A Highlander's Obsession (Highlander's Beloved) (8 page)

Frigid winds whipped around the three men on the hill. Creighton forced his focus from the bitter cold to the lodge’s Land Rover, bouncing over the rutted road toward the kirk’s crowded parking lot, and one of the occupants, the verra same female who’d filled his thoughts since her arrival at his castle. She was like a magnet. He’d never been so attracted before.

Or so frightened.

It was as if she were his other half. The bear bumped his heart.
Ours
.

Approaching thirty, he was beyond what his clan deemed a marriageable age. More and more of his people were suggesting suitable females. In his dual position as chief of his clan and alpha of his sleuth, he was expected to produce offspring, to continue the Matheson line. Although he’d had his fair share of women, he was careful to keep his affairs outside his clan. He didn’t want bad feelings erupting from a broken heart or misconstrued intentions. Having an irate father accusing him of trifling with his daughter’s affections didn’t produce the harmonious relationships Creighton worked so hard to achieve.

He was a boy when his father told him to wait until a woman walked into his life he couldn’t bear to see walk out again. Never once had Creighton thought his dad referred to an almost instantaneous attraction. A blonde lightning bolt. Not until he’d set eyes on Paisley Munro. So, what would happen to his fierce attraction when she left Scotland? His mood darkened. How would his heart survive? Damn the woman and what she made him feel.

A sour note blew from his bagpipe and Neilan kicked Creighton’s calf. His bad mood darkened another degree. The American was affecting him. Hell, since she’d set foot in his world, he couldna sleep, couldna eat, couldna think in a rational manner. When Effie spoke of their returning to the States, it was as if a part of his soul had broken off and sailed away. His bear prowled back and forth, growing more agitated.
She’s ours. She stays here at Mathe Bay
.

What was up with Paisley wearing his tartan pinned to her bonnie bosom? How had she gotten it? He wasn’t troubled she wore the tartan. What surprised him was that his clan’s plaid looked as if it belonged on her. In fact, he wanted her to wear it—and that
really
bothered him.

Damn the woman and what she made him feel.

Another discordant note squeaked from his pipe. This time, both Neilan and Kendric
kicked him.

After Paisley fled from his arms early yesterday morning, he’d gone to his office, powered up his laptop and googled her name. What he’d found surprised him. She was hailed as an animal communicator. He read every word on her website. The connection between her and the mare suddenly made sense. While such people were revered and trusted in Scotland and Ireland, he doubted Americans were in touch with the elements of the universe enough to respect such a gift. She’d probably faced her fair share of scorn. That fact bothered him. And the
fact
that it bothered him worried the hell out of him.

He couldn’t care for this woman, this American, this stranger. His temper darkened two more degrees. Another bad note seeped from his bagpipe and he stepped back to avoid being kicked again.

According to Malcolm, she and her grandmother had come to ruin the countryside and Mathe Bay. As head of his sleuth, keeping their habitat safe was one of his biggest responsibilities. His position demanded the clan come before any woman, no matter how strong his desire—and for all his grumblings, he
did
desire Paisley Munro. Even so, he couldna allow his attraction to override Malcolm’s warnings and dire predictions.

Yet, in their hushed conversation in the stable and their horse ride the following day, he sensed an honesty about Paisley. Was Malcolm wrong? Where had the man gotten his facts? How did Malcolm ken what was in his uncle’s will? Angus’s solicitor had always been very professional, and he wasn’t a loose-lipped man. So, where and from whom was Malcolm getting his information? His bear reached his paws into Creighton’s soul and shook it.
He lies. Our angel is pure of heart
.

Paisley exited the vehicle and his heart rate escalated. The sunlight gracing the Scottish hills today was weak in comparison to the brilliance of the lass’s golden hair. Aye, one day soon he’d have his fingers fisted in her tresses as he fused his lips to hers. His groin tightened and his cock swelled. Would wooing her be such a bad thing?

What if Malcolm was right, though? What if she and her grandmother were trouble? For the first time in his life, his many obligations weighed heavy on his heart—a heart that desired the bespectacled woman holding the door and helping her grandmother out of the SUV.

* * *

How would her grandmother handle the fierce, frigid winds? She’d have to hurry her inside the small stone church.

