Just in Time for a Highlander (7 page)

Duncan made his way along the sun-swept path—if the lightly trod grasses could be called a path at all. The morning sky was a vibrant blue, but neither it nor the sun’s rays had been able to penetrate the gray unhappiness that hung over him since finding Rosston outside of Abby’s door. Nab had told him Undine would be returning that morning, and Duncan intended to flag down her carriage the instant she arrived, so that he might press her for the spell needed to reverse the magic that had brought him here. Nab had also told him that Rosston was “as rich as a sultan,” which got Duncan wondering if Abby saw the marriage as a way to save her clan. She certainly didn’t display a lover’s affection for her fiancé in public.

Duncan made his way down the path Nab had recommended to reach the main road, rather than waiting inside. The day was fine, and in any case, Duncan was determined to put as much distance between him and the castle as possible. The last thing he wanted was to run into Rosston radiating self-satisfaction and bonhomie in the afterglow of a night in Abby’s bed.

Duncan’s first errand that morning had been to see Sir Alan, who, with the lure of a bit of salmon fishing, had been convinced to take a tour of the canal site and see the work done to date. Nab had said it was impressive, and Nab had been right. Sir Alan had left for Edinburgh far more open to the idea of a loan than he had been before the tour. In fact, he’d said he’d collect his overseer in Cumbria and return in a few days for another look. If Duncan could talk to Sir Alan uninterrupted, money man to money man, he was sure he could wrap up the deal. Abby would be thrilled, and Duncan couldn’t wait to see her face when he broke the news. Rosston may have won her hand, but what might Abby think when she realized the only man who could give her what she really wanted—a way to save her clan without marrying—was Duncan?

The lush, green fields turned to rolling hills blanketed with heather, shrubs, and trees. As beautiful as it was, he was glad he’d convinced Nab to find him a pistol with real balls to shoot. One couldn’t be too careful in the borderlands, he knew. The path took a winding turn up and around a steep rise. At the top, he froze.

He was perched on the bank of a river. On the opposite bank, in full view of heaven and earth, stood a very naked Abby, toes gripped around a jutting ledge and arms curved over her head. Her breasts, lush and full, shone pale against the golden brown of her shoulders, and the damp triangle of raven curls below her belly glistened in the dappled light. She executed a precise arc, her perfect bottom the apex of the oval, and slid into the water with hardly a splash.

Undine and Serafina treaded in the blue pool with her, each as naked as Abby herself.

Duncan jumped out of sight, blood buzzing.

The breathtaking image was not only seared into his brain, it was galloping at a feverish clip through some less genteel parts of his body as well. In all his years, he had never witnessed anything as ball-gripping as Abby Kerr’s dive.

He hurried on, ducking to keep from being seen, then slowed and stopped, the sound of Abby’s laughter too enchanting to leave behind.

Nothing, of course, would induce him to return to the rise. That would be ungentlemanly. But as far as he knew, there was nothing untoward about
listening
to a naked woman. Well, perhaps there was, given the thoughts tumbling through his imagination. But what was in a man’s head was between a man and his conscience, no one else.

He walked a little farther, found a shady spot under a tree, and sat. Her nipples, small and rosy, had been stiff with the chill of the water. He wondered what it might be like to run his palm lightly over the tips or to take one between his teeth. Would she cry out or squirm—or arch like a satisfied cat?

The women were talking now—the lower notes of Abby’s voice mixed with Serafina’s higher soprano and Undine’s clipped cadence. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. They were talking like friends, in quick streams of banter and laughter.

Three naked women. Six creamy legs. Three glossy mounds.

He closed his eyes, imagining them in his bed as he watched, a tangle of warm limbs—Serafina, reticent but curious; Undine, aloof and practical; and Abby, lost in the pleasure. They would suckle and kiss and probe, their skin pink with their exertions, the scent of their joining like the lush, perfumed air of a tropical forest.

And he would come to the bed, weaving himself among them—

His eyes opened.
No, no, no. Interesting but not quite right.
He thought some more.

He would come to the bed, pulling Abby from the tangle, her cheeks flushed, and she would roll on top of him, tan and eager, as the other women faded into nothingness.

Aye, that was it.
His eyes closed.

He would feel her perfect, round bottom straining against him, and he would cup it as she lowered herself over him, her flowery scent stirring a maelstrom of desire.

He was fully hard now, as hard as he’d ever been, the plaid folds tented comically over his cock. He reached under the fabric and grabbed it, his hand a poor but serviceable substitute for the heavenly tightness of Abby’s quim.

She would move slowly, eyes shut, working to find her own pleasure at first. And then she would have it, and those violet eyes would flutter, and his heart would catch, afraid the world-ending pleasure of their joining would be over if he made the slightest noise.

Hungering for a taste of her, he would roll her bud slowly, until his thumb was slick with her desire. Then he would suck the salty-sweet honey from it.

