[Highlander 04] - Kiss of the Highlander Read online

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Aye, I do, Gwen Cassidy. But I give much in return to those people who have faith in me. I could carry you, if you wish.”

  “I don’t think so. Why don’t you just slow down a bit?”

  He stopped, evidencing the first hint of impatience she’d glimpsed. “Lass, if that map you have is correct, we have until the morrow’s eve to travel a distance of nearly eighty miles. That is three of your miles per hour, without stopping to sleep. Although I could run much of the way, I know you cannot. If you can manage four miles each hour, you may rest later.”

  “That’s impossible,” Gwen gasped. “The fastest mile I’ve ever run on a treadmill was ten and a half minutes and I nearly died. And it was only one mile. I had to rest for hours and eat chocolate to revive myself. MacKeltar, we need to rent a car,” she tried again. Earlier, upon discovering the length of the hike he planned, she’d proposed the alternative, but he’d simply clammed up and dragged her off at a brisk pace. “We could travel eighty miles in one hour in a car.”

  He glanced at her and shuddered. “I trust my feet. No wagons.”

  “Come on,” she nearly wailed. “I can’t keep up with you. It would be a simple matter. We can go down into the next village, rent a car, drive to your stones, and you can show me whatever it is this afternoon.”

  “I cannot show you until tomorrow. It would be without merit to arrive today.”

  “You said you needed to stop at the castle. If we walk the whole way, that’s not going to give you any time to visit your old stomping ground,” she pointed out.

  “I doona stomp there, nor do I stomp much of anywhere, woman. You drive me to stomp.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “You must walk more quickly.”

  “You’re lucky I’m moving at all. Haven’t you heard of Newton’s First Law of Motion? It’s inertia, MacKeltar. An object that’s at rest wants to stay at rest. I can’t be expected to overcome laws of nature. That’s why exercising is so difficult for me. Besides, I think you’re afraid.” Gwen felt a little guilty for playing fast and loose with Newton, but most people had no idea what she was talking about when she brought up the laws of motion, and rather than reveal their ignorance and argue with her, they usually dropped the subject. Dirty pool, but startlingly effective. She’d avail herself of anything that would get her out of walking eighty freaking miles.

  He was staring at her strangely, with a mixture of startlement and confusion. “I know naught of this Newton, but ’tis clear he failed to attain a complete understanding of objects and motion. And I am hardly afraid of one of your foolish wagons.”

  He’d never heard of Isaac Newton? Where had the man been living? In a cave?

  “Wonderful,” she pounced. “If you’re not afraid, then let’s return to Fairhaven and I’ll rent a car. I’ll even pay for it myself. We’ll be at your castle by lunchtime.”

  He swallowed hard. He really did have an aversion to cars, she realized. Exactly the kind of aversion a man from five hundred years in the past might evidence. Or, she thought cynically, the type of aversion displayed by an actor who had given his performance much thought, down to the minute details. A small, wicked part of her longed to wedge the oversize package of testosterone into a little bitty compact car and see just how far he would carry the performance.

  “Let me help you, MacKeltar,” she coaxed. “You asked for my help. All I’m trying to do is get you to the castle faster than you could possibly get there yourself. Besides, there’s no way I’m going to be able to walk for two days straight. Either we get a car, or you can just forget about me.”

  He blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine. I will travel in one of your wagons. You are right in thinking that I need time to prepare, and ’tis plain to see that you doona intend to exert any effort to increase your pace.”

  Gwen smiled all the way back to Fairhaven. She would get Band-Aids for the blisters on her heels where her hiking boots chafed. She would get coffee and chocolate and scones for breakfast. She would buy him clothes, rent a car, and return him to his family, who would figure out what was wrong with him. It was shaping up to be an acceptable day after all, she thought, sneaking a glance at the luscious man who was walking much slower now—in fact, dragging his feet beside her. He looked miserable. She didn’t laugh, because she knew she must have worn an identical expression when they’d been traveling in the opposite direction.

