The Highlander's Touch Read online

  He flinched as if she’d hit him; his dark eyes narrowed and he scowled. If she’d thought he was angry before, that was only because she hadn’t yet seen him truly furious. “You are English!” he spat, swiftly switching to English, though with a thick, rolling brogue.

  Lisa spread her hands as if to say So what? What was his point, and why was he so angry with her?

  “Doona move!” he roared.

  She remained motionless, cataloging him as if he were one of the museum’s recent acquisitions, absorbing the incredible length and breadth of his body. The man dripped such intense sexuality that fantasies of a savage warrior, recognizing no law but his own, shivered through her ancestral memory. The danger rolling off him was frightening and seductive. You’re dreaming, remember? You fell asleep and only dreamed you woke up and Steinmann came. But you’re still asleep and none of this is really happening.

  She scarcely noticed when the man reached for the weapon propped against the tub. Her mind registered dim amusement that her figment of fancy came replete with avenging sword. Until, with a graceful flick of his wrist, he pointed the deadly weapon at her.

  It was her dream, she reminded herself. She could simply ignore the sword. Dreams were penalty-free zones. If she couldn’t have a boyfriend in real life, at least she could savor this virtual experience. Smiling, she extended a hand to touch his flawlessly sculpted abdomen—certainly the stuff of dreams—and the tip of the sword grazed her jaw, forcing her eyes to meet his. A girl could get a kink in her neck from looking that high, she decided.

  “Doona think to distract me from my cause,” he growled.

  “What cause?” she asked, feeling short of breath.

  At that moment the door crashed open. A second man, dark haired and clad in a strange wrap of cloth, burst into the room.

  “Whatever it is, I doona have time for it now, Galan!” said the man holding the blade to her neck.

  The other man looked astounded at the sight of Lisa. “We heard you roar nigh down to the kitchen, Cin.”

  “Sin?” Lisa echoed disbelievingly. Oh yes, he is definitely sin. Any man who looks like this must be pure sin.

  “Get out!” Circenn thundered.

  Galan hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly retreated from the room and closed the door.

  As Lisa’s gaze returned to Sin, she looked down again at his improbable endowments.

  “Stop looking there, woman!”

  Her eyes swept up to his. “Nobody looks like you. And no one speaks like you, except maybe Sean Connery in The Highlander. See? Proof positive that I’m dreaming. You’re a figment of my overtaxed, sleep-deprived, traumatized mind.” She nodded firmly.

  “I assure you, I am most certainly not a dream.”

  “Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. Closed them. Opened them. He was still there. “I was in the museum and now I’m in a bedroom with a nude man named Sin? How foolish do you think I am?”

  “Circenn. Cir-cin,” he repeated. “Those who are close to me call me Cin.”

  “You can’t be real.”

  He had sleepy, hooded eyes so dark that they seemed rimmed by kohl. His nose was strong, arrogant. His teeth—and God knows she was getting a good look at them with all the scowling he was doing—were straight and white enough to make her dentist weep with envy. His forehead was high, and a mane of midnight hair fell to his shoulders. Although none of his features was current model material, except for his sensual lips, the overall effect was that of a savagely beautiful face. Warrior-lord was the word perched on her tongue.

  The tip of the sword gently poked the soft underside of her chin. When she felt a bead of moisture on her neck, she was amazed by the verisimilitude of her dream. She brushed her fingers over the spot, then gazed at the drop of blood in astonishment.

  “Does one bleed in a dream? I’ve never bled in a dream before,” she murmured.

  He flicked the baseball cap off her head so quickly that it frightened her. She hadn’t even glimpsed the movement of his hand. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, and she lunged for the cap, only to draw up short on the point of the sword. The top of her head barely reached his chest.

  “Give me my cap,” she snapped. “Daddy gave it to me.”

  He regarded her in silence.

  “It’s all I have from him, and he’s dead!” she said heatedly.

  Was that a flicker of compassion in his dark eyes?

  He extended the cap without a word.