Oh
God!
His hand was moving so steadily, he was going to finish before he reached the part where he pleasured her. With effort, he slowed his movement and returned to his daydream.

She would ride him now, her arms extended over her head, as graceful as a dancer’s. Her breasts would be so smooth, so warm.

His hand quickened. His balls burned with single-minded need.

Mewling thickly, she would writhe over him, scorching his already-burning loins, and he would stare in awe of this stunning, smart, wicked-tongued woman who had stolen his heart, knowing he was completely in her power—

A twig snapped and his eyes flew open.

He stared into the blue eyes of a living, breathing Fury, her chemise clinging to her damp breasts, her arrow pointed directly at his balls.

“You goddamned Peeping Tom,” Abby said. “Take your hand off your cock, and stand up and take your punishment.”

Duncan jumped to his feet and raised his hands. If the arrow didn’t kill him, the shame of being caught ministering to what would undoubtedly be the last willing erection of his life would. On the whole, he thought he might prefer the arrow.

Abby scowled. “Tell me why I shouldn’t put this through your heart.”

Heart. Much better.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking—”

“
Och
, no? Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought. What exactly did ye see?”

“I…I…”

“Come, MacHarg. Don’t add lying to your list of sins.” She pulled the string tighter, and the bow made a terrifying groan.

“I saw you on the rock about to dive,” he admitted.

“And?”

His erection, which had faltered in the crosshairs of the bow and arrow, was finding its second wind. The wet chemise was more than even the fear of death could vanquish. He shook his head. “I can’t say.”

“
Now
you’ve found your modesty?
Speak
, MacHarg. My fingers are starting to ache.”

“You were naked,” he said quickly, hoping to stave off the coup de grâce.

“
And?
”

He wished he could jam his bloody cock between his legs. But he didn’t dare move. He closed his eyes. The shock of cold metal made him jerk back instantly, and he banged his head on the tree trunk. She had pressed the flat head of the arrow against the bottom of his chin.

“Closing your eyes is not a good idea in this kind of engagement,” she said.

“Nor is getting too close,” he said, summoning bravado. “I might make a grab for your arrow.”

She snorted. “I canna recommend it. Your shaft-grabbing skills are estimable, I know, but the arrowhead would split your windpipe like an ax through an apple before your grip even tightened.”

His throat felt very soft and exposed.

“What else did you see?”

He shook his head. She pressed the steel hard enough to pinch.

“Your nipples!” he cried. “The tan on your collarbone! A scar on your back! Jesus, what do you want to hear?”

She glared. “What about Undine and Serafina?”

“
Who?
Oh, right.” The fire in his cheeks rose. “Sorry. I barely noticed them.”

Abby’s squinted eye opened for an instant and just as quickly reverted to its former state.

She stared down the length of the arrow. With a disdainful
hm
, she lowered the bow. He dropped his arms and exhaled. Then she took his pistol and slipped it under her quiver strap. “Where is your home, MacHarg?”

He could feel the accusation in her words—only a spy or a fool hides himself within earshot of the clan leader—but no one would question Duncan’s loyalty to Scotland, not while he drew breath. “Edinburgh,” he said, squaring his shoulders.

“You’re a liar. You’re a Scot. That I can hear in your voice. But you’re something else too.”

Subtle changes happen every year in a dialect—word choices, rhythm. A Scots accent three or four hundred years ago was different than a Scots accent of the twenty-first century. Duncan could hear the difference himself. But he also knew eighteen months in New York City would alter a man’s accent more than five hundred years of natural changes. The last time his grand-da heard Duncan ask for a cup of “caw-fee,” he’d been horrified.

“My mother’s Dutch,” Duncan said and immediately regretted it. Was Holland Scotland’s ally or enemy now? He wished he knew his history a wee bit better. Three hundred years ago, alliances had changed practically every month.

“You dinna sound Dutch.”

“Because I’m an Edinburger, I told you. We’re on the same side.”

She made a dubious noise. “There are plenty in Edinburgh who would line their pockets by selling Scotland to the crown.”

This
was history Duncan knew as well as he knew as his own name. Maybe better. Scotland was “sold” to England via the Act of Union in 1707, an agreement between the countries that deprived Scotland of independence and formed the country known as Great Britain. The year lived in infamy in the minds of Scotsmen. And the polarizing debate over whether or not the agreement should be entered into had begun in Scottish parliament in 1705. Duncan now knew in what time he’d landed, give or take a year.

“Aye, well, I’m not one of those damned traitors,” he growled.

“Dinna let me find ye eavesdropping on me again, MacHarg.”

“Send me back and you’ll not have to worry. Or have you forgotten that it was you and that witch’s magic that brought me here?”

Undine swept into the small clearing, appraising the scene with cool detachment. Unlike Abby, she’d taken the time to dry off and dress. “Did I hear my name?”

Duncan blanched. He knew little of witches but he doubted they enjoyed being referred to in the tone he’d just used.

“I only want to go home,” he said as explanation.

