A breeze fluttered through the ivy-entwined columns that enclosed them, and she gave a little shiver, not as much from the cool air as from the sensual purpose in his eyes. She crossed her arms over her naked breasts, her mouth suddenly dry, her entire being vulnerable to his demands.
"Don't." His deep voice sent a shiver down to her toes. "I want to look at you."
She sat frozen against the faded brocade couch as he gently drew her hands into her lap. "Catriona." His voice sounded uneven. "You have a beautiful little body, but I think your guardian might have been right."
She shuddered as he brushed his jaw against her bare shoulder. "How?"
"There is still too much of the rakehell in me to resist you."
"Why were you so horrible to me when I first came here?"
He laughed ruefully. "I must have known from the very first moment that you would be the one. No man likes to admit that the woman exists who can bring him to his knees."
"And the marriage noose?" she asked mischievously.
He laughed again. "My neck is yours. And"—he slid even closer, urging her back against the worn cushions, her small hands pressed to his chest—"so is my heart."
"Is it?"
"For always, Catriona."
For a moment, she couldn't speak, remembering all her fears on the night they had met, and how, deep inside, she had wanted to be his even then. And, yes, it was indeed a thing to be feared, this losing all of oneself to another. Yet there had been no other choice for her on that night. Nor was there now.
He lowered his mouth to her breasts, darting his tongue back and forth across her pink nipples until she felt faint with pleasure. She closed her eyes with a dreamy sigh as he pressed her deeper into the couch. She managed only a perfunctory murmur of protest when she felt his hand sliding beneath her skirt, his palm cool against her skin. His strong fingers circled the sensitive underside of her knee. Shocks of decadent sensation tingled along her nerve endings, and her muscles began to relax at his masterful touch.
"You deserve better than a few stolen moments in a musty summerhouse," he said wistfully. "I wish you were in my bed, where I could take my time to do this."
His fingers brushed the damp hollow between her legs, played with the soft flesh there that ached for him. She gripped his wrist and moaned, uncertain whether she could stand this much pleasure. "Is the rakehell suffering a pang of conscience?" she teased him.
He leaned down to kiss her. "Actually, it's a pang of the most painful lust he has ever known. I don't think I can move—do you know I am dying to be inside you?"
"What does it feel like?" she whispered.
He groaned against her mouth. "Are you torturing me on purpose?"
She pushed up on her elbows and began kissing him back. "Is it all right if I do this?" she asked softly.
For several moments, he did not move, except for the shudder of lust that moved down his shoulders and into his spine. But her sweet, demanding kisses destroyed him, not that when it came to her he was a pillar of strength to begin with. He hesitated for only a second, his jaw clenched, before he lifted his free hand impatiently to unbutton his shirt. His pantaloons followed, and then, reaching for a sheet from the top of the couch to cover them, he pressed his naked body to hers. The bliss of forbidden flesh-to-flesh contact burned away the final vestiges of his restraint.
In a few days, she would be his wile, but he didn't think he could wait to take physical possession. He had never felt such a primal need to mate, to leave his mark, and deep beneath the urgings of nature was the fear of losing her, the fear that as mysteriously as she had come into his life, healing his heart, she would disappear.
But he was going to ensure that Catriona did not just pass through his life. He meant to make her a permanent fixture, the mother of his children, matriarch of the family, the woman beneath whose portrait future generations of Rutleighs would pause to remark, "She never wore shoes, they say, and she slept with magical stones under the bed."
He touched her face in a gentle caress and nudged her legs apart with his knee. For an interval, he could do nothing but stare at her. Her body was female perfection, ripe curves and intriguing hollows, and he felt a momentary reluctance at bringing her pain; it promptly dissolved as she shifted restlessly beneath him.
"What are you thinking?" she whispered, rubbing her face against his hand.
"Let me show you." His breath came in hoarse exhalations as he brought his head to her breasts, sucking hard at her nipples. She arched against him and slid back into his arms with a shiver of submission. He wrapped his fist in her hair and sank down beside her, caressing the curves of her hip and belly before lowering his hand to her sex, spreading her open with his fingers.
Another shiver rocked her. He looked so intense. The feelings that burgeoned inside her were too much to bear. "Knight—"
"Shhh. I don't like to be interrupted when I'm making love."
He flexed his shoulders, reaching around with his left arm to make sure the sheet was secure. Catriona stole a look at his powerful body and swallowed a gasp at the sight. A current of unadulterated pleasure shot down deep into her belly. He was so beautiful, his body firmly muscled and blatantly male. Lying beneath all that restrained strength was the most exhilarating sensation in the world.
