Kiss of the Highlander (8 page)

Before she’d indulged in her Great Fit of Rebellion, she’d dutifully dated a few of her father’s choices. Dry, intellectual men, they’d regarded her more often than not through eyes red-rimmed from constant peering into a microscope or textbook, with little interest in her as a person, and great interest in what her formidable parents might do for their careers. There’d been no passionate declarations of undying love, only fervent assurances that they would make a brilliant team.

Gwendolyn Cassidy, the sheltered daughter of famous scientists who had elevated themselves from stark poverty as children to esteemed positions at Los Alamos National Laboratory doing top-secret quantum research for the Department of Defense, had had a nearly impossible time getting a date outside of the cliquish scientific community in which she’d been raised. At college it had been even worse. Men had dated her for three reasons: to try to get in good with her parents, to see if she had any theories worth stealing, and, last but not least, for the prestige of dating the “prodigy.” Those few who’d been attracted by her other endowments (translated: generous C cups) hadn’t lingered long after learning who she was and what courses she was acing while they were hardly managing to skate by.

She’d been frighteningly cynical by twenty-one.

She’d dropped out of the doctorate program at twenty-three, carving an irrevocable schism between herself and her parents.

Lonely as hell by twenty-five. A veritable island.

Two years ago, she’d thought changing jobs—taking a nice, normal, average job with nice, normal, average people who weren’t scientists—would fix her problems. She’d tried so hard to fit in and build a new life for herself. But she’d finally realized it wasn’t her career choice that was the problem.

Although she’d told herself that she’d come to Scotland to shuck her virginity, the small deception was how she concealed her deeper and much more fragile motives.

The problem was—Gwen Cassidy didn’t know if she had a heart.

When Drustan had spoken so passionately of what he was looking for in a woman, she’d nearly flung herself at him, madman or no. Family, talking, taking quiet pleasure in the simple lush beauty of the Highlands, having children who would be loved. Fidelity, bonding, and a man who wouldn’t kiss another woman if he were wed. She sensed that Drustan was a bit of an island himself.

Oh, she knew why she’d really come to Scotland—she needed to know if love really was an illusion. She was desperate to change, to find something to shake her up and make her
feel
.

Well, this certainly qualified. If she wanted to become a new person, what better way to start than to force herself to completely suspend disbelief, throw caution to the wind. To toss aside all that she’d been raised to believe and plunge into life, messy as it was. To rescind control over what was happening around her and entrust that control to a madman. Raised in an environment where intellect was prized above all else, here was her chance to act impulsively, on gut instinct.

With a
gorgeous
madman, at that.

It would be good for her. Who knew what might come of it?

She could feel a perfectly vicious cigarette craving coming on.

“Come,” he said, when she returned. He’d built a fire in her absence, and she considered asking for her lighter back but was too exhausted to summon up the energy for a potential ownership dispute. Violating her privacy utterly, he’d rummaged through her pack and created a paltry bed by strewing her previously clean clothing upon the ground. A recent acquisition—a vibrantly crimson thong, adorned with black velvet silhouettes of romping kittens—poked out from between a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. She spent a moment calculating the odds that he would pull out the only thong she’d bought but never worn—the thong she planned to wear when she lost her virginity.

Inconceivable
. She glared suspiciously at him, certain he’d displayed her panties on purpose, but if so, he was the picture of innocence.

“I cannot procure food for you this night,” he apologized, “but we will eat in the morning. For now, you must sleep.”

She said nothing, merely cast an irritable glance at her clothes, strewn across twigs, leaves, and dirt. Further irritating her, he was standing at the perimeter of the light cast by the flames, making it difficult to see him clearly. But she didn’t miss that lazily sensual, lionlike toss of his head that sent his silky dark hair falling over his shoulder. It
screamed
come hither, and pissed her off even more.

He met her glare with a provocative smile and gestured toward her clothing. “I made you a pallet upon which to sleep. In my time I would spread my plaid for you. But I would also warm you with the heat of my naked body. Shall I remove my plaid?”

