Kiss of the Highlander

  “Well, you had proof,” she countered, then added hastily, “of course, pretending that what you claim is true. You saw cars, the village, my phone, my clothing.”

  He gestured at his attire, his sword, and shrugged.

  “That could be a costume.”

  “What would you consider sufficient proof?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “I can prove it to you at the stones,” he finally said. “Beyond any doubt, I can prove it to you there.”

  “How?”

  He shook his head. “You must come and see.”

  “You think your ancestors might have some record of you, a portrait or something?” she guessed.

  “Gwen, you must decide whether I am mad or I am telling the truth. I cannot prove it to you until we reach our destination. Once we reach Ban Drochaid, if you still doona believe me, there at the stones, when I have done what I can to offer you proof, I will ask nothing more of you. What have you to lose, Gwen Cassidy? Is your life so demanding and full that you cannot spare a man in need a few days of your time?”

  He’d won. He could see it in her eyes.

  She looked at him in silence for a long time. He met her gaze steadily, waiting. Finally she gave a tight nod. “I will make sure you get to your stones safely, but that doesn’t mean for a minute that I believe you. I am curious to see what proof you can offer me that your incredible story is true, because if it is…” She trailed off and shook her head. “Suffice it to say, such proof would be worth hiking across the Highlands to see. But the moment you show me whatever it is you have to show me, if I still don’t believe you, I’m done with you. Okay?”

  “Okay?” he repeated. The word meant nothing to him in any language.

  “Do you agree to our deal?” she clarified. “A deal you agree to honor fully,” she stressed.

  “Aye. The moment I show you the proof, if you still doona believe, you will be free of me. But you must promise to stay with me until you actually see the proof.” Deep inside, Drustan winced, loathing the carefully phrased equivocation.

  “I accept. But you will not chain me, and I must eat. And right now I am going for a short walk in the woods, and if you follow me it will make me very, very unhappy.” She hopped down from the fallen tree trunk and skirted around him, giving him wide berth.

  “As you wish, Gwen Cassidy.”

  She stooped and reached for her pack, but he moved swiftly and wrapped his hand around her wrist. “Nay. If you go, it stays with me.”

  “I need a few things,” she hissed.

  “You may take one item with you,” he said, reluctant to interfere if she had womanly needs. Mayhap it was her time of the moon.

  Angrily, she dug in the pack and withdrew two items. A bar of something and a bag. Defiantly, she stuffed the bar in the bag and said, “See? It’s only one thing now.” She turned abruptly and headed for the woods.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he whispered when he was certain she was out of hearing range.

  He had no choice but to make her his unwitting victim. Larger issues than his own life depended upon it.

  Gwen hurriedly used the “facilities,” anxiously scanning the forest around her, but it didn’t appear that he had followed her. Still, she didn’t trust a thing about her current situation. After relieving herself, she devoured the protein bar she’d grabbed. She rummaged through her cosmetics bag, flossed, then dabbed a touch of toothpaste to her tongue. The taste of mint boosted her flagging spirits. A swipe of a medicated pad over her nose, cheeks, and forehead nearly made her swoon with pleasure.

  Sweaty and exhausted, she felt more alive than ever. She was beginning to fear for her own sanity, because there was a part of her that wanted to believe him, wanted desperately to experience something outside of her everything-can-be-explained-by-science existence. She wanted to believe in magic, in men who made her feel hot and weak-kneed, and in crazy things like spells.

  Nature or nurture: Which was the determining factor? She’d been obsessing over that question lately. She knew what nurture had done to her. At twenty-five, she had a serious intimacy problem. Aching for a thing she couldn’t name, and terrified of it at the same time.

  But what was her nature? Was she truly brilliant and cold like her parents? She recalled all too well the time she’d been foolish enough to ask her father what love was. Love is an illusion clung to by the fiscally challenged, Gwen. It makes them feel life might be worth living. Choose your mate by IQ, ambition, and resources. Better yet, let us choose him for you. Already I have several suitable matches in mind.

  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 privac
y 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 a
vert 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.

  SEPTEMBER 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.