She raised her face to his. "What if someone sees us?"
He grunted. "With this sheet bumping up and down, I suppose we'll be mistaken for a restless spirit." Not that anything could stop him when he was so close. He curled his hands under her soft white bottom and lifted her against him. She was a natural seductress, to be sure, but he had to teach her a thing or two about the timing of her conversations. "Lift your legs around my back, and hold on tight. Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea how good you feel."
She had only the vaguest idea what to expect, and his first thrust, the deep stroke of his penis into her most tender tissue, took her by surprise. She tightened her muscles, but he did not stop except to reposition himself and thrust deeper, until she felt herself yield, the sensation causing her to gasp. Somewhere in her dazed state, she drew a breath, feeling him shower kisses on her face and throat as he muttered that he hadn't meant to hurt her.
"It's just that I can't—"
"Don't worry." She arched into him as she whispered the words. No, she wouldn't go back in time for anything. She wouldn't take away this moment even as their bodies strained together, even as he battered at her until she thought she would shatter. Then, just when she told herself that she could relax a little, he braced both his arms beneath her and rammed upward with all his might, driving the very breath from her body.
"I love you," he said, his hands gripping her hips as he impaled her. "I love you, and now I have exactly what I want."
She did shatter then; she broke apart into the most blissful state of being she had ever known. The pleasure that rippled through her belly was almost unbearable, so intense she could not be sure her heart was still beating. Then she felt him climax, warmth flooded her womb, and she could only sigh, bereft of words to describe what it meant to belong to him, to feel cherished for the first time in her life. Who would have thought this man with the forbidding cast-iron features capable of such tenderness?
She breathed another sigh into his neck as he snuggled down beside her, one muscular leg anchored over her hip as if to remind her that her place in the world was at his side.
"Oh, Knight." She whispered his name against his shoulder, savoring the musky scent of his skin. "Do you think, um, should we at least get dressed?"
"No." He locked his arms around her waist. "I'm never moving from this couch again. This is heaven."
"Except—oh, goodness!" She struggled into an upright position. "We have an audience, in those trees—"
Catriona had never seen a man move so fast in her life. One moment, she was being cuddled by a strong male body; the next, that body was hopping around into a pair of pantaloons and buttoning its shirt in a blur of panicked motion that made her dizzy to watch. She pulled the sheet over her head to muffle her giggles.
He yanked the sheet down to her shoulders, his hard-planed face stark white with anger. "Where is he? Jesus God, I'll kill the bastard."
She put her hand to her mouth as another giggle threatened to escape. "Who?"
'The man—or woman—who was watching us." He ran his hand through his crisp dark hair and looked around in annoyance. "And pull your dress up," he added in a furious undertone. "It's bad enough for me to be caught with my bare arse poking out from a sheet, but I won't have anyone ogling my bride-to-be's charms."
She grinned in delight, her giggles erupting into the tranquility of the night. "It was only an owl! An
owl
took flight over the treetops, and I first thought— oh, Knight, if you could have seen how ridiculous you—"
"An owl?" He glanced out disgustedly into the trees. "Oh, for God's sake, why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"As if I had the chance." She wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. "I suppose that charming little act came from some past experience of being caught by an irate husband?"
He scowled at her. "Actually, I was imagining Marigold on reconnaissance in the rosebushes. Can you imagine the old battleaxe's reaction if she found us in the altogether?"
She laughed again. "Especially if she saw you bobbing up and down like a puppet on a string."
"Bobbing?"
"Well, that thing—" Her eyes glittered with irrepressible mischief. "What did she call it, anyway, a tallypole?"
"Wag," he said after a brief startled silence as he wondered how this particular part of his anatomy had become the topic of family conversation. "A tally
wag.
And the word
bobbing
makes it sound even more undignified. Where is that damn owl, anyway? Are you sure it was even there?"
"Of course I'm sure." She stared out into the woods, her mood suddenly subdued. "And I can't help thinking that those birds are going to bring me trouble," she added in a worried voice.
He turned abruptly and swore. "It looks as if you might be right about that."
"What?"
"About the trouble." He reached down and deftly rehooked her gown. "My sister is heading straight this way. Pull down your skirt."
She sprang from the couch, hiding behind his large frame. "Oh, goodness. I gave her my word I'd stay in my room tonight. How are we going to explain being together in the dark?"
"We aren't. Do you think you can make it back to the house by yourself if I distract her?"