“No need to bother,” she sputtered hastily. “My clothes are fine. Wonderful. Really.”

Despite the abysmal lowlands of her emotions and feverish highlands of her hormones, she was bone-weary and desperate for the plateau of sleep. She’d gotten more exercise today than she got in a month at home. The small pile of her clothing near the fire suddenly seemed as inviting as a down bed. “What about you?” she asked, reluctant to sleep if he was going to be awake.

“Although you doona believe me, I slept for a very long time and find I am most reluctant to close my eyes again. I shall stand watch.”

She regarded him warily and didn’t move.

“I would be pleased to give you something to help you relax,” he offered.

Her brows furrowed. “Like what? A drug or something?” she asked indignantly.

“I have been told I have a calming effect with my hands. I would rub your back, caress your hair until you drifted peacefully.”

“I don’t think so,” she said icily.

A quick white flash of teeth was the only indication she had that he was amused. “Then I bid you, lie down before you fall down. We must cover a great deal of ground tomorrow. Although I could carry you, I sense you would not appreciate it.”

“Damn right, MacKeltar,” she muttered, as she relented and dropped to the ground near the fire. She bundled her button-down into a pillow of sorts and stuffed it under her head.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked softly out of the darkness.

“I am downright toasty,” she lied.

And in truth, she shivered for only a short time before inching closer to the fire and falling into deep and dreamless oblivion.

Drustan watched Gwen Cassidy sleep. Her blond hair, streaked with darker and lighter highlights, shimmered in the firelight. Her skin was smooth, her lips lush and pink, the lower one quite a bit fuller than the top. Kiss-ably full. Above almond-shaped eyes, her dark-blond brows arched upward at the outer edges, adding an aristocratic disdain to the scowl she so frequently wore. She was lying on her side, and her plump breasts pressed together in dangerously tempting curves, but it wasn’t her physical attributes alone that stirred him.

She was the most unusual woman he’d ever encountered. Whatever had shaped her temperament, she was a curious blend of cautiousness and audacity, and he’d begun to realize she had a clever and quick mind. So wee, she was unafraid to thrust her chin in the air and shout at him. He suspected that audacity was more her nature, while her cautiousness was a learned thing.

Her audacity would serve her well in the trials to come, and there would be many. He poked at his memory fragments, which were still frighteningly incomplete. He had two days to reclaim perfect recall. It was imperative that he isolate and study every detail of what had happened prior to his enchantment.

With a heavy sigh, he turned his back to the fire and stared out into the night at a world he didn’t understand and had no desire to be a part of. He found her century unsettling, felt bombarded by the unnatural rhythm of her world, and was comforted by the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to spend too much longer in it. As he listened to the unfamiliar sounds of the night—a humming in the air few would hear, a strange intermittent thunder in the sky—he reflected upon his training, sifting through neatly compartmentalized vaults of information stored in his mind.

Precision was imperative, and he subdued a surge of unease. He’d never done what he would soon have to do, and although his upbringing had prepared him for it, the possibility for error was immense. His memory was formidable, yet the purpose for which he’d been trained had never taken into account the possibility that he would not be at Castle Keltar when he performed the rite, and thus would not have access to the tablets or any of the books.

Although it was widely believed that Druidry had waned—leaving only inept practitioners of lesser spells—and that the ancient scholars had forbidden writing of any kind, both beliefs were myths that had been cultivated and spread by the few remaining Druids themselves. It was what they
wished
the world to believe, and Druids were ever adept at illusion.

On the contrary, Druidry thrived, although the prone-to-melodrama British Druids scarce possessed the knowledge to cast an effective sleep spell, in Drustan’s estimation.

Many millennia ago, after the
Tuatha de Danaan
had left the mortal world for stranger haunts, their Druids—mortals and unable to accompany them—had vied among themselves for power.

