Night Visitor (14 page)

“I cannae say.”

“We should be at Kilmartin by now.” She still spoke into the folds of his shirt, preferring the warmth of his body to that of the autumn sun, which seemed unnatural to her. She had grown accustomed to the night’s gentler light. “Do you know where we are? Now. Here.”

“Aye. We’ve not gone astray.”

“Except in time.” She sensed that much. Taffy
took a slow breath and strove for calm. After a moment, she asked: “Are we going to Kilmartin?”

“Somewhere near there.” A warm hand caressed her back, trying to soothe her.

“It’s just that nothing looks familiar to me,” she excused herself, some of the dizziness at last leaving her. “Most of the trees are gone. In my time.”

“Are they now?” His breath stirred her hair. As her disorientation left, Taffy’s senses awakened to the pleasurable sensations that came from being held close to Malcolm’s harder, larger body.

“I hate feeling lost and confused,” she explained.

“Nobody cares tae be lost.” Malcolm stirred reluctantly. “Let us see what the still-ones hae brought us tae dine on. Fish, coney, fatted calf? That would be fitting.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Taffy pulled away but looked into his eyes. Her pale cheeks bore new lines of weariness, but her gaze was unflinching and a strong pulse beat in the side of her neck telling of a strong heart. She said clearly and calmly: “It doesn’t matter because it is all the same. It isn’t real food, and this isn’t a real place.”

“No, it’s real enough,” Malcolm answered. “It just isnae the food or abode o’ men.”

“What would happen if I ate that heather?” she asked, pointing at the gray-green shrub.

“Ye’d get a mouth full o’ slivers,” he said, beginning to smile.

“And if I drank the whisky in my flask, what would happen then?”

“Let’s find out, lass.” Malcolm’s eyes were twinkling as he set their packs upon the ground and took the rifle from her. “Ye’ve earned a small nip.”

“All right. I will drink it, too, because it’s real.” Taffy shrugged out of her gunbelts. “And then—”

“And then we eat.”

Taffy shrugged impatiently.

“If we must, but after that—”

“We sleep.”

“No,” she contradicted. “After we eat, I am going to teach you how to use this rifle.”

“Are ye?” He sounded doubtful.

“Yes, I am. And how to load it and clean it, too. And you are going to show me how to hit someone. As a man would,” she said with determination.

Mobile eyebrows flew up at the command. But his answer was a meek: “Aye, lass.”

“I don’t like being taken advantage of, Malcolm. It makes me very angry. I am not some simple-minded child to be led about by the hand because someone thinks that this is the proper course for me.”

“Nay, lass.” His voice was even meeker. “I’m right sorry about that. I ken not wha’ came o’er
me taking advantage of ye that way.”

“Don’t be a—a dunce!” she scolded, stepping out of his arms. The small separation caused her body to protest. It had quickly developed a liking for its place by his side. “I didn’t mean you. And anyway, you are only taking advantage of me because I let you.”

“Is that the way of it? And here I thought ye too shy and modest tae speak o’ such a thing.”

“Modesty is not stupidity or cowardice. We are lovers because I wish it,” she insisted.

Malcolm chuckled, enjoying the small flash of temper, which suggested that Taffy was regaining her spirits. Walking through a faerie door had been most disconcerting even for him. Many folks lost their senses along the way and never recovered them. They spent the rest of their lives in some mad twilight of ghosts and unreason. This brave lass had taken the faerie path twice and come out whole in mind and body.

“Ye’ve relieved my mind, mistress, that I’m tae be spared responsibility for yer bedding. I feared ye’d be draggin’ me afore a priest and having the words read o’er us afore the day was through.”

“Whyever for? A priest wouldn’t be of the slightest use. He’d just say that we were damned or something equally idiotic.”

The answer startled Malcolm into sobriety.

“And this is no bother tae ye? Truly?” he asked, slightly appalled.

“It doesn’t matter if it is.” Her voice was firm.

“But it could perhaps be put aright, an ye wished it tae be.”

Taffy stared in consternation.

“How could
this
be put right?”

“We could be married,” he pointed out. “It was my intent all along.”

“Oh.” Taffy flushed crimson and then shut her eyes. “I didn’t realize…”

Malcolm studied her cheeks with interest.

“Ye were no’ thinkin’ about marriage then…Well.” He tilted his head. “Then ye were thinkin’ on being born a MacLeod and having the faerie blood inside ye. And this belief that we are damned for having relations wi’ the faeries holds no terrors for ye?”

“Of course not.” Taffy opened her eyes and glared at Malcolm.

“Why no fear of this?” he asked, truly puzzled and more than a little amazed. “Dae yer kirks no longer preach of Hell?”