"Of course I can." She came out from behind him. "Will you be able to manage her alone?"
He kissed her on the tip of her nose. "I think so. However, if I do not appear by breakfast tomorrow, you shall know where to look for my body."
She bit her lip. "Perhaps I should stay to defend you."
"And face a three-hour lecture into the wee hours on our immoral behavior?"
"You're right. Defend yourself."
She backed away, then paused on the steps of the summerhouse to blow him a kiss. He grinned and watched her disappear into the trees that encircled them. He was going to have to find a plausible excuse, and fast, to explain to Olivia his presence in a place he had avoided for almost three years now.
* * *
Murdo Grant sat in the woods, absorbing the healing powers of the ancient trees. A large owl fluttered down onto a branch above. Murdo smiled. Ah, yes. To those who could perceive, the birds served as messengers of the otherworld. Murdo and his cocky apprentice, Lamont, had been able to keep track of Catriona's whereabouts by sending their winged friends to find her. And now Murdo must simply wait for
her
to find
him.
The moment approached. He had already touched her mind on several occasions, made her sense his existence. In fact, he could feel her mischievous presence nearby, her youthful energy clashing with his calm wisdom.
Come to me, Catriona. I am your own. We are both healers. The world does not understand us.
He ached to see her again, to reconcile, to guide her into her powers. Above all, he wanted to make sure she did not follow in her tragic mother's footsteps.
He smiled. She was coming.
C
atriona was congratulating herself
on skirting the summerhouse undetected when she spotted Mrs. Evans standing guard on the bridge. Now, how was she supposed to get back into her room without Olivia seeing her? She glanced up as a blur of light from the house caught her eye. Oh, wonderful. Wendell was in the bedroom window, waving a candle like a French spy warning away a ship from the cliffs of Dover, which meant that Marigold must be on guard in the hallway. This did present a problem.
She had no choice but to retreat into the woods until the coast was clear. She glanced back over her shoulder at the summerhouse. There was something unfair about having to go into hiding after such a heart-stirring experience.
She hugged herself as the breeze scattered the leaves around her feet. She was shivering with sheer happiness, instead of shame at her complete ruination. She felt so alive she could run across the moor in the moonlight like a young pagan. She was his.
Voices drifted from the summerhouse. She retreated impulsively into the sheltering womb of the woods. She wasn't afraid of nature, not even at night. It was only people who had ever hurt her. Animals merely wanted to be left alone, to obey their instincts.
She stopped in her tracks and stared through the trees, the nerves at the base of her spine prickling.
Across the clearing sat a tidy heap of dirt beneath the very tree where she had buried the Earth stone. No squirrel had kicked up that mound of soil, nor had a woodland creature left the footprints that led away toward the moor.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to walk forward. She didn't want to discover anything that would ruin her lighthearted mood. Just for once, she wanted to pretend she was like any other ordinary young woman. She peered down into the gaping hole, then plunged her hand into the soft earth. It was as she'd feared. The stone was gone.
Uncle Murdo had found her.
Knight lounged back awkwardly on the couch, his long legs dangling over the walnut-inlaid arm. He felt too contented, too hopeful, too damn pleased with himself to resent Olivia's interference. After all, they both loved Catriona and wanted the best for her— a good marriage, a secure future. And in that future, Knight would have plenty of opportunities to enjoy his young wife's passionate nature. He sighed deeply, remembering the scent of her, female musk and herbs, remembering the precise moment when he had embedded himself inside her. God help him, his heart had actually stopped beating, and he had almost climaxed like a young boy on his first sexual adventure.
Olivia pushed his feet to the floor in an angry swoop. "Where is she, you scoundrel?"
He sat up, so caught up in his erotic memory that her actual arrival had surprised him. "Who?"
"Don't treat me like a ninnyhammer, Knight." She was practically panting with fury, her hands on her slender hips. "I am not one of your buffle-headed women. I know that smile of yours and what it means. Where have you hidden her?"
He grinned. "Buffle-headed women?"
She pulled the sheet from the couch. Heavens above, he thought in amazement. Was she expecting to find Catriona cowering beneath it? The wheelbarrow came next. His eyebrows rose as he watched her slowly touch a stalk of withered bluebell, turning it between her fingers.
"Olivia," he said gently.
She turned, her eyes meeting his. She had to be remembering that day, he thought, as he put his feet to the floor. She had to be remembering the moment he'd told her Lionel was not coming home. All of a sudden, he stood and wanted to put his arms around her, as he had done then, to promise her that he would take care of her, that she would never have to be alone.
