The Inscription (22 page)

He turned a page to reveal the picture of a pit carved out of the ground, near what looked like the Thames River. It was a mass grave. The memory of the Black Death that ravaged through so many countries loomed before her. She pressed her hand to her stomach. She could still see the faces of the plague’s victims and hear their pleas for help.

“I do not like to remember.” She stood. “Why is it that you have drawn so many pictures of me?”

He packed the book back in a leather satchel. “It is not only of you that I draw. I cannot express what I see and feel in words, so I record history with my drawings. I thought they might be useful one day.”

Marcail had not thought she was capable of feeling again, yet O’Donnell had touched her soul. She clasped her hands together, afraid of the awakening emotions he had evoked. She needed to get to a safe, neutral ground and cleared her throat.

“Was the purpose of your trip to Scotland to record the life of our Queen Mary?”

“Not exactly.” O’Donnell reached behind her and snapped the stem of a rose. “This time I had planned to see you.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“You changed. After you had administered to those who died during the Black Death, you stopped enjoying life. You existed, but you weren’t alive.” He removed the thorns from the stem and handed her the flower.

The delicate scent calmed her as it always did. She looked at the ivy that wove like lace over the stone wall.

“How can you fight something you cannot see? For centuries I learned as much about healing as possible. I gained knowledge from many cultures, yet I was helpless against the plague. I envy your ability to see beauty even in a neglected garden.”

O’Donnell put his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him. “Are you not curious as to why you were the subject in these drawings?”

“You record history. I made it my business to be always right in the middle of things.”

He touched her cheek. “I am in love with you.”

Marcail drew back. “That is impossible. You do
not
know me.” If he did love her, she could easily accomplish her goal and he would agree to join with her,
but
this man deserved someone who would return his love. She did not know if she had the ability.

“Will you not ask me to give up my immortality, and join with you in wedded bliss?”

“How did you guess my purpose?”

O’Donnell laughed. “I am an observer of people and quite good at discovering what is in a person’s heart. Besides, I learned the fine art of slipping unnoticed into a crowd. I overheard Artemis and Theseus last night say how courageous they thought you were for sacrificing your immortality to have children. The only thing I was not sure of was who your choice would be.“

“But why did you think you were the one?”

“I did not. I only hoped. And when you came into the garden I felt encouraged.” Marcail pulled away. “Why then?”

“I knew you overheard my telling Una I was coming here.”

“That does not explain your suspicions.” O’Donnell scratched the side of his face. “You forget, I have been watching you for a long time. Whenever you were interested in a man, you would splash large quantities of the rose fragrance all over yourself.”

“Perhaps I just wanted you in my bed.” He raised an eyebrow. “True, there is always that” Marcail’s hand trembled as she fingered the pearls at her throat. She had entered the garden hoping to convince O’Donnell to join with her, and had discovered he was agreeable to the proposal. No, anxious, was more to the point.

O’Donnell pulled her close. He was about to kiss her. She closed her eyes and let herself drift on the sensations and smells his nearness evoked. His warm breath caressed her lips as she felt him kiss her neck and the base of her throat. He whispered words that had been part of a long forgotten dream. A dream of longing, desire and… betrayal.

Her eyes snapped open. “It is you.” She pulled back and slapped him across the face.

Amber passed through the rose garden on her way to the loch and immediately wished she had not. In the corner stood Marcail and O’Donnell. Marcail’s hands were on her hips. She looked at O’Donnell as if he were a bug she wanted to squash. He paced back and forth in front of her like a lawyer before the jury box. It looked suspiciously like a lovers’ quarrel, and it appeared that O’Donnell was losing. She smiled and slipped through the door that led to the water. Marcail wouldn’t need her help. Amber, however, could sure use Marcail’s.

The longer Amber stayed in this century, the more confused she became. And every time she thought of her state of unrest, an image of Lachlan came to her. Her plan was to go for a walk in die fresh air to cool her overactive imagination. It was not working. She was starting to compare Lachlan with Superman, and the action hero was losing.

The sound of clanking metal and the shouts of men could be heard in the direction of the training field. Lachlan would be occupied. It would give her a chance to sort things out.

She walked through the gate. The loch waters sparkled like prisms in the afternoon sun. Birds trilled in the willow trees that dipped their branches gently into the calm water. The breeze, that offered more the promise of spring than the reflection of autumn, fluttered through her hair. She had never experienced such a warm November. A soft wind moved the interwoven ribbons of clouds nearer. The weather in Scotland changed its mind many times in the course of a day. It used to be a source of irritation, but she found she was starting to relish the unexpected.

A splash, and the sound of a man swearing, pulled her out of her tranquil thoughts. Amber was not alone. Lachlan was here before her. She could leave right now and he would never know. Coward. Her aunt was right. Whenever Amber sensed a man was getting too close, she ran. Well, not this time.

She wound her way down the narrow path toward die cluster of trees where she’d heard his voice. She was going to meet the challenge head-on. If he broke her heart… she’d drown him.

