felt as if she were sitting mere inches away from him, not twenty feet. And who had poked up the dratted fire? She fanned at her face with a hand that betrayed not the slightest tremor she was feeling.

“Got what all?” he asked absently, filling his spoon with a mound of berries and cream.

“How is this topping made?” she asked, changing the subject swiftly.

“Much like butter. You churn it with paddles or shake it in a jug. It is merely cream skimmed from the top of milk, mixed with sugar and a touch of cinnamon. It thickens as you paddle it and add the sweetening. I used to watch them make it when I was a lad, flattering cook and anyone else in the kitchen to get my hands on it.”

Whipped cream in the fourteenth century
, she marveled. She wondered how many things these “barbarians” had that modern scholars never discussed. But why wouldn’t they have such condiments? In the few days she’d been in Castle Brodie, she’d noted many things that surprised her. It all just seemed too civilized.

She fixed her gaze on her plate trying to prevent herself from rising from her chair, taking his spoon away, and giving him something else to lick. Her finger. Her lower lip. The hollow of her spine.

Although she’d had little experience with men, she was innately sensual and she’d fantasized often. Perhaps more than most, because she’d tasted so little of sexuality. Tonight, with this magnificent warrior dining regally at the end of the table, her imagination took flight.

In her fantasy he walked to her end of the table, capturing and holding her gaze with that subtle magnetism he had. His eyes were heavy lidded, banking a challenge:
Become a woman, Lisa?
He took her hand, pulled her to her feet, and kissed her, a soft brush of his lips, a quick velvety stroke of his tongue, promising so much more, slipping deep into her mouth when her lips parted on a sigh. Her fantasy picked up speed, fast-forwarded abruptly to his pressing her back onto the table, slipping the gown from her body, dropping whipped cream on her breasts,
and licking it from her moist, warm skin with the same careful deliberation he’d given his spoon. Perhaps a dab of warm, rich cream would inadvertently fall where she’d touched herself before, and with his lips he would …

Swallowing hard, she looked at him.

He raised his eyes from the frothy concoction on his spoon at the precise moment she looked up, and their gazes locked over the length of the polished wood table.
Where would you drip whipped cream on him, Lisa?
The answer came with frightening swiftness and conviction:
Everywhere
. She wanted to explore his body, the hard ripples, the smooth skin. The candlelight bathed his olive skin with a golden hue, and his dark good looks were set off perfectly by his linen shirt and the splash of black and crimson draped across his chest. He was mesmerizing.