The Highlander's Touch Read online

  “Better,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan to stay in there for so long. I just needed time to think. Until you’d given me the flask I still believed I might return. I needed time to come to terms with the reality of my situation.”

  “You need offer me no apology. It is I who should offer you one.” He turned her to face him. “Lisa, I am sorry you were ensnared by my curse. I would like to say that I’m sorry you came here, but I must confess that I …”

  Lisa glanced up at him searchingly.

  He took a deep breath. “That I will devote my life to making it up to you. That I wish to wed you and will see you well cared for.”

  Lisa averted her gaze, mortified to feel tears threatening.

  He stepped back, sensing that she was fighting for control. “That was all I wished to say, lass. I will leave you to your walk now. I merely wished to be certain you knew how I felt.”

  “Thank you,” she said. As she watched him retreat, a part of her longed to summon him back, to make small, idle talk and while away the sunny afternoon, but tears still came too easily.

  After he’d gone she continued strolling, drawn to explore her new home. She soaked up the warm rays, stopping periodically to examine small buds and unusual foliage. It occurred to her that since she was to stay there, she could finally do something she’d longed to do for years—she could have a puppy. She’d always wanted a dog but their apartment had been too small. When she returned to the castle, she would ask Circenn if he knew of any recent litters in the village.

  As she approached the bothy, she realized she was going to survive. Her normal feelings were returning, her customary optimism, her desire to be involved in the world and to explore it. She wondered what a bothy actually was. A storehouse? A workshop? Turning the handle, she opened the door open and quietly stepped inside.

  Duncan Douglas stood there, nude, his back to her. My God, she thought. Not Circenn, but certainly remarkable. Overwhelmingly curious about all things sensual, she was unable to look away. An equally unclothed maid was pressed between his body and the wall. The maid’s cheek was flush to the wooden wall and her palms were flattened against it above her head, with Duncan’s strong hands covering them. His hips bucked against her, pushing into her from behind.

  Lisa wet her lips and breathed softly. She knew she should slip out quietly before they realized they’d been observed.

  In just a minute, she told herself, cheeks flaming. Her gaze dropped from his wide shoulders to his waist, over a muscled, tight ass that flexed as he pounded into her. Lisa couldn’t move, assaulted by erotic images of Circenn doing the same to her.

  “Oh, my heavens.” She was so fascinated, the words escaped her before she could spare thought to prevent them.

  They both turned to look at her at the same moment. The maid shrieked. The outrageous Duncan merely grinned. “Oops,” he said nonchalantly.

  Lisa fled the bothy.

  At least now she knew what the ancients had used the outbuilding for.

  Privacy.

  * * *

  The days passed quickly, in a haze of warm sunny mornings and afternoons spent with Duncan, who took her on tours of the castle and estate, and quiet evenings spent with Circenn over scrumptious dinners.

  Circenn had been noticeably absent during the afternoons, neither training with his men nor present around the castle, and as they finished dessert that night she inquired about it.

  “Come.” He rose from the table and motioned for her to follow. “I have something for you, Lisa. I hope it pleases you.”

  She let him tuck her arm through his and guide her down a corridor she hadn’t yet explored. It led to the end of the east wing, down winding and narrow stone hallways, through high arched doors, and up a circular stone staircase. He paused outside the door to a tower and removed a key from his sporran.

  “I hope you doona think I have …” He blew out a sigh, looking uncomfortable. “Lass, this seemed an excellent idea when I struck upon it, but now I have some concerns. …”

  “What?” she asked, perplexed.

  “Have you ever come up with an idea that you think will make someone happy, then when it is time to give it to them you worry if perhaps you were wrong?”

  “Did you make something for me?” she asked, recalling the flecks of wood dust she’d glimpsed him brushing off his tartan the day before.

  “Aye,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “But it suddenly occurred to me that if I doona know you as well as I think I do, it may make you sad.”

  “Well, I’ll just have to see it,” she said, slipping the key from his hand.

