Highland Temptation (15 page)

She went to him, holding her hands out. “It's just me, my love,” she murmured.

He shook his head, “Nay.” His voice was crackly and raw.

“Yes. It's just me.”

“I…” He closed his eyes, allowing her to wrap her arms around him, mud be damned. She laid her cheek on his bare chest. His skin was hot, his heart galloping.

But soon, his hands went to her upper arms, and he gently pushed her back. She looked into his face, and didn't like his expression.

“I just saw a dead man,” he rasped out. “I stepped into the mud, and it sucked at my shoes just like the mud at Waterloo, and…”

“And what?” she whispered. “Tell me. It's all right.”

He swallowed again. Beads of sweat had bubbled out at his temples, and he was still so pale, she thought he might fall over. “He came to me. Archie MacNab. He was an ensign, only sixteen years old. I…I told him on the march the day before the battle that I'd watch out for him, and when 'twas all over, we'd ride to Edinburgh, I'd buy him a dram, and we'd toast to Bonaparte's end.”

Tears gleamed in his eyes, the pain there so sharp it cut through her heart. She wanted to scream in rage and rail at war, at Napoleon Bonaparte and Wellington, at everyone and everything that had caused Colin such wretched pain.

“But…he was killed.” His voice was nothing more than a rasp now, and his shoulders shook. “He died, and I just saw him. Here now.” He looked around, searching once again for the lad from his vision. “He…was covered in blood…his guts…” He swallowed and shook his head, unwilling to finish the rest of that sentence. He passed a shaky hand over his sweating forehead. “He told me I was a liar…That I didna watch out for him. That I…that I…let him die.”

“I know that isn't true,” she said softly.

His lips twisted angrily. “It is true. I let him die. I watched it happen…And I couldna—” He made a low, choking noise and bent his head, covering his face with his hands.

“There's no one else here,” she reassured him. “It was only a dream. A waking dream. It wasn't real.”

“I saw him.” His chest rose up and down with his heavy, rapid breaths. “Because I'm mad.”

“No—”

“I'm mad. I have visions, Emilia. I see the dead, and they speak to me. I'm a danger to you. I keep thinking that everything'll be all right, that I can do this, be with you, but he came…he came to remind me that it's impossible. I'm mad. You mustn't call me your
love.
You canna love me.”

Oh no. No, no, no. She wasn't going to allow this. “I can and I do,” she said firmly.

He closed his eyes and said on a near groan, “Nay.”

“Aye,” she snapped. She breathed in and out through tight lips. “Now remove your kilt,” she ordered. “We'll need to wash it. I'll go fetch your clean one.”

She turned to go, but he grabbed her arm, stopping her. She looked up at him, anger buzzing through her, knowing that fierceness gleamed in her eyes.

“You are not mad, Colin. I love you, and nothing will make me stop.
Nothing.
I will not let them beat us. I will slay your wretched demons, one by one if I must, but I will
not
let them tear you away from me, do you hear me?”

He stared at her. Slowly, he nodded. Then he released her arm and touched her cheek lightly with a fingertip. “You're a ferocious warrior, Emilia. I'm lucky to have you. So
damned
lucky.”

He pulled her to him, then framed her face in his big hands and kissed her so desperately, it was as if he were starved for a taste of her.

Emilia wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back, her anger simmering like hot oil inside her. Suddenly, he yanked back and picked her up. Clutching her against him, he stalked back to where their plaid lay on a patch of grass. He kicked the remains of their food away, then laid her down upon the plaid.

There were no long, languid kisses. No teasing until she squirmed, which had become a habit of his. Instead, hovering over her, he yanked up her skirts, then pushed his muddied kilt out of the way, and in one move sank his long, rigid length into her.

Emilia would have had it no other way. She arched up to meet him, gasping in pleasure as he easily slid deep into her.

“Jesus God, you're already wet for me,” he said on a growl.

“Always,” she replied, her own voice coming out in a hiss. “Always.”

He slammed into her again and again until their breaths sawed through the chilly air. They were one, breathing as one, surging together, rising to their peaks at the same time.

Leaning on one arm, Colin grabbed her hand and pushed it between them. “Stroke yourself, Emilia,” he gritted out.

She did, sliding her fingers over the nub just above her entrance as he pushed into her, stroking her fingers over that oh-so-sensitive spot. She began to moan. Their breaths misted in the heavy air. Her channel tightened around him, clasping him in a firm grip, pulsing over him, and his body tensed, his shaft lengthening impossibly until she felt like he touched every part of her.

It crashed over her like a violent storm, pleasure grabbing her and shaking her in its grip. Her back arched, and her mouth opened in a silent scream.

“Emilia,” she heard Colin groan as if from far away. “God, Emilia.”

He was a solid mass of muscle over her and in her, and she shook and trembled, completely helpless in the grip of orgasm. He pulsed and shuddered inside her, and she realized that for the first time he hadn't pulled away when he came. For the first time, he was coming inside her, and she could feel his seed deep. The sensation set her off again, and this time even her mind floated in ecstasy, disconnecting her from where she was, even what she was. She was a vessel of pleasure. Nothing else existed.

