Highlander of Mine (18 page)

Her head burrowed into a white fluffy pillow, her long, black hair spread about like the remains of a storm. He smiled at that. Even with the small amount of light the rising sun offered, her hair shone with purple and red colors. Her tresses were glorious always, but at that moment, so messy and wild, he adored the way she looked. It clenched in his heart how much he loved just peeking at her.

Oh, she was a bonny one. That there was no denying. But it wasn’t the only reason why he loved to look at her. It was...because she was she. He knew under the hair, the soft, sleepy expression was a hellion who tempted him something awful, a woman who held his mother tight when she moaned in pain, a woman who held
him
tight when he wouldn’t utter a sound about how hard it was to watch his mother become a living skeleton.

Fleur wiggled slightly, exposing more of her face to him, stretching her body closer to his. He felt her warmth first, then a fabric-covered soft breast nestled against his arm.

Damnation.

Although only early autumn, the weather had been so hot, and when he’d first been in Fleur’s bed, he’d slept fully dressed. But he’d sweated so much he feared he’d musted her bedding. He’d laundered them and washed himself. Of course, his stepfather would have had a laugh at his expense for cleaning the bedding, doing a woman’s chore. But it had reminded Duncan of before Albert, of helping his ma with the clothing and such. And at a time when all his family was either thrown to the wind, or...Lord, he couldn’t admit what his ma’s health was, but at this terrible time in his life, he philosophically wondered why women had certain chores.

He’d gotten another letter from his brother, Jacob, informing him they were all well in Virginia. Jacob had written about different chores he did, also wondering if he were doing women’s chores in America, but it was good to be helpful. The lad had saucily used a code Duncan had taught him to let his big brother know he was making love to a woman in the tribe. Duncan had had to stifle his laughter at Jacob writing about clams and fish in the sea—their code for coition.

That night Fleur had again coaxed him into her bed, but after she’d kissed him, bitten down his neck and then left him sweating and aching for her, he’d finally relented and taken off his plaid. Being wool, it was too warm for the summer-like nights anyway. But keeping his long shirt on had also been a bit too hot. He hadn’t had to worry about being properly covered in so long, and wasn’t too sure how to remedy his problem.

Then last night had been...he remembered the way Fleur had found him just outside her chamber’s door. Without saying a word she reached up on her toes and kissed him, invading his mouth instantly, hungrily. After a few moments, she’d let her fingertips caress against his chest and stomach as if she were memorizing his shape. Twice she’d grazed against his erection, and he’d pretended each time that she hadn’t, trying with all his might not to moan and shudder into the accidental touch.

Or had it been accidental?

Lord, she was bewitching him, torturing him, seducing him without making love. So last night he’d slept nude.

Now he felt every inch of his bare body awaken with the realization that Fleur was snuggling closer. She lifted her head, eyes still closed, then rubbed her nose against his bare chest, next settling her cheek where her tiny nose had been.

He had to leave. Get out of bed. He was naked, and she was still in a shift. Thank the Lord her nightwear was thicker than some of her other shifts, which he could easily make out her nipples. Still, what she wore was the perfect compliment for her golden skin, making it glow in the pale morning’s light.

He needed to leave.

His cock tightened as she took in a deep breath, her breast pressing against him, her arm squeezing him that much more.

Why was she here anyway? Who was watching over his mother?

Aye, he needed to get the hell away from Fleur.

She moaned and stretched against him, this time resting a leg of hers over one of his. He became glaringly aware of her hot core pressed against his thigh. Swallowing, he thought of her body, his own so vulnerable under the bedding. Jesus, he was hard. So very hard.

He’d ached for her for near a month now, and the last week had been excruciating with how she kissed him, caressed him, and then would vanish. For a good cause. Aye, he needed to get dressed and check on his mother.

But he kept staring at Fleur, feeling her body against his, let her consume his senses. Her wee hand stretched, and one finger flexed his nipple. He hissed as pleasure spread throughout his body, but tried to repress it. Biting his lip, he looked to the ceiling, praying for strength to leave the bed.

Just lift her arm and squirm away, he told himself.

He looked down at the dark head on his chest.

Fleur’s eyes were open.

Oh Jesus. Lord have mercy.

She reached up without a word, eager lips attached to his own before he could react. They both moaned, as if they both ached for the same thing. The hand that had been on his chest was suddenly against his cheek, holding him to her. Then she slid her upper body on his, crushing her breasts against him. He opened his legs slightly, when he realized she was balanced on one of his. She adjusted and was somehow even more on him. Her hip was now against his cock, making him nearly lose his mind.

