The Immortal Highlander Read online

  But everyone seemed to have forgotten her.

  Even Adam. Oh, he’d kissed her again once he’d been made corporeal, and it had been another of those toe-curling, breath-stealing, possessive kisses (and it had seemed to greatly alleviate much of the Keltar twins’ bristling), but then he’d gone to sit by the fire and, shortly after that, the parade had begun and he’d hardly looked her way since.

  And interspersed with the Maid Parade, Gwen and Chloe had been firing questions (bless their hearts, at least they’d seemed to recover nicely from Adam’s impact; Gabby suspected this was due in large part to them being married to such extraordinarily sexy men), and Gabby had sat in silence, feeling as if she were slowly turning every bit as invisible as Adam had been. As if he’d not only cast off his curse but had somehow managed to cast it onto her.

  Finally, his patience obviously fraying, Drustan had ordered the staff off to bed, firmly closed the library door, then, after a moment’s pause, had locked it and leaned back against it.

  Must you endure that all the time? he’d demanded incredulously of Adam.

  Adam had nodded. Though there are some, he said with a glance in Gabby’s direction, who bash me a good one on first sight. This said with a fine show of rubbing his lip, the one she’d split, and a faint insouciant grin.

  She’d had to clench her hands into little fists to keep herself from leaping up and bashing him again. Merely for being Adam. For being so unforgivably irresistible. For being visible, damn it all. Why couldn’t he have just stayed cursed? Was that so much to ask?

  He’d needed her then. But no more. He could speak for himself; no longer was she a necessary intermediary. And there were dozens of other women who were clearly more than willing to supply anything he might want, at the merest seductive crook of a finger. She’d felt suddenly, inexplicably bereft.

  Scowling, she’d feigned exhaustion, in no mood to deal with the feelings that watching other women fall all over him had provoked in her. In no mood to hang around and see if they might begin scaling the castle walls and breaking in through windows to get to him.

  Gwen had torn herself away from the complex cosmology questions she’d been firing at Adam long enough to show her to a chamber.

  Gabby’d been pleasantly surprised to find it was no outbuilding but a lovely suite of rooms on the second floor, with a stone terrace through French doors that overlooked a garden. After Gwen had hastened off, she’d been even more pleasantly surprised to discover a half-full decanter of wine on the bedside table.

  She wasn’t so happy about it this morning, however.

  Nor about the fact that she’d ended up creeping out into the hall and purloining refreshments from two other “chambers” before she’d drifted off to sleep in a wine-sodden stupor.

  She glanced at the bed and scowled. No wonder she felt so awful. It didn’t look as if she’d done any sleeping there; it looked more like she’d done battle for what small part of the night she’d been passed out. The silky sheets were knotted, the down comforter was wadded, and two of the plush velvet bed curtains had been torn down from their hangings. She had a vague memory of being so tipsy that when she’d tried to get out of bed and go to the bathroom, she’d gotten tangled up in them and fallen.

  She had another vague memory that she didn’t like at all. She thought she might have cried last night. Over all kinds of stupid things: boyfriends and blown jobs and . . . fairies she couldn’t figure out.

  She’d caught herself picking up the phone, thinking of calling her mom at one point.

  Right, to say what? Hi, Mom, I really need to talk to you about this fairy I met? Gram’s dead and I don’t have anyone else? Ha.

  Come to think of it, she brooded, gingerly massaging her throbbing temples, she was afraid she might have actually managed to dial through before she hung up. She couldn’t quite remember, but she’d just stepped over a phone book on the floor. And it was open to the international dialing page, and that wasn’t a good sign.

  With a morose little sigh, she pulled her hair back in a clip very gently, so all her tiny hair follicles—God, her head hurt—wouldn’t scream too much in protest, then opened the door and stepped into the corridor beyond. She’d never been able to handle alcohol.

  Aspirin, she needed aspirin.

  A week ago, she brooded, striking off to the left (deciding after a moment’s consideration that any direction was probably as good as any other in the labyrinthine maze of stone corridors) things had been so clear. She’d known exactly who she was and what her place was in the world.