There had ensued a protracted battle that had nearly destroyed the world. In the horrifying aftermath, one bloodline had been selected to preserve the most sacred of the Druid lore. And so the Keltar’s purpose had been mapped out. Heal, teach, guard. Enrich the world for the wrong they’d done it.

The fabulous and dangerous knowledge, including sacred geometry and star guides, had been carefully inked in thirteen volumes and upon seven stone tablets, and the Keltar Druids guarded that bank of knowledge with their souls. They tended Scotland, they used the stones only when necessary for the world’s greater good, and they did their best to quell the rumors about them.

The ritual he would perform at
Ban Drochaid
required certain formulas that must be without error, and he was uncertain of three of them. The critical three. But who would ever have believed he would be trapped in a future century? If they arrived at the stones and Castle Keltar was gone and the tablets were missing—well, that was why he needed Gwen Cassidy.

Ban Drochaid,
his beloved stones, were the white bridge, the bridge of the fourth dimension: time. Millennia ago, Druids had observed that man could move in three ways: forward and back, side to side, up and down. Then they’d discovered the white bridge, whereupon they could move in a fourth direction. Four times a year the bridge could be opened: the two equinoxes and the two solstices. No simple man could avail himself of the white bridge, but no Keltar had ever been simple. From the beginning of time, they had been bred like animals to be anything but.

Such power—the ability to travel through time—was an immense responsibility. Thus they adhered unfailingly to their many oaths.

She thought him mad now; she would surely abandon him if he overburdened her mind with more of his plans. He couldn’t risk telling her anything else. His Druid ways had made too many women flee him already.

For what time they had left together in her century, he’d like to continue seeing that glimmer of desire in her gaze, not revulsion. He’d like to feel like a simple man with a lovely woman who wanted him.

Because the moment he finished the ritual, she would fear him and mayhap—nay, assuredly—hate him. But he had no other choice. Only the ritual and a fool’s hopes. His oaths demanded he return to avert the destruction of his clan. His oaths demanded he do whatever was necessary to accomplish that.

He closed his eyes, hating his choices.

If Gwen had awakened during the night, she would have seen him, head tossed back, gazing up at the sky, speaking softly to himself in a language dead for thousands of years.

But once he’d spoken the words of the spell to enhance sleep, she slept peacefully until morning.

S
EPTEMBER
20
10:02
A.M
.

         
6
         
 

Gwen had never felt so acutely five foot two and
three-quarter inches in her life as she did trailing behind the behemoth who didn’t understand the concept of physical limitations.

As she stretched her legs, swinging her arms to generate greater forward momentum—fully aware of how futile the effort was because momentum was contingent upon mass, and his mass was three times hers, ergo, he could outwalk her to infinity barring any unforeseen complications—her temper snapped. “MacKeltar, I’m going to
kill
you if you don’t slow down.”

“I am curious to know how you plan to do so, when you can’t even pace me,” he teased.

She was not in the mood for teasing. “I’m tired and I’m
hungry
!”

“You ate one of those bars from your pack a scarce quarter hour past, when we stopped to examine your map and plot the fastest course,” he reminded.

“I’m hungry for real food.”
And I’m going to need it,
she thought with a sinking feeling, for the tourist map in her pack had indicated the fastest course from their current location to
Ban Drochaid
was eighty miles, cross-country.

“Shall I snare and spit a rabbit for you?”

A bunny? Was he serious?
Eww
. “No. You should stop at the next village. I can’t believe you didn’t let me go into Fairhaven. We were right there. There was coffee there,” she added plaintively.

“To reach
Ban Drochaid
by tomorrow, we must travel without pause.”

“Well,
you
keep stopping to pick up those stupid stones,” she grumbled.

“You will understand the purpose of my stupid stones tomorrow,” he said, patting his sporran, where he’d stored them.

“Tomorrow. You’ll show me tomorrow. Everything will be explained tomorrow. I don’t live for tomorrow, and you require a lot of faith, MacKeltar,” she said, exasperated.

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 depositing 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.