  Whatever he’d done, he’d pleased her simply by caring, and thinking about her, not to mention investing his time in labor with the intent to please her. Aside from her parents and Ruby, she’d received few impulsive gifts in her lifetime, and never one someone had fashioned by hand.

  Curious, she inserted the key in the door, opened it, and stepped inside. Dozens of candles flickered, filling the room with a warm glow. The ceiling rose and met in a high wooden arch, and there were small benches strewn about. At the front of the room, before four beautifully colored windows, was a flat slab mounted on a thick base of stone—an altar. She realized he’d brought her to his private place of worship.

  “Look down, lass,” he said quietly.

  Her gaze dropped to the floor. “Heavens, did you do this?” She glanced at Circenn, bewildered.

  “I had a lot of idle time a few years past,” he said with a shrug. About thirty years, he didn’t add. Years during which he had thought he might go insane from loneliness, and so he’d buried his anguish in creating.

  Her gaze flew back to the floor. It was an exquisite mosaic hand fashioned of wood, ranging out like a star from the center of the chapel. Light pine, dark walnut, and deep cherry interwove to create the patterns. Some of the pieces of wood were no more than an inch in diameter. It must have taken him years, she thought, amazed. One man, designing this floor, carefully carving and sanding the pieces and laying them in a fabulous geometric pattern that would have made M. C. Escher wild with envy.

  “Go up near the altar,” he encouraged. “That is where I changed it.”

  Lisa walked gently across the floor, reluctant to mar it with her footsteps. In front of the altar, he’d torn up the old pattern and laid a new one. The area in front of the slab had been divided into two sections: to the right, painstakingly inlaid into the pattern in deep ebony was MORGANNA, BELOVED MOTHER OF CIRCENN. To her left, in the same black wood, was CATHERINE, BELOVED MOTHER OF LISA. There were no dates, an omission she understood, because they certainly wouldn’t want anyone to see twenty-first-century dates in a medieval chapel. She could just imagine the heyday modern scholars would have had with that. The names were encircled by elaborate inlaid Celtic knot work.

  Dropping to her knees, she ran her fingers over the freshly laid wood, her heart swelling with emotion. He’d placed her mother right next to his, clearly showing her she was half of his life. Now she could go there when she was missing her mother and feel as if she had a place to be near her.

  It startled her, his keen insight. When Catherine had been diagnosed with cancer, Lisa had devoured “how to” books on dealing with the loss of a loved one, hoping to find some magic way of handling the impending loss of her mother. One of the things each book had addressed was that closure was a critical part of the healing process. In making this marker for her mother, Circenn had created a tangible and, by ancient social custom, innately comforting symbol of her absence, so that her absence became a soothing presence.

  Lisa swallowed a lump in her throat and looked up. He was regarding her as if she were the most infinitely precious thing to him in the world.

  “Was I a fool?” he worried.

  “No. Circenn, I don’t think you could ever be a fool,” she said quietly. “Thank you. We do this in my time, too. And I will come here often to … to …” She trailed off, sha
ken by the depth of her emotion.

  When he said, “Come,” she moved easily into his arms.

  CIRCENN STALKED TO THE MIRROR AND STUDIED HIMSELF for the fifth time in as many minutes. He turned his face to the side and eyed his profile. He ran his hand over his shadow beard thoughtfully. Lisa’s skin was very sensitive; perhaps he should shave more frequently.

  But that wasn’t the problem, he mused. Although she’d opened up considerably in the past few days, she retained a distance between them. She was healing, and it was time to complete the process. He needed to woo her into a closer intimacy, to help her fully accept her position as his soon-to-be wife.

  Whom was he trying to deceive? He needed to bed her before he turned into a ravening beast. Not for a moment had he forgotten the vision he’d spied in his shield. And he wanted it, was eager to embrace his future. He’d been going excruciatingly slowly with her, allowing her time to heal. But she was changing again, becoming stronger.

