He was going to have to remove her from the horse, for wee as she was, she would indeed hurt herself jumping, and then there would be hell to pay with Silvan.
You made her jump from the horse? Silvan would exclaim.
I had to. I was afraid if I touched her, I wouldn’t be able to stop touching her. Aye, that would go over well. His da would be wildly amused. He’d tell Dageus and they would laugh uproariously. He’d never live it down. Drustan MacKeltar, afraid to touch a wee wench who scarce reached his ribs. He prayed his future wife provoked similar feelings of desire in him.
“Come.” He reluctantly raised his hands.
She brightened instantly, slid off the horse, and hopped into his arms.
She hit him with enough impact that it caused his breath to leave his lungs in a soft whoosh of air and forced him to wrap his arms around her to keep her from falling.
Her hair was in his face and smelled like the heather-scented soap Nell made in the kitchens. Her breasts were soft, crushed mounds against his chest, and her legs were sort of—nay, no sort of about it—they were wrapped around him.
No wonder Dageus hadn’t resisted. It was a wonder his brother hadn’t tupped the lass right then and there.
The muscles in his arms defied his brain’s command to release her. Perversely, they tightened around her.
“Drustan?” Her voice was soft, her breath sweet, her body womanly and supple against his.
It was futile, he thought darkly. He shifted her abruptly so that her lips were accessible and did what he’d been longing to do since the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He kissed her. Punishingly. In his mind he was erasing Dageus’s kiss from her lips, wiping the slate clean, imprinting himself and only himself upon her.
The moment their lips met, a frantic energy sizzled the length and breadth of his body the likes of which he’d never felt in his life.
And she kissed him back wildly. Her wee hands sank into his hair, her nails grazing his scalp. Her legs tightened shamelessly around his waist, capturing the hardness of him snugly against her woman’s heat. Hers was a hotter kiss, and more carnal in nature, than aught he’d ever received.
He responded like a man starved for the touch of a woman. He cupped his hands beneath her luscious bottom, sliding the fabric of her skirt away from her legs. He kissed and kissed and kissed her, clamping her head firmly between his hands, nibbling and suckling and tasting her hot, lying mouth, wondering how it could be so sweet. Shouldn’t a lying tongue taste bitter? Not like honey and cinnamon.
An image, startling in its clarity and strangeness, flashed through his mind: this woman, clad in strange garments—half a chemise and ruined trews—regarding him in a silvered glass as he struggled with a faded and dingy blue pair of trews.
He’d ne’er worn such trews in his life.
Yet his lust for her trebled at the onslaught of the image. Plunging his tongue into her mouth, he pressed his lower body against her and pulled her more tightly against his hard shaft. His wits were drugged by the scent of her, the taste of her, the raw mating heat of her.
“Milord?” a faint, startled voice said behind him.
Irritation flickered through his veins that someone dared interrupt. By Amergin, it was his choice if he chose to hang himself! This woman had placed herself in his castle, in his arms. He wasn’t married yet!
There was the sound of a throat being cleared, then a gentle laugh.
He closed his eyes, drew upon his Druid discipline, and thrust her away, but the wee witch sucked his lower lip as she went, causing his desire to peak feverishly. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips deliciously swollen.
And he was hard as a rock.
Disgusted with himself, he pasted a smile on his face, adjusted his sporran about his waist, and turned to greet the man who’d saved him from tupping the lass in the street without a thought for his betrothed.
“Tomas,” he hailed the elderly, gray-haired goldsmith. He tugged Gwen forward by the hand and thrust her beneath the smith’s nose, watching intently for any flicker of recognition. There was none.
The smith merely beamed, his gaze darting between the two of them. “Silvan must be delighted, just delighted,” he exclaimed. “He’s been longing for grandchildren and he’s finally goin’ to get his wedding. I saw the two of ye out the window and simply had to come see for meself. Welcome, milady!”
As Tomas turned a beatific gaze on Gwen, Drustan realized the smith was laboring under the mistaken assumption that Gwen was his latest betrothed.
