Highlander in Her Dreams (24 page)

Naked, proud, and leaving her no doubt about how much he wanted her.

He raised his arms over his head, cracking his knuckles, then tossed his hair over his shoulders, the look in his eyes making her wet. “I am ravenous for you,” he growled, reaching for her and stripping off her clothes so quickly, she was naked in his arms before she could even blink.

Crossing the room with swift, easy strides, he lowered her onto the bed. He joined her, kissing her long and hard, one hand kneading her breasts while he slid the other between her thighs, rubbing and probing the sleek, damp softness there. Groaning, he cupped her firmly, her hot wetness and the musky scent of her arousal making him run hard as granite. She went soft and pliant against him, her sweet moans and the way she opened her mouth beneath his firing his blood, making him burn for her.

“I must taste you,” he purred, covering her body with his and turning his attention to her breasts, smoothing his face against their fullness. He licked and laved them, flicking her nipples with his tongue, then drawing one deep into his mouth, suckling, as he continued to rub her silken heat, taking special care to keep a circling finger on her most sensitive spot.

She whimpered, rocking her hips and pressing herself against his hand, then went limp again, a great shudder rippling through her. “Don't stop,” she begged, her voice a mere whisper, her legs opening, giving him greater access.

“Och, lass, I may no' stop for days.” He pushed up on his elbows to look at her, the sight of her parted, kiss-swollen lips and passion-heavy eyes making him even harder.

His heart pounding as fiercely as the hot throbbing in his loins, he returned to her breasts, once more licking her satiny-smooth flesh before moving lower, trailing hot, openmouthed kisses down her stomach, stopping only when he reached her triangle of soft, fragrant curls, the rich, musky scent of her almost splitting his soul.

“Jesu God!” He reached down and gripped himself, squeezing hard until the sharp edge receded, not wanting to spill before he'd had enough of her.

“
Aidan…”
Her voice came even softer, a faint shiver in the air, a barely-there gasp in the wild thunder drumming in his ears.

But she opened her legs wider, giving him what he needed, her slick woman's flesh wet, glistening, and beautiful in the candlelight, his for the taking.

Needing her badly, he stared down at her, drinking in her beauty as he slid his hands up and down her inner thighs, again and again, urging them even wider apart with each possessive pass of his hands. Far from resisting such intimacy, she only moaned softly, allowing him to open her fully.

Then, just when he was sure he'd burst no matter how fiercely he might squeeze himself, he plunged his face between her legs and nuzzled her roughly, pulling in great, rousing breaths of her hot, womanly scent. Groaning, he opened his mouth over all of her, sucking hard, needing the taste of her, craving and burning for her with a madness he'd never felt for any other woman.

“I will ne'er get enough of you,” he vowed, breathing the words against her pulsing heat. “Ne'er in a thousand lifetimes. You are mine…forever.”

She said nothing, but another little quiver sped through her. And, he'd swear, the scent of her arousal deepened, as did the wetness of her slippery-sleek flesh.

“Ach, but you are sweet!” He rubbed his head back and forth against her, tasting, licking, and nipping.

Most especially licking.

Long, leisurely broad-tongued strokes, each greedy sweep of his tongue thorough and claiming. The fierceness of his desire enflamed him, his need so powerful he thrust his hands beneath her, digging his fingers into her buttocks as he lifted her hips, needing her even closer to his questing, licking tongue.

The same tongue that would have had her writhing in ecstasy were he licking her in their dreams.

Only this time, she wasn't writhing at all.

Truth was, she wasn't even moving.

The wild pounding of Aidan's heart slowed a beat, the furious thunder of his blood in his ears quieting just enough for him to note that her sweet moans and whimpers had stopped too.

Frowning, he slowed his licking, his tongue coming to rest in the sleek dampness of her slick heat. Something was wrong.

Horribly wrong.

His passion ebbing, he sat up, his pride stinging to see that she'd fallen asleep! Her lips were still parted, but her eyes had gone shut. Eyes, he now suspected, that hadn't looked at him with lust-heavy need, but had been weighted with imminent sleep.

“By the Rood!” He pulled a hand down over his face, then blew out a breath. Frustration warring with his wounded pride and a certain still-aching
problem
, he considered helping himself to ease but cast aside the notion at once.

Kira slept too deeply.

His curse alone should have wakened her.

