A Highlander in Her Past (11 page)

Trish stiffened, planting her feet in the softness of the straw-covered dirt floor. Damn him. Would Maxwell never give up? “I’m tired of fighting with you, Maxwell. Why can’t we just be civil and have a nice conversation?”

Maxwell didn’t answer, just pulled the leather loop of the brush from around his hand and hung it on the peg. Sidling his way around to the front of the stall, Maxwell gave the mare’s neck an affectionate rub as he stepped around her.

Great. Now he’d decided to use the silent treatment, pouting like a spoiled child. Trish bit back the angry words as she gathered up the folds of her skirt and turned to leave the barn. If he wanted to be a petulant ass, he could be one by himself.

“So, ye’ll not give me the chance to answer ye?”

Trish stopped, tightened her grip on the folds of her skirts and glared straight ahead. “It depends on the answer.”

The rustle of the straw scattered on the ground grew louder with the crunching rhythm of Maxwell’s steps. Trish didn’t have to turn to know Maxwell stood just behind her. The heat of him radiated around her body, surrounded her with his presence. Trish swallowed hard. Her chilled flesh ached to melt into the warmth of his body, yearned to disappear into the comfort of his embrace. No. Never again. She could
not
allow that to happen.

Trish eased forward a bit, coming to an immediate halt as a strong hand wrapped around her upper arm and gently pulled in an attempt to turn her. Planting her feet, Trish fought against the urging of Maxwell’s hand and also against the primal need screaming from the core of her flesh.

A warm rumbling chuckle shook through the stillness of the stable as Maxwell wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against his chest. His wiry beard tickled against the side of her throat, triggering memories of other ticklish areas that Maxwell had teased with such an expert touch. She couldn’t win against him
.
Trish closed her eyes, relaxed against him, and inhaled. Oil of cloves. Maxwell’s scent always reminded her of that particularly fragrant spice.

He pressed his mouth against the back of her neck, tantalizing her skin with warm, wet flicks of his tongue. Maxwell nibbled a path to the tender spot behind her ear, pulling her tighter against his body as he suckled the lobe into his mouth.

Trish shuddered, hugging his arms tighter around her waist as she surrendered to the pleasures of his touch.
If only…
the words echoed from the corner of her mind not held prisoner by her need. “Dammit, Maxwell. Please stop.” Trish pulled out of his embrace.

“As ye wish.” Maxwell’s quiet brogue was devoid of emotion.

“Maxwell, please…” Trish fought against the threat of tears.
Damnation
. Why had life become so complicated? She’d never had this much trouble shaking free of a man before.

“Which is it, lass?” Maxwell spread his feet farther apart and clasped his broad hands in front of his body. “As I see it, we must either move forward with these feelings or go our separate ways completely. If need be, I can leave MacKay keep today and return to m’own home. I have no desire to be a mere acquaintance.” He lifted his chin a notch and defiantly locked his jaw. “I will never be your friend.”

“I never meant for any of this to happen.” Trish cringed against the sound of her voice when it cracked at the end with a sob. Since when did she lose control? Since when did she not have the power to conquer any situation?

A sad smile pulled at the corner of Maxwell’s mouth, barely hidden by his moustache. He shook his head and lowered his gaze to stare at the bare patch of ground between them. He shook his head slightly as his deep voice fell to just above a whisper. “Sometimes things happen because they were meant to be so. We’re mere mortals, Trish. Sometimes we must trust where destiny takes us.”

He made it sound so simple. Trust in the fates and fall into his arms, never question whether she risked harming mankind by altering the past. “I wish it were that easy.” Trish closed her eyes, even her trembling excuse sounded defeated to her own ears.

“It is easy, lass. Ye need only ask yourself one question and then be honest with your answer.” Maxwell paused, sucked in a deep breath then released it slowly between tensed lips. “Do ye feel the same connection I feel…or no’?”

Trish covered her face with trembling hands, pressing cold palms against her flaming cheeks. She knew the answer without even asking. She just couldn’t bear to face it.

The silence between them took on a life of its own, growing to the size of a great hulking beast. Maxwell watched her with an unblinking stare, his gaze burning into her soul. Trish closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear the emotions reflected in those eyes. They mirrored the feelings churning in her heart.

