Highlander's Touch (6 page)

Warm lips brushed over hers. Soft and sweet. And even in their softness, something intense flared inside her. She gasped, and that moment when her mouth opened, he slid his tongue along the seam of her lips and then inside to tease the tip of her own.

“Ewan,” she murmured. “We—”

But the stubborn man didn’t let her finish. His hand threaded through the hair at the back of her head, holding her prisoner as he deepened the kiss, tangling their tongues and not allowing her to speak.

It was beautiful, delicious, so wanton. And she loved every single wicked stroke.

She would have kissed him all night into the next morning if she could. When his free hand slid over her ribs to cup her breast, she arched forward, wanting him to touch her aching nipple.

And that was when reality struck. What was she doing? She couldn’t let him kiss her, touch her. What was she going to do—make love to a wounded man? That was unheard of. She’d lose all respect as a healer. She’d lose respect in herself for taking advantage of a man who’d barely made it out of the forest alive.

Still she kissed him. He certainly knew how to pleasure her mouth with his tongue. Zounds, but she liked this. Shona eagerly slid her tongue over his, one hand bracing her weight and the other palm scraping over the stubble on his cheek. She shivered at the sensations he evoked, moaned in the back of her throat when he massaged her breast and tweaked her nipple.

It’d been so long since she’d felt the pleasures of the flesh. So long since anyone had held her, kissed her, touched her.

She didn’t want it to end, and while she’d allowed herself to indulge in the fantasy Ewan gifted her with, she knew she had to stop.

Probably
now
.

She pulled away gently, able to slide away from him in his weakened state.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, guilt finding its way into every part of her.

“There is no need, lass, I enjoyed every minute of your seduction.” He winked, a teasing smile curling his lips. “I hope ye’re not offended.”

“Never.” That was the truth. If time could be turned back, she’d kiss him again.

Instead, she turned her back on him and said, “Sleep,” while she reached for the jug of whisky.

After a lengthy pull on the bottle, her body still on fire from the Highlander’s touch, she led the horse back outside to the small barn where a few other animals resided. The horse neighed his disgust, but she ignored him.

“Ye’re lucky for not messing in my cottage,” she said, though the threat was empty.

She got him situated in a stall, but a thought occurred to her as she touched the barn door. If someone were to come looking for the warrior, his horse would be easily recognized.

Shona bit her lip and returned to the massive animal. She made quick work with her knife—cutting the horse’s mane. But even that didn’t seem to be enough. She gathered some dirt from outside, mixed it with a touch of water, creating mud and smeared the brown sludge onto the black warhorse horse. She apologized all the while to the beautiful animal for her treatment.

Body still heated, she finished her task, and rushed back to her cottage—intent on never kissing the warrior again.

THE fire in the hearth popped and outside thunder crackled, lightning streaks making the inside of Shona’s cottage white every so often. A summer storm was usually something she relished. She liked to leave the shutters ajar and look out as the sky went to war with itself. But she dared not open the shutters this night. Not with a strange warrior in her bed, and any number of people looking for him.

Whisky had made her belly warm, her head a little more quiet.

Since Ewan had been sleeping the past two hours, she’d done nothing but panic. Why had she allowed him to kiss her? Why did she take advantage of a wounded man? When would the MacDonalds who’d fought with him in the woods come to find her? When would his own men? The Grants would think she’d taken him for some nefarious purpose, after all they were not acquainted with her like the castle healers. Indeed, she’d heard the rumors. They called her the Witch of the Wood. Those same men would insist she meant to poison Ewan. His clan would believe she intended harm instead of aide—for why should she, unless she stood to gain something from it?

There was not a single thread of hope in her mind that she stood to benefit from what she’d done. If anything, the MacDonald men would match the arrows in her quiver to the one that had killed one of their men. Then they’d want to seek vengeance—to string her up—after torturing her.

“Oh saints, but what have I done?” she asked the silent room, her head falling against her palm.

She’d killed a man and saved a man.

She’d gone from practically anonymous forest dweller, to an idiot who shouted out their whereabouts by dragging a warrior who’d be missed to her cottage. She might as well have left a trail of red flags tied to the trees to lead them here.

Shona swiped her hand over her face and reached for the jug of whisky she normally used to clean infected wounds, and poured herself another dram.

Tossing it back, she didn’t know whether to relish the burn of its path down her throat, or curse it. She supposed she ought to be happy that she was still alive, and not in the clutches of someone who wished to do her harm.

Relish it
.

Rory’s voice was so strong in her mind that Shona jerked around, expecting to see him standing behind her. But the room was empty save for the soft snores of her ward.

“Where are ye, Rory?” she asked the still air, just as she’d done a thousand times over the past two years.

Ewan grumbled, his arm flailing forward then falling limply at his side.

Had he come across Rory at some point in the wood? Thought Rory to be an enemy trespasser and dealt with him accordingly?

She prayed not, for she could never ask Rory’s forgiveness if she tended to a man who’d seen to his demise.

Ewan flailed again, this time letting out a mighty shout.

“Blast.” She shifted out of her chair, grabbed the whisky as she went and shuffled toward him, noting that four drams of the amber-colored liquid apparently made her toes a little numb. Slowing to a stop to steady herself, she took a deep breath and pushed onward.