  She’d been an O’Callaghan, doing what she’d been raised to do, concealing herself from nasty, inhuman fairies, living a double life, and doing a bang-up job of it for the most part.

  Then she’d been an O’Callaghan being tortured by one of those nasty, inhuman fairies, albeit an impossibly seductive one, in human form.

  Then she was an O’Callaghan being protected by said impossibly seductive fairy in human form from some truly nasty, inhuman fairies.

  And now she was just Gabby, currently staying in a dreamy, magnificent castle in Scotland with a Fae prince who did all kinds of non-nasty, non-inhuman things like tearing up lists of names, and returning tadpoles to lakes, and saving people’s lives.

  Not to mention kissing with all the otherworldly splendor of a horny angel.

  A Fae prince whom virtually every woman in the castle wanted in her bed; and, from the looks of things last night, they weren’t going to waste any time trying to get him there.

  And life just sucked.

  Adam fisted a hand around the panties in the pocket of his coat and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if from such a distance he might somehow catch the scent of Gabrielle.

  No such luck; nothing but a crisp Highland wind rushing by as he pounded across the field on the back of a snorting black stallion. And though the breeze was sweet, it was far from the sensual perfume of Gabrielle’s private heat.

  Those silky pink panties were one of several things he’d not been willing to leave behind in the hotel room. He’d only removed them from his pocket and tucked them in his bag because he’d planned on getting naked with his Sidhe-seer, and he’d not wanted to have to explain why he had a pair of her panties on his person, had she discovered them. He wasn’t certain that was a thing a woman could appreciate.

  Ah, but a man did. The soft, sweet, sultry scent of a woman caught on a silky bit of fabric that slipped so intimately between her legs, rubbing against that luscious mound, carrying that unique fragrance a woman only had there. A man couldn’t breathe of such a scent behind a woman’s ear or in the soft hollow of her throat, in her hair or in the small of her back.

  Only if he was her lover did a man get to know that scent.

  He’d known it since the night he’d pilfered her panties, and he’d been so damn close to it a few nights past. He was dying of impatience, about to explode if he didn’t get to bury his face in it soon.

  Not the panties. The real thing. Between her thighs, his face, his tongue, not just inhaling, but tasting. Feeling her writhe beneath him in ecstasy, feeling her come against his mouth. Lapping with his tongue, bringing her to peak again and again. Showing her all the pleasure he could give her, binding her to him in the most ancient and sure way a man could.

  Unfortunately, other things had demanded his attention.

  Not only had Gwen and Chloe hammered him with all manner of questions (many of which he couldn’t find the words in their language to answer anyway, and some of which he’d refused to answer because such knowledge was still too far in mankind’s future) but Dageus and Drustan had waited patiently until the wee hours for their wives to wind down and depart, then begun with questions of their own. He’d filled them in on all that had transpired, from the High Council decreeing Dageus be subjected to trial by blood, to his current straits.

  Then, all-too-humanly tired, frustrated that Gabrielle was sleeping somewhere in the sprawling castle without him—the
y’d not been apart more than a few necessary minutes in days—he’d rather gracelessly imparted what he’d come for, and the twins had been less than thrilled.

  You want us to bring down the walls between Man and Faery? Drustan had roared. Are you blethering mad?

  Not that we aren’t grateful for all you’ve done for us, Dageus had hastened to say, but you just told us your queen nigh destroyed our entire clan because I broke an oath, now you’re asking us to do it again?

  Hence, after a deep, dreamless sleep of a mere few hours (no matter that he was human in body, his Tuatha Dé mind still didn’t dream), he still wasn’t with his Sidhe-seer but out riding with the Keltar twins, as he had been all morning, pounding across the lush terrain, rehashing over and over again that he wasn’t really asking them to break their oaths, he was only asking them to . . . delay fulfilling them.

  Until the last possible minute.

  Assuring them it would never go that far.