  The morning was steadily improving. The patch she’d put on earlier while she’d freshened up in the woods was working nicely. Nicotine hummed through her veins and she was no longer quite so worried that she might, in a fit of irritability, hurt the next person she saw or, worse, suffering oral withdrawal, do something with, or to, some part of Drustan MacKeltar she would regret. She was going to survive and she was again in control.

  Control is everything, her mother, Elizabeth, had often said in that dry, chilly British voice of hers. If you control the cause you own the effect. If you don’t, events will unfold like dominoes toppling and you will have no one to blame but yourself.

  Oh, do hush up, Mother, Gwen thought mulishly. Her parents were dead and still running her life. Still, Elizabeth had been making a valid point. It was only because Gwen had been distracted by the state of her emotions—a thing Elizabeth had never permitted—that she’d carelessly plunked her backpack down without first examining her surroundings. Had she been paying attention, she would not have placed the pack in such a precarious position. But she had, and it had fallen out of reach, and she’d ended up in a cave. That single moment of carelessness had gotten her stuck in the Highlands with a very ill or very deranged man.

  It was too late for regret. She could only exercise damage control. Now she was the one stretching her legs, urging him to walk faster. He did so in brooding silence, so she used the quiet time to firm her resolve that he was not a potential cherry picker.

  They made it back to Fairhaven in under an hour, and she sighed with relief at the sight of cozy inns, bike and car rentals, coffee shops, and stores. She was no longer alone with him, confronted by the constant temptation to part with her virginity or start smoking again, or both. They would zip into the stores and collect—oh!

  She stopped and eyed him with dismay. “You can’t come any further, MacKeltar. There’s no way you can walk into the village looking like that.” Sinfully gorgeous, the half-clad warrior could not mingle with tourists looking like a medieval terrorist.

  He glanced down at himself, then at her. “More of me is covered than you,” he said with an indignant and utterly regal sniff.

  Figured the man would even sniff like royalty. “Maybe. But you’re covered all wrong. Not only are you a walking weapon factory, you have nothing but a blanket wrapped around you.” When he scowled, she hastened to assure him, “It’s a very nice blanket, but that’s not the point.”

  “You will not leave me, Gwen Cassidy,” he said quietly. “I will not have it.”

  “I gave you my word that I would help you get to your stones,” she reminded.

  “I have no way of gauging the sincerity of your word.”

  “My word is good. Besides, you have no other choice.”

  “But I do. We walk.” He took her hand and started to drag her back the way they’d come.

  Gwen panicked. There was no way she was walking for two days. No way in hell. “All right,” she cried. “You can come. But you’ve got to get rid of those weapons. You can’t saunter into Fairhaven with an ax on your back, a sword at your waist, and fifty knives.”

  His jaw tightened and she could see he was preparing a list of protests.

  “No,” she said, raising a hand to cut him off. “One knife. You may keep one knife and that’s it. The rest of it stays here. We will come back for it once we have a car. I can explain your costume by telling people you are working on one of those battle-reenactment thingies, but I will not be able to explain so many weapons.”

  With a gusty sigh, he removed his weapons. After depo
siting them beneath a tree, he moved reluctantly toward the village.

  “Uh, excuse me,” she said to his back.

  “What now?” He stopped and glanced back at her, clearly exasperated.

  She gazed pointedly at the sword, which he hadn’t removed.

  “You said one knife. You didn’t specify what size it should be.”

  There was a dangerous glint in his gaze and, realizing she’d pushed him as far as he would bend, she acquiesced. She’d just say the sword was part of the costume. She glanced at it, wishing those glittering gems in the hilt looked less real. They could end up getting mugged for some silly fake sword.

  At the rental agency, Gwen leased the last, dilapidated little car and arranged to collect it in an hour, which would give them ample time to purchase clothing, food, and coffee before leaving for Alborath. Guiding him past the curious stares of the onlookers, and occasionally tugging on his arm when he stopped to stare, she finally got him into Barrett’s, a sporting-goods store that had the obligatory tourist’s miscellany of other items.

