The Highlander's Touch Read online

  His eyes lit appreciatively as her gaze snagged there. “I could pick you up and wrap those lovely long legs of yours around my waist. Slip deep inside you, rock you against me and love you till you lay in my arms and slept like a babe. I will spend each night stretched beside you, teaching you what you want me to teach you. I can feel that you want it from me. Yet it will be at your pace, when you choose. I will wait as long as I must.

  “But know this, Lisa—when you are across the dinner table from me on the morrow, in my mind I am pushing you back on a bed. In my fantasy”—he laughed, as if at his own brashness—“you are discovering yourself with my willing body. Who knows, perhaps even laying siege to the heart that beats within this chest.” He thumped his chest with a fist and silently admitted she’d already begun to do that, otherwise he wouldn’t have offered himself. But she didn’t need to know that. He knotted the tartan slowly, never taking his eyes from hers.

  “Good night, Lisa. Sleep with the angels.”

  Her eyes stung from quick tears. It had been her mother’s nightly benediction: Sleep with the angels. But then he added words her mother never had:

  “Then come back to earth and sleep with your devil, who would burn in hell for one night in your arms.”

  Wow! was all her reeling mind could come up with as he slipped from the room.

  THREE DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE THEIR FIRST DINNER IN the formal dining room. That was seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes, and Lisa had felt each one of them whiz past her—gone forever.

  Nine shifts of nurses had changed at home. Nine meals had been taken by her mother—bland food, she was certain. No ripe plums and apricots carefully selected from the market on her lunch hour. Illness had changed Catherine’s appetite, and she’d developed a craving for fruits.

  Lisa had spent the days snooping as furtively as possible, but she had begun to suspect it was futile. She didn’t have the first idea where to look for the flask. She’d tried his chambers several times during the day, but the door was always locked. She’d even gone to the turret to the left of his chambers to see if there was a way she could manage to scale the outside wall to get there, but it was hopeless. His chambers were on the second floor of the east wing, and there were guards on the battlements above it at all times.

  She’d passed the evenings indulging herself in offensively sumptuous meals. Last night, the first course had been a mixture of plums, quince, apples, and pears with rosemary, basil, and rue in a pastry tart. The second course had been a chopped meat pastry, the third an omelet with almonds, currants, honey, and saffron, the fourth roasted salmon in onion and wine sauce, the fifth artichokes stuffed with rice. By the honey-glazed chicken rolled in mustard, rosemary, and pine nuts, she’d been wallowing in guilt. By the berry pastries with whipped cream, she’d despised herself.

  And each night, he’d savored his dessert with the same lazy sensuality that made her long to be a berry or a fluff of topping. She couldn’t fault his demeanor, he’d been an impeccable dinner companion and host. They’d made cautious small talk; he’d told her of the Templars and their plight, spoke of their training and extolled the strengths of his Highland fortress. She’d asked about his villagers, whom he seemed to know surprisingly little about. He’d asked about her century and she’d made him talk about his instead. When she’d asked about his family, he’d turned the tables and asked about hers. After a few moments of strained evasions, they’d mutually conceded to leave each other alone on that topic.

  He seemed to be going out of his way to be gracious, patient, and accommodating. In turn, she’d been carefully reserved, finding an excuse each night to dash from the table after the final course and hole up in her room.

  He permitted her escape, for the price of a tantalizing kiss each night at her door. He had not tried again to enter her chambers; she knew he was waiting for her invitation. She also knew she was perilously close to extending it. Each night it was more difficult to find a reason not to take what she so desperately desired. After all, it wasn’t as if letting him spend one night in her bed would have the same effect as Persephone eating six seeds in Hades.

  Her problem was twofold: Not only was she losing precious time and getting no closer to finding the flask, but she was beginning to adapt in insidious little ways. The immediacy of her presence in fourteenth-century Scotland seemed to be sapping her resolve. She’d never had a time in her life that was so peaceful, so filled with idle time, so safe. No one was relying on her, no one’s life would fall apart if she caught a bad cold and was unable to work for a few days. No bills were pressing, no deep blanket of gloom encompassed her.

  She felt like such a traitor.

  Bills were pressing; someone was relying on her. And she was helpless to do a damn thing about it until she found that flask.

  She sighed, wishing fervently that she had something to do. Work would be cathartic; immersing herself in physical duties was the only way she’d ever managed to keep her demons at bay. Perhaps she could help a few of the maids, insinuate herself into their confidence and learn more about the laird and his customs, like which were his favorite rooms, where he stored his treasures.

  Leaping from her perch in the window seat in the study, she went off, determined to track down a job for herself.

  * * *

  “Gillendria, wait!” Lisa called as the maid hurried down the corridor.

  “Milady?” Gillendria paused and turned, her arms heaped with bed linens.

  “Where are you going?” Lisa asked, catching up. She extended her hands to relieve a portion of Gillendria’s burden. “Here, let me help you carry some of those.”

  The maid’s face was half hidden behind the mountain of linens, but what Lisa could see of it was quickly transformed by an expression of horror: her blue eyes widened, her dark brows flew up, and her mouth parted in a gasp. “Milady! These are soiled,” Gillendria exclaimed.

