The Highlander's Touch Read online

  When he’d questioned Lisa last night, he’d nearly begun to believe she was innocent. She had a disarming air about her, an attitude of sincerity. He’d relaxed a bit, even glimpsed a wry humor in their conversation. Then she’d admitted that she was from the future, and he’d realized that his curse had inadvertently carried her through time.

  Although it had stunned him, it made sense: Her strange English, her odd clothing, her mention of countries of which he’d never heard, all were explained by her being from the future. He could certainly understand her people fleeing England, he thought wryly—who wouldn’t want to? It didn’t surprise him that in the future, England was still trying to control everyone.

  He laughed softly, thinking that she didn’t know how lucky she was that she’d been brought to him and not some other medieval lord. Circenn accepted time travel, but he was an extreme exception. Any other laird would have burned her for a witch. But then again, he thought dryly, no other laird would have had the power to curse the damned flask to begin with.

  It was due to Adam Black that he was familiar with the art of sifting time. Adam did it frequently, had often spoken of other centuries, and he’d brought Circenn odd “gifts” in some of his attempts to buy the laird’s loyalty and obedience. They were gifts Circenn had refused, but when Adam wouldn’t take them back, he had locked them securely in a private room off his chambers, not trusting their powers. He knew that Adam was trying to tempt him, hoping to make him become like Adam—a thing Circenn would destroy himself before permitting that to happen.

  The lass had been wearing one of those strange “gifts” fastened about her wrist, before Circenn had slipped it from her arm in their struggle last night. He’d inspected it later; it was what Adam had once called a “watch.” Adam had found it endlessly amusing, saying it was how mortals counted their “pathetic span of life.” Her watch seemed to confirm her story.

  If he believed her version of events, his chest had washed down the river, surfacing in some remote area. It had not been found, and, over time, nature had buried it. Hundreds of years had passed before it had been dug up, and when she’d touched it, it had brought her back to him.

  Was it possible that in the future, men still sought the hallows and the secret of the flask as avariciously as they did in his century? Was it possible she had come there to uncover the treasures of the Tuatha de Danaan and the Templars? He might have suspected Adam’s involvement in this, but for two reasons: There was no point in Adam’s bringing to him a woman he was forsworn to kill, and Adam didn’t manipulate events unless there was a very specific thing he wanted to gain from his devious machinations. Circenn couldn’t see one possible thing Adam might be after in this tangle. The flask and the hallows already belonged to Adam’s race; Circenn was merely the guardian. Adam had already shaped Circenn as he wanted—there was nothing more he could possibly hope to “change” about the laird of Brodie. No, Circenn mused, there was nothing of Adam in this. But the lass might be in league with the “employers” she’d mentioned; she could well be from a treacherous future, after his secrets.

  He would have to watch her, study her, keep her near. It would take time, and time was a luxury he could ill afford in the thick of an ongoing war. Besides, he brooded, any time spent in the lass’s presence was a slow torture. Loath though he was to admit it, he was susceptible where she was concerned. Stunning, proud, sensual, and intelligent, the woman would be a formidable foe—or a valued ally. He hadn’t met a woman like her in centuries.

  Curse me home, she’d said. Circenn snorted, recalling her plea. The only person who could send her back home was the one person who would kill her instantly if he knew she was there: Adam. He certainly couldn’t call on Adam and ask him to send the woman home, nor could he risk meeting with Adam to dig for clues as to whether he was somehow involved. The blackest elf was far too clever to be probed, even by Circenn.

  He was acting against everything he had lived by, all his careful rules designed to keep him human; he was breaking an oath, defending a person who could be a spy, lying to his men. He was taking a huge risk by letting her live, and if he was wrong …

  Sighing, he finished giving orders and headed off for the kitchen to prepare his men for the introduction of Lisa MacRobertson, cousin to Robert the Bruce.

