Bad Boys In Kilts (18 page)

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Authors: Donna Kauffman

BOOK: Bad Boys In Kilts
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“Another,” she repeated, then smiled like the Cheshire cat as she stretched and released a deep sigh. For the first time in her adult life, she felt well and truly at peace. “Why, I believe I will.”
Another chuckle tickled her skin, making her twitch. He teased her with the tip of his tongue, softly, gently, building her up again. He drew fingertips across her stomach and up to her now neglected nipples. Toying with them again made her squirm. What he was doing with his tongue only heightened the sensation. He took her up slowly this time, let her roll her hips, find her rhythm with him. And just when she was close, he slowly slid his finger inside of her.
She gasped, and quite deliciously peaked all over again, squeezing hard against his finger, pushing up against his tongue, squirming against the way he flicked the tips of his fingers across one nipple, then the other. The waves rolled, and rolled, and she thought they’d never stop. She was still riding the crest when she felt him grip her hips and slide her back up the bed.
She hadn’t realized her eyes were shut, her neck arched, until she felt his bare skin brush hers as he moved his body up between her legs. Her eyelids, so heavy now, opened to discover the absolutely brilliant sight of a very naked, very aroused Reese Chisholm. She was so drowsy, so sated, her body so sunken into the puffy down bed, she had to work to form words. “My turn,” she mumbled.
He smiled. “You’ll have your go at me, I assure you. But I’m not quite done with my turn yet.”
“I wanted to undress you.”
“The very next time I have clothes on, you have my full permission to take them off.” He settled his weight between her legs and she could feel him so hard, the damp tip of him ready for her. “But I confess I don’t plan on donning any for the foreseeable future.”
“Brilliant.” She groaned, bucking her hips against him, trying to get him to push every one of those brilliantly hard inches inside of her. “Good show.”
He nuzzled the side of her neck, bit her ear, and the brush of the hair on his chest teasing her so sensitive nipples made her back arch again.
“Your accent needs a lo’ of work, luv,” he told her.
“So teach me.”
“Come here,” he said softly, but with a quiet urgency that had her turning her head and opening her eyes once again.
“What?” she said, his lips so close to hers now that when she spoke, they brushed each other.
“I just wanted to be looking into your eyes, the first time I did this.” And with that, he gripped her hips, lifted her slightly, and drove fully inside of her.
His growl was low, long, and intensely gratifying. He stayed deep, pressing his forehead against her hair, his breathing uneven. “Bloody hell. I’m no’ going tae last long, I’m afraid.”
She wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him even deeper. “So?” And she laughed as she began to move beneath him. “You in a hurry to go somewhere?”
He grunted, tried to hold back, but a split-second later he gave in and began to match her, thrust for thrust. “Nay. I’ll be ... right here ... until ye kick me off.”
Then he buried his face in the curve of her neck and took her with him until they were both panting and grunting, their bodies slapping together as they both went about staking their claim on one another. And that was exactly how she felt. Both taker and taken.
“Daisy,” he panted, nudging her face back to his. They were both glistening with sweat, and he felt so incredibly good inside of her.
“Right here,” she told him, staring into his eyes. And she realized right then that if she’d been looking for home, she’d just found it.
“Aye. And that’s where ye’ll stay, if I have a say in the matter.” Then, as his back arched, he pulled her legs up higher and buried himself as deeply as he could, shuddering through a climax that rocked them both.
He gathered himself up and rolled from her, taking her with him, nestling her against his chest as they both stared blindly at the walls and fought to catch their breath. He toyed with the long strands of her hair, she stroked the crinkly soft hair on his chest. “What say tomorrow we take a grander tour,” he said at length, his voice still a bit rough.
Fighting a yawn—when had she ever felt so replete?—she smiled and propped her chin on his chest. “What sort of grand tour? And would this be an after-work excursion? Because I have this new client, and I hear he’s quite demanding.”
He surprised a squeal out of her, rolling her swiftly to her back and pinning her amidst the pile of bedding. “Aye, that he is.” He wiggled his eyebrows and it was so completely out of character with the man she had so swiftly fallen for, that she burst out laughing. He immediately adopted a mock wounded look. “A bloke could get a complex now.”