Yet she slept on, her sweet body still as stone, her face pale in the moonlight.

“Kee-
rah
!” He leapt from the bed and reached for her, shaking her by the shoulders, but she remained limp, her eyes closed and her head lolling to the side.

“Saints, lass, speak to me!” He shook her again, his blood once more roaring in his ears and his heart galloping, each fearing beat slamming against his ribs. “What ails you?”

But only silence answered him.

“Damnation!” He eased her back against the pillows, relief flooding him when he pressed his ear to her breast and heard the steady beat of her heart.

Faint, but steady.

Her skin felt cold, her soft breath tinged with something he hadn't noticed before. Trying to place it, he rammed a hand through his hair, dismissing the first thought that came to mind.

Ne'er would he have been so crazed with lust not to have noticed such a piquant scent.

He frowned again.

He'd been
wild
with wanting her.

Wild enough that the hot scent of her musky womanliness must've swept his senses, blotting all else.

Dread piercing him, he sniffed her breath, then ran across the room, grabbing the ewer sitting so innocently beside her parchments. The half-filled cup of wine she'd clearly been sipping from.

Both the wine in the ewer and the cup smelled strongly of monkshood. The same herb in the potion Nils had given to Kendrew.

A fine painkiller and sleep-bringer, but a deadly poison if dosed by the wrong hands.

Cold terror racing up his spine, he threw the ewer and the cup into the hearth, then snatched up his plaid. Grabbing his sword as well, he pounded from the room, two things on his mind. Saving Kira and murdering whoe'er had tried to poison her.

But most of all, keeping Kira alive.

Anything else was unthinkable.

“Nils! Tavish!”

Aidan burst into the shadowed hall, thundering names and frowning darker than ever. With the castle already settled for the night, scarcely a torch remained lit, but he strode over to one of the few and grabbed it from its wall bracket, raising it high. Even so, he could barely see beyond the thing's wavering, smoky glare.

A fury on him like ne'er before, he stormed past sleeping, snoring men, not stopping until he reached the middle of the hall. If he stomped on someone, woe be to them for being in his way. But all was silent save his men's assorted night noises and a few muffled but telltale rustlings and moans floating out from the darkened window alcoves.

“Hellfire everlasting!” he roared when no one stirred.

The fools carousing in the window embrasures had surely heard him.

Blessedly, the castle dogs did. Their sudden barking and his own shouts soon had men jumping from their pallets, pea sacks and ale cups flying everywhere as they scrambled to their feet, grabbing swords and blinking through the shadows, their sleep-bogged eyes searching for the source of such clamor.

Satisfied, he thrust the flaring torch into the startled hands of a spluttering, half-naked kinsman, then leapt up onto a trestle bench, scanning the darkness for the two men he needed most.

“Tavish! Nils!” He jammed fisted hands on his hips as he looked round, trying to penetrate the shadows. “You!” He wheeled toward the torch-holder. “See that every torch is relit. Each candle. I need to see faces!”

The guilt that would show him whose head needed lopping.

But as the man hastened to do his bidding, the only souls to peer back at him were gaping and confused. Men startled from deep, innocent sleep. Nary a one looked blameworthy. They all merely gawped at him as if he'd spouted horns and a tail.

And lost his wits in the bargain.

“Where is Tavish?” He glared back at them, not caring what they thought. “Nils?”

“I am here.” Tavish emerged from one of the window alcoves, his voice raised above the dogs' frantic barking. “Where I e'er sleep,” he added, starting forward.

Aidan scowled at him, not missing the lout's disheveled state, or Sinead's bright head gleaming in the depths of the alcove, her naked breasts and a length of bare leg revealed by the newly blazing torches.

“If you were sleeping, I am a suckling babe!” Aidan jumped down from the trestle bench at his friend's approach. “Where is Nils?” he demanded, grabbing his arm. “Kira's been poisoned—with monkshood!”

Tavish's swagger vanished immediately. “Good God!” He stared at Aidan, eyes wide. “
Monkshood?
You're sure?”

Aidan snorted. “She lies abed still as the grave and with the damnable herb on her breath.” Letting go of Tavish's arm, he glanced round. “Where is Nils?” he repeated, seeing the healer nowhere. “He'll know a cure.”

