“What about your betrothed?”
He muttered something about his betrothed that warmed her heart. “But that’s another thing I doona understand, lass. If what you claimed happened did indeed happen, I doona understand why I wouldn’t have woven a spell for you to carry to me. I would have known the possibility existed that I might not make it back. I would surely have given you a memory spell.”
“A m-m-memory sp-spell?” Gwen sputtered. Could it have been that simple all along? Did she have the key to make him remember, but he’d not told her how to use it? What hadn’t she told him so far? She’d deliberately withheld a few details so she might have something to test him with should he suddenly claim to have regained total recall. Closing her eyes, she thought hard, sifting through details. Oh!
Have you a good memory, Gwen Cassidy? he’d asked her in the car as they’d approached Ban Drochaid. “Oh, God. Like something that rhymed?” she shrieked.
“It may have.”
“If you’d given me such a spell, would you have told me how to use it?” she said accusingly.
There was a long silence, then he admitted, “Like as not, I wouldn’t have told you until the last possible moment.”
“And if at the last possible moment you melted?” she pressed.
There was a harsh intake of air, then an extended silence behind the door. Then, “Speak your rhyme if you have one!” he exclaimed.
She turned around and faced the door, then laid her palms and cheek against it.
Quietly but clearly, she spoke.
Drustan was facing the door, his palms spread against the cool wood, his cheek pressed to it. He’d whispered the Druid wedding vows back the moment she’d said them. There was no way she was getting away from him now. His former betrothal meant naught. He was well and truly wed. Druid binding vows could never be broken. There was no such thing as Druid divorce.
He braced himself, waiting for her words, hoping and fearing.
Her melodic voice carried clearly through the door. And as she spoke, the words shivered through him, mixing past and future with a cosmic mortar and pestle.
“Wither thou goest, there goest I, two flames sparked from but one ember; both forward and backward doth time fly, wither thou art, remember.”
He hit the floor doubled over, clutching his head.
Och, Christ, he thought, my head will surely split. It felt as if he were being ripped in two, or had been ripped in two and some unseen force was trying to crush two parts back together again.
It was purest instinct to fight it.
Words from a dream place buffeted him: You don’t trust me.
I do trust you, wee lass. I am trusting you far more than you know. But he wasn’t. He was afraid he’d lose her.
Then images:
Another flash of those blue trews, a naked Gwen beneath him, above him. A crimson scrap of ribbon in his teeth. The white bridge.
You would fight me to the death. The counterfeit’s lips moved soundlessly. I see. I see now why only one lives. ’Tis not nature which is innately indifferent, but our own fear that causes us to destroy each other. I beg you, accept me. Let us both be.
I will never accept you, Drustan roared.
He’d fought, viciously and victoriously.
Let us both be.
Drustan drew upon his Druid will, forcing himself to relax his defenses, forcing himself to submit.
Love her, the counterfeit whispered.
“Och, Gwen,” Drustan breathed. “Love Gwen.”
Gwen eyed the door warily. There’d not been a sound from behind it since the moment she’d said the rhyme.
Worried, she scratched at the door. “Drustan?” she asked nervously.
There was a long silence.
“Drustan, are you okay?”
“Gwen, lass, open this door this very instant,” he ordered. He sounded winded, out of breath.
“You have to answer some questions first,” she hedged, wanting to know exactly who would be stepping out of the garderobe. “What was the name of the store—”
“Barrett’s,” he said impatiently.
“What did you want me to buy you in the store to wear?”
“I wanted purple trews and a purple shirt and you gave me a black T-shirt and black trews and hard white shoes. I didn’t fit in your blue trews and you threatened to help me fit with my sword.” His voice deepened smugly. “But I recall your threats ceased once I kissed you thoroughly. You became quite the amenable lass after that.”
She blushed, remembering exactly how wantonly she’d responded to his kiss. A tremor of excitement raced through her. He was her Drustan again! “So what was the saleslady’s name in Barrett’s? The bitchy, unattractive one,” she added, wrinkling her nose.