  Realizing that were they to refuse him for any reason, he would simply sift stealthily up behind them and incapacitate them (and their descendant Christopher, who was also a Druid) if he had to, until Lughnassadh had passed. Because, by Danu, he would stop Darroc and he would preserve Aoibheal’s reign and he would regain his power and he would see to Gabrielle’s safety for the rest of forever.

  In her defense—and all people were entitled to one, no matter how reprehensible their actions; that was one of the first things a person learned in law school—Gabby didn’t plan to do it. There was no malice aforethought. Wanton and willful disregard? She might plead to that. But not to premeditation.

  She was a good person. Really. Probably as much as ninety-four percent of the time.

  Surely she could be forgiven for the other six percent?

  It wasn’t as if she’d left her room looking for the opportunity to malign anyone or indulge in a bit of character assassination.

  But the opportunity presented itself (as wily opportunities to damn oneself frequently do), and she was hungover, and for the first time in more days than she cared to count, Adam hadn’t been waiting with coffee for her the moment she’d opened her eyes. No, Adam had been God-only-knew-where, with God-only-knew-what-harem in simpering, adoring attendance. And she was grumpy, caffeine-deprived, and lost in the winding corridors of the castle.

  So when she came up on the rear of a cluster of maids breathlessly discussing “Mr. Black” as they fake-dusted their way down the corridor, something with a small, mean soul reared its ugly head, baring pointy little teeth.

  It didn’t help that all five maids were young and attractive: a tall, leggy brunette, a shorter curvy brunette, a voluptuous redhead, and two willowy blondes. Nor that they were currently debating whether Adam was a foreplay man or a get-right-to-it kind of guy.

  “Well, he likes foreplay,” she was startled to hear herself say much too sweetly, “but he’s so terrible at it that it makes you wish he were a wham-bam kind of man.”

  Five women turned to gape at her.

  The leggy brunette regarded her skeptically. That she spoke with a sweet Scottish lilt only irritated Gabby even more. “Mr. Black? I’ll not be believing that. That braw man’s a lass’s dream.”

  “A really bad dream maybe,” Gabby heard her wayward, lying lips say. “The man can’t even kiss.”

  “What do you mean?” the brunette demanded.

  “Drool,” Gabby said succinctly.

  “ ‘Drool’?” the brunette echoed, frowning.

  Gabby nodded, accepting that it was too late. She was in it, and she may as well do it up right and see it through to a Big Finish. What she might lack in character, she’d make up for with commitment. “Have you ever kissed someone who . . . well, it’s like they open their mouth too much? And they get your face all wet, and by the time they’re done kissing you, all you really want is a towel?”

  The redhead nodded emphatically. “Aye, I have. Young Jamie down at the Haverton’s pub.” She made a face. “Ugh. It’s disgusting. He slobbers.”

  “That’s how Mr. Black kisses?” a slender blonde exclaimed.

  “Worse,” Gabby lied shamelessly. “He hardly ever brushes his teeth, and I swear the man wouldn’t know what dental floss was if you tied a little ribbon of it smack around his itty-bitty, er . . . well, that’s another matter. But, no, I shouldn’t . . .”

  “Nay, you should, you most certainly should!” a blonde exclaimed.

  “Aye, don’t be stopping there,” the short brunette chimed in.

  “You wouldn’t be meaning his winkie, would you?” the redhead said faintly. “Oh, say it isn’t so!”

  Gabby nodded sadly. “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Just how itty and bitty?” the leggy brunette demanded.

  “Well,” Gabby said, sighing, “you know how big and tall he is?”

  Five heads bobbed.

  She edged closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Let’s just say he’s not in proportion.”

  “No!” they exclaimed again.

  “Afraid so.” She could have left it at that, should have left it at that, but the green-eyed monster had a fistful of her hair, not to mention control of her lips. She was appalled to hear herself say “Take my word for it, the only one Mr. Happy is making happy is himself.”