Slowly, the storm released her, and she drifted back down to earth, her body sated, saturated in pleasure, her muscles like putty. For the first time, she felt the sticks poking into her back through the woolen blanket, the heavy weight of Colin, who had collapsed on her, and heard the harsh sound of his breaths.

Eventually, he came back to himself enough to roll off her, into the muddy grass beside her. A few moments later he sat up, looking down at her.

“You lie there, with your blond hair all around you like a halo, framed by grass and plaid, and so bonny you look more like an angel in a portrait than a woman. Sometimes,” he said in a quiet voice, gazing at her, “I canna believe you're real.”

“I am,” she assured him, her tone low and drowsy.

“Are you certain?” he asked. Gently, he moved a lock of hair away from her face. “Mayhap you're the
leannan sìth,
come to seduce me.”

“A fairy?”

“The most bonny fairy,” he agreed. “Of the
aos sìth,
who live in the fairy mounds deep under the ground in the land across the Western Sea.”

She smiled at him. She loved his Scottish superstitions and how he spoke of the mythological Celtic creatures as if they were real. With a generally absent father, Colin had been raised by his mother, whose people had once worshipped Pagan gods and goddesses, and who had passed down all the stories and superstitions for hundreds of years.

“The
leannan sìth
chooses a single human lover. She inspires him and brings him great happiness, as you have done for me.”

Warmth settled in her chest. She made him happy, and that fact made all the lingering self-doubt and self-hatred that her father had pounded into her seem insignificant. She had the ability to bring happiness to someone. To this man, in particular, who struggled with so many demons.

“But then,” Colin continued, “insanity follows, nipping at the heels of happiness. And the lover dies young, mad, and usually with great violence.”

She surged up, and went on her knees, her skirts a muddied mess around her, and wrapped her arms around him. “I am no fairy,” she murmured into his neck. “I am a real woman. Flesh and blood. Who loves you and wants you to live a long and contented life.”

He held her against him, his breaths deep and heavy.

She closed her eyes, wanting to tell him about how in the past week she'd watched Mr. and Mrs. MacCallum. About how she'd imagined a life like theirs. The older couple loved each other deeply, and though they'd lived more simply than Emilia had ever known people
could
live, they were genuinely happy. More than once, Emilia had imagined herself and Colin that way. Content with living simple lives. With children and grandchildren who adored them and came to visit them regularly. Brimming with so much satisfaction and joy that it was natural to share their home and meager trappings with those in need.

But even though Colin loved her, he hadn't spoken of the future, and she had no idea how it could work between them. He was not only a knight, he was a member of the Highland Knights, a position highly respected and lauded by aristocrats and commoners alike. He spent his days and nights rubbing elbows with London's elite. But Emilia—now that the truth about her father's treachery was out—would be banished from that world. Disgust would drip from people's lips as they spoke her name. The sight of her would evoke whispers.

An attachment to her would sully him.

He pressed his lips to the side of her head. “I canna…” He sighed, and she looked at him quizzically.

“I canna express how…” He shook his head. “
Grateful
isna the right word, but I dinna ken what is.”

“Grateful? For what?”

“Blessed,” he corrected. “That you've come into my life. That you dinna run from my demons. That you're so fierce and strong.”

She nearly laughed. She'd spent most of her life thinking she was horribly, terribly weak. No one had ever called her fierce or strong before, but when it came to Colin, she knew she was.

“I…” Her voice broke and she tried again. “You must know—in many ways I am a coward.”

“Nay,” he said flatly.

“I am. I allowed my father…”

“You didna
allow
your da anything. He wronged you. You didna have a choice in the matter.” His voice softened. “Look at me, lass.” She did, locking her eyes with his. “He tried to suck the strength from you. The life out of you. He made you feel weak and defeated, I ken that. But your strength was always there…waiting.” He pressed a hand to her chest.

“I let him kill my mother,” she whispered.

He jerked back, his hand dropping to his side and his brows furrowing tight. “What?”

She swallowed. “I heard them…it was late at night. They were in his bedchamber. She was begging him not to…to hurt her.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she battled the tears back.

“Emilia…”

“But he did. He stabbed her in the hip with the fireplace poker, and I just stood there right outside the room, listening, like a ninny.”

“Is that how your mother died?” he asked in a raw voice.

“She died later. The poker burned her, and the wound was deep. Later it festered. She died a fortnight after he hurt her. He was long gone by then…in London.”

She looked up at him. “If I had been brave, I would have gone in there. I would have stopped him. My own cowardice killed my mother.”

He blinked hard. “Nay. He did.
Pinfield
killed her, not you.” He began ticking off items on his fingers. “First, you were young…”

“I was sixteen. Not so young,” she argued.

“You were only a lass,” he insisted. “No doubt you weren't allowed in your father's bedchamber, were you?”