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly, folding the bill and stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans. Her gaze dropped to the floor as she pondered the sword at her throat. If it was a dream, she could will things to happen. Or unhappen. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed the sword to disappear, then swallowed tightly as cold metal bit into her neck. Next, she tried willing the man to disappear; the tub and fire she graciously conceded to keep.

  Opening her eyes, she found the man still towering over her.

  “Give me the flask, lass.”

  Lisa’s eyebrows rose. “The flask? This is part of the dream? You see this?”

  “Of course I do! Blinding though your beauty is, I am not a fool!”

  My beauty is blinding? Flabbergasted, she handed over the flask.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Lisa sought refuge in formality; it had served her well in the past as a compass through unknown territory. This dream certainly qualified as unknown territory. Never before had she dreamed so lucidly yet been so out of control of the elements of her dream, nor had her subconscious ever before conjured up a man like this. She wanted to know from what prehistoric corner of her soul the leviathan had come.

  “Would you mind dressing? Your … er … state of, uh … undress is not conducive to a serious discussion. If you put on some clothes and put down your sword, I’m certain we’ll be able to sort things out.” She hoped he would find the note of optimism in her voice persuasive.

  He scowled as he looked down at his body. Lisa could have sworn that the color in his face deepened as he realized his state of arousal.

  “What do you expect of me when you have clad yourself in such a fashion?” he demanded. “I am a man.”

  As if I’ve been suffering doubts on that score, she thought wryly. A dream of a man, no less.

  Snatching a woven blanket of crimson and black, he tossed it over his shoulder so that it draped the front of his body. He grabbed a small pouch, stuffed the flask into it, and finally lowered his sword.

  Lisa relaxed and took a few steps back, but as she did so, her hat fell out of her back pocket. She turned around and bent to retrieve it. Turning back to face him, she caught his gaze fixed in the vicinity where her behind, encased in tight jeans, had been only an instant ago. Dumbfounded by the realization that the flawless apparition had been perusing her derriere, she glanced at the fabric he’d wrapped around himself, then cautiously at his face. His dark eyes smoldered. She had a sudden insight that wherever she was, women didn’t usually wear jeans. Perhaps not even trousers.

  His jaw tensed and his breathing quickened noticeably. He looked every inch a predator, poised in the heightened alertness that precedes the kill.

  “They’re all I have!” she said defensively.

  He raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I doona wish to discuss it, lass. Not now. Perhaps never.”

  They looked at each other in measuring silence. Then, for no reason she could define, drawn by a force beyond her ability to resist, she found herself moving toward him. It was he who stepped back this time. With one swift ripple of gorgeous muscle, he was out of the room.

  The instant the door swung shut, Lisa’s legs buckled and she collapsed to her knees, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. The familiar sound of metal sliding across the door told her she was once more locked in. Dear God, she had to wake up.

  But somewhere in her heart she had begun to suspect that she was not dreaming.

  “SHALL WE REMOVE THE BODY, CIRCENN?�
�� GALAN asked, when Circenn entered the kitchen.

  Circenn drew a quick breath. “The body?” He rubbed his jaw, concealing a wince of anger behind his hand. Nothing was unfolding as he wished. He’d left his chambers, planning to find some cider wine in the kitchen, clear his head in private, and make some decisions—specifically, what to do with the lovely woman he was bound by honor to kill. But he was to be granted no such reprieve. Galan and Duncan Douglas, his trusted friends and advisers, occupied a small table in the kitchen of the keep, watching him intently.

  Since either the English or the Scots kept burning down Dunnottar every time it changed hands, the hastily patched ruin of the keep was drafty, cold, and unfinished. They were stationed at Dunnottar only until the Bruce’s men relieved them, which was expected any day now, so no further repairs would be made. The Greathall opened to the night sky where the roof should have been, so the kitchen was substituted for the dining hall. Tonight, unfortunately, it was a gathering place as well.

  “The bearer of the flask,” Galan prodded helpfully.

