Aye, she would haver. “I caught your name the first time, lass.”
“And as you know, Gwen asked me to come,” she chirped.
Dageus nearly dropped the carafe at that. He knew no such thing. He placed the carafe carefully on the counter before turning to face her. “Indeed,” he said slowly. Gwen had sent her? Was he dreaming?
She nodded encouragingly. “I’m here to help you,” she said gently.
To help him? Och, by Amergin, the gods were smiling on him! This was the last thing he would have expected of Gwen!
But all of a sudden, a recent conversation he’d had with Gwen when she’d last visited him made more sense. She’d mentioned several times that she disliked him being alone so much. She’d worried that it wasn’t good for him. She’d seemed to be hinting around at something, but had left without disclosing what had been on her mind, as if the subject had been too uncomfortable for her to broach.
This was it then. She’d devised a solution to his loneliness. And yet another way to keep the thirteen in check. With a whore, bought and paid for. Although he’d ne’er have expected it of her, it was, he admitted, a tidy solution. He rubbed his jaw, pondering the fascinating development.
“With your problems,” Elisabeth continued, with another of those little nods.
“Um-hmm.” He eyed her leisurely from head to toe, digesting his bonny fortune. Thinking how he would savor peeling off layer after layer of her clothing.
“I know you might find it difficult to relax with a perfect stranger—”
“Not at all, lass,” he said silkily.
“—but I think you’ll find I’m a good listener.”
Listener? He’d liked his women making noise and a lot of it, not listening.
“So I thought we could start tomorrow, and just get comfortable with each other today.”
Still trying to assimilate that the lass had been sent by Gwen to share his bed, Dageus turned back to the coffee-maker and finished preparing it in silence.
It felt odd to him, he realized. Although he desired her intensely, and had only moments before been planning her seduction, he didn’t care for her speaking of such things so casually. It chafed his pride. It chafed what remained of his heart.
But not so much that he’d send the lass away. Nay, nowhere near that much.
“I see no reason to wait until tomorrow,” he said, coming to a swift decision. His entire body was tense with wanting. He’d been four months without a woman, and this one turned his blood to fire. Once he’d bedded her he’d wager she’d not again speak so casually of helping him. Nay, he’d tup her ’til she melted into a dreamy-eyed lass, and free that wild-haired creature he suspected lurked just beneath the proper surface. Then he’d help her. To a full measure of carnal bliss. And she’d stay with him because she wanted to—not because she’d been paid to do so. Dageus might be certain of little else of late, but he was unequivocally certain of his expertise with the lasses. When he’d lost his fair Brea, he’d devoted himself to learning everything there was to know about pleasuring a woman, certain that if he’d been better, if he’d been able to make it for her the way it had felt to him, she’d have waited for him. No matter how long it had taken.
“Are you certain? I mean, you feel comfortable with me already?” She beamed up at him, looking inordinately pleased by the thought.
“Och, aye, lass,” he said, feeling inexplicably irritable. “More than comfortable enough to tup.”
“Toop?” she echoed blankly, her smile wobbling a bit.
“Er …” Dageus rummaged about for another word from her century that she might be more familiar with, and seized the vernacular he’d picked up recently. The word had confused him at first, being used for such a variety of reasons. “Fuck,” he clarified.
The smile fell right off her face, and she blanched. “FF—Oh! Who said anything about th-that?” She snapped so abruptly straight in her chair that it clattered against the stone floor and nearly toppled over.
He blinked, startled by her reaction. “You did.”
“I did not!”
“You did too,” he said patiently.
“Oh, absolutely not!” she practically shouted.
Dageus blinked. “There’s no need to shout the roof down about my ears, lass.”
“There is if you think I came here to-to—” she broke off, sputtering. She skittered backward in her chair, scooting it bumpily across the stone floor. “Just because I gawked at you doesn’t mean I-I—” she broke off again, cheeks flaming.
Dageus studied her closely. She looked shocked, appalled, and mildly guilty. “Have I misunderstood you, lass?” he asked carefully. “You said Gwen sent you. Why did she send you to my home?”