“I have no fear because it’s absolute codswallop,” she told him, shocking Malcolm for a second time. Before he could think what to say, she was stepping around their packs and over to the small waterfall tumbling out of the hillock’s bald face. “And we are not damned for being lovers. This was no sin of our making. In fact, I do not think it is a sin at all.”

“No sin?”
he repeated.

She tested the water with an imperious finger. It felt pleasant on her prickling skin. Not as pleasant as Malcolm’s hands, but she wished to cleanse herself in the purifying waters before…

“It’s warm and I am going to bathe.” She turned and looked Malcolm directly in the eye. She took a breath and then smiled and asked boldly: “Would you care to join me in a bath?”

The sudden smile she sent him could be felt all the way down to his heart, and, in point of fact, even lower as the stirring beneath his plaid proved.

“Aye, I would.” Bemused, he reached for his brooch and began to unwind his plaid. “Yer daft, Taffy lass, tae be sae fearless of the kirks’ preachings, but it doesnae detract from yer charm.”

“I fear that you are correct—about the daft part. But I wish you to know something,” she added, looking down as she unbuttoned her blouse with slightly clumsy fingers. “It didn’t occur to me to think of marriage in conjunction with our talk of a priest because I’m not Catholic. I was raised in the Protestant faith, you see.”

She cleared her throat and peeped up at him, wondering how the news was being received. Encouraged by his fascinated expression, she went on: “I wouldn’t mind getting married, Malcolm—in fact, I would like that very much—but I suspect that the Protestant ministers around here are just as superstitious and
unchristian
as the
Catholic ones. I don’t think that we dare approach them. We shall have to settle for being lovers and know that we are married in our hearts.”

The last sentence claimed her final reserves of boldness, and she demurely turned her back on her lover as she peeled off her smoke-grimed blouse.

After all, though she was not a child, and not regretful of what they had done—and would do again—it was still high noon and they weren’t even undressing in the modest shadows of a cave or shady, tree-lined bower.

“Taffy lass.” A flask appeared over her bare shoulder, which was sporting fine crop of goose-bumps. “This will keep out the cold.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was sincere. It wasn’t cold that had her shivering, but the remedy would work for what ailed her. Taffy had screwed up her courage, prepared—as many women had no doubt been before her—to give her all for love. But a little liquid courage suddenly seemed like a sound notion. The suspicion that the role of forceful temptress was not going to be a natural one was rather strong in her mind, and some outside aid would probably not come amiss during this debut as a siren.

Of course, the situation was an unusual one.
Had she ever imagined taking a lover, a notion which had not previously presented itself as a realistic one, it would not have been in these less than romantic circumstances.

Instead of playing the idyllic roles of Marlowe’s
“passionate shepherd to his love,
” where two well-dressed lovers lounged about sipping from the milk of paradise, it seemed to Taffy that she and Malcolm were more likely to end as
Tristam and Isolde.

And she didn’t want to be Isolde, she thought resentfully as she screwed the cap back on the flask and set it on a conveniently placed stone table. She began to change out of her dusty skirts.

It galled her to admit it, but her father was right about the level of unattractiveness of this mode of dress; the fabric was an absolute insult to all romantic thought. She sighed quietly as she put the skirt aside, wishing for just one silk chemise.

Malcolm made an excellent Tristam though, she had to admit. But she had never had much taste for the great Wagnerian tragedies. Not even in the original Gaelic. They had too rigid a code for their lovers’ immorality. The hero and heroine always perished in some horrible manner—
You have drunk your death!
Wasn’t that what Isolde’s nurse said to the lovers?

Taffy sneaked a quick peek at Malcolm’s gorgeous,
tanned legs as he pulled off his brogues, and then seeing the plaid puddled on the ground behind them, she turned and reached for the flask, taking another swallow of burning Scotch.

Yes, those were definitely epic legs on that man, she thought hazily. Legs like that could run forever, climb the steepest mountains. And his chest! That was more than epic. It seemed nearly invulnerable, something to decorate a Viking’s shield, or the prow of a ship. It provided her with inspiration.

And it was all hers for the taking,
said something inside of her—if she could just muster the nerve to appropriate the moment. To be bold and lead the way. She needed to go to him.

Could she truly do that? Throw all feminine modesty aside and come to Malcolm as a full participator in love—a consort like—like—Cleopatra?

Or someone like Cleopatra who didn’t die. At the moment, Taffy couldn’t think of a single bold heroine who hadn’t perished in the end…but there had to be some bold woman somewhere who survived.

Taffy stared into the distance and strove for the audacity to be that heroine.

The wicked voice urged her to do what she secretly wanted. To take charge and not be a pawn—to make love to Malcolm because she wanted to, not because she had convinced herself
it was a necessity. And she was listening because she couldn’t help but feel, though there was no proof that if she completely possessed his body, she would finally possess his heart, too. Because she believed that by actively giving, she made herself worthy of receiving.

