Highlander of Mine (19 page)
I
t was a hot day, as if the sun knew Helen would rise today and burn Duncan with questions about his intentions regarding Fleur. Of course he wanted her! Of course, he’d take vows with her, for her. But she was...Hell, he wasn’t too sure what she was, little lass from the future. He believed her wholly about that. He just didn’t want to. If only she belonged to Scotland, to his time, to him.
In the late afternoon, as the sun swept its grueling heat on everything, making it a blurry yellow day, Duncan spent hours listening to Mrs. McVicar and his mother talk about her recovery. A few townspeople came by and wished her well, embracing him firmly with only love in their eyes, and all the while he noticed Fleur keeping her distance. That was more punitive than anything the sweltering heat could hand out.
As soon as Helen drifted off to sleep, Duncan searched for Fleur. About an hour ago, she’d vanished, and Lord it scared him that she might be gone for good. Mayhap she had been right all along—she had been sent here to care for Helen, and now that she was on the mend, Fleur would simply disappear, breaking his heart.
Her scent was everywhere in the house though—softly floral, thoroughly feminine. Ah, yes, she had said something about being outside if Helen needed her. Duncan had kept the home as cool as possible by drawing the curtains and closing in the cool morning air. But it was stifling inside. Not as hot as out of the house, but repressive nonetheless. He didn’t know why that was either. His mother was awake and seemed to have more energy than when he’d first come down from Sweden.
Actually, he knew why the house felt like the walls were closing in. His ma had jested so much about their upcoming wedding. And Fleur, woman decidedly not of his time and not for him, had tried to gain some ground from him.
Leaving the house through the backdoor, he spotted Fleur right away, in the tiny chamber he’d built out of chopped wood. Every time Helen had made a turn for the worst, he’d pound out his frustration on the wood, adding to the pile until it was no longer just a line parallel to Helen’s well-groomed, thanks to Fleur, vegetable garden. He’d made piles of wood into a geometric design around half of the house and had made a small room—three sides chopped wood, the fourth the back of the stone house. Mainly so he could find a little privacy. Since Fleur’s kidnapping the house had around the clock guards, even though Rory had mysteriously vanished as of late. Also Mrs. McVicar and the laird’s personal physician visited every day. Although Dr. Stevens had returned to Tongue now, Mrs. McVicar and other townsfolk kept showing up, giving him no time alone with his thoughts, other than in Fleur’s chamber. And while in her room, he’d been too tempted to stay with her, kissing her, feeling her breasts against his chest. It had been too distracting. So he’d built the small room of chopped wood.
He stood at the one entrance and exit, wondering how to get Fleur’s attention. Sitting on a tree’s stump, she had her wee back to him, humming a sad tune. Duncan thought she was fiddling with her hands, doing something as she quietly sang her song.
He cleared his throat, feeling like an ogre.
She startled and jumped up, clutching a large white clump of Helen’s knitting to her chest. The beautiful woman was trying to finish the blanket his ma had started to make. Lord, she was such a considerate thing. So sweet.
So God damned beautiful it made his body instant coil with too much heat.
She chuckled when she saw him.
“Ye trying to finish it for my ma?”
She nodded. “I’m nowhere near the knitter she is though. Maybe I should stop.”
He couldn’t help but grin, not just because of her honesty, but because he seemed to keep doing that around her. Inspecting her work, he did notice her stitches were tighter than his mother’s.
“Nay, ye’re doin’ a real fine job.”
She shook her head and showed him even more. “See here, I’m knitting too tightly. It’s not going to look good.”
He shrugged. “Everyone has a different stitch. No one is the same as another’s. My ma kens this. She’d love that ye helped her. Don’t undo what ye done.” He tried to take the white bundle, but Fleur held it closer to her chest.
“You seem to know a lot about knitting.”
