The Highlander's Touch (19 page)

She would track him down in a few hours, she decided, but for now it was back to the business at hand: Where would Circenn hide the flask? She had no doubt he’d secreted it away as soon as they’d arrived. She had tried to watch what he did with his pack when they’d entered the castle, and had last seen it lying beside the door, but it had been gone the next morning when she’d sneaked down to begin her search. Whatever was in the silvery container must be extraordinarily valuable for him to be so careful with it. Was it indeed a potion to manipulate time? Was he blatantly lying to her about whether he could return her? She might consider drinking whatever it contained once she found it; perhaps the contents were magic.

She rummaged through the chest, sorting past ledgers. A few lumpy cushions, throws, and balls of thick thread had been casually tossed in with the mix. Nearing the bottom, she uncovered a sheaf of papers filled with slanted scrawl. The words looked angry, as had the words carved on top of the chest in the museum.

“Have you found what you seek, Lisa?” Circenn Brodie asked quietly.

Lisa dropped the papers back into the chest, closed her eyes, and sighed. With a gazillion rooms in this castle, everyone seemed hell-bent on joining her in this one. “I was getting a blanket out of the chest”—she snatched up a plaid that had been folded near the top—“when one of my earring backs came off,” she lied splendidly.

“You are not wearing ear rings, lass,” he said, breaking it into two distinct words, eyeing her ears. “On either ear,” he said impassively.

Lisa clutched at her ears, then nearly assaulted the chest in a frenzied search. “Oh heavens, they
both
fell off,” she cried. “Can you believe that?”

She flinched when his strong hands settled upon her waist as she bent over the chest. “No,” he said quietly. “I cannot. Why doona you simply tell me what you are looking for, lass? Perhaps I can help you. I know the castle well. It is mine, after all.”

Lisa straightened slowly; she hadn’t fooled him for a moment. She was excruciatingly aware of his presence behind her, could feel the brush of his chest against her back. His hands were hot through the fabric of her gown. She glanced down, and the sight of his elegant fingers curving around her waist quickened her breath. “You don’t need to touch me to talk to me,” she said softly. She wasn’t in full command of her mental faculties when Circenn touched her, and she needed every ounce of her wits to deal with him.

He removed his hands, and she exhaled a sigh of relief that served also to calm her erratic heartbeat, but then he gripped her by the shoulders and turned her about to face him. She tilted back her head to look at him. He regarded her in silence until she was too nervous to hold her tongue any longer.

“I was merely snooping. I’m curious about this place. It’s my history—”

“Had you been strolling about the castle studying portraits, examining the weapons, or looking at furniture, you might have convinced me, but rummaging through my
chest strikes me as somewhat odd. My servants tell me they’ve seen you in every wing of my castle.”

Lisa swallowed, daunted by the cool expression on his face. A muscle jumped in his jaw and she realized she had upset him more than he was letting on.
Danger
, her mind cautioned.
This man is a warrior, Lisa
.

“Were you looking for battle plans, lass?” he asked tightly.

“No!” she assured him hastily. “I’m not interested in that.”

Circenn stepped past her, bent over the chest, and poked through it. Apparently he found little to warrant concern, but he removed the sheaf of papers she’d discovered, folded them, and placed them in his sporran. He pivoted behind her and angled his body so that his chest brushed her shoulder.

She could smell him—that faint spicy scent that lured, befuddled, and seduced her. He was much too close for comfort. Lisa stolidly refused to budge an inch; she would not turn to meet his gaze again.
Let him talk to my cheek
, she thought defiantly. She was not going to let him use his body to intimidate her, although she had no doubt he’d used it effectively to that purpose for most of his life.

His breath fanning her ear, he said, “I came to tell you Duncan awaits you in the oriel—that is the room above the Greathall. He will give you a tour and has more to teach you before you mingle with my people. I expect you for dinner this evening—”

“We’ve not dined together before. I see no reason to start now,” she interrupted hastily.

He continued as if she’d not spoken. “And I’ve had some gowns sent to your room. I suggest you spend the
early evening with Gillendria, who will arrange for a bath and dress your hair—”

“I don’t need to fuss,” she protested quickly, her eyes fixed on the wall.

“My future wife would fuss with her appearance to befit her station.”

Circenn dropped his hand from where it was suspended above her nape and clenched it so he wouldn’t give in to the temptation to caress her hair, perhaps place a finger beneath her chin, and turn her face to his. Over the past few days, knowing she lay in his bed, slept in his castle, he’d grown deeply intrigued with the thought of being handfasted to her. His desire for her had in no way responded to his efforts at discipline; rather, it seemed to be growing defiantly, in inverse proportion to his attempts to contain it. Handfasting seemed to be acquiring the elements of a nicely bent rule, to the new and decidedly not improved Circenn Brodie.

