The Highlander's Touch Read online

  “No. Come. Let us walk.” He rose and extended his hand. Guiding her away from the playing children, he led her into a thick copse.

  “But, Circenn, I don’t mind that a puppy will die. At least I get to love it for the time I have with it.”

  He pushed her back against a tree and covered her mouth with his, savagely.

  Her breath came out in a soft humph, as he crushed her between his body and the tree. She was smothered in his emotions: pain, hopelessness, and hunger tinged by a savage need to possess her completely, to brand her with his body. And something more, something that danced tantalizingly out of her reach.

  “Mine,” he whispered against her lips.

  “What a totally barbaric”—she drew a deep breath beneath the onslaught of his lips—“medieval, arrogant, warlord thing to say.”

  “And true. You are mine.” He dragged his tongue across her lower lip, tasting, suckling. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips. He crowded her against the tree, pressing her into it. His blackness charged the air between them and infiltrated her, drenching her with his tension. He raised her skirts and slipped his hand up her thigh, abruptly burying his finger inside her. “You are wet, lass,” he said roughly. “Dripping for me yet I’ve scarce kissed you. I like knowing you walk around ready for me.”

  He turned her around to face the tree. He shoved his tartan aside and pushed the folds of her gown out of his way, trapping the fabric between her body and the bark. He cupped her exposed curves, spreading and opening her for him. His breathing was harsh, and she gasped when she felt him heavy and swollen between her buttocks. Then suddenly he thrust into her.

  He was too big from behind. Lisa tried to push him away with her hips, but he pushed back relentlessly.

  She grabbed the tree with her hands, confused by the intensity of his emotions, doubly confused because she was caught up in the maelstrom of his fury. It imbued her with an unidentifiable rage that had no object she could discern, translating into a fierce need to possess, to dominate, to take even that which would, under other circumstances, be willingly given. The only release for the anger was in the taking.

  His rage consumed her, and she bucked back against him and turned, forcing him from her body. She rammed the heels of her palms against his chest.

  “I don’t understand you,” she snapped, her eyes flashing. Still, his intense darkness seeped inside her, driving her, goading her to release it somehow.

  His eyes were dark, unfathomable pools, and danger radiated from him. He shoved her back against the tree.

  She knocked his hands from her shoulders with a swift outward thrust of both arms. “Oh no. You said I get to be in control, too. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. You do what I want this time.”

  “And what do you want, Lisa?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

  She grabbed his plaid and ripped it from his body. She dropped it to the ground, spreading it with the toe of her slipper. “Lie down,” she demanded, his strange darkness fueling her.

  He complied, his eyes glittering. Although he’d honored her demand, he was by no means subdued. He was dangerous and deadly, but she didn’t care one bit, because his emotions made her feel every bit as lethal.

  She dropped on top of him and kissed him with all his frustrated rage. She became a wild thing, uncaring that she filled the air with sounds of passion. Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him deeply, tonguing his mouth, nibbling his lips, shifting her hips so she was astride him. The movement with which she claimed him inside her body was not a gentle one. Their eyes met and locked, and she imagined sparks flying from the sheer heat of it.

  She felt like a Valkyrie, demanding satisfaction from her mate. His hands swept up and closed over her breasts, his gaze fixed on the mole inside her left thigh. She rocked herself on him, raising and lowering her hips again and again, her palms flush to his chest, bracing herself, watching the area where their bodies were joined by his thick shaft. He reared up hungrily, suckling her nipples as her breasts swayed above him, his hips thrusting urgently. When he exploded inside her, savage satisfaction flooded her and she nearly swooned from the intensity of both their emotions. It was overwhelming, and pushed her swiftly past the edge. She arched her neck and cried out.

  Afterward, she lay on his chest, wondering what had just happened. Had she taken him with his desire, or had he taken her with hers? It was so confusing, so mind paralyzing, their strange bond. When their passions were high and their bodies sweat-slicked against each other, she truly couldn’t see where he began and she ended, because she felt it all. It heightened her pleasure a hundredfold.