He snorted. “I did have many years watchin’ my ma do it. But soldiers, mercenaries, knit and sew. Have to after ye’ve survived a battle with torn clothes. Can’t stomp about without a stitch on, eh?”
Her gaze bounced down his body. “You could probably get away with it.”
He meant to laugh, after all she must be jesting. But the heat in her expression, the way her eyes flickered darker and more intense, had him wanting to kiss her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Too bad.”
She glanced up, a question in her one arched brow.
“Ye didn’t mean it, did ye?”
She swallowed and stared at his chest. Too hot élan shot through every single one of his muscles, especially his groin.
“I’m sorry too,” he said.
“What for?” Her dark eyes focused on his gaze once more.
As much as he wanted to apologize for Helen’s obviously making her uncomfortable with joking about a wedding, he couldn’t, didn’t dare, tell her much more than that. He already felt he was too translucent with his sentiments regarding her. Was she at that second looking straight into his heart?
He stretched his neck a little, hoping to gain the clarity needed to say what needed to be said, and nothing more. “My ma. She’s a joker, eh? This mornin’, jestin’ about . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t say one more damned word. Too much a coward to continue.
Fleur’s golden skin sizzled into a light pink on her cheeks. “You sure she didn’t mean it? She was just joking around?”
He nodded.
But she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Aye,” he finally said, “she was jesting.”
“Because she wouldn’t want me as her daughter in-law.”
“Nay.” He spoke too loudly, and cleared his voice again. “Nay. Never. She loves ye.”
Fleur’s gaze cut to his so fast, with such impact, he felt it kick in his gut. “I—I love her.”
It was ridiculous, but he couldn’t help but feel jealous about Fleur’s sentiments toward his mother and not him. He ground his teeth.
“I’m so glad she’s better.”
“Aye.” His voice was deeper and darker than he meant it to be. “So I suppose ye’ll be goin’ soon, eh?”
“I don’t know.”
He grunted. Again, the sound was much more hostile than anything he’d meant. Or was it? Lord, it wounded him that she’d kissed him, just this morning she fondled him, and it had meant nothing to her.
“I’m sorry—sorry about this morning.” Once more, she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Well, that was proof, wasn’t it? He meant nothing to her. Hell, he should be grateful, because what man didn’t want a woman whom he could desire, but not want him to make vows to her, to marry her, to protect her, to provide for her? He was such a stupid man.
The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Because ye didn’t mean to touch me like that, eh? Because it doesn’ mean anything to ye.”
If he thought her brown eyes had darkened before, they were pure black storms now. “Doesn’t mean anything to me?”
“Aye.”
“Doesn’t mean anything to me?”
“Aye.” He raised his voice again.
Carefully, she bent over and placed the bundle of white knitting into a large canvas bag she’d stored in the corner. But she straightened in a flash and bore him with her angry gaze.
“You think me some kind of jezebel?”
Well, he hadn’t seen that question coming, and he stood there mute, probably with his mouth agape too.
“You do, don’t you? You think me some kind of slut who just fools around with men.”
“Nay.” His voice now, of all bloody times, was too quiet.
Faster than he saw coming, she stood inches from him, pointing a finger at his chin, but then retracting it with a wince. “You might not believe me, but I never, and I mean
never
act like that. I’ve never wanted a man the way I want you. I know I’m acting like a harlot, but I’ve never, ever done that sort of thing with a man before. What we did this morning—scratch that—what
I
did this morning I’ve never done. I know I attacked you. I’m sorry for it, now I’m even more sorry, knowing how you feel about me.”
The energy he’d felt earlier when she’d stared at his chest was nothing to the new, raw impetus that crashed into him as her words filtered through his mind. Again, he believed her. He’d come to discover that like him, she was a horrid liar. What she’d spoken was pure truth: she wanted him. And he’d gone and made a muck of it.
He’d never been that skilled at communication and decided to react instead. Besides, it wasn’t as though he could tell his body to slow down. She was under his face, her hot breath on him, so angry, so lovely.