If she turned to look at him, she would clearly see his hunger for her, and he
wanted
her to see it; it was like a volcano inside him—hot, far from dormant, and bordering on dangerous. He wanted to see how she would react, if her eyes would widen, her pupils dilate, her lips part. He gazed at her for a moment, willing her to turn and face him, but she was stalwart in her stance.

*   *   *

Circenn entered his chambers, gliding soundlessly across the floor. He drew a deep breath and let himself feel the raw power surging in his veins.
Why fight it now?
he thought sardonically. The past four days had been hellish. Since they’d returned to his castle, he’d tried to keep himself busy training, attempting to exhaust himself physically so
he might sleep at night, but to no avail. At every moment he was exquisitely conscious of the woman in his keep.

And exquisitely tempted.

He’d broken every damned rule on his list but two, and now he’d come to this chamber to bend yet another one. He’d come to scry his future.

He paused before the brightly burning fire. Perhaps, if he had peered into his future the moment she had appeared, he might have glimpsed the disasters coming and been able to avert them. Perhaps he should have broken that rule first. Or perhaps he should have practiced scrying years ago and foreseen her arrival, but he hadn’t for two reasons: He disliked using magic, and scrying was not an exact art. Sometimes he could see clearly, and at other times his visions were impossible to decipher, more confusing than helpful.

Circenn stared into the flames for a long moment, arguing with himself over such things as fate and free choice. He’d never been able to reach a solid conclusion about predestination. When Adam had first shown him the art of scrying his future days, Circenn had scoffed, arguing that to believe one could see one’s future meant that it was unchangeable, which annihilated the concept of personal control, something he couldn’t accept. Adam had merely laughed and goaded Circenn that if he refused to learn all the arts, he couldn’t expect to understand the few he did know.
A bird’s eye views the entire terrain over which it flies, a mouse sees only dirt Be ye free or be ye mouse?
Adam had asked, his mouth curved in that perpetually mocking smile.

Sighing, Circenn knelt by the fireplace and ran his hand beneath the crack where the hearth met the floor. A portion of the wall containing the hearth silently revolved ninety
degrees, revealing a pitch-black chamber behind it. He picked up a candle and stepped into the hidden chamber. With a slight movement of his foot, he depressed the lever that spun the wall closed. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the room with no windows. It was an uncomfortable place for him, a place he sought only in his darkest hours.

He passed the small tables, toying idly with the various “gifts” the blackest elf had brought him. Some he understood, some he never wanted to understand. Adam had given them strange names: batteries, automatic rifles, lighters, tampons. Circenn had explored a few of them, and one he’d found himself drawn to many times over the centuries. Adam called it a “portable CD player.” His usual favorite was Mozart’s
Requiem
, but today, however, he was more in the mood for a piece called
Ride of the Valkyries
by Richard Wagner. Slipping the device over his ears, he thumbed the gauge to full volume and sank into a chair in the corner, staring at the candle flame. Papers crackled in his sporran and he removed them with a wry smile. He’d long ago forgotten stuffing those sheaves in the chest in his study, but he had narrowly escaped a disastrous situation by retrieving them. The last thing she needed to stumble upon was his scribbled and maudlin introspections. She would truly think him deranged.

He knew the first sheaf by heart:

And the second, the one that had laid the course of his life:

And the third, when brutal understanding had finally dawned and he’d tasted the bitter dregs hidden in the cup of immortal life, camouflaged by the sweet nectar of perfect health and longevity:

A lonely life, indeed.

The savage music thundering in his ears, he gazed deep into the flame and deliberately opened that part of his mind
he usually kept tightly shut. Unlike Druidism, which was a ritualistic art that included binding curses and spells, true magic required neither ceremonies nor rhymes. Adam’s kind of magic was a process of opening one’s mind and using a focus for the power once summoned. Circenn had found that the glassy surface of the reflecting pool in the rear gardens, or a polished metal disk, was often the best focus.

He retreated into his mind, staring intently at the shield propped against the wall. He’d fashioned it himself hundreds of years past, and although it was far too battered to carry into battle, it served him well as a focal point. The last time he’d tried to scry his life, he’d been trying to see himself five hundred years in the future, to determine what he might become. The vision that had flickered within this same shield had been bitter indeed. His vision had told him that by the seventeenth century, he would be possessed by a depraved madness.

Fate? Predestination?

His visions had told him truly when and how Naya would die; still, he’d been unable to save her. Natural causes, old age—a thing against which he possessed no weapon. Impotent in all his power, he’d lost her. And she’d raged against him as she’d died, cursing him a demon, for his hair had never grayed, his face had never lined.

He shook off the memory and intensified his focus. Images blurred and slowly coalesced. At first he could define only blobs of color: pink, bronze, dusky rose, and a backdrop of ivory. He narrowed the span of control, focusing on what the next few months would bring him.

When the pictures became clear, his hands closed like claws upon the arms of his chair.

He stared, first in shock, then with fascination, and finally with acquiescence, a faint smile playing about his lips.