  * * *

  Adam Black didn’t bother to materialize. He remained invisible, a wisp of sultry air lightly scented with jasmine and sandalwood, dogging Circenn’s footsteps, consumed by curiosity. That perfect paragon of a man—Circenn Brodie, who’d never broken a rule, never betrayed a weakness, not once wavered on rigid issues of morality—was breaking a sworn oath and willfully deceiving his men. Fascinating, Adam marveled. He’d long thought the laird of Brodie had no breaking point, and had nearly despaired of ever finding the proper catalyst.

  He sensed that Circenn didn’t believe Adam was involved in his present tangle, because he couldn’t pinpoint anything Adam might want. Adam smiled faintly. Circenn hated being manipulated. It was best that the laird of Brodie remain blissfully unaware that Adam had carefully orchestrated every move in this game, and was playing for the highest stakes of all.

  LISA STEPPED INTO THE GOWN AND TURNED TO FACE the polished metal propped against the wall. She’d been surprised when a mirror had been brought to her chamber. Sifting through her history studies, she recalled that mirrors dated as far back as Egyptian times, perhaps earlier. She knew the Romans had constructed sophisticated sewage systems thousands of years ago, so why should a mere mirror surprise her? It was too bad she couldn’t help them rediscover plumbing, she mused. She rubbed at the soot on the chipped metal until it revealed her shadowy reflection.

  The soft dress clung to her hips, so full of static it crackled. She struggled for a moment, trying to pull it up over her shoulders, but the gown had been made for someone considerably smaller than she. Although she was slim, she was tall and had full breasts; half of her wouldn’t fit in the dress. Sighing, she slipped the gown from her hips and stepped out of it. She was moving toward the bed to retrieve her jeans when the door opened.

  “I brought you—” The words terminated abruptly.

  She whirled around to find Circenn frozen in the doorway, his gaze fixed on her, a cloak tossed over his arm. It slipped to the floor, unheeded.

  Then he stepped into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. “What manner of dress have you donned?” he thundered. His dark eyes glittered as they swept her body from head to toe. He sucked in a rough breath.

  Lisa shivered. He would have to catch her standing there in the only frivolous thing she owned, a pair of lavender bikini panties and a matching lace push-up bra that Ruby had given her for her birthday. And skin. And a damp nervousness she attributed to fear.

  He stalked to her side and slipped a finger beneath the delicate lace edging one cup of her bra. “What is this?”

  “It … it … Oh!” She couldn’t form a coherent sentence. His finger lay against her pale skin, and she was mesmerized by the contrast in colors and textures. He had large hands, callused and strong from swordplay, with elegant fingers, one of which now rested against the smooth swell of her breast. She closed her eyes. “Bra,” she managed. Grasping at formality, she pretended she was giving a history lesson in reverse, teaching him what the future held: “It’s a garment designed t-to protect a woman’s, you know, and k-keeps them from, well, you know. …”

  “Nay, I doona think I know at all,” he said softly, his lips a few breaths from meeting hers. “Why doona you enlighten me, lass?”

  Her breath caught in her throat with a small gasp—a consummately feminine sound, and she cursed herself silently for it. Just pant, why don’t you? she berated herself. They were scant, dangerous inches from full body contact, his finger tugging gently at the edging of her bra. She was acutely aware of her near nudity, of her nipples beneath the thin fabric in perilous proximity to his hands, and the fact that he wore nothing more than a drape of easily discard
ed cloth. She felt electricity race through her body everywhere his gaze skimmed. If he ripped off his plaid and covered her body with his, would she have the strength to protest? Would she even want to? How could her body betray her to a man who was her enemy? “The gown was too small,” she managed.

  “I see. And you astutely concluded this would cover more of you?”

  “I was just about to put my j-jeans back on,” she informed his chest.

  “I think not. Not until you tell me what this”—he tugged lightly at the strap—“keeps your ‘you knows’ from doing.”

  Was he teasing her? She forced herself to meet his gaze and instantly wished she hadn’t. His dark eyes were intensely sexual, his lips parted in a faint smile.

  “Drooping when you get older.” The words escaped her in a rush of air.