  “That’s all right. You’re doing wash today. I can help,” she said cheerfully.

  Gillendria skittered back. “Nay! The laird would banish me!” She turned and scurried down the hall as quickly as she could beneath the towering pile of linens.

  Heavens, Lisa thought, I was only trying to help.

  * * *

  After searching for half an hour, Lisa found the kitchen. It was as splendid as the rest of the castle, spotless, efficiently designed, and currently occupied by a dozen servants preparing the afternoon meal. Buzzing with conversation, warmed by melodic laughter, the kitchen was made even cozier by a brightly leaping fire over which sauces simmered and meats roasted. The flames hissed and flickered as basting juices drizzled onto the logs.

  She smiled and called a cheery hello.

  All hands stilled: knives stopped dicing in midslice, brushes stopped basting, fingers stopped kneading dough, even the dog curled on the floor near the hearth dropped his head on his paws and whimpered. As one, the servants sank low in deference to her station. “Milady,” they murmured nervously.

  Lisa studied the frozen tableau for a moment, struck by the absurdity of the situation. Why hadn’t she anticipated this? She knew her history. No one in the castle would permit her to labor: not the kitchen staff, not the laundress, not even the maids dusting the tapestries. She was a lady—and a lady was to be kept, not to keep.

  But she didn’t know how to be kept. Depressed, she mumbled a courteous good-bye and fled the kitchen.

  * * *

  Lisa sank into a chair by the hearth in the Greathall and indulged herself in a serious brood. She had two things with which to occupy her mind: her mother and Circenn—both were dangerous, although for vastly different reasons. She was considering cleaning out the hearth and scrubbing the stones when Circenn entered.

  He glanced at her. “Lass,” he greeted her. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Yes,” she replied with a dejected sigh.

  “What’s amiss?” he asked. “I mean other than the usual—that which is alway
s amiss with you. Perhaps I shall preface each conversation we have by assuring you that I still cannot return you. Now, what has you looking glum so early on a fine Highland morn?”

  “Sarcasm does not become you,” Lisa muttered.

  He bared his teeth in a smile, and although she kept her face inscrutable, inwardly she sighed with pleasure. Tall, powerful, and utterly gorgeous, he was a vision a woman could get used to seeing first thing in the morning. He was wearing his tartan and a white linen shirt. His sporran was buckled around him, accentuating his trim waist and long muscled legs. He’d just shaved, and a bit of water glistened on his jaw. And he was huge—she liked that, a mountain of masculinity.

  “What do you expect me to do with myself, Circenn Brodie?” she asked irritably.

  He was very still. “What did you call me?”

  Lisa hesitated, wondering if the arrogant man could really expect her to call him “milord,” even after he’d offered himself to her a few nights ago. Fine. It would keep things impersonal. She rose and bowed sweepingly. “My lord,” she purred.

  “Sarcasm does not become you. That is the first time I’ve heard my name on your lips. As we are to be wed, you must use it henceforth. You may call me Cin.”

  Lisa blinked at him from her servile position. Sin. That he was. And that was the bulk of her problem. If he were not so irresistible, she wouldn’t feel so alive around him, ergo she wouldn’t constantly feel so guilty about her mom. Had he been an unattractive, spineless, stupid man, she would have felt miserable every minute of the day—and that would have been acceptable. She should be miserable. She had abandoned her own mother, for heaven’s sake. Her back stiffened and she stood up straight. “Perhaps I should preface each of our conversations as well, by reminding you that I won’t be marrying you. My lord.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked. “You are truly possessed of a streak of defiance, aren’t you? What did the men in your time make of it?”

  Before she could answer, Duncan came bounding into the hall, followed by Galan. “Morning all, and a fine day it is, eh?” Duncan said brightly.

  Lisa snorted. Couldn’t the handsome Highlander be pessimistic just once?

  “Circenn, Galan was down in the village early this morning, hearing some of the disputes that have backed up in the manor courts—”

  “Isn’t the lord supposed to decide those?” Lisa asked acerbically.

  Circenn’s gaze shot to her. “How would you know that? And what business of yours is it?”

  Lisa blinked innocently. “I must have overheard it somewhere. And I was merely curious.”

  “One would think you might learn to tame that curiosity, seeing where it has led you.”

  “And while Galan was in the village,” Duncan forged on, “he realized the villagers are expecting to have a celebration.”

  “I don’t understand why you don’t hear the cases. Aren’t you the laird?” Lisa pushed. “Or are you just too busy mucking up everyone else’s life and brooding all the time?” she added sweetly. Her inactivity was getting on her nerves, and if she didn’t start being mean to him, she’d end up being entirely too nice. Her resolve might not withstand another dessert with him.

  Duncan’s laughter rang to the rafters.

  “It’s none of your business why I doona hear them,” Circenn growled.

  “Fine. Nothing’s any of my business, is it? What do you expect me to do? Just sit around, ask no questions, have no desires, and be a lump of spineless femininity?”

  “You could not be spineless if you tried,” Circenn said with a long-suffering sigh.