  “What just happened?” she whispered.

  “I think we demonstrated the true extent of our need for each other, lass,” he said softly, stroking her hair. “Sometimes need can be a violent thing.”

  “But what was all the darkness I was getting from you?” she pressed.

  “What did it feel like, lass?” he asked carefully.

  “Like you were furious with something or someone, and almost like you thought I wouldn’t be here tomorrow.”

  He sighed against her hair. His arms tightened around her and she felt his throat work as he swallowed. “Time is too short, love. That’s all you felt. That no matter how long I might have with you, it would never be enough.”

  “We have a whole lifetime, Circenn,” she reassured him, kissing him. “You have all of my life.”

  “I know,” he said sadly. “I know. All of yours.”

  “There’s something you’re not saying, Circenn.”

  “It’s still not enough,” he replied. “I begin to fear that only forever will satisfy me.”

  “Then I’m yours forever,” she said easily.

  “Be careful what you promise, lass.” His eyes were dark. “I may hold you to it.”

  Lisa pressed her cheek against his chest, weary from the outburst of emotion and confused by his strange words. She sensed some dark threat there that she wasn’t certain she wished to understand.

  * * *

  “Tell me everything about your life, lass,” he demanded later, as they lay in his bed. He shifted inside her and rocked.

  “Everything?” Her breathing was rapid and shallow. God, but he knew how to touch her. She had never understood being touched, until this Highlander had placed his hands on her body.

  “Everything. Did you ever know a woman’s pleasure before I made you mine?”

  “Do you mean did I ever have an orgasm? That’s what we call them in my time. A climax or an orgasm.”

  “Aye. Did you?”

  Lisa blushed. “Yes,” she said softly. His fingers tensed on her hips, and he buried his face in her thighs, lapping gently.

  “When?” he growled. The vibration was exquisite.

  “This is really rather personal,” she protested weakly, arching against him.

  “Yes, ‘this is really rather personal,’” he mocked. “And you think to withhold mere words when I’m doing this to you?”

  “I was curious. I … touched myself a time or two.”

  “And?”

  “And I found a most unusual sensation. So I bought a book that explained it all.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” she said, feeling embarrassed.

  “Did it feel like this?” He slipped a finger inside her.

  “Nothing feels like you,” she whispered, arching against his hand.

  “Did you touch yourself like this?” He drew back so she could see him. One hand palmed her mound, the heel of it exerting gentle friction; the other he wrapped around himself.

  She lost her breath, mesmerized by the sight of his hand holding his heavy shaft. Jealous of his hand being where hers longed to be. She reached out and knocked his hand away and he laughed.

  “Mine,” she said roughly.

  “Ah, yes.”

  * * *

  Later he began again. “Tell me everything about your life. Tell me about the wreck and wha
t’s wrong with your mother and what you missed and what you longed for.” He quickly tried to mask his feelings, ashamed of what he was thinking. He must have been successful at hiding his emotions, for she confided readily, teaching him many new words as they went along.

  A dangerous thought had formed in the back of his mind, and he pressed against it, trying to force it into submission.

  But he knew well the danger of seeds once sown.

  “GALAN, WE’VE DONE IT,” DUNCAN SAID SMUGLY. THE two brothers were leaning against a stone column near the entrance of the Greathall, observing the revelry. Circenn was teaching Lisa one of their less complicated Highland dances. Engrossed in watching her feet, every few moments she tossed back her head and laughed at him. She was adorable, Duncan decided.

  The villagers had finally gotten their feast, thanks to Galan, Duncan, and the enthusiastic castle staff who had planned it without awaiting further input or permission. While Circenn and Lisa had wandered about, oblivious and infatuated, the residents of Castle Brodie had finalized the plans, simply informing the couple when the celebration would be. The laird’s blossoming romance with his lady had infused the estate with good humor.

