Kiss of the Highlander Page 17

  Silvan rubbed his jaw wearily. “I’m merely trying to understand, son. She said your name before she swooned. And last week Besseta said—”

  “Doona even think of telling me what some twig-reading fortune-teller—”

  “That there is a darkness around you that worries her—”

  “Such a fortuitous choice of words. A darkness. Which, conveniently, could be anything that comes to pass. A bad stomach from a pork pie, a wee cut in a sword fight. Doona you see how vague that is? You should be ashamed of yourself, a man of learning, the senior Keltar no less.”

  They glared at each other.

  “Stubborn, ungrateful, and bad-tempered,” Silvan snapped.

  “Conniving, interfering, and bristly-haired,” Drustan shot back.

  “Disrespectful and impotent,” Silvan thrust neatly.

  “I am not! I am perfectly virile—”

  “Well, you certainly couldn’t prove that by your seed, which—if it’s being scattered—isn’t taking root.”

  “I take precautionary measures,” Drustan thundered.

  “Well, stop. You’ve a score and ten, and I’ve double that. Think you I’ll be livin’ forever? At this point, I’d welcome a bastard. And you can rest assured that should the lass turn out to be pregnant, I’ll be calling the bairn MacKeltar.”

  They scowled at each other, then Silvan suddenly flushed, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond Drustan’s shoulder.

  Drustan froze, as he felt a new presence in the room. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  He spun around slowly, and time seemed to stop when he saw her. His breath slammed to a halt in his chest, and he positively sizzled beneath the heat of her stare.

  Christ, Drustan thought, staring into eyes that were stormy and lovely as the fierce Scottish sea, she’s wee, and vulnerable-looking, and utterly beautiful. No wonder she’s got Da and Nell in such a fankle.

  She was a walking siren song, humming with mating heat. One hand was on the elegant marble banister of the stair, the other hand pressed to her abdomen, as if pondering the possibility that she might be pregnant.

  Would that he had taken her maidenhead, but he hadn’t—he’d not taken any woman’s maidenhead—and furthermore he would never have left her wandering about outside afterward.

  Nay, he thought, staring at her, he would have kept this woman tucked securely in his bed, in his arms, warm and slippery from his loving. And loving. And more loving. She did some witchy thing to his blood.

  Silver-blond hair fell in a straight sheen past her shoulders and halfway down her back. She had strange, fringed lenths of hair over her forehead that she puffed from her eyes with a soft exhalation of breath, which made her lower lip look even poutier. Small of stature, but with curves that could make a grown man weak at the knees—and indeed his had turned to water—she was wearing a gown of his favorite color that did lovely things to her breasts. It was sheer enough to reveal her nipples, cut low enough to frame her curves in timeless temptation. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight, her eyebrows winged upward at the outer edges, and her eyes…

  Christ, the way she was staring at him was enough to make his skin steam.

  She was staring as if she knew him intimately. He doubted he’d ever seen such an intense and unashamed look of desire in a woman’s eyes.

  And, of course, his ever-astute father didn’t miss it.

  “Now, tell me again you doona know her, lad,” Silvan said wryly. “For of a certain she seems to know you.”

  Drustan shook his head, bewildered. He felt a fool, standing and staring, but try as he might he could not drag his gaze away from hers. Her eyes turned gently imploring, as if she was hoping for something from him or trying to communicate a silent message. Where had such a wee beauty come from? And why was she having such a profound effect upon him? Granted, she was lovely, but he’d known many lovely women. His betrotheds had been some of the most beautiful women in the Highlands.

  Yet none had ever made him feel quite so virile and hungry and intensely possessive.

  Such stirrings did not bode well for his plans of impending marital bliss.

  After an interminable silence, he spread his hands, confused. “I vow, I’ve never seen her before in my life, Da.”

  Silvan crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at Drustan. “Then why is she staring at you like that? And if you didn’t bed her last night, how do you explain the condition she arrived in?”