Gram took one look at the three men in matching kilts and black Scottish bonnets, playing bagpipes on a hill beyond the church, and pressed her hand to her chest. “Have you ever heard anything so beautiful yet haunting in your life? I think my Scottish ancestors are calling to me.”

“You’re right. Beautiful and haunting. Makes chills go up my spine. Let me get you inside out of the cold.” Paisley wrapped an arm around her grandmother and hurried her toward the doors, all the while trying to ignore the tallest of the bagpipe players. Creighton.

Look at me, lassie
.

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Her steps faltered and her head whipped around to regard him.
Dear God, why him? Why do I only hear his thoughts?

“What’s wrong?” Gram studied her, concern in her eyes.

Paisley fought to regain control. Just because he beckoned her in thought didn’t mean he knew for sure that she could read his mind. She inclined her head toward Gram and lowered her voice, “He called to me. In his mind, he called to me.”

Gram cast a look toward the bagpipe players and her silver eyebrows rose. “Well, now. Isn’t that something? Maybe we should stay on in Scotland longer than we’d planned.”

“Are you kidding? I’m ready to go home tonight.” She turned and smiled at Bryce, who held the church door open for them. “Thanks.” He winked at her and she gently slapped his arm.

“Is Alex pressuring you to leave here so soon? He made it quite clear he wasn’t happy about you making this trip with me. I don’t like the way he tries to control you. Mark my words, he’ll turn into an abuser once the vows are said.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

Gram was becoming more and more vocal about her dislike for Alex.

Truthfully, Paisley hadn’t missed him one iota. Why was that? Shouldn’t a woman miss her fiancé?
I should be thinking of Alex, not worrying about some big Scot in a kilt. No matter how handsome he looks or how commanding his demeanor or how sweet his actions are from time to time
.

Ronan took Gram’s arm and escorted her to the casket. Bryce held Paisley’s elbow as they followed. The flowers’ cloying perfume tickled her nose, and she fought back a sneeze.
Whispers and nods swirled in the quiet of the crowded chapel.

After they were seated, the three bagpipe players came in to pay their respects and take their places. Creighton touched Bryce’s shoulder, and Bryce stood, stepping into the aisle so his older brother could sit next to Paisley. Once again, the hushed din of whispers filled the chapel. The heat of a blush crept up her neck and face, scrambling to meet her hairline.
Oh, no, let the earth open and swallow me whole. Why does he have to sit next to me?

Creighton tugged on the hem of his black jacket with its braided trim and epaulets. She tried not to notice the man’s muscular legs peeking out from beneath his kilt. His knees were reddened by the cold. She glanced away, biting the inside of her cheek. If Scotsmen truly didn’t wear anything under their kilts, she bet his equipment was frozen solid. The heat of her blush intensified, and she rolled her eyes.
God will strike me dead for thinking about this man’s package in church
.

Her seatmate glanced at her, and one dark eyebrow rose.
Are ye thinking about me, lassie? Is that why the blush kisses yer fair cheeks?

Oh, the arrogance of this man. She crossed her arms and leaned away from him.

Aye, ye can hear me thoughts, can’t ye? Well, hear this, no matter how attracted I am, ye and yer grandmother shouldna come if ye plan to ruin Mathe Bay
.

What the hell was he thinking about? Sorry, God. First the man-drool and then the cussing. Sure hope your lightning bolt is out of commission today. What on God’s green earth did Creighton mean by their ruining Mathe Bay? That was the last thing they’d do.

Once the service was over, Creighton extended his hand to help her stand. Before they had a chance to exit the family pew, a skinny man with blond hair, beard, and mustache came charging over to Gram.

“Ye’ve got yer nerve. Ye never came to see Uncle Angus, but ye sure busted yer American arse to get here for the reading o’ the will.”

Paisley shifted to stand next to Gram, while Creighton placed his hand at the small of her back in a proprietary manner. Creighton scowled at the angry man. “Church isna the place to air yer anger, Malcolm Iverson. Besides, this isna how a man speaks to a lady. Show yer displeasure, aye, but guard yer tongue and respect her feelings.”

For some reason, the Scottish pit bull ceased his barking tirade. “Verra well, then. Later.” He jabbed a bony finger toward Gram. “Ye shouldna come.”

“He’s the second male to issue that opinion.” Paisley glared at Creighton. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me why? Gram came at the request of Angus’s lawyer. She’s not after anything or planning to ruin your precious bay.”