“And I should like to send him there,” Abby added angrily. “Undine, ’tis time to clean up your mess. I’ve had enough.”

“
My
mess?” Undine’s eyes flashed. She walked in a circle, regarding him and Abby as a teacher might regard misbehaving pupils. “Mr. MacHarg, did ye, in the moments preceding your unfortunate transfer, express some sort of deeply felt sentiment—perhaps involving your sword?”

Abby snorted a second time, and Duncan tugged at the wooden hilt angrily. “I most certainly did not.” Then it hit him. Undine saw the change on his face and eyed him sharply.

“I might have said something about loving a battle,” he admitted.

Undine silenced Abby’s guffaw with a look and said to Duncan, “I had the pleasure of standing beside Lady Kerr in the moments preceding your transfer, so my understanding in this instance is more precise. Abby, ye professed a keen interest in acquiring something you considered very important. Do ye happen to recall what that was?”

She gazed at her friend, tight-lipped. “Peace in the borderlands.”

“Oh, come now,” Undine said. “Your objective was a bit more personal than that. Ye wanted a man.”

Duncan raised his brows, and Abby said fiercely, “What I wanted was a strong arm. And may I add, I’m still waiting.”

Undine crossed her arms. “So last night’s kiss was something neither of ye desired?”

Abby cut her gaze to Duncan, her eyes filled with fiery accusation.

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I certainly didn’t say anything. Blame the witch. She knows things.”

“Mr. MacHarg, if ye call me that again, I shall slip a tonic in your wine that will cause your stones to shrivel to the size of field peas. While this would undoubtedly curb certain impolite habits, I dinna think it is something ye would much desire.” She straightened her skirts and carried on. “I am not denying my role in this. I merely point out that ye two share in the responsibility. But let us not wallow in regret and blame. There is but one way for MacHarg to free himself of Abby and Abby of MacHarg.”

“How?” they demanded in unison.

“’Tis a simple matter—in theory at least. The objective of the spell must be fulfilled. In short, MacHarg must serve Abby as a strong arm. And Abby must truly be served.”

“But he is hardly more than a simpleton!” Abby cried.

“I have been friends with you a long time, Abby. Ye have never given yourself to a man who could be described as a simpleton, even by the most ungenerous observer.”

Abby nearly choked. “I did not
give
myself
to him!”

Undine cut her gaze to Duncan, and his grin died instantly. “And ye, my friend, need to make yourself useful. Ye are a pathetic reprobate who has apparently spent his life getting by on bluster and what one might loosely describe as charm. Learn to serve the chieftess properly. She will teach ye what ye need to know.”

“I will
not
,” Abby said hotly.

“Ye will if ye wish to be rid of him. Once he has fulfilled your objective, the spell will be broken. Do ye understand?”

Duncan gave the tree root a sullen kick. “Aye.”

Undine turned to Abby.

Abby’s look could have burned holes in steel. Duncan was grateful that, for once, he wasn’t on the receiving end of it.

Undine pulled a twist of orange paper from her pocket.

“Not another of those,” Abby said.

“This one is for his return.” She handed it to Duncan. “When you have fulfilled your purpose, the herbs will warm. That is how you’ll know when you can return. Abby, you must do everything you can to help him.”

Abby said, “Tell me again why I shouldna just abandon him to the buzzards on the slopes of Craignaw?”

“Well, my dear, I am hardly an expert on your religion, but I should say your priests might view this with an unfavorable eye. More to the point, however, Craignaw is a two-day ride, and ye canna afford the time.”

Duncan, who had grown tired of the swipes at his character, slipped the paper in his sporran. “Or you might consider the cost to your fortunes of having Sir Alan arrive only to find his stalwart fishing guide left for dead in the Grampian Mountains.”

“Sir Alan is as unlikely to return to Castle Kerr as I am to cross the Alps on an elephant.”

“Wrong, Lady Kerr. He will be here Thursday.”

Abby swung around. “What?!”

“That was the reason I came to find you, ye ken? I ran into him this morning on his morning walk. Naturally, our talk turned to fishing—”

“Naturally.”

“—and while he couldn’t stay longer now—he has business in Cumbria—I did convince him to join me for a fishing party at my hunting lodge on the River Esk upon his return.”

“You have a hunting lodge on the Esk?” Abby said, incredulous.

“Well, no. But I assumed you did.”

Abby made an aggrieved huff, but Duncan knew he’d nailed his first assignment. Hell, it hadn’t even been an assignment. He was like the applicant who’d arrived for his interview at Duncan’s firm with fifteen pizzas and revised business strategies for the firm’s three biggest clients. Everyone rolled their eyes, but a year later the guy was Duncan’s second in command.

He waited for Abby to acknowledge his triumph. She chewed the inside of her mouth as if considering the digestibility of a particularly tough piece of mutton. “Well done,” she said at last.

Undine let out a laugh, then caught herself.

“What?” he demanded.

“That’s what she says to Grendel.”