Kiss of the Highlander (20 page)

“And it’s a fire you can keep your hands off,” Drustan snapped. He looked bewildered by his own words and added hastily, “I doona want you to get snared in her trap. ’Tis apparent she’s looking for someone to marry her.”

“I am not looking for someone to marry me,” Gwen said firmly. “I’m looking for someone with a modicum of intellect.”

“
Ahem
. That would be me, m’dear,” Silvan said mildly, raising an ink-spotted hand.

Drustan scowled at his father.

“Well, that
would
be,” Silvan said, crossing his arms over his bony frame and leaning back against the doorjamb. “You doona see
me
standing out there shouting my head off when a few simple questions might clear things up nicely.”

“I’d say that qualifies,” Gwen said, tucking her arm through Silvan’s. She wasn’t going to get anything accomplished trying to talk to Drustan right now. Let him cool off outside for a while. She swept into the castle, towing Silvan along, and kicked the door shut with her heel.

“I can’t tell you,” Gwen told Silvan for the third time, already regretting having come inside with him. The moment they’d entered the castle, the inquisition had begun, and until she talked to Drustan, she dare not tell Silvan a thing. She’d already made one mistake this morning. She was not going to make another. She would tell Drustan and only Drustan. He could tell whomever he trusted.

“Well, what can you tell me? Anything?”

Gwen sighed. She’d taken an instant liking to Silvan MacKeltar—another of those baffling gut instincts—the moment she’d seen him standing in the hall interrogating his son, with so much love in his eyes. She’d felt a twinge of envy, wondering what it must feel like to be the focus of such parental concern. Not only did he resemble Einstein, with his white hair, olive-toned skin, curious brown eyes feathered by wrinkles, and deep grooves bracketing his mouth, but he demonstrated a similar acuity of mind.

Perched on the hearth in the Greathall, she glanced at the door, hoping Drustan would saunter in. Angry or not, she needed desperately to talk with him. “I told you my name,” she hedged.

“Rubbish. That tells me naught but that you’re English with Irish ancestors, and a damned odd accent. How do you know Drustan?”

She regarded him glumly.

“How am I supposed to help you, m’dear, if you refuse to tell me a thing? If my son took your maidenhead, ’tis wedding you he’ll be. But I can’t force him if you doona tell me who you are and a bit about what happened.”

“Mr. MacKeltar—”

“Silvan,” he interrupted.

“Silvan,” Gwen amended, “I don’t want you to force Drustan to marry me.”

“Then what do you want?” he exclaimed.

“More than anything right now?”

“Aye.”

“I’d like to know what the date is.” She hated asking it so baldly, but she needed to know. She drew some comfort from the fact that Dageus was still alive—it meant she’d arrived in time. But she wouldn’t feel entirely safe until she knew precisely, to the minute, how long she had.

Silvan went very still, his dark eyes narrowed, head cocked at an angle. She suddenly had the eerie feeling he was listening with more than his ears, and watching with more than his eyes.

And she knew she was right when he murmured softly, “Och, m’dear, you’re from a far far place, aren’t you, now? Nay, no need to reply. I doona understand what I sense, but I know you’re a stranger to this land.”

“What are you doing, reading my mind? Can you
do
that?” She might believe anything of a man who’d fathered a son who could manipulate time.

“Nay. ’Tis but a bit of deep listening in the old way, something neither of my sons are adept at, although I’ve tried to teach them. So ’tis the date you’re needing,” he said slowly. “I’ll trade you answers, what say you, Gwen Cassidy?”

“I’m not going to get them any other way, am I?”

He shook his head, a faint smile playing at his lips.

“I’ll answer your questions as honestly as I can,” she conceded, “but there are bound to be some that I can’t answer just yet.”

“Fair enough. As long as you doona lie to me, m’dear, we’ll get on fine. If you can’t tell me what transpired last eve, then tell me
why
you can’t.”

That was reasonably safe. “Because I must talk to Drustan first. If, once I talk with Drustan, he chooses to, he can tell you everything.”

Silvan held her gaze, weighing her words for truth.

“ ‘Tis the nineteenth day of July,” he said finally.

About a month,
Gwen thought, relieved. When Drustan had discovered that he was in the future, he said,
Christ, I haven’t lost a mere moon. I’ve lost centuries.
Translation: Initially he thought he had been in the cave for a month or so, which meant he’d been abducted somewhere in mid-August. He’d also said that Dageus had died “recently.” She’d had no idea how recent his grief had been and had assumed he’d meant several months or even a year ago. But apparently Dageus would die at some point in the next few weeks. She needed to know exactly when Dageus planned to leave for the Elliott’s; she had to prevent him from going at all.

