The Immortal Highlander Read online

  Rubbing her eyes, she shook her head. Leave it to me, she brooded, to never do anything by halves. It wasn’t enough to merely betray herself to the Fae, she had to go and do it to the most notorious one of all.

  A silver-tongued seducer, it was said to be so devilishly charming that mortals didn’t even realize they were in danger until it was much too late. It went by Puck, Robin Goodfellow, and Wayland Smith, among countless other names.

  A rogue even among his own kind . . .

  When she’d begun searching, she’d been afraid it might take her days to wade through the rambling tomes and discern the identity of the creature she’d seen, assuming it was even in there. The earliest volumes were written in Gaelic, which—despite Gram’s valiant efforts to teach her the old tongue—Gabby still couldn’t speak, and could scarcely muddle her way through reading.

  The Books of the Fae were a nightmare to sort through, written in myriad and often illegible scripts, with notes crammed into the margins of every page, cross-referencing other notes crammed into other margins on equally difficult-to-decipher pages.

  More than once Gabby had complained to her grandmother that someone “really needed to set up an index and organize these damn things.” And more than once Gram had smiled, given her a pointed look, and said, “Yes, someone should. What’s stopping you?”

  Though Gabby would have done nearly anything her beloved grandmother had asked of her, she’d determinedly avoided that task.

  She’d buried herself instead in modern-day law books that were far less disturbing than ancient tomes that brought to life an exotic world, which her continued existence and hope for a normal future depended upon her ability to ignore.

  After hours of fruitless searching, Gabby had finally noticed another book, one she couldn’t recall having seen before, a slimmer volume tucked back in a corner, as if it had inadvertently gotten pushed behind the other books and forgotten. Curious, she’d reached for it, brushing thick dust from the cover.

  Highly intelligent, lethally seductive . . .

  Bound in soft black leather, the tome she’d nearly overlooked contained the information she sought. Her ancestors had taken the subject matter so seriously that they’d devoted a separate volume to it.

  Unlike the other volumes, which were written in disjointed, sporadic journal fashion and dealt with whatever fairy had recently been sighted, the slim black book addressed only one, and flowed in chronological order, complemented by numerous sketches. Also, unlike the other volumes that were simply labeled by Roman numerals, this one merited its own title: The Book of the Sin Siriche Du.

  Or, loosely translated from Gaelic—she was capable of that much—the book of the darkest/blackest elf/fairy.

  She’d found the creature she’d seen tonight: Adam Black.

  The earliest accounts of it were sketchy, descriptions of its various glamours, warnings about its deviltry, cautions about its insatiable sexuality and penchant for mortal women (“so sates a lass, that she is oft incapable of speech, her wits muddled for a fortnight or more.” Oh, please, Gabby thought, was that the medieval equivalent of screwing her brains out?), but by the approach of the first millennium, the accounts became more detailed.

  In the mid–ninth century—near 850 A.D.—the thing had gone on a rampage, meddling with mortals for the seemingly sole purpose of inciting fury and causing battles to break out all over Scotland.

  Thousands had died by the time it was done amusing itself.

  Numerous sightings had been made of the thing watching, smiling, as blood ran on countless battlefields. For a time it hadn’t been just O’Callaghan women who’d seen it; it had made no effort whatsoever to hide itself, and her ancestors had gathered the tales of those myriad sightings, recording them in great detail.

  By far the most dangerous and unpredictable of his race . . .

  No other fairy had ever dared such blatant, cold-blooded interference with humankind.

  The clock on the mantel chimed the hour, jarring her. She rubbed her eyes, startled to realize that the night had sped by and it was already morning. The first rays of sunlight were pressing at the edges of the drapes that, late last night, she’d pulled tightly across the windows. She’d been up for well over twenty-four hours straight; it was no wonder her eyes felt so gritty and tired.

  His favored glamour is that of an intensely sexual Highland blacksmith. . . .

  Her gaze drifted back to the book in her lap, opened to a sketch of the dark fairy.