His mouth gained entrance into hers as her hand slithered down his too sensitive body. All he could do was hold her, caress down her back, and try to keep up with his mounting desire as well as hers. Their tongues met, as did their breath. His lungs grew too warm and shaky, but he kept inhaling, perhaps too fast. Then he realized her tiny hand was lowering down to . . .

“Oh,” was all he could say as she found his bullocks.

She lifted her bonny face, smiling at him as she wrapped her hand around his length. “You are naked.”

“Mmff,” he whispered.

She silently giggled. Then she stroked up his hardness and began to descend, when he finally grabbed her and stopped the lovely motion.

She made a pouting noise, which made him almost give up and let her keep doing what she was, but somehow a crack of sense entered his mind, just as the sun was rising in the horizon.

Although words were hard to think of, he did manage to say, “Have to...check.”

Fleur’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sorry. I fell asleep. I was going to wake you, but you looked . . .” She gazed down at him, his chest, his stomach. Her hand was still on him, but he had his hands over hers. Still, her dainty fingers squeezed slightly as she tilted her head to look under the bedding to what was in her palm.

He moaned as she did too.

“You looked so good.” Her voice was lowered and hoarse.

Suddenly she stopped. “I keep doing this.” Her hand sprang away, yanking and twisting in the process, making him wince, grabbing his crotch, and stop breathing.

“Crap. I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

His testicles had suddenly entered his throat when Fleur had accidentally jerked his penis. He’d live, he was sure, and it was more than likely for the best that the pain he was experiencing was enough to counter his desire for her. However, he couldn’t quite talk just yet.

He nodded.

“I did hurt you?”

He tried to shake his head.

“I’m so sorry!”

“Nay,” he grunted. “I’m fine.”

“Like hell.”

Chuckling somehow made the dull pain erode slightly.

She smiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I ken.”

Her grin waned. She blinked, then looked at his lips. “I like your beard.”

He hadn’t shaved for the last few days. He’d just forgotten. But it was making it so that every time he’d kiss Fleur, her lips would redden and swell within a few moments.

“I like how red it is. I thought your hair was really red, but your beard is more so.” She narrowed her eyes suddenly. “In all this time, I’ve never seen if you . . .” she reached down for the covers over his hips, “...match.”

He chuckled louder and hurried to hold the bedding down.

“Come on. Just give me a peek.”

Laughing, he caught her hands, the blankets too, but she was rather good at wrestling and trying to lift the covers from him while she giggled rather loudly too.

An odd sound interrupted their guffaws, also invading the bubble of happiness within Duncan’s heart.

Fleur turned her head, and Duncan saw around her a slight form wavering in the open doorway.

“Ye two are loud enough to wake the dead.”

“Ma!” Duncan sat up, tried to spring from the bed. Realizing his state of undress, he clutched the covers as Fleur raced to her.

Helen was laughing and had one hand against the doorframe as he came closer, the white sheet wrapped around him. Fleur already had her hands over his ma’s forehead.

“I’m fine. No fever.”

“Are ye . . .?” He could barely ask. His throat tightened painfully.

Helen rose a shaking finger up at him, then surprising him, she shook at Fleur too. Helen said, “Now, I was funny and neither of ye laughed. A woman in my predicament might take that personally, if ye don’ remedy it.”

Fleur softly giggled, her eyes glistened with moisture.

Duncan couldn’t help but chuckle too, but it was perhaps too restrained. “Ah, Ma . . .”

“When is the wedding, hmm? Or did the two of ye already do the deed?”

Both Fleur and Duncan instantly quieted.

Helen laughed rowdily. “The deed of getting married, I was referrin’ to, not anythin’ else. My, but the two of ye have yer minds elsewhere, eh?” She laughed more as she turned, glancing down at Duncan’s self-made plaid of the blanket. “Get dressed, my lad, while I’ll have yer lady tell me everything, ‘cept what I don’ want to hear.”

With that his ma tottered down the hallway, Fleur at her side, holding her upright. Fleur glanced over her shoulder at him, smiling in exuberant disbelief.

He couldn’t believe it either. His ma was up and about, making jokes, and bossing them around. Lord, she’d just wondered about a marriage, and, depending on how long she’d been standing in the doorway, it was merited.

Until that moment, he hadn’t let his mind think of marriage, a wedding. Certainly, he’d played a trick on himself where he’d tried to fool himself into thinking he and Fleur had some kind of future. But eventually he’d chide himself, and realize the fae would sweep her away as soon as she was no longer needed.

Well, with his mother walking, talking, laughing, and living, Fleur
was
no longer needed, aye? Yet she remained.

Mayhap, just mayhap he did have a future with Fleur after all.