  Circenn scowled. He had hidden the flask in his sporran, hoping for time to resign himself to fulfilling his oath. Several years ago, he’d informed the Douglas brothers of the binding curse he had placed on the chest and of the vow he had sworn to Adam Black. He had felt more comfortable knowing that when it did appear, if for some reason he was unable to fulfill his oath, this trusted pair would see it finished.

  But what did one do when oaths were in direct opposition to each other? To Adam, he had sworn to kill the bearer of the flask. Long ago, at his mother’s knee, he’d sworn never to harm a woman for any reason.

  Galan merely shrugged at Circenn’s scowl and said, “I told Duncan she had arrived. I saw the flask in her hand. We have been awaiting its return. Shall we remove the body?”

  “That might be a bit awkward. ‘The body’ is still breathing,” Circenn said irritably.

  “Why?” Duncan frowned.

  “Because I have not yet killed her.”

  Galan appraised him for a moment. “She is lovely, is she not?”

  Circenn didn’t miss the accusation. “Have I ever allowed loveliness to corrupt my honor?”

  “Nay, and I am certain you will not now. You have never broken an oath.” Galan’s challenge was unmistakable.

  Circenn sank into a chair.

  At thirty, Galan was the second eldest of the five Douglas brothers. Tall and dark, he was a disciplined warrior who, like Circenn, believed in strict adherence to rules. His idea of a proper battle included months of careful preparation, intense study of the enemy, and a detailed strategy from which they would not waver once the attack was begun.

  Duncan, the youngest in the family, held a more nonchalant attitude. Six feet tall, he was ruggedly handsome, always had a day’s growth of beard so black that it made his jaw look blue, and his plaid was usually rumpled, hastily knotted, and looked like it was about to slip off. He drew lasses like flies to honey and wholeheartedly availed himself of the fairer sex’s attraction to him. Duncan’s idea of a proper battle was to wench right up to the last minute, fall out of bed, then dash off with a plaid and a sword and plunge into the melee, laughing all the while. Duncan was a bit unusual, but all the Douglases were forces to be reckoned with in one way or another. The eldest brother, James, was the Bruce’s chief lieutenant and a brilliant strategist.

  Galan and Duncan had been Circenn’s trusted council for years. They’d warred together, implemented attacks and counterattacks under Robert the Bruce’s standard, and trained vigorously for the final battle they prayed would soon liberate Scotland from the English.

  “I am not certain I see what harm this woman might do to our cause,” Circenn hedged, cautiously gauging their reaction to his words. Silently, he was gauging his own reaction as well. Usually his rules comforted him, gave him a sense of purpose and direction, but every ounce of his conscience rebelled at the thought of killing the woman abovestairs. He began to tally the possible repercussions of allowing her to live, besides destroying his honor.

  Galan laced his fingers together and studied his calluses while speaking. “I scarce think that matters. You swore an oath to Adam Black that you would eliminate the bearer of the flask. While I can see that a woman might evoke sympathy, you have no knowledge of who she really is. She was dressed strangely. Could she be of Druid descent?”

  “I think not. I sensed no magic in her.”

  “Is she English? I was surprised to hear her speak that tongue. We have been speaking English since the Templars arrived, but why does she?”

  “Speaking English is not a crime,” Circenn said dryly. It was true that since the Templars had arrived they’d been conversing more often in English than in any other tongue. The majority of Circenn’s men did not speak French, and most of the Templars did not speak Gaelic, but nearly all of them had learned some English, due to England’s far-reaching borders. Circenn found it frustrating that he was unable to use Gaelic—a language he felt was beautiful beyond compare—but he accepted that times were changing and that when men from many different countries came together, English was the most commonly known tongue. It galled him to speak the language of his enemy. “Most of our Templars do not speak Gaelic. That doesn’t make them spies.”

  “She does not speak Gaelic at all?” Galan pressed.

  Circenn sighed. “Nay,” he said, “she did not understand our tongue, but that alone is insufficient to condemn her. Perhaps she was raised in England. You know many of our clans tread both sides of the border. Besides, it was unlike any English I have ever heard.”