  He snorted, reflecting that she was not the only one who had undergone changes since her arrival. A few months ago he’d been a man of rigid discipline who despised many things about himself. Now he was a man of deep passion who welcomed what he might become—with her. A few months ago he’d eschewed physical intimacy, compiling dozens of reasons why it was logical to forswear it. Now he longed for physical intimacy, armed with dozens of reason why it was logical, arguably even necessary that he embrace it.

  After he’d given her the chapel, he’d escorted her to her room, hoping to sweep her past a good-night kiss, but she’d been reticent. Her kiss had been stormy, and he’d plainly scented the desire in her body, but she’d been the one to stop the kiss, bidding him good sleep before leaving him at the door. He suspected that while she would allow herself to be somewhat happy, she was still not quite ready to believe that she shouldn’t continue to suffer for sins she hadn’t committed.

  For her sake, he needed to be ruthless. He needed to penetrate her shell and ease her fully into his life. He wanted her, this fascinating woman with her deep emotions, her passionate heart, her witty and curious mind. He wanted her droll sense of humor, which had been noticeably absent of late. He needed her to accept the deepest physical bond with him because he knew that once she did, she would bar no quarter of her heart from him. And he wanted to explore every private nook and cranny of her soul.

  Ruthlessly seductive, that was what he would be.

  He gathered his hair back into a thong and considered shaving, but was too impatient for her. They had retired from dinner a half-hour past, and with any luck she would be curled up in bed.

  And he would join her. It was time.

  Tonight he would make her his.

  * * *

  Lisa sipped her cider wine and watched the fire, feeling remarkably dissatisfied after finishing a delicious meal with a delicious companion and being given the lovely gift of the chapel. Her body was thrumming with frustration and she’d been having a perfectly vicious argument with herself.

  Since she’d emerged from her chambers after her bout of grieving, Circenn had repeatedly given her every indication that he desired to enter a sexual relationship with her, but something was holding her back and she didn’t have the faintest idea what it was. She’d studied it from every angle but still was no closer to understanding why she pulled away each time he tried to do more than kiss her. She hovered on the verge of asking him if he knew why she did, but couldn’t bring herself to be quite so brutally honest.

  A part of her wished he would try to storm her walls, so she could figure out what the damned walls were. She thought she’d decided to be happy here, but then why resist his seduction?

  A knock at the door set her heart to pounding.

  “Come in,” she called softly, desperately hoping it would not be Gillendria who entered, carrying yet another restitched gown or surcoat.

  “Lass,” Circenn murmured, as he closed the door behind him.

  Lisa sat up straight and placed her wine goblet on the table. Don’t say anything—just kiss me, she thought. Kiss me hard and fast and don’t give me time to think.

  “There was something I wanted to discuss with you, lass,” he said. He crossed the room and pulled her up from the chair.

  “Yes?”

  He stopped and gazed down at her for a long moment. “Och, sometimes I make a fankle of things with words,” he finally said. “I’ve been a warrior all my life, not a blethering bard.” Cradling her head in his hands, he seized her mouth with his.

  He buried his fingers in her hair, slipped his tongue between her lips with a smooth velvety stroke, kissing her slowly and thoroughly. He gave her a long, deliciously romantic kiss that left her clinging to him breathlessly. He nibbled her lower lip, sucking and tugging, then swept inside again, possessing her mouth. His hands slid down her back and over her bottom, and he groaned. He needed her desperately, but he also needed her to seek his affection. His tongue retreated and he paused, waiting for her to seek its return.

  She didn’t.

  He sighed and moved back an inch to look at her. “At least fight me, lass, like you did when the Bruce declared us handfasted. Think you I’ve forgotten that? When I took my tongue from you then, you would have none of it.”

  Lisa averted her gaze.

  Ruthless, Circenn reminded himself, or she will slip away from you. You cannot leave her trapped in grief and guilt.

  When she moved to sit on the bed, he exhaled a small sigh of relief. The fact that she felt comfortable perching on the target of his seduction told him she wasn’t entirely adverse to it.