Chapter 23

“N
ow, I don’ want details, but I do wonder if there’s a grandchild of mine on the way,” Helen said as she got back into her bed. Her eyes flickered with mischief, and she even rubbed her palms together once she was settled.

Fleur giggled, while feeling fire burn through her cheeks. God, this was embarrassing, like getting caught by her Na. “No, no grandchildren on the way.”

“Ye certain?”

She couldn’t quite meet Helen’s eyes as she nodded. “We—we haven’t done anything to make a child.”

“Ye sure of that? It looked like ye kenned how to...make one.”

At that Fleur choked and laughed at the same time, then bit her lip. “I’m sure. No babies.”

Helen crossed her arms and grunted. “Well, then I can look forward to yer wedding, eh? Or did ye already say yer vows?”

Oh God, Fleur thought, she had been a wee bit...forward with Duncan. Perhaps too forward? As much as she probably should have chided herself, she couldn’t. Duncan was too tempting. She could hardly control herself around him. It was as though she had become someone else. She thought herself a linear thinker, controlling, measuring. Even her temper had always been in check, never confrontational, which socially seemed to make more sense. Everything had been logical, like one plus one equaling two. It was rational and always had the same comforting answer. But here...one plus one equaled something far greater. Here, in the Scottish Highlands during the seventeenth century there was something close to hyperbolic geometry, where one plus one and some kind of crazy integer could equal infinity. Here, she couldn’t contain herself. She wanted Duncan so badly she could hardly think of much else when he was around.

Last night she’d been so tired and had sought Duncan to relieve her while watching over Helen. But once she’d seen him—one of his long legs out from under the covers, his giant chest bare, his stomach exposed, and a thin wisp of a sheet covering his pelvis—well, she couldn’t seem to control herself. She’d taken off most of her clothes, telling herself that she’d snuggle for a bit. Only a few minutes. Maybe one hundred twenty seconds. Tops.

But then she’d fallen asleep.

What if something had happened to Helen? She never would have forgiven herself if it had. Thank God nothing had. Now, she was just embarrassed Helen had caught her with Duncan, which was kind of funny in a way.

Except when she asked about a wedding.

Panting, Duncan raced into the room, his clothes thrown on and in disarray, but covering that wickedly beautiful body of his. He was sinfully muscled, down to his chiseled stomach muscles that flexed and strained when she’d had her hand around . . .

Keep it together, she chided herself. She needed to focus on Helen. And just Helen.

Although Duncan’s clean scent threatened whatever calm she was trying to show.

“Ma, how are ye?”

Helen smiled and extended a hand for Duncan, which he held, then reached down for an embrace. He was such a huge man, and his mother had become such a small woman—the image should have reminded her of opposites, but it made Fleur think of their similarities. Both so stubborn, so brave, so graceful, and how she wanted them in her life for as long as they lived, how she wanted this clean feeling when she was in their presence.

Fleur ached then.

She never wanted this to be over, yet knew it would be.

Or did it have to end?

Duncan finally released his mother and straightened. “What can I get ye? Ye hungry? We should call for Mrs. McVicar. She’d want to ken of yer recovery.”

“What I want is to ken when the wedding is? Or was?”

Duncan’s smiling face switched instantly to planes of tension. He swallowed and looked at Fleur.

“I’ll go get Mrs. McVicar now.”

Fleur knew she was acting like a coward, running from the moment, especially abhorrent considering how Helen had finally woken and probably needed nursing. But it couldn’t be helped. Panicking, she raced from the room, feeling her eyes prick with the instant sensation of hot, grimy tears. She wanted to stay, not just in the chamber but in Scotland. However, the look Duncan had given her...the way he’d tensed...what if he didn’t want her?

Grabbing one of Duncan’s black leather coats that nearly scrapped the ground on her, she left the house in a hurry. Even though it was the early morning, already there were a few people marching toward Durness’s Green, probably going to market. And of course, at the front of the fence line were Duncan’s young soldiers. They immediately straightened when seeing her frantic face.

“Oh, my lady, whatever can I do for ye? Is it bad news?” A tall, skinny kid asked whose name Fleur couldn’t remember for the life of her.

She stopped running just a couple feet from him. “Actually” —she grinned and began to cry. “Actually, Helen’s woken. She’s in good spirits, but I wanted to retrieve Mrs. McVicar anyway.”

“’Course, ‘course. I’ll get her for ye.” The boy smiled back at her and was about to bound away when Fleur called out to him.

“Well, I wanted to go, go get her.”

Skinny guy’s dark brows drew down. “I—I’m not sure if Duncan would—”

The mere mention of his name,
Duncan
, and Fleur started to blubber. Moisture crashed down her cheeks, and she shook from crying.