“Fifteen eighteen?” She hated wasting a question, but had to be sure. Considering that Drustan had gotten the month and day wrong, she supposed it was possible he’d messed up on the year too.

Silvan’s eyes evinced utter fascination. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and peered at her. “Where are you from?” he breathed.

She sighed and averted her gaze, half-afraid the canny man could read the answers in her eyes. She blinked, momentarily distracted by her first real look at the Greathall. When she’d come downstairs, she’d scarce seen past Drustan. The hall was elegant and lovely as her chamber had been, the floor fashioned of spotlessly scrubbed pale gray stones, the walls lined with brilliant tapestries. Two hounds snored softly beneath a large masterpiece of a table. Heavy velvet drapes were pulled back from tall paned windows, and the rosy marble double staircase gleamed in the morning light. A panel of stained glass was inset above the massive door, and silver shields and weapons adorned the walls on either side. “It’s a country you’ve never heard of,” she demurred, not about to say the good old U.S. of A. That would start a whole other conversation that could go on indefinitely.

“Tell me, or you’ll get no answers from me. Really, where you’re from can hardly be too revealing, can it, now?”

She blew out a frustrated breath. “America. Far across the ocean.”

Again, he assessed her with his steady stare. “Fifteen eighteen,” he agreed. “And I know of the Americas. We doona call it that, but we Scots discovered it centuries ago.”

“You did not,” she scoffed. “Christopher Columbus—”

“Merely followed the Sinclair’s path, after he got his hands on the old maps left to the Templars.”

“
Oooh.
You Scots have got to be the most arrogant—”

“What a conundrum you are proving—”

“Do you always talk over people?”

He snorted with laughter. “You do it rather well yourself,” he said, smiling and patting her hand. “I think I’m going to like you quite a lot, lass. So, when do you plan to tell Drustan, so I may hear the whole story?”

“The minute he walks in. And thanks for giving me an easy question.”

“That’s not fair, that wasn’t a—”

“Uh-uh. No way you’re reneging now. That was too a question.”

“Aye, but not really and you know it,” Silvan grumbled. He averted his nose in a snit, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “You’re a clever lass, aren’t you, now? Next?” he said dryly.

“Is Dageus planning to take any trips soon?”

“What a very odd question,” Silvan remarked, stroking his chin. “I must say you’ve got my curiosity in quite a lather. Aye, he is to go to the Elliott’s soon. Did Drustan take your virginity?”

She blew out a breath slowly. “It’s a very complicated story,” she evaded, “and I must speak to Drustan as soon as possible. Your son is in danger. I believe he trusts you completely; however, he must decide what to tell you. I can’t say any more than that until he and I talk. Please respect that,” she added softly.

He arched a brow, but nodded.

When he took her hand between his and patted it, she felt funny inside. She couldn’t recall her own father ever doing such a thing. He held her hand for a few moments, his eyes narrowed, his expression pensive. She had the distinct, unsettling sensation that he was peering right into her soul. Was that possible? she wondered.

“All right, m’dear,” Silvan said. “You win. No more questions until you speak with Drustan. But if I know my son, he’ll not cooperate.”

“He must, Silvan,” Gwen said desperately. “We don’t have all that much time.”

“Is he truly in danger?”

Gwen closed her eyes and sighed. “You all are.”

“Then we will make him listen to you.”

Gwen opened her eyes and scowled. “And how do you plan to make him do that? Lock him in a room with me?”

Silvan smiled faintly, deepening the lines about his mouth. Elderly though he was, he was a handsome man with no small amount of charisma. She wondered why he’d never married again. Surely not for lack of women being interested.

“Not a bad idea, m’dear. Will you do as I say?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.

And he bent his head close to hers and began whispering.

         
15
         
 

Hours later, an anxious Gwen paced before the
fire in the Silver Chamber. The day had dragged endlessly on with no sign of Drustan. If he’d only return, she’d clear things up and they could set about figuring out who the enemy was.

After a scrumptious breakfast of poached eggs, potatoes, and dried, salted fish in the hall with Silvan, Nell had given her a brief tour, pointing out garderobes and the like. She’d spent a few hours in the library, then had retired to her chamber to await Drustan.

Dageus had ridden in a few hours ago, without him. He said they’d parted ways at the tavern. Silvan had drawn his younger son—younger by a mere three minutes—into their plan, and Dageus, grinning and casting Gwen steamy glances—did he
have
to drip as much raw sex appeal as Drustan?—now held the door to the corridor ajar a crack, watching for Drustan’s approach. He’d been spotted riding into the stable a quarter hour past.