  “Oh, my,” the lass sputtered then. “You think he—oh. I hadn’t considered that.” She heaved a huge sigh and pinched her lower lip, staring at them.

  About time she spoke up to clear his name, he thought, waiting.

  “Well?” Silvan encouraged. “Did he tup you last eve?”

  She hesitated a moment, glancing between the two men, then gave an uncertain wobble of the head, which Drustan promptly interpreted as a “no.”

  “See? I told you so, Da,” Drustan said, relieved that she’d finally looked away from him. Righteous indignation flooded him. “I doona have to seduce maidens, not with so many experienced lasses vying for the pleasure of my bed.” Women might not want to wed him, but that certainly didn’t prevent them from crawling into his bed at every opportunity. Ofttimes he suspected the very rumors about him that drove them from the altar were the same lure that enticed them to seek his bed. Fickle like that, lasses were. Attracted to danger for a night or two, but of no mind to live with it.

  When the tiny lass glared at him, he flashed her a puzzled look. Why would she be offended by his prowess with the wenches?

  “Forgive my indelicate question, lass,” Silvan said, “but who removed your…er, maidenhead? Was it one of our people?”

  Typical that his father couldn’t let it go. It hadn’t been him, and that was all Drustan needed to hear. Under normal circumstances he would have scoured the estate for the erstwhile suitor who’d deflowered and callously abandoned her, and seen to it she was granted whatever recompense she wished, were it one of their own, but his da had thought he had taken her maidenhead, and that offended him.

  Dismissing her from his thoughts—in large part to prove to himself that he could—he turned away to find Nell, clear this matter up with her, and procure an edible breakfast, but froze in his tracks when she spoke again.

  “He did,” she said, sounding both petulant and irritated.

  Drustan pivoted slowly. She looked nearly as shocked by her own words as was he.

  She wilted beneath the stress of his regard, then mumbled, “But I wanted him to.”

  Drustan was incensed. How dare she accuse him falsely? What if his betrothed heard tell of it? If Anya’s father heard of this wee woman claiming he’d callously deflowered her, then renounced her, he might call off the nuptials!

  Whoever she was—she was not going to wreak havoc on his unborn children.

  Growling, he crossed the space between them in three swift strides, scooped her up with one arm, and tossed her over his shoulder, a controlling hand splayed on her rump.

  A controlling hand that didn’t fail to appreciate that rump, which made him angrier still.

  Ignoring his father’s protests, he stalked to the door, jerked it open, and tossed the lying wench out, headfirst, into a prickly bush.

  Feeling simultaneously vindicated and like the sorriest rogue in all of Alba, he slammed the door shut, slid the bolt, backed himself against it, and folded his arms over his chest, as if he’d barred the door against something far more dangerous than a simple lying lass. As if Chaos herself was currently wedged in his hedges, clad in irresistible lavender and mating heat.

  “And that’s the end of that,” he told Silvan firmly. But it didn’t come out sounding quite as firm as he’d intended. In truth, his voice rose slightly at the end, and his assertion bore a questioning inflection. He scowled to more properly punctuate it, while Silvan gaped at him, speechless.

  Had he ever seen his father speechless before? he wondere
d uneasily.

  Somehow, he had a feeling that dumping the lying lass out into the prickly bush hadn’t put an end to anything.

  Indeed, he suspected that whatever was going on, it had only begun. Were he a more superstitious man, he might have fancied he heard the creaking wheels of destiny as they turned.

  14

  Gwen sputtered indignantly as she backed out of the bush, plucking prickly leaves from her hair. There she was, less than twelve hours later, on her hands and knees on the confounded doorstep again.

  Incensed, she threw her head back and yelled, “Let me in!”

  The door remained firmly shut.

  She sat back on her heels and pounded a fist on the door. The argument that had erupted inside the castle was so loud that she knew they’d never hear her over such a racket.

  She took a deep breath and reflected upon what she’d just done, thinking that a cigarette would go a long way toward clearing her mind, and a cup of strong coffee might just restore her sanity.