“But who would—”

“Devil if I know! Only that someone served her tainted wine.” Aidan swept his gawking men with another glare. “I must find Nils before I—”

“If the culprit were here, your bellowing would've put him to flight already.” Tavish tugged at his tunic, smoothed his rumpled plaid. “I heard your hollering before you reached the hall. Sinead—”

“How long has she been with you?” A dark suspicion whipped through Aidan's mind. “Did she carry wine abovestairs?”

Tavish's eyes rounded. “Come, man, you canna think she had aught to do with it?”

Aidan dragged a hand through his hair. “I dinna know what to think. But I
will
hear where she was. From you or the wench herself—if need be!”

“If you think to put a scare in her, you won't be—dressed as you are,” Tavish declared, his gaze flicking the length of him.

The nearly bare length of him, not that he cared.

A hastily donned plaid and well-honed steel were more than enough. His bare hands would do the job—once he knew who bore the guilt.

Male or female.

Putting his hands on his hips, he gave Tavish a look that said so. “Where was she?”

“With me,” Tavish owned, his gaze unwavering. “As were Maili and Evanna.”

“All at once?” Aidan's brows flew upward.

Tavish shrugged. “Until a short while ago, aye. Only Sinead remained with me after—”

“Enough.” Aidan raised a stilling hand. “Where did the other two go?”

“Who knows?” Tavish rubbed his beard, considering. “They are lustful wenches. I saw Maili and Evanna with Mundy earlier, but I think they went to the kitchens to see to laundering Kendrew's bloodied linens. Nils should be there, too. He was after fetching a bite to eat, having watched over Kendrew all night. He—”

“Now you tell me!” Aidan spun on his heel, racing for the screens passage to the kitchens before his friend could finish. “Find the birthing sisters and send them abovestairs!” he called over his shoulder as he ran. “Tell them what happened.”

He'd assume they had no hand in poisoning Kira's wine.

Unfortunately, when he barreled into the kitchens, skidding to a halt on the slick, stone-laid floor, he once again encountered a scene of innocence. Panting, he dragged a hand across his brow, immediately dismissing the two wee spit laddies sleeping on pallets before the double-arched hearth. Cook stood beside them, calmly stirring a fine-smelling mutton stew in his great iron cook pot, while a tired-looking graybeard scrubbed the wooden surface of the bread table, quietly conversing with a second equally ancient man who sat nearby, plucking feathers from a plump hen.

None of them looked like evildoers.

“Where is Nils?” he boomed, regardless.

Cook wheeled around, his stew ladle flying from his fingers. “You'll curdle my stew with your yelling,” he scolded, casting him an indignant glare as he stooped to swipe the spoon off the floor.

Stalking forward, Aidan snatched the spoon from him and tossed it aside, letting the thing fall where it may. “'Tis more than stew that will go bad if I do not soon find Nils or learn who sent tainted wine to my bedchamber!”

“Tainted wine?”
Cook hitched up his belt, his considerable girth jigging even as his eyes widened. “Ne'er would I send fouled spirits to you! To anyone.”

Aidan glowered back at him. “It would seem no one has, yet my lady lies abed near death! I'll have the heads of any bungling fools who—”

“Heigh-ho, lad! What are you shouting about?” Nils strode out of the murk of a hidden corner, Maili the laundress trailing after him, her tumbled flaxen curls and loose bodice leaving no doubt as to what had been going on in the deep shadows of Wrath's kitchens.

“He'd accuse us of serving bad wine.” Cook snatched up his stew ladle a second time.

“No' bad wine,
tainted
wine.” Aidan ignored him, whirling to Nils. “Someone laced the wine with monkshood and my lady drank it.”

The healer's bluster evaporated. “That's not possible. Only I have access to my herb stores,” he said, jangling a ring of keys at his belt. “I mixed Kendrew's sleeping draught myself. Here in the kitchens, then locked away my medicines in yon strongbox.”

“No one but Nils has touched those herbs,” Cook put in, pointing his spoon in the strongbox's direction.

Aidan glanced at the large dome-topped coffer. Not one but two heavy locks held it secure.

As long as Nils's keys remained safely in his possession.

The healer
was
fond of women. By his own accounts, he'd been fleeced more than once by light-fingered lassies, taking advantage of his need for a snooze after pleasure.

Aidan looked at Maili, not surprised that she hadn't bothered to re-lace her gown. Of Wrath's three
laundresses
, she loved her craft best, baring her flesh often and freely. Using her charms to win favors and trinkets from the most jaded, hardened men.