  In no time he would be presentable. People would stop gawking at him as he passed before turning their scrutiny to her, as if trying to figure out what a perfectly normal-looking, albeit a bit grubby, American was doing strolling about with such a barbarian. They would stop drawing attention to themselves—a thing Gwen despised—and they would take a nice drive to Alborath. Perhaps have lunch with his family while she explained how she’d found him. She’d entrust him to his familial bosom and then catch up with her tour group in the next village.

  Do you really want to leave him? Return to the seniors?

  After last night she was no longer certain she would be able to leave him. Perhaps she’d linger for a time near his home and see how he fared before moving on. It wasn’t as if there was anything in the States she was in a hurry to get back to. Not her job, not the exquisite, sprawling house on Canyon Road in Santa Fe she’d avoided since her parents’ death. Too many memories, still fresh and painful.

  Perhaps she would check into a bed-and-breakfast near Drustan’s home for a while; it would be the compassionate thing to do.

  “Where are you going?” she hissed when he swept past her, trailing his hand over a rack of purple running suits. He brushed his hand over a lavender sweatshirt, then stared at a lilac sweatband, ignoring her. She shook her head but, after a moment’s vacillation, decided he should be harmless enough wandering the store while she selected something for him to wear.

  She turned her attention to choosing clothing for a man who had the overly developed body of a professional athlete. Although Barrett’s carried a variety of clothing, few men had his height and muscle. She tucked some jeans beneath an arm, eyed a denim button-down, and glanced at his wide shoulders. It’d never fit. A V-neck T-shirt might do, in stretchy cotton, but definitely not white. It would contrast entirely too nicely with his silky dark hair and deep golden skin. The sight of a white tee stretched across his muscular chest might persuade her to catapult her cherry at him.

  She felt him return to her. The hair on the back of her neck tingled the moment he stepped beside her, but she refused to glance at him. At the same moment, a feminine purr from the other side of her asked, “May I help you?”

  Gwen glanced up from the pile of T-shirts to find a tall, leggy, thirtyish saleslady, librarian glasses perched on her nose above a lushly pursed mouth, looking past her, eyeing the MacKeltar with fascination. “Wearing the old dress, are you now?” she spoke with a lilting burr, ignoring Gwen entirely. “Such a lovely weave. I’ve no’ seen the pattern before.”

  Drustan folded his arms across his chest, his body rippling beneath the leather bands. “And you won’t,” he said. “ ‘Tis the Keltar’s alone.”

  There went the lionlike toss of his head, which on a woman would have looked coy but on him was an irresistible come-hither-if-you-think-you-can-handle-me. Gwen didn’t wait for the saleslady to start drooling. Or go hither. She thrust a pile of jeans and shirts into Drustan’s arms, forcing him to unfold his arms and drop the he-man pose.

  “Allow me to show you to a fitting room,” the saleslady purred. “I’m quite confident we’ll find something to satisfy your…desires…at Barrett’s.”

  Oh, choke me on innuendo, Gwen thought, not caring one bit for the interest in the woman’s eyes. He might be crazy, but he was her deluded hunk. She’d found him.

  Blocking the aisle to prevent—she glanced at the woman’s name tag—Miriam from latching on to him, she nudged Drustan toward the dressing room. Miriam sniffed and tried to step around her, but Gwen engaged her in a determined, irritated little dance in the narrow aisle until she heard Drustan close the dressing-room door behind her. Plunking her fists on her waist, Gwen looked down her nose up at leggy Miriam and said, “We lost our luggage. His costume was all he had in his carry-on. We don’t need any help.”

  Miriam glanced at the fitting room, where Drustan’s muscular calves were visible beneath the short white slatted door, then contemptuously examined Gwen, from her not-very-recently shaped eyebrows to the muddy toes of her hiking boots. “Found yourself a Scotsman, did you now, wee nyaff? You Americans are given to samplin’ our men with the same thirst you turn to our whisky, and you canna handle our whisky either.”

  “I can most certainly handle my husband from here,” Gwen snapped, louder than she would have liked.