She quickly reached up to stroke his face, knowing quite well that the smile now curving her lips was decidedly wicked. “The only complex you’re going to have is figuring out how to juggle my demands with yours.”
His eyes widened. So did his smile. “Really, now. You don’t say.”
“I do say.” She slipped her hands down his back and over his buttocks. Finely formed as they were, she lingered there a bit.
He pinned her wandering hands back over her head. “About this tour ...”
“I thought I was already taking one. And quite grand it ‘twas.”
“Yer accent wavers between Scot and a nice Irish brogue.”
“I guess you’ll have to work on me. It. I meant it.”
“Sure ye did.” He grinned, nipped at her bottom lip, then took it in his mouth, before slowly turning it into a long, savoring kiss.
She sighed deeply when he lifted his head, and stretched languorously beneath him. “I could get used to that.” She bumped her hips up. “And this.”
“Good. I don’t fancy lettin’ ye go anytime soon.”
Any other time in her life, she’d have already been in the bathroom, washing up, gathering clothes, checking her BlackBerry. At the moment, she couldn’t fathom why anybody would want to do something as mundane as think about their job. Ever. “So ... about this tour ...”
He rolled to his back and took her with him so she sprawled across his chest. “I was thinking perhaps we’d play hooky.” When she raised her eyebrows, he mimicked her. “Aye, I know. Scandalous behavior for two such fine, upstanding citizens.”
She pretended to ponder the idea. “Do you think the village will recover?”
“I’m fairly certain they will get on for a few hours without loading up on the latest stationery, and the whisky will age perfectly well without my constant attention.” He reached up and kissed the tip of her nose. “At least for the length of a day, anyway.”
“Oh, we’re such rebels, aren’t we?”
“It’s a start,” he countered.
She dipped down and kissed him. Hard. “And a damn fine one it ‘tis, too. Where are we going?”
“I thought I’d take you out, show you the rest of the Chisholm property. Including the crumbling old manse that is our family estate. My oldest brother, Dylan, is in the midst of turning a portion of it into a bed and breakfast setup. A way to help defray the ever-mounting costs of maintaining the poor auld thing. I willnae vouch for his disposition. A cheery sort, he isn’t. But he’s had his share of troubles, so we leave him to it. I’d like to take you around anyway if you’re game.”
“Brodie has mentioned him, and the fledgling business. Of course I’ll go.”
Reese smiled. “Och, I can see the light dawning in your eyes already. I should have started with my youngest brother, Tristan, first, then. An artist’s heart he has, but he’s our farm manager by trade. He’ll have nothing of interest for your businesswoman’s soul, and you’ll be safely mine.”
“You didn’t exactly make Dylan out to be a catch, you know.”
“Trust me,” Reese told her, “he’s got that wounded warrior spirit that women love to take on, thinking they’ll be the one to mend his broken heart.”
“Broken-hearted? Is that why he’s ‘not a cheery sort’, as you say?”
“See? Your heart is already tilting. What is it about—”
“We’re nurturers by nature, Reese. We want to fix it and make it better.”
“Well, you’ll have your hands full enough fixing me,” he said, rather gruffly, which made her laugh; then, to add insult to injury, she ruffled his hair and kissed him on the tip of his nose. “And as I was saying, if you’re considering coming to him with a business proposal,” he added, “well, if you think I was a hard sell when it came to convincing me of the lure of Internet marketing—”
“You weren’t exactly hard.” She pressed against him.
“Well, except where you needed to be. But don’t worry, I have no intention of selling your brother on the merits of proper marketing and sales.” She winked at him. “No’ until I get to know him a wee bit better, anyway.”
Reese rolled his eyes, but his smile was amused. “I’ve created a monster, I have.”
“Oh no, you’ve tamed her, to be certain. And if it makes you feel any better, I’ll send bottles of Glenbuie to all my friends back home for Christmas.”
“Ye drive a hard bargain, lass.”
Suddenly reenergized, she moved on top of him so she straddled his hips, making his eyes widen a bit when she pinned his hands to the bed. “We’ll see about that.”