“How can I even attempt to do this?” The terrified whisper nearly caught in her throat. Trish forced it free with a hiccupping sob. “How do I−”

Maxwell closed the space between them with one quick lunge. Pulling her roughly into his embrace, he tilted her head back against his arm, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Ye will no’ attempt to
do
anything, sweetling. Just choose a life at m’side.”

Trish swallowed hard and curled her fingers into Maxwell’s wild shock of hair barely tamed by his warrior’s braid. His heart beat steady against her breasts, a silent promise to keep her safe. She could do this. The surety of his touch shattered any lingering doubts. To hell with the chaos of the twenty-first century; she belonged right here.

Snuggling her face into his chest, Trish closed her eyes as she released the last of her worries with a shuddering sigh. “I choose you,” she whispered softly into Maxwell’s tunic, wondering if she spoke loud enough for him to hear.

A deep rumbling laugh shook beneath her cheek, bubbled up from the depths of Maxwell’s belly and burst free to startle the horses in their stalls. Trish smiled and snuggled deeper into his strong embrace. Yep. Maxwell had heard her.

Chapter Thirteen

“You’ll speak your vows and then we’ll light the fires of
Bealltainn.
”

“So, I take it there won’t be a priest?” Trish turned into the brisk spring breeze caressing the face of the cliff and ran her fingertips across the rough surface of the glistening stone altar. Embedded bits of crystal danced like pinpoints of twinkling stars in the depths of the gray-black stone.

Ciara peeped around the side of one of the hulking obelisks standing butted upright against the massive rock table. “That won’t be a problem, will it? I seem to be a bit more than most of the priests who wander through this area can handle.”

Trish grinned at the mischievous glint in Ciara’s eye. She had no doubt that the church might have a few problems accepting Ciara with her history as a former Fury and warrior-daughter of the goddesses Brid and Cerridwen. “No. The absence of a priest will not be a problem.” An excited shiver rippled across her flesh triggering goose bumps atop her skin. She couldn’t believe she’d actually decided to stay in this time and become a Highlander’s bride.

“You’ve chosen well.” Ciara interrupted Trish’s reverie with a soft pat atop her arm. “Maxwell is a good man.”

Trish turned away from the chilling wind, tightening the fringed arisaid about her shoulders. “I just hope he doesn’t regret choosing me.” Staring down at the hard-packed earth surrounding the altar, Trish scrubbed a toe against a clump of newly sprouted greenery.

“I’ll never be able to give him children. Don’t the men of this time feel an heir is pretty important?”

Ciara’s dark eyes narrowed as she lifted her face to the fleeting rays of the spring time sun as it skittered beyond a bank of gray white clouds. “Never underestimate the power of the time of
Bealltainn
or the whims and wishes of the goddess.” Patting an escaped tendril of hair back into the dark shining knots of her intricate braid, Ciara faced Trish with a smile. “Leave the blessing of children to the Fates. All things happen for a reason, Trish. Whatever will be…will be, and Maxwell knows and accepts that.”

Trish couldn’t read the expression on Ciara’s face and didn’t really know if she wanted to. Sorting through her own chaotic emotions was enough of a chore without adding Ciara’s cryptic messages to the list of things to decipher. Trish hugged herself and pulled the shawl tighter against the uneasy chill stealing across her flesh. No looking back. She had to keep telling herself that…and Ciara was right. Maxwell was a good man who had seemingly accepted all she’d told him whether it made him laugh or fume.

Another thought pulled at her heart, triggering an uncomfortable stab of guilt. Ramsay. The boy had said he wanted to stay in this time as well, said his family back in the twenty-first century would be just fine without him.

“He can stay here with us and grow up with Keagan. They’re nearly the same age and an alliance with Ramsay will give Keagan an edge over the twins.” Ciara’s understanding smile tempered the fact that she’d read Trish’s mind.

Trish walked to the edge of the cliff and gave herself to the breathtaking vista spread before her. But no matter how glorious the sparkling waves of the endless sea gleamed, she couldn’t shake a sense of guilt from creeping into her heart. “Nessa and Latharn must be sick with worry. How could they not be? He’s their son.”