“I can’t believe you placed her in the chamber that adjoins Drustan’s,” Dageus said over his shoulder.

Silvan shrugged defensively. “She said his name last night, and besides, ’tis the third nicest in the castle. Yours and Drustan’s are the only two more lavishly furnished.”

“I’m not certain she should be sleeping so close to him.”

“Where should I move her? Nearer to your chamber?” Silvan countered. “Drustan denies knowing her. You kissed her. Who poses more of a threat to her?”

Gwen flushed, grateful that Dageus didn’t point out that she’d
demanded
he kiss her. He glanced at her sidewise and flashed her a seductive look. God, he was gorgeous, she thought, watching his glossy waist-length hair slide silkily as he angled his head to argue over his shoulder with Silvan. How could two such devastating men exist in one castle? Not that she was attracted to him, but she’d have to be dead not to appreciate his raw male virility.

“Why are you helping me?” she asked Silvan, nudging the conversation in a less disconcerting direction.

He smiled faintly. “Doona fash yourself over my motives, m’dear.”

“You would be wise to fash yourself over his motives, lass,” Dageus cautioned dryly. “When Da bothers to involve himself, he always has ulterior motives. Schemes within schemes. And inevitably, he knows more than he lets on.”

“Do you?” She peered at the charming, grandfatherly man.

“Innocent as a little lamb ambling the hillside, m’dear,” Silvan said mildly.

Dageus shook his head at her. “Doona believe a word of it. But nor should you waste your breath trying to get more out of him. He’s quiet as the grave with his little secrets.”

“I’m not the only one who keeps secrets around here, lad,” Silvan said with a sharp glance. Father and son battled with their gazes a few moments, then Dageus dropped his eyes and looked back out into the corridor.

An awkward silence reigned, and Gwen wondered what she was missing, what secrets a man like Dageus kept. Feeling like the perpetual outsider-looking-in, she changed the subject again. “Are you sure he won’t listen? Are you certain we need to go to such extremes?” A pile of wood planks and bolts lay near the adjoining door, and the longer Gwen looked at it, the more nervous she became.

“M’dear, you accused him of taking your maidenhead. Nay, he’ll not speak to you if he can avoid it.”

Dageus nodded agreement. “He’s coming,” he warned them.

“Into the boudoir with you, m’dear,” Silvan urged. “When you hear him enter his chamber, count to ten, then join him. I’ll block this door and Dageus will take the other. We won’t permit him to leave until you’ve had your say.”

Squaring her shoulders, Gwen drew a deep breath and plunged into the boudoir. She listened intently for the sound of Drustan’s door opening and realized to her chagrin that she was trembling.

She flinched when she heard the door open, and counted to ten slowly, giving Dageus time to sneak out of her chamber and blockade the door from the corridor.

Silvan had chuckled when he’d told her that if Drustan refused to listen, he and Dageus would do their best to bar him in from the outside by hammering a plank or two over the doors. God, she hoped it didn’t come to that!

Time was up. She turned the handle and quietly opened the door.

His back was to her, and he was facing the fire, staring into it. He’d changed into snug leather pants, a billowy linen shirt, and boots. His silky black hair spilled unbound over his shoulders and down his back. He looked as if he’d stepped straight off the cover of one of those romance novels she ordered from
Amazon.com
so she didn’t have to be embarrassed by some supercilious male clerk in the bookstore.

Ha,
she thought. When she returned to her time, she was going to start buying them flagrantly, with no apologies. She’d never seen a man blush while buying
Playboy
.

But she had to survive the wrath of Drustan MacKeltar first.

Murmuring a silent prayer, she closed the door behind her.

He spun around the moment it clicked shut, and when he saw her, his silver eyes glittered dangerously.

Shaking a finger, he stalked toward her, and she skittered away from the door in case he planned to toss her out it again. He followed like a magnet to steel.

“Doona even think, English, that I’ll be tolerating more of your lies,” he said with silky menace. “And best you get out of my chamber, because I’ve had enough whisky that I’m of a mind to taste the crime of which I’ve been accused.” His gaze drifted meaningfully to the massive bed, draped in silk and covered with velvet pillows.

Gwen’s eyes widened. Indeed, his expression was a combination of fury and raw lust. The raw lust was perfectly wonderful; the anger she’d cheerfully do without.

She was going to be cool and rational this time. No stupid comments, no emotional outbursts. She would tell him what had happened, and he would see reason. She hastened to reassure him. “I’m not trying to get you to marry me—”

“Good, because I won’t,” he growled, closing the distance between them, using his body to intimidate her.