He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and let her have her way with him. “See, perfectly balanced we are.”
“Aye,” she said, leaning down and taking his mouth, before slowly fulfilling her every fantasy—and his, if the way he groaned and moved beneath her was any indication—as she slid down the length of his body, her tongue taking a slightly longer, more lingering path. He lifted his head and watched as she slid her tongue around him, then took him in her mouth and suckled him back to life.
“You have the rest of your life to stop doing that,” he said, echoing her earlier claim.
“Deal.”
Balanced, indeed.
NIGHT WATCH
Chapter 1
“
A
ye, aye. I’ve said I’ll be there and I will be. Now let me get back to my sheep, ye auld sod.” Tristan Chisholm stared out at the expansive glen, a stunning vista of the greenest grass to be found beneath the heavens, rolling endlessly before him like the most luxurious carpet. Dotted here and there with the burly white wool and black faces of his sturdy flock, taking their afternoon graze while he once again tried—and miserably failed—to capture the essence of the darkening sky with a stubby piece of charcoal and a dog-eared tablet of drawing paper.
The tall outcropping of rock atop the hillock on which he was presently perched was one of only a rare handful of spots on the hundreds of acres of Chisholm grazing land where he could get signal. Figures. He couldn’t believe he’d gone to the trouble of climbing all the way up here with the intention of losing himself for a few hours with nothing more than pad and paper to record his thoughts ... only to have his serenity rudely intruded upon by one of his brothers.
It mattered little that the reason for the call was a joyful one. Far be it from Brodie not to use the rare occasion of a conversation with the youngest Chisholm to point out his failures. Failures according to Brodie, anyway.
Ungrateful, the lot of them,
he thought grouchily. His brother would be lucky if he brought so much as a bottle of wine as an engagement present. Cocky bastard. How a fine young woman like Kat Henderson had ever agreed to latch herself to his miserable hide for all eternity ... well, if Tristan didn’t know better, he’d think she’d been sipping too much ale at Brodie’s pub. Lord knows he’d have to be falling down pissed to even consider tying himself to anyone.
“I dinnae need to be scolded like a wet lad,” he informed Brodie when his older brother finally took pause for a breath. “I’m perfectly capable of seeing to my own needs, carnal and otherwise, thank you very much. And ye wonder why I prefer the company of my flock.”
He rolled his eyes heavenward when Brodie made the obvious joke, but didn’t bother to rise to the bait. He was long since used to this treatment.
Sighing wearily, knowing he was more disgusted with himself, really, after another disappointing afternoon of trying to coax his muse to the surface, Tristan listened to Brodie continue his very amusing soliloquy on the state of his youngest brother’s love life, or sorry lack thereof. He finally lost patience with both brother and the age of technology that made invading his privacy out here in the wilds as easy as punching in a few numbers into a plastic keypad. He didn’t bother to ring off. He merely clicked his mobile phone closed and pocketed it. Handy thing, that little automatic OFF button. Let them call him a social misfit—he was perfectly happy with that moniker if it meant he got to stay out here, far away from the maddening crowds, aka his brothers and the other nosey villagers. If his siblings wanted their brotherly attentions reciprocated, they’d soon learn not to ride him every chance they got.
He stared down at the mess of charcoal streaks masquerading as the distant, late afternoon skyline and shook his head as he flipped the cover back over the pad. He’d thought perhaps returning to the more rustic rudiments of charcoal would free him up a little. Watercolors hadn’t done it the week before. Nor pastels the week before that. He refused to even consider a pallet of oils. Autumn was turning the hills into brilliant rainbows of color, second only to the rebirth of spring for inspiring his artistic soul. Through at least half of his twenty-seven years, he had documented each of them in the way that moved him most. No two seasons, no two renderings, had been the same. He took great pleasure in finding something new at the turn of each and every season, each and every year.
For some time now, however, it appeared as if inspiration had finally deserted him. He couldn’t even rediscover the old, much less tap into anything resembling fresh and new.