He kissed her. Too hard. Stopping, he gauged her reaction.
She was confused with furrowed brows, but she didn’t prevent him from lowering his head again and softly feathered against her lips. Once. Twice. Then the third time he lingered, melting his lips into hers. She nibbled and licked her way into his mouth, and he let her, parrying with her tongue as they both moaned. He clutched at her waist, pulling her against him, realizing that she’d already made him hard. Feeling his erection pressed against her belly intensified his desire all the more.
Suddenly, she pushed against his shoulders, huffing on his face.
“No way, big guy. You can’t get off that easy.”
He didn’t know what she meant but would do anything to kiss her again.
“I—I’m feeling horrible now.”
“I don’t want ye to feel horrible.” He pulled her closer, then, finally, he cupped one of her breasts.
Her thick dark lashes fluttered closed as she moaned, her back arched into his hand.
“I want ye to feel good. Real good.”
She snapped her lids open and pushed his hand away from her soft globe. “Not before you tell me how you feel.”
He swallowed, feeling his passion pulse through his veins, making it difficult to concentrate. But something nagged at him to comfort Fleur. Reason slowly flowed into his mind. She worried about how he felt.
“Do you think me a slut?” Her words were whispered and breathy, with an edge of hurt, fragile tones.
“Not at all, Fleur.”
“Then why did you think what happened between us didn’t matter to me?”
He sucked in a gasp of air, so glad he was touching her waist, for she held him up without her awares. She was supporting him, because the answer he would convey hurt so much his legs were sure to give way.
“Ye—ye’re leaving. The fae will take ye away from me, back to yer time, and I thought—Jesus, I don’t ken what I thought. I—I was scared ye didn’t feel for me the same I feel for ye.”
She more than likely reached up on her toes, because her lips were again on his, pleading for him to open. Oh, he did. Their tongues met and mingled, but just as suddenly she stopped and was back at her own height.
“I keep forgetting to tell you that it wasn’t the fae that brought me here.”
“Nay, ye told me. When we first met. Ye said it wasn’t the fae, but ye didn’ ken what it was.”
“Well, now I know. It was the muses, Clio and Erato. Have you heard of them?”
He nodded, then shook his head. “Ye’re telling me that
Greek muses
have ye here.”
“Don’t sound so patronizing, and, yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. And the god, Coyote. They’re the ones who put me here.”
Duncan blinked, not sure what to think about any of it.
Fleur made a derisive noise. “It’s no better than fairies transporting me here, is it?”
“I’m a Scot, lass.” He smiled at her and pulled her against him again, letting her feel his hardness. “I might not believe in much, but the fae...well, ‘twould be unpatriotic not to believe in them.”
Quietly she giggled. “But you believe me?” Her face turned serious in a heartbeat.
He kissed her softly, gently, then pulled away. “I do. It just—” He cut himself off, scared of what he felt, what he was about to say.
“It just . . .?”
He released a huge gush of air from his lungs. “It makes me worry that ye’ll be taken from me when I want ye here in my arms every second of every day.”
Once more she must have reached up on her toes and planted him with a heady kiss. She grabbed one of his hands, then lifted until it rested back on her breast. He moaned. With his thumb, he traced her breast until he felt the peak of her nipple through her layers of clothing. She clutched at him when he rolled over it, bowing her body to his when he lightly pinched the tight pebble.
Words could no longer be sought. Thoughts could only be expressed through his actions, and all he wanted was for her to stay, sated so thoroughly she would beg to stay. His other hand found her smock’s lacings and began in a fury to untie the white ribbons. Her hands slid down his shoulders, grabbing around his brawny arms. She moaned as her wee fingers spread wide, making him feel so potently male to her female. Her blouse finally opened, revealing pale blue stays. Those ties, of course, were at her back. But, heaven must be helping, he found she’d tied herself loosely. Should he plunge ahead and scoop out her perfect breast?