  Uncanny. It was the very image that had occurred to her when she’d first spotted it. Was it possible, she wondered, that there really was such a thing as genetic memory? Knowledge passed from one generation to the next, imprinted in one’s very DNA? It would go a long way toward explaining why the moment she’d laid eyes on it all kinds of alarms had gone off inside her. Why she’d thought instinctively of a blacksmith, as if in the deepest, darkest reaches of her soul she’d instantly recognized her primordial enemy. Enemy to countless O’Callaghan women before her.

  The sketch didn’t begin to do it justice, though it captured the unmistakable essence of it. Sighted in medieval times and sketched at a place in the Highlands called Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea (where it had allegedly killed a young Gypsy woman), it was all muscle and arrogant sexuality, clad in a kilt, standing at a forge near a copse of Rowan trees, before a magnificent, medieval castle that loomed in the background. Strong hand wielding a smith’s hammer, its arm was flexed in midswing. Its hair was flying about its face in a dark tangle that fell to its waist. Its lips were curved in a mocking smile.

  She’d seen that smile tonight. And a worse one still. One far more . . . predatory. If possible.

  Her gaze fixed on the heavily inked and underscored admonition beneath the sketch:

  AVOID CONTACT AT ALL COST

  “Oh, Gram,” she whispered, a sudden, hot burn of tears stinging her eyes, “you were right.”

  She had to leave. Now.

  Twenty-two frenetic minutes later, Gabby had changed into jeans and a tank top and was ready to go, running on pure adrenaline, in lieu of much-needed sleep. She couldn’t leave the precious books behind—she didn’t know if or when she’d be able to return, and they simply had to be preserved, by God, she would have children to pass them down to one day—so she’d packed them.

  While she’d been at it, she’d been unable to resist tossing in a few other items she simply couldn’t bear to leave: a soft cashmere afghan Gram had completed shortly before she died; a photo album; a much-loved locket; jeans, a few shirts, panties, bras, and shoes.

  She’d firmly turned off her tears, a leaky faucet for which she simply couldn’t afford a plumbing bill right now. Later, in some other city, in some other house, she would grieve the loss of her childhood home and virtually all her possessions. Later she would try to figure out if she dared resume her own name and finish law school at another college. Later she would take stock of all she’d so foolishly thrown away in one night with a single look. Later she might admit that her mother had been right about her all along: She was a fairy-abduction waiting to happen.

  Now she stood at the back door with two suitcases and a backpack crammed full.

  Though the banks would open soon, she didn’t dare waste any more time. She would stop somewhere in the late afternoon, in whatever state she’d managed to get to by that point, liquidate the special account, and find a safe place where she could lose herself and become someone else.

  She took one last look around the kitchen she’d learned to bake cookies in, the kitchen in which she’d cried over her first boyfriend (and her latest—the bastard), the cozy room in which she and Gram had shared so many long talks, so many hopes and dreams.

  Damn you, Adam Black, she thought bitterly. Damn you for making me leave.

  The sharp clarity of anger helped blast away some of the fear fogging her mind. Squaring her shoulders, she slung the backpack over her shoulder and picked up her suitcases.

  She was
smart. She was strong. She was determined. She would outrun it. She would have her chance at a normal life: a career, a husband, and babies. So what if it meant changing her name and starting all over? She would succeed.

  Chin up, resolve firm, she opened the door.

  Powerful body filling the doorway, it stood there, lips curved in a dangerous smile.

  “Hello, Gabrielle,” Adam Black said.

  4

  Adam arrived at 735 Monroe Street prepared for the woman to be a bit skittish.

  After all, she’d run from him earlier, obviously intimidated by his overwhelming masculinity and epic sexuality. Women often had that reaction to him, especially when he was stripping off his pants. Or kilt, depending on the century.

  He was also prepared, however, for her inhibitions to drop swiftly, as did all women’s when they got a good, close-up look at him.

  After that, many simply launched themselves at him in a full-frontal assault of sexual frenzy. He’d been entertaining himself with just that possibility, his entire body tight with lust, while tracking her down with the information he’d obtained in the room called “Human Resources” at Little & Staller.