  The leggy brunette eyed her suspiciously. “Nay, I’ll hear none of this. Last eve I saw the bulge—”

  “Socks,” Gabby cut her off, barely managing to conceal her scowl. How dare that woman be checking out Adam’s bulge? I’ve hardly even given myself permission to do that. “He stuffs socks down his pants. Though he prefers a banana if a nice green one is available. Says it gives the best firm impression. Says that since women wear Wonderbras, why shouldn’t men enhance themselves too?”

  “No!” Scandalized, the maids twittered, exchanging glances among themselves.

  Gabby nodded. “It’s true. I seriously considered suing the man for misrepresentation of material fact. Clothed, he might look like a dream, but out of those clothes, he’s a nightmare.”

  The maids were all staring at her with varying degrees of shock and disappointment. Only the leggy brunette was still looking somewhat skeptical.

  Gabby made a mental note to swipe a few bananas and deposit them in his room. She might have giggled at the thought had she not been so horrified with herself. Never in her life had she sunk to such depths. And apparently she wasn’t quite done yet.

  “You haven’t noticed any bananas missing from the kitchen, have you? I’d keep a close eye on them if I were you. You might want to watch the sausages too.”

  And with that, she swept past them. Well, in as much as a hungover woman in jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes (damn it, why hadn’t she taken the slinky dress and heels from Macy’s when she’d had the chance?) was capable of sweeping.

  “For Christ’s sake, Drustan,” Adam said irritably, shifting in the saddle, trying to find a more comfortable position, knowing there wasn’t one, because saddles hadn’t been designed for men with immortal hard-ons, “you didn’t even know that the purpose of your four feast day rituals was to uphold the walls between our realms until I told you. You thought they were just a heralding of the change of season and an affirmation of your commitment to The Compact.”

  “I ken it, and that fashes me more than a wee,” Drustan exploded. “What if, in our ignorance, we’d failed to perform them in the past?”

  “First of all, you never fail to keep an oath,” Adam muttered darkly, “so I highly doubt that would ever have become an issue. Even if your whole clan were somehow wiped out, your bloody ghost would probably come back and bloody dance around the bloody stones. Second, it’s not my fault your clan misplaced The Compact for so many centuries and you forgot the meaning behind the rituals. And third—this is really the only relevant part and it’s what I keep telling you—” Adam said, enunciating each word tightly. Christ, his body hurt with wanting his Sidhe-seer. She was on safe ground. It was time. It was past ti
me to make her his. How long had they been separated now? Fifteen mortal hours? It felt like a century. His skin was cold where, for the past few days, she’d been constantly pressed against him. “The queen will come, Drustan. She’ll never let the walls come down. She’ll come, demanding to know why you’re not performing the ritual. Then I’ll tell her about Darroc and all will be well. You’ll perform the rites long before your twenty-four-hour window of time is up. And she’ll be grateful, she won’t be angry with you.”

  Christ, they’d been over this a dozen times. The Keltar Druids had from midnight on the dawning of the feast days of Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnassadh, and Samhain to midnight at the close of the feast day, to perform the necessary rituals. During that time the walls would thin, but they wouldn’t collapse completely until midnight on the close of. For millennia uncounted, the Keltar had always performed their rituals at midnight on the dawning of.

  When they failed to do so this upcoming Lughnassadh, once the walls began to thin, Aoibheal would appear, demanding to know what was going on. Adam was willing to bet she’d show by noon or shortly thereafter. There was no way she’d let the Isle of Morar be exposed, no way she’d let Fae realms rise up in the midst of human ones.

  This was his one sure way to force the queen to appear. To bring down the walls between realms.

  “And furthermore,” he added darkly, “if you don’t do this for me, there’s not going to be any frigging Compact to uphold anymore. If Darroc overthrows the queen, he’ll spill mortal blood in a heartbeat. Then you won’t have to bother with your oaths; there won’t be any walls between realms. You’ll have a Tuatha Dé war on your hands, with the Unseelie roaming free in your world, and, believe me, the damage they could do in a mere matter of days would make your Black Plague seem like a pesky cold. In fact,” he growled, “it will probably be your mortal blood Darroc will spill first, because he won’t like that you possess so much knowledge of our ways. The two of you are a threat he’ll want removed immediately.”