  Duncan conceded that they’d done an astonishing job; the staff had devoted loving care to transforming Castle Brodie for the festivities. Brilliantly lit by hundreds of rushlights, the hall was warm, the atmosphere most conducive to romance. Rippling banners of crimson and black Brodie tartan decked the walls. Thirty long tables formed a rectangle around the room, each laden with a sumptuous feast. The musicians gathered behind the laird’s table at the head of the hall, while in the center of the rectangle, on the floor cleared for dancing, couples, children, even an occasional wolfhound indulged the fierce Scot penchant for celebrating. In such a war-torn land, any cause was reason to feast as if there was no tomorrow, because there might not be. The musicians were playing a sprightly, edgy tune and the dancers faced the challenge with relish. As feet flew, the tempo increased, and ripples of laughter broke out as they kept pace with the frenetic beat.

  “Look at them,” Galan said softly.

  Duncan didn’t have to ask whom he meant; Galan’s eyes were fixed on Lisa and Circenn, as were many other eyes in the room. The laird and his lady were clearly in their own universe, absorbed in each other.

  Duncan had heard the strange note in Galan’s voice and now gazed at him sharply, seeing his older brother in a new light.

  “They are so in love.” Galan sounded weary, and longing infused his voice.

  Duncan frowned, confounded by a new and uncomfortable sensation—as if he were the older brother and should take care of Galan. It occurred to him that Galan was thirty years old and had single-mindedly devoted the past ten years of his life to warring for Scotland’s independence. That didn’t leave much time for a disciplined warrior to taste the comforts of family and home life. How had he failed to see that Galan, in the midst of all the warriors and the fighting and the splendid wenching to be had, was lonely?

  “Wasn’t there a lass in Edinburgh you visited when last we were there?” Duncan asked.

  Galan glowered. “Doona try to finagle a match for me, little brother. I’m fine.”

  Duncan lifted a brow. How often had Galan assured him that he was fine, and Duncan had gone about his merry way, leaving him alone? Bewildered by his new insight, he uneasily filed the subject away for future consideration. His brother needed a woman, but not in the way Duncan needed a woman; Galan needed a wife.

  “Think you they will have children?” Duncan changed the subject, noting Galan relax visibly when he did so.

  “Bah! If they haven’t already conceived one. I hear they have taken over one of your favored tupping spots.”

  “My bothy?” Duncan exclaimed indignantly. “A man can’t have any privacy.”

  Neither brother spoke for a time, each absorbed in his own thoughts. The musicians commenced a slow, haunting ballad and the dancers moved into more intimate embraces.

  Suddenly Galan said, “Och, by Dagda—look yonder, Duncan. Who is that stunning lass?” He pointed across the hall. “Too lovely for me, that’s for certain.”

  Duncan glanced swiftly where Galan pointed, his body tightening with anticipation. Too lovely for me was the slap of an irresistible gauntlet to Duncan. He adored such words, his innate maleness rose to them aggressively; he’d long been restless and ready for something different.

  “Where? I see no one of note.” Duncan craned his neck to peer through the crowd. When the dancers parted for a moment, he glimpsed a mane of shimmering red hair. He sucked in a breath. “The redhead. Is she the one you meant? You know what they say—fire on top, fiery tup.”

  Galan punched him in the arm. “Is that all you ever think about? There she is again.” The dancers moved apart again, and this time the woman was turned slightly toward them.

  Duncan’s brows lifted as heat lanced through his groin. She was exquisite. Masses of red hair, streaked with blond and honey, spilled over her shoulders. Her face was delicate, pointed at the chin with high cheekbones and dark eyes. Her lips were full. Ridiculously full. Erotically full. Come suck me full, he thought irritably. No woman should have lips so lush and plump. Her skin was flawlessly translucent, her lips a perfect rose. And full.

  Composed and graceful, she exuded confidence that he would soon shatter with his seductive charm. “Untouchable” might have been branded on her forehead, and been more subtle than the way she carried herself. But he was man enough for such a dare; he would penetrate her reserve, gain entrance where he suspected few men had ever gone, and be satisfied only when she became a wanton she-animal in his bed. His gaze swept the length of her. Clad in a simple white gown beneath a green surcoat, her body in it was the only adornment necessary.