“To talk to you! To talk about your problems! I’m a psychologist!”
Psychologist? Puzzling over the strange word, one of hundreds he’d encountered during his time in the twenty-first century, he deconstructed it into base parts: psyche and logos—a study of the mind? Gwen had sent some wee young lass to study his mind? What the blethering hell did she think that might accomplish? Disappointment that he wouldn’t be bedding her (at least not at the moment, he thought, with dark amusement) mingled with pure relief that she wasn’t bought and paid for. He hadn’t liked thinking of her, or “tooping,” as a commodity bought and paid for. Ne’er had Dageus MacKeltar exchanged coin for bed play. He’d not liked the feel of it.
Then the absurdity of his foolish assumption struck him, and he made a choking noise, trying to swallow a burst of laughter. When a lass is fashed, a wise man doesn’t laugh, his da, Silvan, had oft reminded him. Such advice had long stood Dageus in good stead with women.
Och, what a fool he’d been, thinking Gwen had sent him a woman to warm his bed! This was what Gwen had been hinting at during her last visit. That she’d be sending him some modern-day mind studier for him to talk to. Talk, my arse, he thought, eyes narrowing. Talk her naked, mayhap.
“Why did you think I was here?” she said stiffly.
“If you haven’t figured that out, lass, leave be,” he warned, rubbing his jaw to hide the smile he couldn’t quite tame. Nay, definitely not bought and paid for. Spitting furious with him at the moment. And lovely as could be, all temper-flushed and sparkly eyed.
“Oh, I’ve figured it out. And I don’t believe for a minute,” she hissed, “that Gwen would send someone to you for that.”
“Verily, upon reflection neither do I, but ’twas a rather glorious moment while I did,” he said easily.
Elisabeth scowled at him, firmly ignoring the tiny voice inside her that was saying, “A glorious moment?” Me? Really? The thought that a man like him might consider her a glorious moment did funny things to her stomach.
His eyes were glittering with amusement and he looked like he was trying not to laugh. If he did, she was afraid she might throw something at him. The man didn’t possess an ounce of civilized embarrassment. He should be mortified, not calmly admitting that he’d found the thought of doing that with her glorious.
And that word! When he’d said that word, it had sent a jolt of pure energy to her, er … parts of herself she shouldn’t be thinking about. She’d been terrified that she’d made a classic Freudian slip. Mentally reviewing their conversation, she hadn’t been able to isolate just how or when, but it had definitely been on her mind, and what woman wouldn’t be thinking such things while looking at him?
A professional, Zanders, which you clearly are not.
How on earth was she going to regain control of the situation?
“Has Gwen ever sent a woman to you for such a thing before?” Elisabeth asked tersely, wondering if she really knew Gwen as well as she thought.
“Nay,” he replied smoothly. “But you know how newly wedded couples are. They think everyone should be experiencing the joys of wedded bliss. Gwen has been trying to matchmake for me, and I merely thought you were her latest effort. There you were saying you wanted me to relax and get to know y
ou, and I thought you were, er … an unusually forward lass.”
“Didn’t Gwen tell you I was arriving yesterday?” Elisabeth asked, frowning. Perhaps Gwen had neglected to mention his psychologist’s gender, and he’d been expecting a man.
He shook his head.
A sudden, terrible thought occurred to her, a thought that positively made her cringe. Reluctantly, she voiced it. “Mr. MacKeltar, did you know that Gwen had hired me to work with you?”
He shook his head. “Nay. Verily, she ne’er mentioned a word of it.”
“You didn’t have any idea that she’d hired a psychologist for you?” Elisabeth repeated, as if rephrasing it slightly might make him change his answer to the one she wanted to hear.
He didn’t. “Nay,” he replied. “Nor have I any need of one, lass.”
Elisabeth closed her eyes, stunned, belatedly understanding why Gwen had wanted her to wait until she returned from the hospital. She’d assumed from Gwen’s letter that Dageus MacKeltar knew Gwen was arranging professional help for him. She’d assumed.