“Drink up.” She held the lip of the jug to his mouth.

Ewan’s eyes flew up, the whites looking red in the firelight. Fever brewed in his body, she could sense it.

“Drink,” she said again.

This time, his shaky hands closed over hers as he gripped the jug and swallowed.

“Och, that tastes like a horse’s arse,” he muttered.

Shona laughed. “Aye, but ’twill help ease your pain and your dreams.”

“My dreams will never be eased with ye about,” he said with a lop-sided grin and a lazy wink. “Let me kiss ye.”

Shona worked hard not to roll her eyes and sink her lips to his. “Have another sip, warrior.” She coached the jug back to his lips and watched him eagerly swallow.  Zounds, but she wanted those lips on her own.

“Have ye a husband?” His hazy gaze roved over the tiny cottage. “Or are we all alone?”

All the mirth left her, as she stared down at the warrior. Searing heat wound its way around her middle, shooting down to her core and leaving her thighs to quiver. Why did his voice have to stroke the promise of pleasure over her sensitive body? “I’ve no husband.”

Saying it out loud made her feel even lonelier than she’d felt before. And relieved that this man was here—even if she’d brought him here without his knowledge. All the same, he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he appeared to like her a little.
Nettles!
That was the whisky talking in her mind. The man was half mad with fever and her tincture!

“’Tis a shame, for ye’re very bonny. I’d like to make love to ye, lass. Will ye let me?”

All the breath left her. Would she let him? How long had it been since she’d made love? Too long… And she would like to let him. Would like to feel that wide mouth on hers, to savor the warmth of his lips brushing against her. To taste the whisky on his tongue and melt into his strong embrace. To have his body move over hers, between her thighs and inside her.

But he was injured. And she wasn’t a harlot. The last thing she needed when his people finally figured out his whereabouts, was for them to brand her a whore, in addition to a witch.

“At least a kiss, love…” he crooned.

Nay, she’d not be labeled anything more than a loose wench if she let him touch her, and she knew in her soul she’d not stop him at a kiss. She’d let him touch her. Stroke her. Enter her, swift and hard.

Tingles pricked her skin, causing her nipples to harden and a twinge of pleasure to ignite between her thighs. Aye, she’d let him ravish her.

A mistake in itself.
Or a grand memory to carry me through the many years to come.

Shona grinned slightly and shook her head. “I’ve not had enough whisky to allow a drunken, feverish Highlander to kiss me.” How easy the lie had rolled off of her tongue—for not a few hours before she’d allowed it without a drop of whisky in her body.

“I am only fevered with my desire for ye,” he said with a wiggle of his brows.

His fingers found their way to her arm and danced over the puckered flesh until he came to the crook of her elbow and made a little swirling motion that had her nearly gasping. She ached for him to make love to her, was filled with a feral need she’d not felt in many years.

She jerked away—surprised at how much he affected her and how much she wanted him to continue. “Ye know not what ye say.”

Shona shoved away from the bed and stuffed the cork back into the jug. Best she not have anymore liquor, else she start believing a kiss from this warrior was worth it.

“Dinna leave me, lass, I’ll behave.”

Shona tossed a smile behind her then settled the jug onto a shelf, before returning to his side. “I’m not leaving, Ewan.”

“Ye know my name?” he asked. “’Tis a shame, for I know not yours.”

Her shoulders slumped. He did not remember her name. He obviously did not remember their kiss either. Likely he’d not even remember this conversation. Which was a blessing, but saddened her all the same.

“I am Shona,” she said.

“Shona…” he whispered, trailing off.

With a tentative glance, she saw that he’d fallen asleep again with a smile on his lips. She was half-tempted to go and kiss him then, to know that he slept and wouldn’t feel it or remember it, but that
she
would.

Before the urge grew too strong, she pushed away from him and tugged at the loaf of bread she’d been warming on a rock in the hearth. She ripped off a chunk, shoving it into her mouth.

The warm bread smoothed over her tongue and filled her belly, soaking up some of the whisky. She set aside a generous portion for the warrior in case he woke in the night hungry, though she doubted he’d be ready to eat until the morning, and then he’d do best with broth.

Having tended to him, she’d not had time to make the stew she’d planned, and so her supper consisted of the bread, a handful of roasted chestnuts she kept stored, an apple and tall cup of goat’s milk.

Her belly full of food—and considerably less whisky—exhaustion began warring with her need to stay awake to keep an eye on her ward.

She supposed it couldn’t hurt to sleep at least a little bit. Frowning at her bed occupied by a giant, she grabbed Rory’s rolled up pallet and a plaid blanket from the trunk and set up her makeshift bed by the hearth. She’d already divested Ewan of his weapons when she undressed him and bathed him, storing the swords,
sgian dubh
and daggers inside the chest, though she kept a wicked looking dagger for herself. For protection.

She snuffed out the candle and laid upon the floor, staring into the last few dying embers in the hearth.

The storm had most likely chilled the summer air, but inside the cottage was cozy. Shona rolled onto her back, flopping an arm over her eyes. But every time she felt she was ready to fall asleep, a vision of the warrior’s lips pressing onto hers, his body covering her with rigid hardness, would jolt her awake.

The visions were so intense, she couldn’t decide if they were simply her desires coupled with whisky, or if she’d suddenly gained the sight.