  But nothing in his vast repertoire of experience had prepared him for Gabrielle O’Callaghan.

  The bloodthirsty little hellion didn’t react like any woman he’d ever encountered. She took one horrified look at him, drew back her arm, hauled off, and smashed him in the face with some kind of satchel she was holding.

  Then slammed the door and locked it.

  Leaving him on the doorstep, bleeding. Bleeding, by Danu, blood trickling from his lip!

  Well, he’d just gotten confirmation that she was indeed fully immune to the féth fiada, or she’d not have been able to bust his lip. It wasn’t quite how he’d imagined learning it.

  His eyes narrowed, his teeth bared in a snarl.

  Where the hell had that come from? He’d never been hit by a woman. None had ever raised a hand against him. Women adored him. Couldn’t get enough of him. Fact was, they worshiped him. What the bloody hell was her problem?

  Damned Irish. One could never predict the tempers of those fiery, moody Gaels. Obdurate as stones, they passed through the centuries untouched by evolution, as hotheaded and barbaric today as they’d been in the Iron Age.

  He arched a brow, trying to fathom her reaction. He glanced down at himself. No latent part of the queen’s curse had kicked in, mutating him into something hideous while he’d not been paying attention. He was still his usual irresistible self: the sexy, dark-eyed, muscle-bound Highland blacksmith who drove women wild.

  After a moment’s reflection, he decided that she just wanted to play rough. Liked her men dominant, aggressive, and dangerous.

  He shrugged. Fine. After three hellish months of being cursed, three miserable months of celibacy, he was feeling all that and more.

  He could use an outlet.

  Gabby was at the front door, her hand closing on the doorknob, when the back door exploded open, spraying slivers of door frame and bits of dead bolt everywhere.

  Metal and wood screeched protest as two-hundred-plus pounds of furious fairy blasted through it.

  Knowing she had the lead by mere precious seconds, she turned the knob and yanked the door open, only to feel the thud of its palms on either side of her head, smashing it shut again.

  Impossible! No way it could move that fast!

  But it had, and now she was trapped: hard door in front, harder fairy behind.

  For a few frantic moments she ducked and twisted, trying to escape, but it moved with her, seeming to anticipate her every feint and joust, bracing its hands on either side of her, caging her in with its powerful body.

  Unable to evade, she went still as a cornered animal. Dozens of things to say collided in her mind, all of them beginning with a pathetic little “please.” But she was damned if she was going to beg; it would probably enjoy that.

  She bit her tongue and kept her mouth firmly shut. If she was going to die, she would die proud. Stiffening stoically, she prepared herself to meet whatever grisly end it had in store for her.

  But an end, she realized swiftly, wasn’t what it had in mind at all.

  Grazing its jaw against her hair, it growled low in its throat, and there was no mistaking the hungry, sensual edge to the sound.

  Oh, God, she thought wildly, just like the Books said, it’s going to try to seduce me before it kills me.

  It snared her hands and, though she struggled wildly, she was no match for its immense strength. Stretching her arms above her head, it flattened her palms against the door and molded all that rock-hard fairy body to hers.

  Gabby’s eyes flew wide.

  Her first forbidden, absolutely electrifying fairy-feel. And with it, the answer to a question she’d been trying desperately not to wonder about for years.

  No—they were not like mortal men.

  At least not any she’d ever felt. Whuh.

  She swallowed. Hard. Despite the clothing between them, her skin positively sizzled where Adam was pressed against her. Heavens, she thought dimly, what would it feel like to rub her naked body up against a fairy? Might she go up in erotic flames?

  “Is it rough love you’re wanting, then, Irish?”

  For a moment Gabby’s brain was simply incapable of processing the content of what it had said, overwhelmed by sensation: the steely maleness of it prodding her behind; the spicy, masculine scent of it; the sultry heat it was giving off; the seductive, deep, strangely accented voice. She was melting, knees going buttery-soft . . .