“Jinty!” Tristan whistled for his four-legged companion, then when the border collie pricked her ears and looked in Tristan’s direction, he gave her the signal to begin rounding up the sheep. With Jinty barking and yipping as she raced to and fro, Tristan gathered up his things. He stowed them in his pack and began climbing down the back side of the rocky outcropping, before hiking around the base of it, back toward the glen. He was halfway down when he heard the first true grumblings roll across the heavens. It took another twenty minutes to hike the path that led around to the field where Jinty was still collecting strays and to regain a view of the setting sun on the horizon.
The encroaching storm wasn’t so distant now. He’d gauged the front to be moving far slower than it was, which was unusual for him, as it was his business to be able to read those kinds of signs. It wasn’t much beyond half past three in the afternoon, but this time of year it was full dark by five, and with the storm darkening the skies, that timetable would be accelerated. Apparently he’d been more distracted by the call than he’d realized, even as he admitted it was likely the frustration with his sketches that had caused him to lose track of time. Brooding again, his brother Reese would tell him. But Tristan didn’t brood. Thinking, pondering, wondering, those things he did. Entirely different.
He whistled again and gave a sharp hand signal. Jinty shot toward him, raced around his legs, then took off to her post on the far side of the field. Picking up the pace, he and the collie moved as a team, herding the small cluster of sheep he’d come up here to round together so he could push them back down the valley where they could rejoin the main thrust of the herd.
Lightning strikes streaked east and west through the rapidly darkening sky, but Tristan kept his steady pace. He’d get them back to the front fields before the worst of it hit, but he’d likely take a bit of the brunt of it himself before he saw the inside of his own four walls this evening. Ah well, it wouldn’t be the first time. And there was nothing in his backpack worth worrying about preserving, that was for sure. A little rain might even improve his lines a little.
By the time he and Jinty had shuffled the stragglers through the narrow pass into the lower valley, it was dusk bordering on dark, and thin drops of rain began to spit from the skies above. Stacked stone fences sectioned off the valley floor like a giant game of tic-tac-toe. He shoved the gate closed behind him as he entered the first of several walled fields spread out ahead of him, each a good twenty acres square, content to leave the gang here for the night. He’d get them the rest of the way tomorrow.
“Come, Jint!” He slapped his thigh, then reached down to give her a good scratch as she fell happily into step beside him. The rain began to pick up pace, and so he did, too, jogging for the far wall, with Jint easily pacing him, racing to and fro, barking for the sheer joy of being alive.
Och, to have such a carefree heart
, he thought. The lightning strikes came closer together and hit closer to home. Thunder vibrated the very air around them. “Come on, girl. Let’s get home.”
Home was a large stone croft with a soaring, traditional thatched roof that required constant maintenance, but which Tristan had resisted replacing with more current textiles. He didn’t mind the extra work. He’d often thought he’d been born in the wrong century anyway, a tenet also held by his brothers. Not that he didn’t appreciate some of the more modern amenities, such as indoor plumbing and running water, but he liked the look of the place, knowing that those who had come before him had come home to much the same stacked stone gate, the same hand-laid stone walls, and the same thatched roof. All built by Chisholm hands.
It had been added onto over the past two centuries, as various managers and their families had lived there, and current amenities had been installed. It was a rambling, one-story affair, all told. The whole of the place currently housed three bedrooms, two full bathrooms and a half of another, an open living area complete with a large, peat-burning stove for heating, and an expansive kitchen with a rustic oak table suitable for at least eight people with room to spare, plus an outdoor oven pit as well. Tristan had created half of a second floor by constructing a loft space, which he used as his art room. He’d put in a skylight and a large inset window at the peak of the roof for light. Not that the loft had seen much use of late.
It was all far more than Tristan needed, but it was the manager’s croft for a reason. Location and access. Tucked up against the rocky hills that framed the eastern boundary of the Chisholm grazing property, it looked out over the lower valley, which was marked with fenced-off sections of land, some dotted with smaller crofts that were leased out to farmers and other flock owners. It was Tristan’s job not only to maintain the Chisholm flocks, but also to manage the leased properties and the concerns of all the tenants.
The far boundary of the lower valley was marked by the loch, which fed a narrow tributary that ran alongside the main road and helped to irrigate the crop fields. A single-track road ran between stream and field, and was the only access to the area from Glenbuie, the local village and home to the Chisholm clan for more than four hundred years.