“Truth be told, I haven’t the veriest, lass. I had eyes for only you.”
Oh, God, what a great answer!
“Open the bletherin’ door!”
Tears misted her eyes as she leaped up to hit the top lance and knock it loose. It clattered to the floor, followed by the second one.
“And what was I wearing when you made love to me?” she said, kicking the third and fourth out of the way, still unable to believe that she had him back.
“When I made love to you?” he purred through the door. “Nothing. But before that you wore tan trews cut off at the thigh, a chemise cut off at the waist, boots named Timberland, socks named Polo Sport, and a red ribbon I—”
She yanked the door open. “Removed with your teeth and tongue,” she cried.
“Gwendolyn!” He crushed her in his arms and kissed her, a deep soul kiss that seared her all the way down to her toes.
When Gwen wrapped her arms around his neck, he cupped his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her, pulling her legs about his waist. She locked her ankles behind him. He was never getting away from her again.
“You want me, lass. Me. Knowing all that I am,” he said incredulously.
“Always will,” she mumbled against his mouth.
He laughed exultantly.
Their coming together was not a gentle thing. She tugged at his kilt, he tore at her trews, clothing flew this way and that, until, gasping for breath between kisses, they both stood naked near the staircase in the Greathall. Gwen glanced up at him, eyes widening, breath coming in short pants, as she belatedly realized where they were. Then her gaze drifted over his incredible body, and she forgot not only where she was but what century she was in. There was nothing but him.
Silvery eyes glittering, he grabbed her hand, tugged her down the corridor into the buttery, slammed the door shut with a kick, and flattened her up against the wall, leaving their clothing strewn about the hall.
Gwen pressed her palms against his muscular chest and sighed with pleasure. She couldn’t get enough of touching him. During the time he’d not known her, it had been the worst sort of torture, looking at him every day, unable to caress and kiss him. She had a lot of lost time to make up for, and began by tracing her hands up over his shoulders, down his back, skimming to his muscular hips. His skin was velvet over steel, he smelled of man and spice and every woman’s fantasy.
“Ah, God, I missed you, lass.” He took her mouth roughly, hands bracketing her face, kissing her so deeply that she couldn’t breathe, until he filled her lungs with his own breath.
“I missed you too,” she whimpered.
“I’m so sorry, Gwen,” he whispered, “for not believing you—”
“Apologize later. Kiss now!”
His laughter rolled erotic and rich in the dark buttery. He pushed her back atop sacks of grain and lowered himself over her, suspending his weight on his forearms. And he kissed her. Slow, intensely intimate kisses, and mad rushes of deep kisses. She drank him in as if he were the air she needed to survive.
Melting back against the sacks, she moaned when his muscular thigh slid between her legs. He traced hot, wet kisses down her neck, over her collarbones, across her shoulders. She wrapped her legs
around his, rubbing against him wantonly, savoring the slick slide of him.
Drustan gazed down at her, marveling. She was so beautiful; her cheeks flushed, her eyes stormy with passion, her lips half parted on a soft gasp. She was his soul mate, smart, lovely, and tenacious. He would love her to his dying breath, and beyond if such was possible for a Druid and his mate. He would show her with his body all the things he felt for her, and mayhap she would murmur those tender words he’d so longed to hear back in the circle of stones when she’d given him her virginity.
She whimpered when he rasped his unshaven jaw against her nipples. She arched up, hungry for more. He shifted his body so the thick, hot length of him rested between her thighs, moving his hips in slow, even thrusts.
Then he pulled back, driving her mad, and proceeded to taste her from head to toe.
Starting at her toes.
Gwen tossed her head back in ecstasy. Long, velvety strokes of his tongue on her calves and ankles. Bending her legs, he traced silky kisses on the backs of her knees. Wet, hungry kisses on her thighs, teasing flickers against the sensitive skin where her hip met her leg.