  Okay, she admitted, that was abjectly stupid. She’d said singularly the worst thing she could have said, guaranteed to piss him off.

  But she’d been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours, and logic hadn’t exactly been the ruling planet in her little universe when Drustan turned his back on her. Emotion, that great big unexplored planet, had been exerting an irresistible pull on her wits. She didn’t have enough practice with emotions to handle them with finesse, and by God, the man made her feel so many that it was simply bewildering.

  When she’d first seen him, she stood at the top of the stairs for several moments, gazing at him with her heart in her eyes, scarcely hearing the conversation going on below.

  He was devastating in any century. Even when she’d thought him mentally unhinged, she’d found him dangerously appealing. In his natural element, he was twenty times as irresistible. Now that she knew he was a genuine sixteenth-century lord, she wondered how she could have ever believed otherwise. He dripped regal authority as blatantly as he wore his sexuality. He was a man who thoroughly enjoyed being a man.

  Ecstatic that he was alive and well and that she’d arrived in time to save him, she’d rushed down the stairs. Then Drustan’s father, Silvan, the man she’d mistaken for Einstein, had mentioned something about her being pregnant, flummoxing her. Confronted with a possible pregnancy before even latching her lips to the rim of a cup of Starbucks, she’d stood, stupefied.

  It’s not enough just to buy condoms, Cassidy; you have to use them.

  And then Drustan had tossed his silky mane over his shoulder and looked right at her, and although his eyes had flared as if he’d found her attractive, there had been no spark of recognition.

  She’d expected it.

  She’d known he wouldn’t know her. Still, her heart had not understood how awful it was going to feel when he turned that silvery, sexy gaze on her, as distant and cold as a stranger.

  Rational or not, it had hurt, and then he’d made that wise-ass comment about women vying for the pleasure of his bed.

  Then, as if he hadn’t poked every one of her raw nerves already, he’d turned his back on her, dismissing her.

  It was at that point that she’d reacted blindly. She’d blurted out the one thing she knew would make him turn back around and look at her again. She’d sacrificed long-term goals for instant gratification.

  She was appalled by what she’d done. It was no wonder her mother had so stridently counseled against being emotional. Emotion apparently made fools of even geniuses.

  She needed him to listen to her, and he wasn’t going to be in any mood to hear her now. By telling him they’d been lovers before telling him the whole story, she’d irritated and provoked him.

  “Let me in.” She pounded on the door. “I need to tell you the whole story.” But they were still arguing so loudly that she might as well have been whispering.

  Brushing leaves from her gown, she rose to her feet. She scowled at the door. Since no one would answer and the argument showed no signs of abating, she tipped her head back, eager to see the castle in daylight, but she was too close to it. She felt like a flea trying to get a good look at an elephant while perched upon its forehead. Curious, she decided she may as well take a short walk.

  Tucking her bangs behind her ear, she turned around.

  And froze.

  Her heart slammed into her throat. Impossible, her mind wailed.

  But there he was, plain as day. Sinfully, heart-stop-pingly sexy Drustan.

  Sauntering up the steps toward her, clad in leather trews and a linen shirt, casually unlaced, revealing a mouth-watering amount of hard, bronzed chest. Although the brilliant morning sun was behind him, shadowing his features, his smile was dazzling.

  Yet, behind her in the castle, Drustan was yelling. She could hear him.

  According to her understanding of physics, both of them couldn’t exist at the same time. But obviously they did. What would happen if they met? Would one of them just blip out of existence?

  If Drustan-behind-the-door was the one that didn’t know her, she reasoned, then Drustan-on-the-steps who looked so happy to see her must be her Drustan.

  What was she going to do with two Drustans?

  A kinky part of her proposed something unmentionable…and rather fascinating. Really, if they were both him, it wouldn’t be like she was cheating on anyone.

  Blushing, she ogled him from head to toe. Her Drustan didn’t scowl at her. He arched a brow in that oh-so-familiar way of his and grinned, opening his arms wide.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  With a shriek of delight, she launched herself at him. He caught her midleap and pulled her legs around his waist, just like in her century.