She shook her head. “I wasn't, but—”

“Did they lock the door?”

She nodded.

“And there was no way on earth or in hell you could've kent that what was happening would hurt your mother so badly. No way.”

That was true, but still. The guilt was an ugly lump of tar in her gut that had settled there when her mother had taken her last breath, and had never gone away. “I'm just saying I'm not so brave. You shouldn't trust me to always be brave, because…”

Truth was, she could fail him at any time. Overcome by quaking fear, as she'd been that night. By the sickening weakness that took over her body and prevented her from acting when she'd needed to. It was all well and good when she couldn't see Colin's demons. But what if someone real came after him? Someone angry and deadly, like her father in a rage? What then? Surely she'd shrink away, collapse under the weight of the fear, like she did whenever her father was involved.

“Emilia.” He pulled her back into his arms, and she sank against him, feeling hollow and cold, and so glad that he was solid and strong.

“Maybe…together…” She looked up at him. “We can help each other be strong. Maybe together we can prevail over all…all that evil.”

“Mayhap we can,
mo leannan,
” he said softly. “When I am with you, I feel like I can.”

“So do I,” she whispered. “So do I.”

She could only pray that the feeling was right.

They rode until dusk, when they stopped in Newcastle upon Tyne, hoping for some anonymity in the busy streets of a bigger town. After Colin secured them a room at a large inn, Emilia hurried inside, head down, her bruised face well hidden under the large hood of her cloak. Not wanting to risk being seen and remembered, they took dinner in the room, and afterward used a sponge to wash the remnants of the afternoon's mud from their bodies.

“Your face is healing well,” Colin observed, studying her with a shrewd eye as, dressed in her nightgown, she sat in a chair and began the arduous task of combing out her wild curls.

“Is it?” She touched the delicate area beneath her eye—this room had no looking glass, but the last time she'd looked into one, the bruise had been a sickly yellow.

“Aye. You'll be good as new in no time.”

“Except for this,” she said, moving her finger to the thick scab over her cheekbone.

She rarely mentioned this particular injury, because when she did, Colin's fury became a nearly palpable thing, as it did right now. His lips tightened, and his eyes turned a stormy deep brown-orange, like a leaf turned by an autumn chill. “Aye,” he said through clenched teeth. He turned and pulled on a shirt with angry movements, the hard ridges of his torso disappearing beneath the clean linen.

They both knew it would leave a scar she'd carry with her forever. That whenever she looked at a stranger, the first thing he or she would see would be the mar on her face. That they'd wonder what had caused it. That many people would instantly judge her.

“I'll live,” she said, managing to make her voice light. “I'm not vain enough to think a little scar will destroy me.”

“You're not vain at all.” He stared at her, his eyes boring into hers. “You ken that whatever scars you bear make no difference to how I see you, aye?”

She managed a smile. “Well, you didn't run for the hills when you saw my back that first night. So I believe you.”

“You'll always be bonny to me,” he said softly. “The bonniest woman in the world.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Now, that's an exaggeration.”

He looked offended. “Nay. 'Tis no exaggeration. 'Tis the truth.”

She gazed at him, her smile growing soft. Her Scot definitely had a way of making his woman feel special. “I love you,” she whispered.

Gazing at her, he lowered himself to his knees in front of her until he was looking up at her sitting in the chair. His hands went to her knees, then to her hands. He gently unwrapped her fingers from the comb and set it aside before clasping both her hands in his.

“Emilia,” he said softly. “I ken our time together has been difficult. We have been on the run, and I have…” He swallowed. “I have, at times, not been at my best. Through it all, you have shown strength and resilience, and I've learned that nothing can arrow happiness into my soul like the flash of your bonny smile. Nothing can make me feel as contented as the feel of your body in my arms. Nothing can make me as satisfied as finding my release inside you. Nothing can bring me peace like the sound of your voice. You are like no other woman in the world to me. You lighten my days…”

“Oh, Colin,” she whispered, squeezing his hands tight as he hesitated.

“Before you came to the townhouse that night…I believed that I was doomed to misery and madness.”

“No!” she gasped.

“Aye, 'tis true. I believed the demons would never let me go. But you…” He gazed at her as if she were a true miracle. “You have made me believe that I can defeat them. That it's possible I might be happy and fulfilled, and live the life I dreamt about as a lad.”

She gazed at him, at this wonderful man who'd do anything to protect her. Who treated her with endless kindness. Who'd offered her love without expecting anything in return. She loved him so much.

“I love you, Emilia. I want nothing more than to wake every morning with you at my side for the remainder of my days.”

A pang of something entered her heart. The fear that she would damage him somehow. That she would bring him down.

“I—” she began, but he cut her off.

“In the past weeks, you have wound your way into my life, into my soul. You are so deep inside me, I could never let you go. You are a part of me. You are
everything
to me. I want to be with you. I want to care for you, protect you, and love you for the remainder of my days.”