And you know what assuming does, her id needled, makes an ass out of u and me.
She groaned inwardly. A man like him probably had a different woman throwing herself at him every day of the week and two on Sundays. It wasn’t as if she’d shown up on his doorstep waving credentials and looking doctorish. No, she’d shown up in jeans and hiking boots, ogled him from head to toe, and blathered vaguely about helping him with his “problems.” It was no wonder he’d thought she’d been coming on to him.
Completely off kilter, she tried to smooth her hair, only to encounter her cap. She fought the urge to tug it off, toss it down, and stomp on it in frustration. She desperately needed a few minutes to regroup, clear her head, and figure out how best to proceed.
They would simply have to start over, she decided swiftly, and she would do all in her power to salvage what she could of the situation. Failure was unacceptable. Elisabeth opened her eyes and met his gaze levelly. “Mr. MacKeltar—”
“Dageus,” he corrected.
“Mr. MacKeltar, I am going to walk out that door—”
“Please doona be doin’ so, lass—”
“—and knock,” she continued firmly. “You’re going to wait until I knock this time. Then I’m going to introduce myself and explain why I’m here. You’re going to say good morning and offer me a cup of coffee. I’m going to drink the whole thing. Then we’re going to start over and pretend none of this ever happened. Got it?”
He added sugar to his coffee and licked a few grains from the spoon. “Aye.”
Damn him, but he was still trying not to laugh, she realized. Under other circumstances, she, too, might have found it amusing—like, if the horrible ordeal had happened to someone else.
“Okay. Here I go.”
Elisabeth stalked out and slammed the door so hard that the frame rattled.
Dageus saw her jump a little bit out on the stoop, as if she’d not meant to slam it quite so hard.
Leaning back against the counter, he finally let himself laugh. At her display of temper, which he found promising as it hinted of buried passions scarce restrained. At his absurd assumption. At the pleasure of having a woman in his cottage. At feeling like a man—plain and simple. Had she glanced back in the window he was watching her through, she would have seen the picture of relaxation and composure.
Except that every muscle in his body was tensed to spring.
He suspected that if she ventured out into the yard and looked to be running off, he would be tackling her after all. But he’d give her a few minutes to cool off. By Amergin, he needed them, too.
He also needed a few moments to come up with a plan. Fortunately, he’d thought swiftly enough to deflect her question about why he’d assumed she was there to share his bed. It hadn’t been as if he could say, Because it silences the thirteen demons that inhabit me. Nay, that wouldn’t have worked at all.
He couldn’t fathom why Gwen had sent her to talk to him, for Gwen surely knew that no amount of poking about in his mind was going to yield solutions or lay the thirteen to rest. He wondered if Gwen had actually told the lass anything about his problem. He doubted it. Although he’d been in the twenty-first century for only five months, he’d read voraciously and had spent many long hours staring in fascination at television. People from Gwen’s time didn’t believe in anything they couldn’t hold in their hands. Nay, Elisabeth Zanders didn’t look to be a woman who would readily put her trust in things such as Druids and curses and stones that opened gates through time.
Whye’er she’d come, she’d not be discovering his secrets. If she caught the merest glimpse of what he truly was, she’d flee his vale and ne’er return. Even in his own century the lasses had been wary of the Keltar Druids. Now he was Keltar Druid, and growing darker by the day.
He snorted. She wanted to poke about in his mind? He’d let her try, if such was necessary to keep her near him. But it would be on his terms, not hers. Terms he would swiftly spell out for her.
There was a connection between them, the likes of which he’d naught felt before. A full-blown mating heat. A tension that could make them fight with each other, or fall on each other in an entirely different manner. He wanted to explore that connection—nay, he needed to.
A man facing an inevitable death sentence, he was starved for what life remained for him. For a taste of passion; a heady brief swallow of what might have been.
Was it too much to ask that for a few days—a few wee and harmless days—he might forget about the thirteen and be naught but a man?