  “A celebration,” Duncan said loudly. “The villagers are planning for the feast—”

  “What are you blathering about?” Circenn grudgingly rerouted his attention to Duncan.

  “If you would permit me to complete an entire sentence, you might know,” Duncan said evenly.

  “Well?” Circenn encouraged. “You have my full attention.”

  “The villagers wish to celebrate your return and the upcoming wedding.”

  “No celebration,” Lisa said immediately.

  “The idea is appealing,” Circenn countered.

  Lisa glared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I am not marrying you, remember? I’m not going to be here.”

  The three warriors turned to regard her as if she’d just informed them she would sprout wings and fly back to her time.

  “I will not be party to this,” she snapped.

  “A celebration might be just the thing for you, lass,” Duncan said. “And you will have the opportunity to meet your people.”

  “They are not my people, nor will they ever be,” Lisa said stiffly. “I won’t be here.” With that she turned and fled up the stairs.

  * * *

  But she found she couldn’t stay away for long. Stealthily, she crept back to the top of the stairs, fascinated by the events ongoing below.

  They were planning her wedding, and it was enough to boggle the mind.

  There they were, sprawled around the table in the Greathall, and the overbearing but irresistibly sexy hunk of a Highland laird had his hands buried in fabric.

  “Nay. It is not soft enough. Gillendria, go fetch the silks stored in the tapestry room. Adam gave me something that should suit well. Bring me the bolt of gold silk.”

  Duncan leaned back in his chair, his arms folded behind his head and his boots propped on the table. The front legs of his chair hovered precariously a few inches above the floor, then hit the floor with a thump when Galan kicked the back of the chair.

  “What is wrong with you, Galan?” Duncan complained.

  “Keep your feet off the table,” Galan reprimanded. “They’re dirty.”

  “Leave him be, Galan. The table can be wiped,” Circenn said absently, fingering a pale blue wool and discarding it with a shake of his head.

  Duncan and Galan looked at Circenn as if he’d lost his mind. “What have we come to? Mud on the table? You—sorting through fabric? Does this mean tupping in the kitchen is acceptable now, too?” Duncan asked, disbelievingly.

  “Far be it from me to regulate tupping,” Circenn said mildly, lifting a fold of crimson velvet.

  Galan snapped Duncan’s mouth shut with a finger beneath his chin. “I thought you hated the gifts Adam brought you, Circenn,” Galan reminded the laird.

  Circenn tossed aside a pale rose linen. “Only bold colors for the lass,” he told the maids. “Except perhaps lavender.” He glanced at the seamstress standing near his chair. “Have you any lavender?”

  At the top of the stairs, Lisa blushed. He was obviously recalling her bra and panties. The thought sent a flush of heat through her. But then her brow furrowed: Who was Adam and why did he bring gifts and why did Circenn hate them? She shook her head, watching him pick through the bolts spread across the table. A half-dozen women were gathered around Circenn, picking up the fabrics he had approved.

  “A cloak from the velvet,” he said, “with black fur at the rim of the hood and cuffs. My colors,” he added smugly.

  Lisa froze, thrown off balance by the possessive note in his voice. My colors, he’d said, but she’d clearly heard him say, my woman.

  And it had thrilled her.

  She stepped back quickly and ducked into a corner, leaning against the wall, her heart pounding.

  What was she doing?

  She’d been standing at the top of the stairs in the fourteenth century, watching him select fabric for her wedding gown!

  Dear God, she was completely losing herself. The immediacy of the present was so compelling, so rich and exciting, that it was eroding her ties to her real life, undermining her determination to return to her mother.

  She sank to the floor and closed her eyes, forcing herself to think of Catherine, to imagine what she was doing, how sick with worry she was, how alone. Lisa remained crouched on the floor, brutally forcing herself back to reality until she felt tears sting her eyes.

  And then she rose, determ
ined to take control of things for once and for all.

  LISA PRESSED BACK INTO THE DEEP STONE ARCH OF THE doorway, scarcely daring to breathe. Her feet were numb and cramped from huddling on the chilly floor. She tightened her fingers around the hilt of the knife she’d filched from the kitchen. It was a lethal blade, razor sharp, as wide as her palm and at least twelve inches long. It would serve nicely to demonstrate her point. She was through biding her time and trying patiently to find the flask. She was going to get back to the future—now.

  Watching him plan her wedding gown had been the final straw: Circenn had accepted that she was going to be here forever—worse, she had started to accept it as well. Concealing the knife in the folds of her gown, she’d slipped up to the second floor and hidden in the shadows of a doorway diagonal to Circenn’s chambers, waiting for him to come up to change for dinner, as he did every night. She conceded that if she hadn’t had an ill mother, she might well have embraced this experience. In her century, there were no men who could begin to compare to the masculine splendor of Circenn Brodie. But Catherine needed her and would always come first.

  The staircase creaked faintly and she tensed. Peeking around the corner of the doorway she glimpsed Circenn gliding silently down the hallway. For such a large man he certainly moved quietly. In a moment, his back was to her. He inserted the key in the lock and she realized the time was upon her. She would obtain the flask, no matter whom she had to go through to get it. No more passive, bewildered, susceptible-to-seduction Lisa.