Ciara joined Trish alongside the cliff’s edge, squinting her eyes against the endless wind. “I’ve sensed Latharn’s power reaching across the web. Ease your heart, Trish. Latharn found his son here and knows the lad to be safe.”

As the waves below crashed against the rocks with a steady rhythm, Trish watched the foam covered blue green peaks dance forward and then recede. “I know Nessa. Her heart is breaking because of the loss of her son, whether she knows he’s safe or not.”

A tern shrieked a forlorn cry into the wind as it floated white against the graying clouds. Trish tasted the brine of the sea kissing her lips as the spray sparkled like a handful of diamonds tossed to the winds. Swallowing hard, Trish sniffed against the sting of tears threatening to overflow. “I hope someday, she’ll find it in her heart to forgive me for leading her son astray.”

Ciara turned Trish away from the sea, urging her back down the timeworn path of barren earth surrounding the altar. “Now is not the time for regret or fretting over things you cannot change. Heartache is sometimes a necessary stone in the path of life, but you must not allow it to end your journey. The key to reaching the reward of your destiny is to keep moving forward.”

Trish hugged Ciara’s hand on her arm and took a deep breath. “I hope you’re right, Ciara. I truly hope you’re right.”

Chapter Fourteen

“And ye say Angus stands ready to play the pipes as soon as we light the fires?”

Faolan grinned and didn’t bother to answer as he glanced out the stone archway, seated himself on the window’s ledge, then turned to face Maxwell.

“Answer me, man! And wipe that wicked smirk off your face. What the hell do ye find so damn amusing?” Maxwell adjusted the straps of his finest sporran for what seemed like the fifth time.
God’s teeth!
Why wouldn’t the infernal thing hang where he wished? Running his fingers behind his tunic’s tightly fastened collar, Maxwell yanked against the heavy linen, trying to loosen its hold on his throat. “And who in the hell told Sorcha to fashion this collar after a tightly knotted noose?”

Faolan scrubbed his hand across his freshly shaved face, an amused chuckle escaping through his fingers.

“Yer a vile, wicked man, Faolan MacKay. A vile, wicked man.” Maxwell stomped across the flagstones and joined Faolan at the window, stretching past him through the arch to peer up to the hill. “It seems to me I remember havin’ to shove your cowardly arse toward the altar on the day ye pledged to your bride.”

Faolan clapped a hand to Maxwell’s shoulder and pointed up the hillside toward the carefully constructed mound of broken limbs piled beside the stone altar. “Look just beyond the brush. See there? Angus awaits and he holds his pipes at the ready.”

Maxwell exhaled, barely relaxing the strangle hold he held along the edge of the window’s blocks. “This day will be the death of me. I ne’er thought I’d take a wife but now that I’ve met Trish, I canna stomach the thought of another day passing without her bearing m’name.”

“Ye’ll be fine, old man.” Faolan thudded him across the back once more as he rose from the windowsill. “Come. ’Tis time we joined your bride at the altar before ye fret yourself into an early grave.”

As they stepped outside, Maxwell turned his face into the evening breeze, sucking in a great lungful of the crisp briny air. “’Tis a good evening to repeat our pledge. I feel Brid’s blessing on the wind.”

Faolan’s smile faltered a bit as he matched Maxwell’s ground-eating stride. “Aye, my friend. There is an energy crackling in the air. I feel it too.”

Maxwell nodded to the throng of guests crowding the base of the hill. A comforting warmth filled his heart at the sight of so many smiling faces. “Thank ye, Faolan, and thanks to Clan MacKay for adding your blessings to this day.”

Faolan nodded once as the crowd opened to the clearing holding the stone altar, revealing Trish waiting with Ciara. “Ye owe me no thanks, my friend. Now go and join your bride.”

Reason fled him as Maxwell’s gaze connected with Trish’s beaming smile. His heart swelled at the sight of the Sullivan plaid draped about her shoulders.
Lore, the woman fills my soul with fire and wears my colors well.
Her shining curls blazed loose and free in the golden colors of the setting sun. Maxwell itched to bury his hands in the silky locks finally long enough to brush the tops of her shoulders. As he stepped close to her side, he brought her trembling hand to his lips. “The sun rushes to hide behind the horizon ’cause it canna compete with your beauty.”