"You sneak," she said. "You—you tallywag waver."
His eyes widened. "What did you call me?"
She threw the withered stalk of bluebell at him. "Don't give me that wounded air, lounging in your lair like a big tiger who's just made a tasty snack of a mongoose. You ought to be ashamed. Just tell me where she is. Where have you put her, you monster of immorality?"
He blinked, unable to believe his ears. He had expected her to cry, to crumple, to relive the day she'd learned she was a widow, not to insult and assault him with dead flowers. This was such a wonderful surprise, the best evidence of her healing, that he broke into a smile.
She gave a little shriek of disgust. "And you have the gall to actually grin about your conquest!"
He sobered as she looked around for something more effective to throw at him than a bluebell. "If you don't tell me where she is right now—"
He ducked the musty cushion she hurled at him. "She's probably fast asleep in her room, unless all the commotion you are making has disturbed her. Look— there's a light in her window right now. Shame on
you,
Olivia, for waking her up."
Another cushion came hurtling at his head. He backed around the wheelbarrow, throwing his leg over the summerhouse railing to escape into the garden. He didn't like the way she was looking at that rusty shovel.
"The light in her window is Wendell, you idiot, as if you didn't know," she said. "As if this tryst weren't planned, and him taking your side. And she isn't in her room, because I checked. She left a rolled-up blanket and one of Aunt Marigold's wigs under the bedcovers to fool me."
He chuckled softly. "Check again, Olivia," he said, confident that his resourceful Catriona would have made it back upstairs by now. "I think you are mistaken."
He jumped down into the garden as she grabbed the shovel and rushed the railing. "That's right," she shouted at him. "Run, you rogue. Run with your tail between your legs. You can't hide from me forever. If I don't catch you tonight, I will at the breakfast table tomorrow."
Catriona spun about in the direction of the sum-merhouse, staring through the trees. "Oh, my. What was that?"
The short red-haired man who had been waiting patiently for her stepped away from the tree that had concealed him. "I believe it was the sound of some heavy object being thrown in anger."
She swallowed over the lump of anxiety in her throat and turned to face the uncle whom her mother had banished from their lives when Catriona was a child. The reason for the breach between brother and sister had remained a mystery in her mind, some dark family secret not to be discussed, an "adult" matter. Catriona had always suspected the estrangement had evolved over her father, but whatever the reason, Uncle Murdo had become a forbidden topic of conversation in the house.
An irate female voice shouted a string of insults into the night. The actual words were muffled by the time they penetrated the woods; the meaning was clear enough.
Catriona shook her head in distress. "That's Olivia and Knight," she said distractedly. "I should have stayed to help him."
"But you sensed me calling to you," Murdo said in satisfaction. "You knew I would come, didn't you?"
She turned to examine him more closely. He had settled down like a garden gnome on the boulder she had passed a few moments ago. His red beard reached to his chest, and his tartan jacket and trousers seemed too large for his frail-boned frame.
"You're short," she said in surprise. "I always pictured you as a giant."
"You are hardly a Titan yourself," he said wryly.
"And you have red hair."
His bushy red eyebrows met in a frown. "You look just like your mother."
"Thank you."
"You sound like her, too."
"Oh." She clasped her hands behind her back, not coming any closer to him but not running away, as she wished to, either. She had to admit to being curious about this branch of the family, which had caused so much havoc in her bloodlines. There were questions she was dying to ask him, too, such as, "Am I going to have these horrible visions all my life?" "Why don't butterflies live longer?" "What did you and Mama quarrel over?" And "How do you make those birds of prey do your bidding?"
"What have you done with my mother's stone?" she asked simply.
He stepped closer, his triangular face level with hers. "I am returning it to its rightful place."
"Then give it back. It belongs to me."
"Long ago, one of your ancestresses and a powerful wizard named Michael Scot stole the stone from a holy well, and it was eventually passed down to your mother. Until the stone is returned to its home, you are destined to know unhappiness. We must go to the well together."
She studied his face, the keen hazel eyes and sharp features. "How do I know you won't take the stone for yourself?"
"If it was the stone I wanted, I would be gone."
She felt another strange prickle steal down her spine. "Then go."
"I came for you. Your old playmate Lamont wants to see you."
She recoiled a step, aware of wings fluttering in the trees above them. "I am not going anywhere. I'm engaged."
He glanced past her to the house, his face wistful. "Following right in your mother's foolish footsteps, believing in a man, a Sassenach, who will break your heart. Tis the curse, Catriona. End it now."