  He laughed when she covered his face with little kisses. She had no idea what she would do with two of them, or how it could be possible, she knew only that she’d missed him more in the past twelve hours than she’d ever missed anyone in her entire life. “Kiss me,” she said.

  “Och, English, I’ll be kissing you most thoroughly,” he purred against her lips. Clamping her head between his hands, he slanted his mouth hungrily over hers.

  Gwen melted against him, parting her lips. There was no doubt about it; the man was an expert kisser. His kiss was demanding, aggressive, silky, hot, and hungry…and any minute now she’d feel the sizzle.

  Any minute now, she thought, kissing him back with all of her heart.

  He tasted of cinnamon and wine, and he kissed her with single-minded intensity, and still…no sizzle.

  “Mmph,” she said against his mouth, meaning, Wait a minute, something’s not right. But if he heard her, he paid no mind and deepened the kiss.

  Gwen’s head spun. Something was seriously wrong. Something about Drustan was different, and his kiss wasn’t affecting her as it usually did. Distantly, she heard the door open behind them and tried to draw back, but he wouldn’t let her.

  Then she heard a roar and was dragged off Drustan by the other Drustan, with one steely arm about her waist, another around her neck.

  She glanced rapidly between them, blinking and hoping her double vision would go away. They were glaring at each other. Would they fight? If she saw her own double she’d probably be tempted to punch it once or twice. Especially today. For being so stupid.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Passion and irritation glittered in leather-trew-clad Drustan’s eyes.

  “What’s wrong with me?” kilt-clad Drustan snapped. “What’s wrong with me is that this wench here, who was kissing you so ravenously, accused me of taking her virginity!” Kilt-clad Drustan dumped her on her feet between them. “I’m trying to save you, before she tangles you in her deceitful web.”

  “I liked her deceitful web. It was hot and slippery, and all a lass should be,” Drustan-of-the-leather-trews growled.

  Kilt-clad Drustan launched into a diatribe with a burr so thick she could scarcely understand a word he was saying, and Drustan of the trews began yelling
back, and then Silvan poked his nose out of the castle to observe the fracas.

  She’d lost her mind, she thought, watching with wide eyes. They stood nose to nose, arguing, while she plucked nervously at her gown, backed up a few steps, and listened, hoping to catch a word or two she might understand.

  Observe. There is a logical explanation for this, the scientist insisted.

  “Drustan. Dageus,” Silvan said reprovingly. “Stop your arguing this moment.”

  Dageus! A ray of enlightenment pierced her confusion.

  Her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. It was one more thing Drustan hadn’t bothered to tell her—that he and his brother were identical twins. It seemed there were oodles of things he’d overlooked. He’d nearly given her a heart attack over this one. He certainly hadn’t made saving him easy.

  She kicked the real Drustan in the shin. “You didn’t tell me you and your brother were twins.”

  He continued arguing with Dageus as if she’d barely touched him, and no wonder with such flimsy little slippers. What she wouldn’t give for her hiking boots.

  And now I have two problems, she thought. Dageus was still alive, which meant she had to prevent his death too. She was elated to have the opportunity to save Dageus, but she was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed. Discovering the date was a serious priority, and she had to get her hands on Dageus’s itinerary. There was no way he could go anywhere near the Elliott’s estate.

  Now that they were standing side by side, she could discern differences and would not mistake the two of them again. They weren’t quite identical, probably half-identical; polar body twins, giving them about seventy-five percent of the same DNA. Had the sun not been so bright behind him as he’d walked up, she might not have erred in the first place. Dageus was indeed an inch or two shorter, which still made him at least six foot four. His hair—which she hadn’t been able to see when he’d been walking toward her—pulled back in a thong as it was—was much longer, falling to his waist, and so black it was nearly blue. And their eyes were different, she thought, sidling closer between them, ducking wildly gesturing arms, to get a good look. Oh, and how, she thought, for as silvery as Drustan’s were, Dageus’s were yellow-gold.