Drustan clamped his teeth around the introduction he’d been about to make, not about to disabuse him of the notion. The last thing he needed was more rumors circulating in the village that Anya might one day overhear. Perhaps Tomas would simply forget what he’d seen or, after meeting the true bride, wisely keep his own counsel. The less said about it the better.
“I vow, in all my life I’ve ne’er seen Drustan MacKeltar escort a lass about town. He’s of a certain ne’er stood and kissed one in the street for all to see. Och, but where are me wits? Addled by seein’ the laird in love, they be,” he said, bowing hastily. “Bidding ye welcome again, and please, do come in.”
Gwen cast Drustan an arch, heated glance that seared him to the bone, before following Tomas into the shop.
He remained outside a few moments, taking longer than necessary to secure his horse, breathing deeply of the crisp, cool air. In love, my arse, he thought darkly. I’ve been bewitched.
17
Gwen was ecstatic. He’d kissed her. Kissed her just like he’d kissed her in her century, and she’d glimpsed her Drustan in his eyes. And the smith had thought they looked to be in love!
There was hope, after all. In her century, he’d claimed he wouldn’t kiss a woman were he betrothed or wed. Well, she thought cheerily, he’d just broken that rule. Perhaps if she dug deep enough, reminded him of things they’d done in her time, he would somehow remember it all, given time. She’d save him and he’d break his engagement and marry her, she thought dreamily.
Resisting the urge to fan herself, she glanced about Tomas’s cottage. Drustan was outside fiddling with the horse, but she knew that wasn’t the only reason he’d remained outside. He had responded exactly as he had in her century, and she knew Drustan was a man of strong passion. He didn’t like to stop once he got started.
She hoped he was damn uncomfortable in those comfy-looking snug leather trews he’d refused to buy for her.
It was possible that delight colored her impression of the tiny sixteenth-century cottage, but she found it lovely. It was cozy and warm, filled with a light floral scent, probably from all those herb thingies hanging upside down in the windows, she decided. A dazzling array of exquisite silver work, plates and goblets, beautifully lettered gold paternosters and religious tableaux were scattered about on tables and shelves. An illuminated manuscript lay on a long, narrow table, surrounded by half a dozen wax candles placed at a cautious distance. There were no oil globes in the room, only candles, and when she inquired, Tomas explained that the oil caused a residue when burned that was more damaging to his manuscripts and gold work than the fine candles he purchased. Indeed, he burned only certain types of wood in his hearth, to minimize the soot. His craft was so detailed and so well-loved by the laird of the MacKeltar, he’d explained, that Silvan himself had paid to have the costly glass windows installed so that he might work by brightest daylight.
“This is for Silvan,” he said, beckoning her over to see the tome, eager to display his craft.
“It’s lovely,” she exclaimed, lifting the embossed cover with the devout care of a bookworm. The pages looked ancient and were written in yet another unintelligible language, with all kinds of symbols that danced just beyond her comprehension. The edges had been painstakingly gold-leafed, with delicate Celtic knotwork. She peered at Tomas. “What is this…er, tome about?”
Tomas shrugged. “Verily, I have no idea. Silvan’s tomes are oft in unusual tongues.”
br /> Just then, Drustan swept into the cottage on a gust of warm, heather-scented air and closed the door with a bang. “Have you finished with it?” he said abruptly, eager to get on to the next stop to see if he could locate someone who recognized her.
Tomas shook his head. “Nay. It will take a few days more. But here’s the other volume Silvan wanted. I dinna mind telling ye it took me nigh upon a year to get me hands on a legible copy.”
When he offered the slim volume to Drustan, Gwen reacted instinctively and plucked it from his hand. “Oh, God,” she breathed, staring at it.
She was holding a copy of Claudius Ptolemy’s geocentric view of the universe, which had proposed that the sun and planets orbited the earth and would not be decisively argued in published form until 1543, with Copernicus’s On the Revolution of Heavenly Orbs. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. It was all she could do not to pet the sixteenth-century copy.