  She inhaled a deep fortifying breath and forced herself to focus on the voice; rich Irish cream tumbling over broken glass, cultured, smoky, velvety. Thick with an exotic accent that her floundering mind realized was probably that of an ancient Celt. An accent she’d be willing to bet no living person had heard spoken in thousands of years. Filled with rolling r’s and softly dropped g’s and peculiarly shaped vowels.

  Then the content of its question belatedly penetrated and so offended her that all she managed was “Huh?”

  “Name your fancy, woman,” it purred, lips braising the edge of her ear, sending shivers rippling up her spine. “Is it bondage? A bit of spanking?” A slow, hard, sensual thrust against her bottom punctuated the last question. “Or just a good, hard fucking?”

  Gabby opened and closed her mouth several times, but no sound came out. Then, blessedly, outrage stiffened her spine and freed her tongue. “Ooh! None of the above! My fancy is for you to remove that . . . that . . . thing from my butt!”

  “You don’t mean that,” came the deep, self-assured reply. Accompanied by another sinfully erotic movement of its hips.

  Could it be more arrogant? “I do too. I’m serious. Get it off me!” Before she did something really, really stupid, like pressed back against it the next time it rubbed.

  Aw, come on, Gabby, this is the most turned on you’ve ever been in your entire life, a devilish inner (suspiciously fourteen-year-old-sounding) voice provoked. What could it hurt to finally get a little taste of fairy? You’ve already blown it.

  It’s here to kill us! she countered fiercely.

  We don’t know that. Silence, then a plaintive: And if it is, do you really want to die a virgin?

  Gabby was horrified to realize that for a moment she actually entertained that question as a legitimate avenue of inquiry. Reasonable. Sane even. How sad it would be to die a virgin.

  Oh, grow up, she seethed, regaining her senses, this is not a fairy tale. There’s not going to be a Happily-Ever-After here.

  Happy now? came the hopeful query.

  She was losing it. Completely.

  It tried to turn her then, and she fought a momentary, pointless little battle with it, making herself heavy and stiff in its grasp. She knew it was stupid, that she was just stalling for time, but she’d stall for all the time she could get. Feeling it behind her was bad enough; being forced to look at it while it was touching her would be
downright devastating.

  It picked her up and rotated her. Literally plucked her from the floor and spun her about, depositing her on her feet again.

  She fixed her gaze at eye level: its sternum. Damn the thing for being so big and making her feel so tiny and helpless. At five foot four, she was accustomed to having to look up at people, but the darkest fairy was at least a foot taller than she was, and nearly twice her mass.

  It slipped a finger beneath her chin. “Look at me.” Again, that dark, strangely accented voice caressed her. There should be a law against men—fairies—having such voices, she thought grimly.

  She kept her chin firmly down. She knew how inhumanly erotic it was. She also knew—the little argument she’d just had with herself showcased the point well—that she had a lifetime of dangerous fairy-fascination corked up inside her. And that cork was too highly pressurized.

  “I said,” it repeated evenly, a hint of impatience edging its tone, “look at me, Gabrielle O’Callaghan.”

  Gah-bry-yil was how it pronounced her name. What its gorgeous accent did to her last name was simply beyond describing. She’d never known her own name could sound so sexy.

  No way was she looking up.

  There was a moment of silence, then it said mockingly, “Willy-nilly, peahen. I thought the Irish were tougher than that. What happened to the wench who bashed me a good one and made me bleed?”

  Her head whipped back and she stared up at its dark, chiseled face: Fairies didn’t bleed.

  There was blood on its lip. Crimson drops dripping from the corner of that full sensual mouth, making it look even more elemental and dangerous.

  Blood? Gabby gaped, trying to comprehend what she was seeing. Was it a fairy or wasn’t it? The Books had said it was! What in the world was going on?

  “You put it there. I’m giving you the chance to get it off before I decide to claim vengeance instead.” Its dark, smoldering gaze dropped to her mouth and fixed there. “Your tongue will serve well. Come, a kiss to make amends.”