Parting the branches heavily laden with leaves, Amber peered around for Lachlan. He was at the edge of the water. His chest was bare and his tartan was wrapped loosely around his waist. Muscles rippled and flexed across his back as he bent over and splashed water on his face. He looked good. Great, in fact. The afternoon sun was suddenly a little warmer. She frowned. Calm down; she’d seen men with bare chests before. This was not a big deal.

At that moment she slipped on loose gravel and nearly fell. She straightened, deciding her brother was right. She definitely could not walk and chew gum at the same time. Or, in this case, walk and think the kind of thoughts she was thinking.

Lachlan straightened. “Have you injured yourself?”

Well, at least he didn’t say, “again.”

“No, I just lost my balance. It must be the shoes.”

Amber could feel the heat of a blush sear her to the roots of her hair. Her voice had actually cracked. She felt like a schoolgirl who had a crush on a football star and found herself unexpectedly talking to him.

She focused on ducking under the branches and not on the fact that he was staring at her. Her face felt warm and she started to sweat. Perfect. He looked gorgeous and she was a mess. She picked a leaf out of her hair.

“I thought you’d be on the training field.” Terrific. Now she was making boring conversation. Someone should just shoot her.

“Perhaps tomorrow. Today there is a matter that needs my attention.”

In the short time she’d been at Urquhart, this was only the second time he’d skipped an opportunity to train. The first had been the picnic. His workout schedule bordered on the obsessive. But whatever the reason for his day off, she was glad.

“What are you doing?”

“ ‘Tis time I removed my beard.”

That didn’t make any sense. She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked at him. “You said it was as much a part of you as the Highlands.”

“Your memory is sound.”

She remembered everything he said, everything he did, every touch. And mere was that imagination of hers again, running amok. She straightened her skirts and tried to plaster a neutral expression on her face. “Why, exactly, are you shaving?”

“A man can change.”

She felt the prehistoric butterflies take off in her stomach. This was dangerous ground; a man who wanted to change. She would have no defense against such a creature.

“What if I don’t want you to change?”

“Your eyes tell a different tale. Besides, you have said you hate my beard.” Lachlan turned back toward the lake, knelt down on the ground and took his dagger out of its scabbard. He began to shorten the beard, taking chunks of hair and discarding them on the ground. He was using his reflection in the water as a mirror, but his image blurred as each breeze stirred ripples on the lake.

She stepped closer to him. “That’s it?”

“No, lass. ‘Tis more. There is nothing I would not do for the woman I care for.”

Amber watched him scrape the hair off his face in long, slow, even strokes. The air grew still and silent. She could hear her heart beating. If he was trying to impress her, he was succeeding. She saw him flinch and noticed blood on his face.

He cupped water in his hand and splashed it on the wound. Then he smiled. “ ‘Tis a hard task you have asked of me.”

“And you’re doing a very poor job of it, might I add.” Her voice sounded deep and husky in her ears.

He winked. “Am I to assume you could perform the service?”

By the mischievous expression on his face, she knew the blasted man had not missed a thing. Okay, if he wanted her to shave him, she’d oblige. She crossed the distance that separated them, reached for the dagger and knelt down beside him. The blade was heavier than she’d imagined. The hilt was wrapped in leather and retained the warmth of his hand. She brought the blade to his face and began to scrape away the last remnants of his beard, following the contours of his jawline to his chin. She reached down and dipped the knife in the loch. “This would be easier with warm water.”

“It will be warm enough soon.”

The strings that tied her bodice in back were too tight. As she maneuvered into position Amber fought the heavy material of her dress. She straddled his legs, feeling the flex of his muscles on her bare skin and the heat of his thigh through the wool tartan.

He raised his eyebrow and rested his hands on her waist. “You have performed this task before?”

She swallowed. “Hold still.”

“Impossible.”

Her hand trembled as she willed it under control and removed the hair from around his mourn. His skin felt warm against her fingertips. As she leaned closer to him she felt her layers of defense melt away. Lachlan possessed a level of caring and integrity that few would ever attain. It was just that he cloaked them under the word responsibility. She paused and took a deep breath.

“This isn’t as easy as it looks. It’s going to take a while.”

He took the knife from her hand and laid it down on the grass. “That is my intent, as well.”

Amber looked into his eyes as his gaze lowered to her mouth. Brushing his lips against the hollow of her neck, he moved his hands under her dress along her bare thighs. She shuddered as waves of heat swept over her, and the pressure of his lips on her mouth increased. The intensity and urgency of his passion tugged at her heart.

The realization drifted toward her that there was no other place, or time, she’d rather be than in his arms. She pulled back, wanting to slow down and enjoy each sensual moment with him.

“Lachlan, my love, we have all day.”

His smile spread slowly across his face in sudden awareness. “Aye, lass, and the night as well.”

Her lips parted as he kissed her and her tongue sought the deep recesses of his mouth.

His breathing was ragged. He unwrapped his plaid from around his waist and spread it on the ground. She forgot to breathe. His naked body was a bronze contrast to the deep green tartan. He reclined and the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexed as he reached out his hand toward her. His eyes were dark with unmasked desire.