“I’ll take that,” Drustan snapped, taking it from her hands.
She blinked at him, too astonished to protest. She’d had a sixteenth-century edition of Ptolemy’s work in her hands, touching her skin.
“I’ll stop by in a fortnight for the other tome,” Drustan told Tomas. “Come,” he said to Gwen.
Bidding Tomas farewell, Gwen pondered the significance of that volume. Drustan MacKeltar—sixteenth-century cosmologist? What a hoot, she thought. She’d tried so hard to turn her back on physics, but when her heart finally decided to get involved, it was with a man who studied planets and mathematics.
He was really going to have to start trusting her. They had so much to talk about, if he’d only trust her.
Gwen sighed as they entered the Greathall. She’d greeted the day with optimism, only to end it in defeat. She’d accomplished no more than she had last night, and she finally realized that although he was being courteous, he found her story amusing, nothing more. Three times he’d made reference to her “weakness of wit.” He thought she was crazy, she realized sadly. And she began to see that the more she spoke of the future, the crazier he would think her.
Tirelessly, he’d dragged her from merchant’s shop to stall, making certain everyone in the village saw her, toting her about until she was suffering medieval overload. Not once had he touched her again—in fact, he’d hardly even looked at her.
It had been an exhilarating and fascinating foray into the past, with scents and sights that had left her gaping on more than one occasion. But not once had he permitted her to steer the conversation to the issue that was most important: that he would be abducted and his clan destroyed in approximately a month.
Each time she brought it up, he’d shoved her into yet another booth or wandered off into the throng to greet someone.
On the ride back to the castle, he’d been so tense behind her that she’d finally leaned forward as far as she could and clutched the black’s mane. She’d given up and simply reveled in the beauty of the sunset as it had tinted the heathery fields a deep violet. She’d glimpsed a mischievous pine marten darting about the meadow, pausing to stand with its furry little paws upon a stump, nose questioning the breeze. A luminous snowy owl had hooted softly in the branches of the forest beyond. The steady hum of frogs and crickets had filled the air with song.
Full night had fallen by the time they entered the open gates of the castle.
Don’t you ever close the gates? she’d asked, frowning. The barbican, constructed of massive stones, sported a formidable portcullis that looked as if it hadn’t been lowered in a century. The gate itself was fashioned of wood three feet thick and shod with steel.
And standing wide open.
Not one guard sat the barbican.
He’d laughed, the epitome of arrogant male. Nay, he’d replied easily. Not only do the Keltar house the largest garrison beside the king’s, there’s been naught but peace in these mountains for years.
Well, perhaps you should, she’d said worriedly. Just anyone could wander in.
Just anyone has, he’d replied with a pointed look. The only thing within leagues of my demesne that fashes me currently rests astride my horse.
“I am not a threat to you,” she said, picking up the thread of the conversation where it had left off a few moments ago. “Why can’t you simply consider what I’ve told you? You saw for yourself that no one knew me in Balanoch. For heaven’s sake, if it looks like a skunk and smells like a skunk, it probably is a skunk,” she said, exasperated.
Drustan unsheathed his sword, propped it by the door, and glanced at her with a perplexed expression. “A skunk?”
“A mammal, weasel family, one of those smelly—okay, so that probably wasn’t the best metaphor.” She shrugged. “What I meant was, be logical. If you simply listen and ask the right questions, you’ll find that my story makes sense.”
He said nothing, and she heaved another sigh. “I give up. I don’t care if you believe me, if you’ll just promise me two things.”
“My hand in marriage is already given, lass.”
Gwen closed her eyes and sighed. “Don’t let Dageus go to the Elliott’s.”
“ ‘Tis too late. He rode out this morn shortly after we did.”
Gwen eyes flew back open. “You must go after him,” she cried.
“Doona fash yourself, lass. I sent a full complement of guard with him—”
“What if that’s not enough? I don’t know how big the battle was!”