  “What are you waiting for, Lisa?” He sank next to her onto the bed. He was heartened that she didn’t pull away but merely sat together, shoulder brushing shoulder. “Do you remember what you said to me the night that you arrived here, when you feared I might take your life?”

  She glanced warily at him, indicating that she was listening.

  “I have not even lived yet. Those are the words you said to me, and I heard many things in that statement. I heard frustration and regret. I heard curiosity and hunger for experiences, and a terrible fear that you would never get to have them. I cannot die. I have not even lived yet! you said to me. I thought you meant it. That given the chance you would live boldly.”

  Lisa flinched. She could feel the echo welling up inside her. It was true, she thought defiantly, she hadn’t even lived yet. She felt a sudden flash of fury. She’d spent years denying herself the luxury of feelings, and with a few simple sentences, Circenn stripped them bare in front of her. She resented his psychoanalyzing her. It made her angry that he dared be so intimate with her feelings. Her eyes narrowed.

  His lips curving in a faint, understanding smile, he said, “Go on, be angry with me, lass, for giving voice to the things you try not to feel. Be angry with me for saying aloud what you scarcely permit yourself to think—that a part of you resents your mother being ill because you cannot give yourself permission to live while she is dying. Be angry with me for saying that it tears you into little pieces, and that you feel you should suffer, because how could you not when your own mother lies dying? Be angry with me for demanding that you live now. Live with me. Fully.”

  Her hands clenched around wads of blanket. She couldn’t deny anything he’d said. She did feel that she should suffer, since her mother was suffering. She did feel that every small smile she permitted herself was somehow a betrayal of Catherine. How dare Lisa smile when her mother was dying? What kind of monster could be happy for even an instant? Yet, she’d smiled occasionally, and even laughed, and then had hated herself for it. He was right on—this was what had been holding her back. An insidious little belief that she still had no right to be happy.

  “Will you continue to punish yourself for sins not of your making? How much must you suffer before you feel you have paid in full? Would your lifetime be enough?”

  Her lashes swept down, shielding her eyes.

  “Would it be so wrong to plun
ge headlong into the love I offer you? Take—draw of life, suck it into your body, taste it with a vengeance.”

  “Damn you,” she whispered.

  “For saying what you think? Lass, I am the one you may say anything to. I assure you, I will understand. I doona care how ignoble you think your thoughts or feelings are. Feelings, emotions—they are neither right nor wrong. They cannot be assigned a value. Feelings are. By labeling a feeling wrong, you force yourself to ignore that feeling. And what you most need is to feel it, let it burn through you, then get on with life. You are not responsible for any of what happened to your parents. But to punish yourself for a having a feeling—och, lass, that is wrong. You felt some resentment—there is no shame in that. You are young and full of life—there is no shame in that.”

  Lisa looked as if she desperately wished to believe him.

  “It wasn’t your fault—not the wreck, not your mother getting ill, not your being brought here to me. Let go of it. Stand up, Lisa. Take what you want from me. Live now.”

  “Damn you,” she repeated, shaking her head. Feelings long denied now flooded her.

  She sat still, his words echoing in her mind. Then another voice startled her, because it sounded so like Catherine’s, resounding in her head: No more punishment. He’s right, you know. Do you think I didn’t see what you were doing to yourself? Live, Lisa.

  Her hands were trembling. Could she? Did she know how? After years of refusing to believe that anything good might happen to her, could she reclaim the dreams she’d had of being a woman unafraid to love?

  Her gaze swept over him. Magnificent Highlander, half savage, yet more civilized than most modern men. Tender, caring enough to penetrate her shell in a valiant effort to wrench her from it. She would never find a better man.

  Live, she agreed.

  Without a word, she rose to her feet, suffering the sensation that she was splitting into two different people. As if in the act of rising she slipped from her twenty-first-century body, leaving the old Lisa huddling on the bed, her arms wrapped around a pillow, vehemently denying her own needs. This new Lisa stood tall and composed, waiting for—inviting—his next demand. Ready to make demands of her own.