  Miriam directed a pointed look at her ringless hand and arched a meticulously shaped brow that made Gwen feel she had small, unruly bushes growing above her eyes, but she refused to be humbled and returned the stare in icy silence. When Gwen made no effort to explain why she sported no wedding band and displayed no inclination to quit blocking the aisle, Miriam moved off in a snit to fluff and tidy the sweaters Gwen had messed up on the display table.

  Swallowing a catlike growl, Gwen moved to stand guard outside the fitting room, tapping her foot impatiently. A swoosh of fabric alerted her that he’d removed his plaid, and Gwen tried hard not to think about him standing behind the flimsy door, nude. It was harder than trying not to think about a cigarette, and her disobedient thoughts handled it as badly: The more she tried to not think it—the more she thought it.

  “Gwen?”

  Dragging herself from a fantasy in which she was about to drip chocolate syrup on him, she said, “Um?”

  “These trews…och! By Amergin!”

  Gwen snorted. The MacKeltar was pretending to discover zippers, and if he was wearing the plaid true to the sixteenth century (according to what their tour guide had told them), he had no underwear on. She heard a few more muttered curses, then a zzzzzp! Yet another curse. He sounded so convincing.

  “Come out and let me see you,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face.

  His voice sounded strangled when he replied, “You’ll have to come in.”

  Sneaking a furtive glance at Miriam, who had conveniently been accosted by a pimple-faced teenage boy, Gwen entered the dressing room. He was regarding himself in the mirror and his back was to her, and, heavens, but she would have been much better off if she’d never seen his tight muscled ass in a pair of tight faded jeans. His long black hair rippled over his shoulders and down his back, inviting her to plunge her fingers in it and trail them down the splendid ridges of muscle—

  “Turn around,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry.

  He did so, with a scowl.

  She eyed his bare chest and, with effort, forced herself to remember she was supposed to be looking at the jeans. Her gaze skimmed downward over his rippled abdomen and lean hips and—

  “What have you stuffed in your pants, MacKeltar?” she demanded.

  “Nothing that wasn’t God-given,” he replied stiffly.

  Gwen stared. “There’s no way that’s part of you. You must have gotten a sock or…something…stuck. Oh, my.” She pried her gaze from his groin. A muscle worked in his jaw, and he was clearly in discomfort.

  “I doona believe you intended to tortu
re me—nay, I saw other men on the street in such clothing—so I will not take putative measures. However, I think the problem is much the same as my feet,” he informed her.

  “Your feet?” she repeated dumbly, her gaze dropping. They were large.

  “Aye.” He gestured toward hers. “In your time you bind your feet in constrictive boots, whereas we wear soft, supple leather.”

  “Your point?” she managed.

  “They have more room to grow,” he said, as if she were simpleminded.

  Gwen blushed. Of all things to play a joke on her about. Stuffing socks in his pants, indeed! “MacKeltar, I do not believe for one minute that that”—she gestured at the bulge in his jeans—“is you. I may be gullible, but I do know what men look like, and that is not what men look like.”

  He flattened her up against the door of the dressing room, and his sensual mouth, much too close for safety, curved in a cocksure smile. “Then you will simply have to see for yourself. Touch me, lass. Feel my…sock.” His silver gaze sizzled with challenge, as he unzipped his zipper.

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head for added emphasis.

  “Then find me a pair of trews that doona threaten to sever my manparts.”

  “Uh-huh,” she agreed, trying not to think about that unzipped zipper.

  “Doona let this frighten you, lass. We will fit together well when I make love to you,” he purred.

  Weel was how it came out, and his lovely brogue, coupled with his “sock,” were nearly all the persuasion she needed to set to removing his jeans with her teeth. She closed her eyes. “Back up, bud, or I’ll help you fit in those trews,” she threatened. “With your sword, if necessary.”

  “Look at me, Gwendolyn,” he said softly.

  “Gwen,” she snapped.

  “Gwen,” he acquiesced. Right before he kissed her.

  7

  Heat lightning, Gwen thought. His touch is electrifying. Attraction sizzled between them, and she knew he felt it too, because he drew back and looked at her strangely. Then, nudging her lips apart with his thumb, he opened her mouth and brushed his firm lips back and forth over hers, creating a light and irresistible friction.