"He loves me," she said slowly, as if to convince herself.
"That is just what your mother said about the earl. And yet, if I have not misinterpreted the situation, this man you defend has persuaded you to conduct a clandestine affair with him. That is what you are doing out at this hour?"
A clandestine affair. She almost laughed, but how could she possibly explain the vigilance of Olivia and Aunt Marigold, their determination to marry her off? Oh, how could she explain that Knight's own sister was the reason for all the secrecy, and not any dark, twisted motive on his part?
"This is different. Uncle Murdo."
He sighed sadly. "She thought so, too."
"You don't understand. I am part of their family."
"You are my family, Catriona Grant, and I have come to claim you."
"Well, you certainly wailed long enough to admit that fact." She narrowed her eyes. "Where were you all those years Mama and I struggled to survive?"
He shook his head. "Your mother banished me from your home for speaking the truth about your father. She laughed in my face when I offered to find a more suitable mate for her. I merely stated the obvious: the earl used her and had no desire to claim you as his daughter."
The words hurt, so bluntly spoken, stung her in some vulnerable place inside, but perhaps not as much as they might have months ago. No, she was growing stronger. The world would not end because her father hadn't loved her. At one time, to admit that would have caused her more pain than she could bear.
"It's too late for us, Uncle Murdo," she said, backing away another step. "Aside from the people here, the only person alive who ever cared for me is James. So even if my father did not love Mama, there was some good in him, to have raised a son like James."
His mouth twisted in a scornful smile. "James, a useless specimen of manhood if I have ever seen one."
"Have you visited him?" she asked in surprise.
"Doubtless the useless fool does not even remember our meeting," he said. "I went to his castle in search of you, only to find him half dead, weeping like a bairn over a bottle for the money he had lost."
"He promised me he would stop," she said, flooded with guilt that she had not been there to help.
"Then his promises are as worthless as those his father made," Murdo said bitterly. "But look at you," he said, his face softening. "A beautiful young woman who need not worry about such things. Tis a marriage we should be planning."
"I have made my own choice, Uncle Murdo."
"A poor one, no doubt."
"I love him."
"Him?" He scowled. "A Sassenach noble, arrogant and handsome, I suppose?"
She grinned helplessly. "Oh, aye. He is both."
He drew himself erect. "I can take you into the presence of kings and queens in foreign lands."
Part of her was a little tempted, to explore the secret side of her self. "He's taught me the waltz and the minuet."
He looked scornful. "The dances I would teach you are of the divine, of mastering the elements."
"It's too late, Uncle Murdo." On impulse, she went up to him and kissed his bearded cheek; he smelled pleasantly of mint and rosemary. "They need me, you see," she whispered ruefully. "And I need them, too. I think I've finally found where I belong. Don't spoil it for me."
She had just reached the garden when an image began to take shape in her mind. She didn't think it was a typical vision. There was none of the usual physical manifestations, no tingling or disorientation. But suddenly the impression of a young girl in distress touched her thoughts, jolted her. Something about the girl's features stopped her in her tracks. She closed her eyes, concentrating, willing the connection not to fade.
James, she realized in astonishment. The girl was his mirror likeness—what she was seeing must be her own lost niece, Gaela, the daughter who had been stolen from James by her grandparents. The girl appeared to be in trouble. She was standing at—oh, dear God, it was a grave. She was crying, resisting the angry man who tried to take her away. And Cat could hear her young, heartrending voice.
"Why did they die? I don't want to go with you. I want my papa."
The image started to dissolve. Frantic, Cat willed herself to focus on the smallest detail. The girl was dragged from the graveyard, thrown into a dog cart, driven down a winding street. A tavern with the sign of a red stag. The sound of a waterfall. A crossroads with a stone cross marked—
Nothing. Blank. Gone.
Cat closed her eyes and shivered, feeling helpless and frightened for the girl.
Several minutes later, she returned to the house.
She drew back against the balustrade as a tall figure materialized from the shadows to interrupt her escape upstairs. "Don't make a sound," Knight whispered, gathering her in his arms. "The Gorgons are definitely on to us."
She laid her head on his chest, her heart beating hard. For a moment, she had been afraid that Uncle Murdo had somehow gotten into the house before her. But this was Knight, her protector and, as of tonight, lover. Her anxiety fled, replaced by the sheer happiness she always felt with him. "I thought Olivia might have murdered you," she whispered. "I heard her shouting."