Then deep, warm, wet kisses where she needed him the most. Lapping and nibbling, his hands glided up her body to tease her nipples as he kissed and tasted her until she shuddered against his mouth, arching her hips up for more.
Resonance built to an exquisite peak, and she shattered, crying his name.
While she was still resonating with tiny tremors, he rolled her over and ran his tongue down her spine to the hollow where her back met her hips. Then kissed and tasted and nipped every inch of her bottom. Kneading, plumping, caressing, dangerously near the hottest part of her. But not quite there. She was going to die if he didn’t get inside her, she thought, gritting her teeth. She burned, she ached for want of him.
Slipping his hand between her and the sacks, he palmed her woman’s mound and pulled her back against him, resting the heavy ridge of his cock in the cleft of her bottom. As he rubbed against her lush softness, he caught her tiny nub with his fingers, flicking lightly back and forth.
He savored the tiny cries she made, the soft pants and breathy moans, listened intently to discover just what touch elicited each sound, then played her again and again, bringing her dangerously near the peak—
—then denying for the pleasure of hearing her cries grow wilder, of feeling her hips buck back against him, of seeing such evidence of her desire. She knew what he was, and still wanted him with such hunger. It was more than he’d ever dreamed of having. If only she would say the words, those three simple words he longed to hear…Aye, he was a warrior, he was strong and manly, but, by Amergin, he wanted those words. He’d passed a lifetime believing a woman might never say them to him.
“Drustan!” she cried. “Please.”
I love you, he thought, willing her to hear it. Willing her to say it. He traced a finger over her taut nub before slipping it inside her. He closed his eyes and groaned as she clenched around him. When she bucked back against him wildly, the last vestige of his control snapped. He became mindless with need. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he thrust into her in one sleek motion.
She sobbed with pleasure, begged him not to stop, then murmured something so raggedly that he nearly missed it.
But nay, he would not let such words slip by him!
Trembling, he stopped mid-stroke and whispered hoarsely, “What did you just say?”
“I said ‘don’t stop,’” Gwen whimpered, pressing back against him.
“Not that—the other thing you just said,” he demanded.
Gwen went still. It had slipped out without conscious thought—an impassioned declaration of her feelings—God, how she loved him! She, Gwen Cassidy, was utterly and deliriously in love. She spoke quietly, savoring the warmth of her feelings, putting every ounce of her heart and soul into the words. “I love you, Drustan.”
Braced on his elbows, Drustan swayed, the words hit him with such impact. “Say it again,” he breathed.
“I love you,” she repeated softly.
He sucked in a harsh breath and was silent a long while, relishing her words. “Ah, Gwen, my lovely wee Gwen, I thought I might ne’er hear such words.” He lifted her hair away from her face and kissed her temple tenderly. “I love you. I adore you. I will cherish you all the days of my life,” he vowed. “I knew even back in your century that you were the one for me, the one I’d longed for all my life.”
Gwen closed her eyes, treasuring the moment, hugging his words to her.
When he moved again, thrusting into her yielding warmth, she arched back to meet him. Moving his hips, entering her slow and deep, he tipped her face to the side and kissed her with the same tempo. Increasing the pace, never breaking the kiss…
It was a mating of raw need and mindless melding. As if they could somehow crawl inside each other if they got close enough.
He thrust; she screamed. She clenched; he roared.
He slid his hands up her body and cupped her breasts, pulling her back against him as he drove inside her. The buttery was filled with sounds of passion, scented with the erotic musk of man and woman and sex.
When she peaked again, he exploded, crying her name.
He kept her in the buttery nigh as long as she’d kept him in the garderobe. Unable to stop touching her, loving her. Unable to believe that it had all worked out, that she’d indeed cared for him in her century, that she’d given him back the binding vows, that even though he’d failed to give her full instructions, she’d tenaciously persevered. Unable to comprehend that Gwen loved him for exactly what he was. Needing to roll it over and over in his mind as if savoring the finest brandy.