  “More reason to be suspicious, more reason to dispose of her promptly,” Galan said.

  “As with any other potential threat, one must first study and assess the extent of the threat,” Circenn equivocated.

  “Your oath, Circenn, supersedes all else. Your mind must be on holding Dunnottar and opening the Bruce’s path to a secure throne and a liberated Scotland, not on some woman who should be dead even as we speak,” Galan reminded him.

  “Have I ever failed to live up to my duties in any way?” Circenn held Galan’s gaze.

  “Nay,” Galan admitted. “Not yet,” he added.

  “Nay,” Duncan said easily.

  “Then why do you question me now? Have I not far more experience with people, wars, and choices than any of you?”

  Galan nodded wryly. “But if you break your vow, how will you explain it to Adam?”

  Circenn stiffened. The words break your vow lingered uncomfortably in his mind and wove a promise of failure, defeat, and potential for corruption. It was critical that he adhere to his rules. “Let me handle Adam, as I always have,” he said coolly.

  Galan shook his head. “The men will not like this, should they catch wind of it. You know the Templars are a fierce lot and are particularly wary of women—”

  “Because they can’t have any,” Duncan interrupted. “They seek any reason to mistrust women in their effort to keep lustful thoughts at bay. A vow of celibacy is not natural for men; it makes them cold, irritable bastards. I, on the other hand, am always relaxed, even-tempered, and amiable.” He flashed a pleasant smile at them both, as if to prove the validity of his theory.

  Despite his problems, Circenn’s mouth quirked. Duncan had a tendency to behave outrageously, and the more irreverent he was, the more irritated Galan became. Galan never seemed to realize that his younger brother did it on purpose, and the entire time Duncan was acting like an irresponsible youth, his astute Douglas mind wasn’t missing a thing going on around him.

  “Lack of discipline does not a warrior make, little brother,” Galan said stiffly. “You are one extreme and the Templars are the other.”

  “Wenching does not diminish my battle prowess one whit and you know it,” Duncan said, sitting up straighter in his chair, his eyes sparkling in anticipation of the argument to come.

  “Enough,” Circenn interrupted. “We were discussing my oath and the fact
that I am forsworn to kill an innocent woman.”

  “You doona know she is innocent,” Galan protested.

  “I doona know she is not,” Circenn said. “Until I have some indication of guilt or innocence, I—” He broke off and sighed heavily. He found it nearly impossible to say the next words.

  “You what?” Duncan asked, watching him with fascination. When Circenn didn’t reply, he pushed, “Will you refuse to kill her? Will you break a forsworn oath?” Duncan’s incredulity was etched all over his handsome face.

  “I didn’t say that,” Circenn snapped.

  “You didn’t not say it,” Galan said warily. “I would appreciate it if you would clarify your intentions. Do you plan to kill her or not?”

  Circenn rubbed his jaw again. He cleared his throat, trying to form the words his conscience demanded he say, but the warrior in him resisted.

  Duncan’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Circenn thoughtfully. After a moment, he glanced at his brother. “We know what Adam is like, Galan. His way has oft been swift, unnecessary destruction, and enough blameless lives have been taken in the quest to secure the throne. I propose Circenn take the time to discover who the woman is and whence she comes prior to passing sentence. I cannot speak for you, Galan, but I doona wish the blood of another innocent on my hands, and if we urge him to kill her, the deed becomes ours as well. Besides, recall that although Circenn swore to kill the bearer of the flask, nothing in his oath addressed timeliness. He might wait twenty years to kill her without breaking his oath.”

  Circenn glanced up at Duncan’s last words, surprised. He hadn’t considered that possibility. In truth, his oath had not contained one word specifying how swiftly he must kill the bearer of the flask—hence it was neither amoral nor a violation of his oath to refrain for a short time in order to study the person. One might even argue that it was wise, he decided. You split hairs with a battle-ax. Adam’s words, from six years ago, surfaced in Circenn’s mind to mock him.