She planted her feet and held her ground. Given that her nose came only to his solar plexus, it wasn’t as easy as she made it look.

“What’s this?” he purred softly. “You doona fear me? You should fear me, English.” He closed his hands around her upper arms like bands of steel.

Silvan and Dageus must be pressing their ears to the doors, waiting for his explosion, she thought, but they’d misjudged him. This was not a man who exploded—he seethed quietly and infinitely more dangerously.

“Answer me,” he demanded, shaking her. “Are you such a fool that you have no fear of me?”

She’d rehearsed her speech a dozen times, yet when he stood so close to her, it was difficult to remember where she’d decided to begin. Her lips parted as she stared up at him. “Please—”

“Please what?” he said silkily, lowering his head to hers. “Please kiss you? Please take you the way you accuse me of already having had you? I’ve had a long time to think today, English, and I must confess that I find myself fascinated by you. I rode for hours before stopping in the tavern. I drank for hours, yet fear all the whisky in fair Alba wouldn’t cleanse you from my mind. Have you spelled me, witch?”

“No, I have not spelled you, I am not a witch, and please
don’t
kiss me,” she managed. God, she wanted him! Whether he knew her or not, it was
her
Drustan, damn it all, just a month and five centuries younger.

“Och, that’s a rare request from a woman,” he mocked. “Especially one who says she’s already tasted my loving. Do you now disparage my intimate attentions?” His gaze was silver ice, challenging. “Was I less than satisfying? You claim we’re lovers; mayhap we should be again. It would seem I’ve left a less than favorable impression.” He closed his hand about her wrist and tugged her toward the bed. “Come.”

She dug her heels in, a feat in soft slippers on a planked wood floor.

Her protests whooshed from her lungs when he scooped her into his arms and tossed her onto the bed. She landed on her back, sank deep into velvet-covered feather mattresses, and, before she could scramble away, he was on top of her, his body stretched the length of hers, pinning her with his weight.

She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his beautiful, angry face. She would
never
be able to carry on a meaningful conversation with him in this position.

“Drustan, please listen to me. I’m not trying to trap you into marriage, and there’s a reason why I said what I said this morning, if you’ll just listen,” she said, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“There’s a reason why you lied? There’s
never
a reason to lie, lass,” he growled.

“Does that mean
you
never lie?” she said snidely, opening her eyes a slit and peeping at him. She was still miffed that he hadn’t told her the entire truth before sending her back.

“Nay, I doona lie.”

“Bullshit. Sometimes, not telling all of the truth is exactly the same thing as lying,” she snapped.

“Such language from a lady. But you’re no lady, are you?”

“Well, you’re certainly no gentleman. This lady didn’t
ask
you to throw her in your bed.”

“But you like being beneath me, lass,” he said huskily. “Your body tells me much your words deny.”

Gwen stiffened, horrified to realize she had hooked her ankles over his legs and was rubbing a slipper against one muscular calf. She pushed at his chest. “Get off me. I can’t talk to you when you’re squishing me.”

“Forget about talking,” he said roughly, lowering his head to hers.

Gwen shrank back deeper into the pillows, knowing the moment he kissed her she would be lost.

Just as his lips brushed hers, the boudoir door opened and Silvan stepped briskly in.

“
Ahem.
” Silvan cleared his throat.

Drustan’s lips froze against hers. “Get out of my chamber, Da. I will handle this as I see fit,” he growled.

“But you didn’t tup her last eve, eh?” Silvan remarked mildly, his gaze sweeping over them. “Things look cozy to me, for being strangers and all. Aren’t you forgetting something? Or should I say
someone
? The lass told me you were in danger; the only danger I perceive is that of you botching yet another perfectly good—”

“
Haud yer wheesht!”
Drustan roared. Stiffening, he pushed himself off her and sat back on his heels on the bed. “Da, you are no longer chieftain here, remember? I am. You quit. Get out.” He flung an impatient hand toward the door. “Now.”

“I merely came to see if Gwen required assistance,” Silvan said calmly.

“She requires no assistance. She wove this web with her lies. Doona be blaming me for knotting her up in it.”

“M’dear?” Silvan asked, eyeing her.

“It’s all right, Silvan. You can go,” she said softly. “Dageus too.”

Silvan regarded her a moment more, then inclined his head and backed out of the room. When the door closed again, Drustan got off the bed and stood several paces away from her.

“What did Silvan mean by ‘someone’?” she asked. “Botching a perfectly good what?”