Creighton’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second. “I’ll tell ye what I told Malcolm. Now is not the time, nor the place.”

Gram was never one to back down from anyone or anything. She extended her hand toward her verbal attacker. “Well now, Cousin Malcolm. How nice it is to meet you. Thanks for the
warm
Scottish welcome. I’m sure you’ve done Uncle Angus proud.” She tugged on her gloves in jerky movements. “I don’t much care for the color of your aura, young man. You’ve got a lot of atonement to do before you meet your maker.”

The man’s face turned beet red in stark contrast to his light-colored beard. His hand curled into a fist on the back of the pew. “Ye wretched bitch.”

A low rumbling deep in Creighton’s chest reached Paisley’s ears. She recognized the tone of animals’ growls well enough to know it was one of warning, but since when did men growl in the same manner? Malcolm lowered his gaze and stepped backward. When she glanced toward Creighton, his eyes glowed golden.

Her confusion and fear must have shown on her face for he slid his arm around her waist and inclined his dark head. “Ye needn’t fear me, Paisley. Like most men with a wee bit o’ power, I sometimes sound fiercer than I am.”

Somehow she doubted his words. How could he sound like a growling animal?

“I can see ye doubt me, lass. Hear this. If what ye say is true about not wanting to hurt our land, I would protect ye and yer grandma with me verra life.”

Much later, after everyone left the cemetery, they all drove to the lodge for a meal. Ladies of the small community carried in large bowls and platters of food for those who attended the services for Angus Iverson.

Embroidered linen tablecloths, tinged yellow with time, were spread over three long tables in a large hall of the castle. Women touched the cloths with a sense of reverence, sharing remembrances of banquets long past. As Paisley walked around the perimeter of the hall, she studied the tapestries hung on the walls, some of their colors faded with age. The sense of history was strong here.

Men carried scarred wooden benches to the tables for the children and teenagers. Chairs
were brought forth for the comfort of the elderly or people of honor. She was relieved to see Gram was seated on one far away from Malcolm, for he was aiming murderous looks her way.

As members of the community assembled around the tables, beer and ale flowed freely, as did raucous stories of a young Angus. Gram’s eyes sparkled, her whole demeanor lively and attentive as she listened to the banter.

Paisley pushed her food around her plate, trying to make sense of things. On the way here from the airport, she’d seen and heard animals speaking. Nothing strange there. The eyes of one of the creatures blazed amber. Later she’d seen Creighton, or a bear—she still wasn’t sure about what or who she’d seen, no matter the man’s glib excuse—looking up at her window, its eyes glowing golden. Today at the service, Creighton’s eyes took on the same appearance. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the beast and man were one and the same, an impossibility to be sure. Still …

The massive body next to her leaned into her space and halted her thoughts. Both strength and warmth whispered warning signals. “Ye dinna seem enamored of yer food, lassie. Not to yer liking?” Creighton’s eyebrows rose.

His maleness, potent and overwhelming, made her nervous. She cleared her throat and unbuttoned and buttoned the top of her purple blouse. “No, it’s very tasty. I’m just lost in thought.”

Dark eyes with flecks of gold focused on her nervous fingers toying with her button. A muscle bunched in his jaw. He straightened and reached for his glass of ale. “Ye trouble me, lass.”

“I do have a name, you know.”

He set his glass down and slowly turned toward her. It seemed his gaze settled on the heart broach pinned to the bosom of her suit jacket. The piece of plaid Gram insisted she show off hung beneath it. His fingers reached to touch the wool material, inadvertently sweeping across the swell of her breast. When she gasped at her nipples hardening to his touch, his dark eyes rose to lock on hers.

“Where did ye get the tartan, Paisley?” Her name rolled off his tongue in that delightful Scottish burr he had.

“Someone hung a wreath of heather tied together with this strip of plaid on the inside of my bedroom door a couple nights ago. My
locked
bedroom door.”

“There’s a difference between plaid and tartan.” He sat straighter in his chair. “A plaid is a rectangular piece of woolen cloth usually draped over a man’s shoulder or worn as a shawl by a woman. Tartan is the pattern of weave and colors in a fabric. Some clans have a tartan or weave pattern registered to their clan so only they can wear it.”