  “Well?” Galan demanded. “What are you waiting for? Doona you need to tup to conquer?”

  “Och, and aye,” Duncan said, melting into the crowd.

  Galan shook his head, and if his smile was a bit melancholy, he’d learned not to feel it.

  * * *

  Duncan surfaced behind her. He held his breath as his gaze played admiringly over her sensual mane. Soft, silky, and of a dozen flame hues, he longed to wrap his fists in it. He harbored a special passion for redheads. He longed to tug her head back and take her throat with his lips. He ached to spread her hair across his pillow. She, he would claim in a bed. Her fine body would require the soft mattresses beneath her, to handle his intensity.

  “Shall we dance?” he murmured in her ear.

  She pivoted so quickly it startled him, and he fell back a step. Her lips were even more luscious up close, and when she moistened them with her tongue, he nearly groaned aloud.

  Her eyes narrowed, and her lips parted around a knowing laugh. “Oh. It’s you.”

  “Pardon?” He was taken aback. “Do we know each other, lass?” He was quite certain they didn’t; he could never have forgotten this woman. The enticing manner in which her lips were currently pursed would have been seared into his memory.

  “The answer is no. I don’t know you. But every other woman in this room does. Duncan Douglas, isn’t it?” she said dryly.

  Duncan studied her face. Although she was young—perhaps no more than twenty—she had a regal bearing beyond her years. “I do have some reputation with the lasses,” he conceded, downplaying his prowess, confident of her impending maidenly swoon.

  The look she gave him was far from admiring.

  He did a double take when he realized her gaze was downright disparaging.

  “Not something I care for in a man,” she said coolly. “Thank you for your offer, but I’d sooner dance with last week’s rushes. They would be less used. Who wants what everyone else has already had?” The words were delivered in a cool, modulated tone, shaped by an odd accent he couldn’t place. Quite finished with him, she presented her back and resumed talking to her companion.

  Duncan was immobilized by shock.

  Who wa
nts what everyone else has already had? She made it sound as if he were all used up. Indeed! He certainly had much more to spare, and she would soon learn it. His hand closed upon the fine bones of her shoulder, and he spun her around. “That means I have all the more experience with which to pleasure you. And pleasure you I will,” he promised. He waited for her to melt. The women he’d seduced in the past had shivered at his possessive promises. He’d learned to offer them with a husky note in his voice, learned precisely what to say to affect a lass most.

  “It means,” she corrected with a mocking smile, “that you are a lothario. It means that you can’t keep your tartan about your knees. It means that I am no different than anyone else, and that you hold no special regard for a cherished act of intimacy. I am not intrigued. I care naught for leftovers.”

  The infuriating woman gave him her back again.

  He eyed the supple arch of her back, the lovely hips, the longs legs moving in restless tempo to the music beneath her soft white gown. She tossed her head and laughed at something her companion said.

  Abashed, he studied her companion. A foot taller than she, the man was lean and well muscled. They obviously shared a close relationship, leaning their heads close and laughing. Duncan’s hands fisted at his sides.

  What did a man say to that? Yes, but now that I’ve seen you, I doona wish anyone else? All that was merely practice, preparing me for you? He doubted that would be effective with this woman. She’d only laugh at him again.

  Seething, he tapped her companion on the shoulder. “Pardon me, but are you her lover?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The redhead placed a soothing hand on her companion’s arm, ignoring the look of fury Duncan directed at her fingers. “This is Duncan Douglas, Tally.”

  “Ah.” Her companion smirked. “And as any blackguard worth his salt, confronted with the insurmountable challenge of your beauty, he must conquer you, eh, Beth?”

  They shared an intimate glance. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Who are the two of you?” Duncan demanded. Never had he been so mocked, never had he felt so … so … insignificant. Unimportant.