Nils was anything but hardened. Beneath his Nordic bluster, the healer was a lamb.

And, Aidan was sure, Maili craved her comforts too much to risk losing her position at Wrath.

Cook stepped forward, his bearded chin jutting. “I say the lady simply guzzled too much wine! Aye, I doubt the wine was bad at all!”

Aidan frowned. “I smelled the monkshood on Kira's breath, even stronger in the wine.”

“How much did she drink?” Nils's brow crinkled, his face as dark as Aidan's own.

“I canna say. There was a half-f cup on the table.”

Nils drew a sharp breath. “A sip would be enough.”

“Enough for what?” Aidan didn't really want to know.

“If she's had more than a pinch…” Nils shook his head, not needing to say more.

Aidan grabbed his arm, propelling him out the door. “Come!” He was running now. “Her heartbeat is steady and she yet breathes. Make haste so you can help her!”

“Would that I could!” Nils threw him a grim look as they dashed for the stairs. “There isn't a cure for monkshood.”

 

Words filtered through the blackness enveloping Kira. Unlikely words like
monks
and
hoods
. Then Ameri-
cains
and tour buses. Grumblings about lairdly duty and love. Gaelic mumblings that sounded like low, softly muttered prayers, then sharp, furious bursts of anger. Heated words she couldn't decipher, only the outrage behind them. Clucking tongues, hurrying footsteps, the banging of doors. Sometimes, she was certain, the soothing patter of rain. It was a strange mishmash that made no sense, sounds flaring briefly in the darkness only to blur and dim as quickly.

Images came and went, too.

Frightful things, mostly. A gnarled hand plucking what looked to be fat garden slugs from an earthen jar, then dangling the icky beasties above her, only to have a larger, stronger hand sweep into view, knocking the slugs from curled, ancient fingers. Two sets of bright, beady eyes peering at her through the mist, a glimpse of grizzled gray hair, or the weaving flame of a candle held way too close to her face.

A bold swirl of plaid and a glint of raven black hair, proud, wide-set shoulders, and the silvery flash of a flourished sword, the bright red jewel in its pommel shining like a sunburst.

And then there was the cold.

Never had she felt so frozen. Buried under an icy avalanche of snow. A heavy, weighty drift of the white stuff that seemed to come and go, chilling her to the bone, then easing slightly, only to freeze her anew before she could gather strength to crack her leaden eyelids to see where all the snow had come from.

Or if she'd been thrust forward in time again and had accidentally landed inside a giant hotel ice machine. The kind that always seemed to be right outside her hotel room door and that made weird popping and
grrr'ing
noises all night. Not to mention the clatter and commotion when someone just
had
to fetch a bucket of ice in the wee hours.

Thinking about it now, though, made her laugh.

Or rather, she'd have laughed if she could.

Too bad for her, her mouth felt drier than a dustbin and her tongue had turned to sandpaper.

Just as bad, she still couldn't seem to open her eyes.

“Sir!” cackled a high-pitched voice just above her ear. “I do believe she's trying to speak.”

“No, you fool,” chimed a second voice. “'Tis
laughing
she is!”

“Saints be praised!” A third voice filled the room, this one deep, rich, and very masculine. The joy in it made her want to weep. “Kee-
rah
! Sweet lass, speak to me!”

She couldn't do that, so she blinked—or tried to. Especially when her eyes began to water and burn, hot tears damping her lashes and trickling down her cheeks.

Bedwells didn't cry, dammit.

But apparently she was, because not one, but
two
pairs of knotty old hands were suddenly dabbing cloths at her cheeks. Gentle old hands, so caring, she swallowed against the emotion welling in her throat. Unfortunately, dry as her mouth was, her swallow caused an odd rasping sound, ghastly even to her own ears.

So awful it was almost a croak.

No, it was worse.

Kira grimaced. That, she could do.

“You she-biddies are hurting her!” A second male voice boomed, some distant corner of her mind recognizing it as belonging to Nils the Viking. “I told you she didn't need bleeding!”

“Pah!” One of the old women sniffed. “You said she might survive the monkshood if she didn't catch a fever. Her own chilled pea sacks prevented that, but who's to say our leeches didn't draw off whate'er other evils might've been in her?”

“The only evil in her was the poison she drank!” a third manly voice declared.