She was hysterical in front of a stranger. Well, she knew the kid a little, but barely. The poor young soldier reached out for Fleur, but never touched her, as if her tears were contagious.

“I—I can go get Mrs. McVicar. But, well, why didn’t I think of this earlier? But o’ course! Why, Lady Fleur why don’ ye come with me. I bet ye need some fresh air, eh?”

Fleur couldn’t help but almost giggle at the kid trying so hard to appease her tears.

She nodded and jogged in the direction of Mrs. McVicar’s house.

“We don’ need to run. Oh, but ifnye want to, we’ll run.”

The instant her legs moved, her mind echoed thoughts about Duncan.

She should be thinking about Helen’s recovery, instead all she could contemplate was...what if Duncan didn’t want to marry her? Helen might be joking about the matrimony. Or not. She was a woman from the seventeenth century after all. However, in the time Fleur had gotten to know her, she thought Helen had been a rather free sexual being with Duncan’s father. They hadn’t married until after she was pregnant, although she had said something about handholding in reference to a wedding. Whatever that meant.

Still, joke or not, Fleur was scared of Duncan’s reaction. He’d frozen. He’d stammered. He’d stalled.

What if he thought she was too forward? What if he no longer respected her, because she had—well, she had tried to give him a hand job.

She was never like this in her own time. Sure, she’d had sex before, but it had been mutually consenting, well thought out beforehand, and...okay, a bit on the boring side. But it had been tidy.

She almost laughed at her absurd thoughts, nearly tripping. The boy running beside her looked winded, but he kept up with a wide smile, his green kilt flapping everywhere. And under Duncan’s coat she was nearly naked, making running a bit uncomfortable considering she wasn’t wearing any breast support. As much as the corsets were a pain, they at least made things stay in place. She could get used to them, the stays as Helen had called them.

Almost to Mrs. McVicar’s house, she nearly giggled. She’d gotten to know her way around Durness through the weeks of living here. And she liked it. She liked feeling intimate with the town, knowing where everyone resided, like back in Porcupine when she’d been a kid.

This—this place was so much like home. Only no home she knew.

It was messy here.

And, God, she’d nearly forgotten the threat of Cromwell. His army was on the way, and the muses had said something about finishing her mission before they arrived.

It was brutal here.

There was no order.

As she passed through Mrs. McVicar’s gate, Fleur realized she wanted to stay here, where nothing made sense. Where one plus one could equal infinity. Where it was undefined. Where she loved.

Mrs. McVicar raced out of her small wooden house, her face pinched with panic.

“Nay, nay! I was goin’ to try a new laudanum today. Nay, don’t tell me Helen’s passed—”

“Helen woke up!” Fleur shouted. Her emotions were all over the board. She chuckled as she cried. She thought in weird circular thoughts, no longer straightforward and logical. She was different here. Scotland wasn’t to blame. It was
her
. In just a few weeks she’d changed. Changed for the better.

Mrs. McVicar raced into Fleur’s arms, embracing her while laughing hysterically. “She woke up? She woke up?” Mrs. McVicar pulled away enough to face Fleur. “What’d she say?”

Fleur swallowed, but more tears flooded her vision and luckily her voice too.

Mrs. McVicar said something about grabbing her coat then checking on Helen herself and was gone before Fleur could give any kind of answer. Thank God too, because Fleur wasn’t too sure if she could repeat what Helen had said. It might hurt too much to say that Helen had asked about her marrying Duncan.

She’d never wanted the white wedding with a veil and the cake smashed in the bride and groom’s faces. She’d never wanted the billowing dress and the thin promises of the vows. Granted, she knew marriage could last and had fidelity. Hell, all Fleur need do is look at Rachel and Ian, who seemed happier now than when she’d first met them. But so much about weddings seemed too celebratory, as if it was covering up that no one knew if they had truly fallen in love.

No, she’d never wanted that.

But long ago she had wanted something like it. Back then she’d wanted a doeskin dress beaded with rattling elks’ teeth. She’d wanted to give her heart to someone who could run as fast as she. All right, she’d wanted those things when she was a girl. And had promptly abandoned her dreams as soon as she entered Texas, too afraid to wish for anything ever again.

She’d stopped hoping.

She’d stopped having faith.

She’d stopped living.

The muses had been right. Coyote had been right. She had been a shell of a person, of herself.

It was here in the Highlands that she felt like she was taking her first breath, breathing all the way down into her spirit.

She didn’t want to stop. But had she messed things up with Duncan by...she couldn’t seem to keep her hands to herself concerning him. Did he think less of her? What did he think of her anyway?

Maybe it was time to stop being a coward, running from her problems, but to run at them. Maybe it was time to ask Duncan a few questions.

But did any of it matter when the muses might take her away?