  He tossed his head back and laughed. When he lowered his head she saw the unnerving intensity in his eyes, and she realized he was aroused. By her. The knowledge astounded her. She’d decided that his kiss last night and his innuendos today had simply been part of his strategy, but now, looking at him, she understood that he had a fierce physical reaction to her, possibly as painful as her attraction to him. It was simultaneously a heady feeling and a frightening one. She had a sudden premonition that if she gave him the slightest indication of her interest, he would descend upon her with the gale force of a Saharan sirocco, every bit as hot and devastating. Hungry for it, aching with inexperience and curiosity, she wanted desperately to discover what a man like Circenn Brodie might do to a woman.

  But she dared not explore that desire. She would be as a lamb to the slaughter. She had never been romanced, and the laird of Brodie could seduce a saint, she thought. Although she’d wanted him to be aware of her as a woman, thinking it might make him more protective of her, she had a dreadful feeling that she would lose herself entirely if he kissed her again. He was just too overwhelming. She had to defuse the sexual chemistry between them, and the best way to do that was to get her clothing back on.

  She dropped to her knees, lunging for the gown pooled at her feet, but he moved in flawless accord and she ended up kneeling nose to nose with him, and he was holding her dress.

  They stared at each other while she counted her heartbeats; she’d reached twenty before he favored her with a slow smile. Tension crackled in the air between them.

  “You are a beauty, lass.” He cupped her cheek with his hand and swept a light kiss across her lips before she could protest. “Long legs, beautiful hair”—he slipped his hand into it, letting silky strands sweep through his fingers—“and fire in your eyes. I have seen many bonny lasses but I doona believe I have ever encountered one quite like you. You make me think I might discover parts of myself I doona know exist. What am I to do with you?” He waited, his lips mere inches from hers.

  “Let me get dressed,” she breathed.

  He searched her face intently. She held her breath then, terrified that if she opened her mouth she would cry, Yes! Touch me, feel me, love me, damn it, because I don’t know what it feels like any more to forget that I hurt and that my mother is dying!

  Often, during her mother’s illness, Lisa had found herself longing for a boyfriend, a lover: someone she could take her battered heart to and curl up with, even if only for an hour, for the illusion of security, warmth, and love. Now, half terrified, worried about her mother dying alone, she had a perverse impulse to seek shelter in the arms of the very man sworn to kill her.

  Don’t try to use a Band-Aid on your heart, Lisa, Catherine would have reminded her, had she been there. Any sense of security or intimacy with him would be nothing but an illusion. She needed to keep her mind clear, not filled with romantic fancy about some medieval Highland laird who might decide to kill her tomorrow.

  He dropped his hand from her hair, skimming her collarbone and curving his fingers over the lacy scallop of her bra. He studied the sheer fabric with fascination, his gaze caressing the uplifted curves of her breasts, the deeper shadow of her cleavage. “Look at me, lass,” he whispered. Lisa raised her eyes to his and wondered what he saw in them. Hesitation? Curiosity? Desire she couldn’t hide?

  Whatever it was he saw in her eyes, it wasn’t a Yes, and this man was a proud one.

  He traced a finger down the hollow between her breasts and the smile he gave her held a sadness she couldn’t fathom.

  “I will send someone to fetch you another gown, lass,” he said. Then he left the room.

  Lisa sank to the floor, clutching the gown. Dear heavens, she thought, what am I going to do?

  * * *

  Circenn stomped from her room, his mood worsening by the moment. His body ached from head to toe with the effort of being gentle with the lass. His face felt stiff from smiling gently; his fingers clenched and unclenched from touching the swell of her breasts gently. His body rebelled at his gracious, honorable, gentle retreat from her room, and the man within him that had been born into the world five hundred years ago roared that the woman was his, by Dagda! Gentleness be damned! In the ninth century a man had not asked—a man had taken! In the ninth century a woman had been amenable, grateful to find such a fierce protector and able provider.