“He rides with over two hundred of the finest fighting men Alba boasts. No trivial battle between clan will have such numbers. A clan dispute is usually naught more than a score or two of angry brothers and kinfolk.”
Gwen eyed him. “Are you sure that it might not be a bigger battle?” He did know his century. Somehow, she’d gotten the idea that medieval battles were all as grand as she’d seen in Braveheart. Probably from watching Braveheart.
“The Campbell and Montgomery frequently feud, and ne’er have they sent full armies to meet one another. Even if they did, an extra two hundred on the Montgomery’s side would make them victorious. My men are well-trained.”
Gwen nibbled her lip worriedly. Perhaps that was all they needed to do to keep Dageus safe. Already things had been changed. Initially, according to what Drustan had told her in her century, Dageus had gone with only a dozen guard.
“In addition, I instructed the captain that under no circumstances may Dageus engage in battle. Robert would truss Dageus to his horse and flee battle before defying my orders.” He sighed before adding, “I also told Dageus what you claimed, before he rode out. He will exercise caution. Nay,” he said, when she looked at him hopefully, “not because I believe you, but because I will take no chances, however remote, with my brother’s life. We will see if the battle you claimed truly does come to pass.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” she exclaimed. “Will you believe me then? If it does?”
His expression grew shuttered. “Off to your chambers, lass. I will have Nell send up a bath and food.”
“Oh, get real, Drustan. You don’t really believe I could get two clans to go to war against each other just to make my point, do you? That’s ridiculous.”
His gaze swept her from hair to slippers and back again. “When I look at you, lass, I doona know what I believe and, at the moment, I’m damned weary of looking at you.”
“I guess that means I don’t get a good-night kiss, huh?” she said, hiding her wounded feelings behind a teasing little pucker.
He froze, his gaze fixed on her lips. Then he shook himself and scowled. “I am a betrothed man, lass,” he said stiffly.
“Remind me to remind you of that the next time you kiss me like you did today,” she said pointedly. “You can’t just go about kissing one minute and hiding behind a fiancée the next. As you said—you aren’t married yet.”
“And as I recall you didn’t care for that sentiment.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“And I kissed you only because you threw yourself upon m
e—”
“Oh, hardly. You kissed me because you wanted to,” she said coolly. “I may not understand much about emotion, and I may be new to sex, but one thing I do know is that you want to kiss me.”
She pivoted and stomped up the stairs.
His mouth suddenly dry, Drustan watched her go. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She was right. He did want to. Again and again and again. Until she melted against him and begged him to take her. New to tupping? He’d like to teach her anything and everything.
And, furthermore, he didn’t think he could ever grow weary of looking at Gwen Cassidy.
18
She was going to seduce him.
That was the solution.
When he’d kissed her yesterday, she’d glimpsed a tiny bit of her Drustan in his eyes. She was simply going to have to kiss him back to his senses. Perhaps with each caress he’d reclaim a dim fragment of memory.
She rather liked that idea.
And his fiancée? her conscience whispered.
All’s fair in love and war, her heart growled. Sorry, Anya, she appended apologetically. I’m not really a man-stealing girl, but I’ve fallen in love with him and I’m not giving up without a fight.
Eyeing herself in the mirror, she smoothed the silk gown and examined herself. The deep-indigo dress made her eyes look bluer than usual. With her cosmetics bag in God-only-knew-what dimension (the scientist briefly pondered a sort of Flatland, wouldn’t that be a hoot?), she was grateful her lashes were thick and dark and her skin smooth. But she’d give a lot for her Chap-stick, her toothbrush, and even one pair of panties.
Not bad, she decided, turning from side to side. She fluffed her bangs with her fingers, tousling them. She felt rather…soft and curvy and pretty. She hadn’t realized that wearing a long silky gown might affect a woman’s attitude. It made her feel far more inclined to be feminine than a lab coat ever had. It accentuated all her curves and emphasized her slim waist. The scooped bodice made much of her cleavage.