But there was a part of her that was still fearful. The notion of Malcolm’s powerful body being at her call wasn’t much consolation when facing the realization that if she was to return home, he would be parted from her forever more—dead and buried in some unknown grave long before she was even born.

Better not to think about such things,
the wicked voice said.
Live in the moment. It is all that you can ever with certainty possess. It could as well be you, not Malcolm, lying dead on the morrow.

Taffy took a last hefty pull on her flask and then bent to remove her boots. It was tiring and confusing to have her brain pulled in two opposite directions, to constantly hold two contradictory thoughts—and that only when she wasn’t being harried and had time to think.

Naturally, she couldn’t explain her war of emotions to Malcolm. Everything she felt was either depressing or depraved. She was better off not thinking of the future at all, at least for the moment, for she found that she was in another kind of mood altogether. A romantic one.

Actually, she was excited and frustrated, and all but crawling out of her tingling skin. She felt this way every time they brushed up against these faerie lands. It was as though their magic touched some chord inside of her body that started it resonating. The inner vibrations at first exhausted her and then made her feel reckless and irresponsible—free of moral constraint.

Or perhaps it was just intense hunger or a heat rash plaguing her, making her feel flushed and…whatever she was feeling. No matter what the case, Malcolm—she was certain—was the antidote to her woes. He was release, freedom—and most importantly, peace.

“Bloody laces,” she muttered plaintively, sorting through the knots that held her boots together. “Cleopatra didn’t get knots in her sandals. She didn’t have to run away from Campbells through mud and thunderstorms and mess her hair up.”

It was not helpful that her first attempt at leading a seduction would be somewhat overshadowed by war. Battle and its aftermath was not at all what she had been led to believe by the great poets. It wasn’t glorious. It was wasteful and sad—and ugly beyond all measure she had ever applied to life.

But in this place, it was easy to forget the destruction they’d witnessed. Taffy paused in her tugging long enough to look around. The land
scape that met her eyes was a study of artistic hues, lavenders and greens against a perfect blue sky. No trace of war or death ruined the scene.

And her wicked voice was right about one thing. Now was all the time they had. Regardless of other unfortunate circumstances, and the not quite real feeling of this outdoor corrie, she was certain that she wanted do this one wild, licentious thing.

Yes, she was certain. For Malcolm was the most—well, gorgeous—man she had ever seen. He would be her only lover. He deserved a woman who was courageous and strong. She had faced ghosts, living nightmares, and Campbells; she could be brave about this. She could seize the moment offered and bend it to her will. She would no longer close her eyes against her lover. All her life she had followed; it was time to be audacious and lead.

Taffy reached again for the flask, deciding that one more nip would restore her to a happy equilibrium. She would be like the swaying wild grass; she would bend her morals without actually breaking her sense of integrity. Of course, society would say that she had sinned with Malcolm. And her father—

Suddenly, Malcolm was kneeling before her, assisting her with her knotted laces, which would not come undone. Golden sunlight glinted on his powerful shoulders. All thoughts of her father
and society’s displeasure left her mind, displaced by Malcolm’s presence.

“Ye’ve badly tangled yer laces, lass. Let me sort them out.”

“Thank you,” she enunciated clearly, finding the
th
rather hard to produce with lips that had gone numb. She recapped the flask without drinking. “They seemed to be caught in a Gordian knot.”

“I’ll have ye free without cutting through them,” Malcolm said as he looked up at her and then laughed. He pulled her boots off and tossed them aside. “Ye nearly look an Amazon, lass. All ye need is a bow and arrow.”

Taffy forgot her own nearly naked state and stared in appreciation at the rare and adorable crinkles at the corners of his beautiful eyes. How she loved seeing him smile.

Malcolm stood in a dizzying rush, one instant at her feet, the next towering over her.

“Come, Taffy lass.” He stepped backward toward the waterfall, and since he had taken a firm hold of her wrist, Taffy went, too.

“You don’t mind that I’m not a Catholic, do you?” she asked. “I mean, you’re not hide-bound about our religious differences,” she blurted, tackling one of the few barriers that might remain between them.

Taffy made her eyes stay on Malcolm’s face. Raging curiosity was no excuse for staring
rudely. To lower her eyes would be to commit the last act of immodesty. She stubbornly refused to give in to the impulse.

“Nay, Taffy lass. I am no’ so set in my ways.” The voice was faintly amused, though she could not imagine why. “Have a care, sweet. The ground is uneven and I fear that ye are a bit the worse for the drink.”

Taffy walked slowly because the whisky was swishing around in her head and she didn’t want to make any unlady-like staggers.