  Circenn laughed softly, bitterly. He’d been far too long without a woman to endure such torment. When he’d walked into the room, carrying the cloak that would have drowned her in its oversized folds, his mind had been focused solely upon covering as much of her as possible—only to find her clad in nothing but two lacy, gauzy pieces of fabric. With little bows! By Dagda, a tiny satin ribbon had perched jauntily between her breasts, and another at the front of the silky fabric that slipped between her legs. Like a gift, he thought. Untie my bows and see what I have to give you. …

  He’d tried to look away. To spin on his heel and leave the room, refusing himself the pleasure of viewing her lovely body. He’d sternly reminded himself of rule number four—no physical intimacy. But it had done him no good. Rule number four seemed to have become quite friendly with rule number one—never break an oath—and was cozying up nicely to rule number two—do not lie. What a crowd they were becoming, his broken rules.

  Seeing her clad in such a fashion had been worse than if he’d caught her in complete undress. Nude, his hungry eyes could have feasted upon every crevice and hollow of her body; but those pieces of fabric had been cunningly designed to torture a man with the promise of the private slopes and hollows, while granting none of them. Secrets lay beneath that fabric. Were her nipples round dusky coins or puckered coral buds? Was her hair golden and copper there, too? If he had dropped to the floor at her feet, closed his hands around her ankles, and kissed his way up her long, lovely legs, would she have moaned softly, or was she silent when she made love? Nay, he decided abruptly, Lisa Stone would sound like a lioness mating when he took her. Good. He liked that in a woman.

  She’d made him feel like a hungry animal, caged by his own rules, and all the more dangerous for it. For a few moments, lust had risen so furiously that he’d feared he might drag her beneath his body, uncaring whether she wished it. Instead, he’d clenched his shaking hands behind his back, dropping the cloak to the floor and thinking of his mother, Morganna, who would have disowned him even for thinking about taking by force that which must be gifted. Never had he felt so nearly violent with desire. She had roused deep, primitive feelings in him: possessiveness, jealousy that another man might see her clad thus, a need to hear her say his name and gaze at him with approval and desire.

  Circenn drew a deep breath, held it until his heart slowed, then released it. Now that he knew what was beneath her clothing—no matter what gown he made her wear—how would he be able to look at her again without seeing in his mind the endless expanse of silken skin? The gentle swells of her breasts, the tight nipples peaking the sheer gauze, the slight mound between her thighs.

  Thwarted desire translated well into rage. He stomped down the stairs to the kitchen, determined to find Alesone or Floria and have one of them see t
o it that the lass was properly attired. Then he would send one of the Douglas brothers to teach her about their time, something he should have done himself, but he simply couldn’t trust himself near her at the moment. He would go train with his men and release some of his frustration in the pure, clean joy of swinging a heavy sword, grunting and cursing. And he would not entertain one more erotic thought for the remainder of the day.

  Shaking his head, he burst into the kitchen. It took him only an instant to realize that none of his plans for the day was going to go right. In fact, the day seemed to have taken on a devilish persona, determined to mock him.

  He drew to an abrupt halt, hastily averting his gaze from the sight of the rounded and flushed bare bottom gripped in Duncan Douglas’s hands.

  Alesone had one long leg wrapped around Duncan’s waist, her arms twined around his neck and her skirts tossed up to her shoulders. The foot that remained on the floor was arched upon the tips of her toes, as Duncan’s hands guided her against him in a steady, intense rhythm. The low, sensual sounds of passion filled the room, soft intakes of air, husky murmurs of pleasure, and damned if Duncan wasn’t emitting a deeply satisfied sound with each thrust.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Circenn roared, glancing at the ceiling, the walls, the floor—anywhere but at Alesone’s shapely derriere. “Duncan! Alesone! Get out of the kitchen! Take it to the rooms upstairs! You know I have rules—”

  “Ah, yes, the legendary Brodie rules,” Duncan said dryly. He stopped rocking the maid against him with more leisure than Circenn appreciated. “Which include among them: When knights are in residence, no tupping in the kitchen.”

  Alesone made a soft sound of protest at being interrupted.

  “I eat in here!” Circenn thundered, feeling entirely too put upon.

  “So does Duncan,” Alesone purred suggestively. She slid her leg down from Duncan’s waist slowly, giving Circenn a good, long look. With a coy smile, she dropped a lid onto the honey pot perched on the table near Duncan.