7
ELISABETH SIPPED HER COFFEE IN SILENCE. IT WAS GOOD and, perversely, that annoyed her. Dark and strong, topped with cream and a sprinkle of raw sugar and cinnamon. Exactly the way she prepared it for herself. Served in a heavy blue-speckled ceramic cup that held the heat. She’d stayed outside long enough that she’d gotten chilled all over again, and she cupped her fingers around the cup, thinking that she didn’t like him taking his coffee the same way she did. It made her feel as if they shared something, and she desperately needed distance from the man.
The kitchen was cozy and intimate, with soft lighting, and cabinets and counters fashioned of honeyed oak that matched the gleaming tables and chairs. The pale stone floor was strewn with woven rugs. Handmade baskets held loaves of crusty breads and bottles of wine, and fired clay jars were labeled with names of spices. It seemed simple for such a man. Even dressed in exercise pants and a T-shirt, there was something powerful and complex about him.
And dangerously attractive. Playgirl’s Man of the Year had nothing on Dageus MacKeltar, she thought ruefully, not that she made a habit of loitering in Barnes & Noble, hiding the annual issue inside a copy of Woman’s World, peeking through the pages, or anything like that.
Elisabeth glanced at him when he rose and went to the counter, where he transferred the coffee from the brewing pot into a thermal carafe. When his back was to her, she studied him intently, noticing that his hair, caught at the nape, looked like it was folded under several times before he’d wrapped it in a leather thong. Wow, she thought, it must fall to his waist when it’s free. The image of a sleek fall of black silk against a naked golden back was unsettlingly erotic. Then again, everything about the man was unsettlingly erotic.
Standing a good foot taller than her, which put him near six-four, Dageus MacKeltar couldn’t have been further from a classic model of a patient needing therapy. He exuded confidence and control. He moved gracefully in his own skin, and seemed easy with silence. He was in exceptional physical condition and didn’t appear to have an insecure bone in his body, not that she’d mind hunting for one—and there she went again, veering straight off the path of professionalism.
Mentally shaking herself, she forced herself to focus, to behave as the Dr. Zanders she planned to be one day. She wished she could already claim the barrier of a title before her name. Better yet, she wished she could claim the experience.
> She tugged off her cap and smoothed her plait, absently retucking stray curls where she could. “Mr. MacKeltar—”
“Dageus,” he interjected, with a smile over his shoulder. “And take off your coat, lass. Make yourself comfortable.”
No way in hell, Elisabeth thought. She needed to be on her toes. She had to get him to agree to counseling. She’d be damned if she’d come all this way, for the promise of so much money, to fail on her first day because she’d made a few bad assumptions. Forcing a smile, she folded her restless hands beneath the table. “Mr. MacKeltar,” she said firmly, “I know we didn’t quite get off on the right foot—”
“Seemed a fine foot to me,” he murmured, moving back toward the table with the carafe.
“—because you didn’t know that Gwen had sent for me,” she continued, ignoring his comment. “But now that we’ve cleared things up, I’d like to—”
“Did Gwen say why she wanted you to see me?” he cut her off. Topping off her coffee, he sat down again, placing the carafe on the table.
So much for controlling the conversation, Elisabeth thought, irritably.
“Well?” he prodded ruthlessly. “Aye or nay, lass?”
“Actually,” she hedged, “we were supposed to discuss things when I arrived yesterday, but the Jamesons said she won’t be getting out of the hospital for a few days.” She frowned then, realizing she might have blundered again. Living in the valley perhaps he’d not yet heard about the accident. “Did you know about Gwen’s accident?”
“Aye, I spoke with Drustan on the phone yestreen. He said ’twas some blethering American driving on the wrong side of the road.”
“If you kept the stupid sheep off the road, an American might have a chance,” she said irritably.
His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Had a wee tussle with a sheep, did you then, lass?”
“A mailbox, while trying to avoid one of the meandering little beasts. Why in the world doesn’t anyone build fences around here?” she said, exasperated—by sheep, by a crappy flight the day before, by lack of information, and, most especially, by the stubborn Scotsman who kept taking control of the conversation that she was supposed to be in charge of.