“I am not inebriated,” she told him, speaking very carefully, as the
uisge beatha
had drastically thickened her tongue. Perhaps it was the lingering faerie magic, but those few sips seemed to have affected her like pints. “I am simply tired from walking all night.”

All the while that she was speaking, Malcolm was watching her with his alert, gray eyes. Eyes that were very like the ones on the cat they’d seen in the woods. Eyes that were inhumanly beautiful and wise.

“A good rinse in the cool water will make ye feel more awake. More lively. I shouldnae have given you the flask. I’d forgotten that such things will affect ye more now.” Malcolm’s other arm reached around her, his hard hands hot on her bare skin.

Yes, she thought, this was the anodyne she sought.

Cold water splashed playfully at her toes. Taffy paused.

She was naked but for the covering of her hair. With a man. Standing in the middle of a rock corrie where anyone might see her, including curious still-folk.

Suddenly, the notion of communal bathing seemed unbearably forward and wanton. All she wanted to do was hide—either in the bushes or in Malcolm’s arms. She suppressed a groan at her cowardice and concentrated on the small cleft in Malcolm’s chin.

“Am I so very fearful then? That ye needs must drink some courage afore inviting me tae yer bed?”

“I haven’t invited you to bed. I’ve invited you to bathe,” she answered, pleased with her ability to reason. She stepped to one side, half-turning from him and scanning the acreage about them. “And I invited you to join me before I tasted the whisky.”

“So ye did. Then obviously ye have no fears.” Malcolm glanced at the cascading water and then stepped completely into the stream.

Taffy’s eyes slipped briefly downward as he disappeared under the falls and she caught a brief flash of tanned leg and
other things
before she hastily diverted her eyes.

“This is insane! I can’t do this. Anyone could be watching us.” She turned completely away,
but before she could escape back to her clothing, Malcolm had her caught. A quick tug and she was pulled under the waterfall’s cool rain.

“Malcolm!” she gasped, trying to elude the deluge that was sopping her hair with an ice bath that was suddenly much colder than it had seemed on her hand.

“I am sorry aboot the cold water, but I wish for ye tae be somewhat alert for what comes next,” he said, subduing her thrashing arms.

Malcolm turned his suddenly shy temptress about and took a look into her eyes. Taffy was shocked and dazed—and a wee bit the worse for dipping so deep in the whisky—but not fearful or deeply ashamed.

“Go on now. Ye were doing fine. I’m willing tae be ravished,” he teased, surprising himself with such brash words. “Even if ye are no’ Catholic, and a Sassenach tae boot.”

Taffy spluttered, but she had stopped twitching and her eyes began to gleam.

“Oh,
are
you? How noble of you to sacrifice yourself to the enemy.”

“That I am. But yer no enemy of mine, lass.”

Pleased that she didn’t shy away, he gently captured her hands and slowly dragged them down the length of his body. Her fingers kneaded him slightly, nipping with gentle claws until they reached his manhood.

Strange, new emotions were raging through
him, making him surge hotly under her warm, delicate hands. The pace of his heart doubled and redoubled while all around him, the moment expanded until time itself all but stilled.

“Are ye awake now, lass? Mindful of what yer doing?” he asked softly, before pulling her close and allowing himself a taste of her lips. Every time he touched her, she grew more attractive to him. More necessary for his happiness—perhaps even for life.

Taffy resisted, for the slightest of moments, trying still to free her arms, but then relaxed against him. Her mouth softened under his. Her lips parted.

Distracted, Malcolm loosened his hold. Her soft arms slid around his neck, pulling herself closer and mating their bodies mouth to knees.

He caught a brief glimpse of something moving in her eyes before her lids closed over them. Malcolm went into shock as he felt her tongue touch his lips and then invade his mouth in the brashest possible manner. Passion poured into the kiss with the force of oceans at the turning tide.

Every part of his body went rigid.

Taffy bit lightly at his lower lip and he realized that in that instant the situation had turned about. His shy lass was playing with
him!
Ravishing him, as he had teasingly suggested. He
shuddered with unanticipated pleasure, pulling her in tight.

He wanted to demand of his modest lover where she had found the audacity to kiss in this manner. The kirk had always preached against such displays, and the women he had known had been affected by that. But Taffy was acting…He couldn’t think of a word that meant both
indecent
and
arousing.

Whatever his previous teachings believed or approved of, his body loved what she did. Excitement at her bold invitation fired through him. Her fearless kiss made his senses blaze. Her hands felt like live coals laid up on the tinder of his body. The firestorm it ignited within him was a shocking contrast to the cool stream of water washing down his back.

His body ignored the water, reacting instead to Taffy’s touch. His sex thickened, heated, grew stronger. As had happened the day that Taffy rescued him from the Campbells, he could feel some wild part of himself slip free of his stern control and come surging to the fore, where he had to wrestle with the impurest of impulses.