“Stay with me.”

She placed her hand in his and joined him on the soft wool. The tight bodice of her dress loosened and the layers of clothes disappeared. His body rested against the length of her. His skin heated hers. Leaning toward her, he rested his hand lightly on her stomach. His tongue circled around her nipple in slow, feather-like strokes before he bent down and took it in his mouth. His long hair draped over her as she arched toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

She was fully immersed in the smell of earth and grass and man. Around her the air warmed as he entered and slowly thrust within her. “The lyrical music of bagpipes floated in her mind and time slowed with each tender kiss, each caress.

Despite the warm breeze rustling through the pines outside Amber’s window, she pulled the wool blanket up over her bare shoulders. The door opened.

Amber tightened her grip on the blanket as she saw Lachlan enter. He was carrying a tray with a bowl of oranges and two goblets of foamy liquid. His shirt was open, his tartan was hastily wrapped around his hips and his hair hung loose to his shoulders. Memories of his body pressed against her and the gentle words he’d spoken flooded her senses. Her breath caught. It had seemed so natural to be with him, to let him make love to her, but now doubts flooded back. If she were in the twentieth century she’d know what her options would be the morning after.

Lachlan put the tray on the bed and sat down beside it. She could see the question in his eyes. He looked as uncertain as she felt and cleared his throat.

“A friend of mine mentioned a drink called chocolatl. It resembled the word you used that night in the cookroom. You said you favored oranges as well.”

He was trying to please her, to soften the moment that followed the first time two people made love. It was working. The tension flowed out of her. She had not misunderstood the words he’d spoken last night, or the passion in his touch. The blanket fell from around her shoulders. She walked over to sit on the bed opposite him, with the tray between them. Tucking her legs under her, she reached for an orange and began peeling it. Lachlan was watching her with an intensity that took her breath away.

He popped a slice of orange in his mouth. “I learned there are… certain benefits to this drink. Are you not curious?”

“Does it prevent wrinkles?”

He laughed. “You have no need of such a remedy. But to return to my point, it is said the Emperor Montezuma drank his chocolatl in a golden goblet before entering his harem.”

She dipped a slice of orange into the bittersweet liquid, brought it to her mouth and heard his sharp intake of breath.

Lachlan took the slice of orange from her and dipped it into the drink again. The liquid dripped down his fingers as he held it up to her mouth. Amber looked into his eyes; they mirrored the dark passion she felt. She licked his fingers slowly, taking the last of the fruit in her mouth.

He raised an eyebrow. She had his full attention. Her pulse quickened as she stared back at him.

Lachlan let his breath out slowly. “I know why the monks in Italy have forbidden women this drink.”

“Oh, really. And why is that?” She dipped her finger into the warm chocolate and then tasted the syrupy liquid, pleased with the primal sounds coming from Lachlan. “It tastes bitter. It could use a little more honey.”

He arched his eyebrow.

She laughed. “Don’t say it.”

“You are all the honey it needs.”

Facing him on the bed, she reached over and yanked on the hair on his chest.

He flinched, reached for her hand and held it against his skin. “You wound me, lass. Is there no way to control you?”

“Not a chance.”

He leaned forward, took the goblet out of her hand and set it and the tray on the floor.

“Wait, I have plans for that.”

His mouth curled up in a smile. “You can finish your drink later.”

“I wasn’t thinking of drinking it.” She ignored the heat that crept up her neck to her face.

He stretched out on the bed next to her. “And what plans would that be, lass? The French women pour milk into their bathwater to soften their skin. What would adding an aphrodisiac, such as chocolatl, do to a woman’s bath?”

Amber traced the outline of his mouth with her finger. “I’m not going to waste my drink by pouring it into that splinter-ridden tub. I want to spend as little time as possible in it. A shower would be a lot more fun.” She leaned back onto the pillows, paused, and then propped herself on her hand and stared at him.

“Wait just one minute. How do you know what French women like in their baths?” The mischief reflected in his eyes caused her heart to alter its already erratic beat.

He shrugged. “Marcail must have mentioned it to me.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

Lachlan tapped the tip of her nose. “Aye. Now, what is this thing you call a shower?”

Her concentration was a little fuzzy because of his proximity, and he wanted her to explain the complications of a shower? She assumed her best classroom lecture voice.

“Imagine a waterfall inside a small room in the castle and then imagine you can control the temperature of the water. A person can take a bath standing up.”

The confused look on his face was worth the effort. She did not see him perplexed often. It was time to turn this conversation toward a more stimulating topic.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You did not explain your plans for this concoction.”

She traced a straight line from his chest down to his waist with her fingers. His skin was warm and the hair on his body soft. The thought surging through her mind made her feel light-headed and reckless. “Actually, it’s more of a sensual experiment.” His voice lowered to a husky whisper. ‘It involves this concoction you favor?“ She smiled and imitated his brogue. ”Aye, laddie.“ His laughter was deep and spontaneous and sent shivers racing through her. ”You have captured the lilt of the Highland tongue as you have my heart. I am anxious to begin your… experiment.“