He made her tell him again and again as he reacquainted himself with every inch of her luscious body.
It was full night before he poked a cautious head out, retrieved their clothing, then swept her into his arms and carried her up to his bed.
Where she would sleep each night, he vowed, till the end of forever.
22
Besseta Alexander sat motionless, one hand clutching her yew sticks, the other her Bible. She grimaced at her own foolishness. She knew which one was more useful, and it wasn’t the fat tome.
She’d had her vision again. Nevin, blood dripping from his lips, the woman weeping, Drustan MacKeltar scowling, and that fourth nameless presence who seemed also to be troubled by her son’s death.
What could one old woman do to defy fate? How could she, with too many years on her bones and too little vigor in her veins, avert the impending tragedy?
Nevin wouldn’t heed her pleas. She’d begged him to give up his post and return to Edinburgh, but he’d refused. She’d pretended to be grievously ill, but he’d seen through her ploys. Sometimes she wondered that the lad had sprung from her loins, so implacable was his faith in God, so resistant was he to her “sight.”
He’d forced a promise from her that she would not harm Drustan MacKeltar. In truth, she didn’t wish to harm anyone. She only wanted her son alive. But she’d begun to realize that she was going to have to harm someone or lose Nevin.
She sat rocking for time uncounted as morning slipped away into afternoon and blended with gloaming, fighting the yawning darkness in her mind.
It was full twilight, the Highlands alive with the hum of frogs and soft hooting of owls, when she heard bells jingling, voices shouting, and the thunder of horses approaching the cottage.
Besseta pushed herself from her chair, scurried to the door, and opened it a crack.
When she saw the gypsy caravan, she closed it to a hairbreadth, for the wild gypsies frightened her. She counted ten and seven wagons in the caravan, gaily decorated and pulled by prancing horses draped in silks. They thundered past, toward Balanoch.
Nevin had told her some time ago that the gypsies camped each summer near the MacKeltar estate, where they hosted a trading fair in Balanoch, told fortunes, and mingled with the village folk. There would be wild dancing and bonfire
s and, next year, babes with dark eyes and skin.
Besseta shuddered, closed the door, and leaned against it.
But as a possibility slowly took shape in her mind, she struggled to rise above her fears. With the gypsies’ dark arts, she could remove the threat without harming anyone. Well…not really harming anyone. The Rom sold powerful spells and enchantments cheek by jowl with their more ordinary wares. They cost dearly, but she knew where to find an illuminated gold-leafed tome that would more than cover the price for anything she sought. The longer she considered it, the more appealing the solution seemed. If she paid the gypsies to enchant the laird, she wouldn’t really be harming him; she would just be…suspending him. Indefinitely. So that Nevin might live out his life in safety and peace.
It would mean she would have to seek those wild creatures out, brave their bawdy, sinful camp, but for her beloved Nevin, she would brave anything.
Silvan and Nell had fled their perch the moment Gwen released Drustan from the garderobe.
Nell hadn’t needed to wait around to see what was going to happen next. During Drustan and Gwen’s intimate talk, she’d been surprised the door itself hadn’t gone up in flames.
She’d followed Silvan in a blind dash to his tower, where they’d collapsed on his bed, huffing and sorely out of breath from their mad race up the hundred stairs.
When her heart finally stopped pounding, she realized, with much consternation, where she perched. On the laird’s bed! Next to him! She tensed to move away.
With strong hands on her waist, he caught her before she could flee and turned her face toward his with a firm hand beneath her chin. His eyes were brimming with emotion as he searched her gaze. Deep in their brown depths, tiny golden flecks glittered. She couldn’t look away for anything. She gazed at him mutely.
Then slowly, so slowly that he gave her a thousand lifetimes to turn away, he lowered his lips toward hers.
Nell’s breath hitched in her throat. It had been twelve years since she’d kissed a man. Did she even recall how?