By the time he and Jint scooted through the final gate and made their sprint across the last field heading home, the setting sun and the storm had joined to render the sky full black; no hint of stars or moon, making it nigh on impossible to see more than a scant yard or two in front of his face. But he knew this ground as he knew his own self and he navigated it easily.
Jinty had an even keener sense of where the best path lay, so he followed her lead, arms up to brace his face against the wind-driven needles of rain. She kept circling back to him, herding him home much the same as she did with the rest of her flock. It was raining hard now and he’d long since become soaked to the bone. As soon as he had Jinty fed, a long, hot shower was next on his list. Lightning strikes continued to light the black sky, and thunder literally shook the ground at his feet.
As he reached the steps leading to the back door and mud room, a loud, shrieking noise pierced the sound of the storm. He paused, but with the thunder and heavy rain, it was impossible to know what he’d actually heard. Typically the only sounds that floated through his valley, other than those created by Mother Nature, were the sheep baaing and dogs barking as they went about their chores. Whatever that had been didn’t fall under any of those headings.
When the sound didn’t repeat itself, he opened the rear door and shuffled inside, shooing Jinty in before him, then closing it with a heavy rattle behind him as the wind helped drive it shut. He’d go investigate if need be when the rain died down a little. Probably just a tree down and the wind having its way with the wayward limbs. It was amazing the odd echoes of sounds the valley and mountains could create.
The dog gave a good shake as Tristan dropped his pack and grabbed a towel off the stack. “Good work out there,” he praised her. She wriggled under his ministrations, loving nothing more than a good towel rub. With another shake when he was done, she bounded from the room and set to prancing in circles in front of the kitchen pantry just beyond.
Tristan chuckled. “I’m coming, just hold up a minute.” He took a second to drag his boots and socks off, then peeled out of his sodden shirt and pants as well, leaving him in cold, wet boxers. “The hell with that,” he grumbled, and dragged them off as well. One of the blessings of living out in the midst of nowhere. And he much doubted any of his tenants would be dropping by with a grievance this stormy evening.
Giving his own shoulder-length hair a good rub with a fresh towel, he shook it out much as Jinty had hers, then wrapped the towel around his hips as he padded into the kitchen. “What’s on the menu tonight?” he asked her, as he opened the doors to the pantry and looked at the canned meat on the shelves. He dumped some dry kibble in her dish, the mere sound of which made her all but quiver in paroxysms of pleasure, then cranked open a can of corned beef and dumped some of that in as well. She worked hard, so if he spoiled her a little, well, who was to know?
She danced out to the kitchen with him and sat next to her water dish, tail going like a propeller against the hardwood floor. Tristan popped her dish to the floor and gave a dry smile as she dug in with gusto. If only it were so easy to please everyone who depended on him, he thought. “Cans of corned hash for all!” he announced with flair, waving his arm in a beneficent gesture in front of him, as if king to kingdom. Shaking his head at his own folly, he contemplated heating the rest of the can up for himself, then decided a shower sounded like the better option at the moment. Maybe if he felt half human, he’d find the energy to actually cook something up.
He paused by the peat stove and stuffed in a few fuel bricks, feeling a chill in the air that went beyond his damp, mostly naked state. Though warm enough during the day, the late October nights were considerably cooler of late. He wound his way through the living area toward the rear bedrooms. He’d converted the smaller of the two into his personal office—even though there was an outbuilding housing his official one, he liked being able to work here when he could—leaving the larger bedroom with the en suite bathroom for himself. There was another bedroom off the far side of the main house, with a second full bathroom wedged between it and the kitchen, ostensibly for guests. Though, over the years, it had housed only his brothers on the rare occasion that one or the other came out to share a bottle of the family whisky and opted not to head home until morning.
He was halfway through the front room when he noticed oddly angled shafts of red light piercing the rainy night beyond his front windows. Backtracking, he peered through the panes of glass, but the heavy rain made it difficult to see. Then a crack of lightning split through the gloom and he got a momentary flash of the track road leading to his house. And that’s when he remembered the screeching noise he’d heard before stepping inside.

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