by Mariah Stone
Well, technically, Dundail wasn’t a castle. But that didn’t matter. Anything would be romantic, as long as Ian was by her side.
Oh God, if this was a date, she shouldn’t be in an apron, wearing a torn-and-dirty dress, with hair that looked like a crow’s nest. Kate wiped her hands against the apron and untied it. She put it on a bench, then took her seat by Ian’s side.
“Sorry, I look like hell,” she said. “You deserve a romantic dinner with a lady.”
Ian was staring at her without blinking. In the light of the candles, his face was relaxed and full of wonder. His brown eyes were warm, his red hair ablaze from the light. Kate studied the thin scar crossing the edge of his left eyebrow, the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, the cut that started just above his bristle.
God, he was handsome. Handsome, and kind, and so wounded. Kate was torn between the urge to kiss every inch of his face while cuddling in his arms and the desire to listen to his heartbeat to make sure he was real.
“Ye’re the only person in the world I want to share my evening meal with, Katie,” he said. “And ye’ve never been more bonnie than ye are now.”
Warmth rushed to Kate’s cheeks, and she looked away, unable to meet the heat in his eyes. She exhaled sharply and smiled, picking up the plate with the burgers and offering it to him.
“Try this. It’s from my homeland. I make these every day.”
Ian chuckled softly and looked at the dish.
“I would have gladly skipped the meal, lass, as I am much more famished for something else.” He picked up a burger, while Kate’s face heated even more. “But I canna say nae to yer cooking. Especially since this came from yer home.”
He put the burger on his plate and waited for her to take hers. Then he raised his cup.
“To home,” he said. “’Tis nae the house that makes a home but people…a person.”
Kate’s smile fell as she thought about what he said. Was her apartment in Cape Haute really her home? Did her sister and her nephew make it so? Because it wasn’t the building or the restaurant or the investors. She gazed at Ian.
Despite the short time she’d spent here, and despite the fact that she was a complete stranger in this land and this time, a feeling of home settled in her chest when she looked at him.
“To home,” she echoed.
They clunked their cups and drank. The wine was sourer than what she was used to in her time, and it was probably diluted with water, but it would go nicely with the burgers.
Ian lifted his burger and bit into it, chewed, and nodded. “Aye, lass, ye’ve outdone yerself again. ’Tis delicious.”
Blazing from the compliment, Kate bit into her own burger and chewed. Yes, not bad. The bread was a bit rough and tasted sour as any rye bread, but the meat had good flavor after being grilled over the coals, and the cheese was just the right combination of creamy, sour, and salty.
“These are even better with beef,” she said through a mouthful.
“I will slaughter a cow for ye if ye make these every day,” he said.
She chuckled. “Actually, I do make them every day back home.”
He straightened. “Oh, aye? Nae wonder ye’re so good at it. I swear, since I met ye, I’ve eaten the best meals of my life. Before the caliphate, everything is a blur, as though I didna truly live. In the caliphate, food didna matter. They feed us well, aye. Meat and fruit and bread every day. They needed to keep us strong and healthy for the fights.”
Kate’s chest tightened. “Fights?”
Ian stopped chewing, his face a bitter mask. He looked at the plate, then took his cup and emptied it down his throat, then poured more.
“Aye, Kate. Fights.”
He met her eyes then, and Kate’s heart broke at the pain and shame written on his face.
“Ye asked me to tell ye about hell. I think I can tell ye. But can ye accept me after ye’ve heard what I have to say?”
Of course she would. The real question was, if she told him the whole truth about time travel and everything, would he accept her? Or would he think her a mad woman?
Chapter 19
Ian held his breath as Kate took time to answer him. There was a gentleness in her face, and a kindness.
Would it still be there after he told her how much of a monster he’d been?
“Yes, of course,” she said. “You can tell me anything. I want to know.”
He nodded, then threw back the cup of wine. His hands shook as he poured another one. He was more terrified of reliving all that had happened than he wanted to admit.
“I was wounded eleven years ago, in a battle with the MacDougalls. Got a bad chest wound. My clan thought me dead, but the MacDougalls kent I wasna. They sold me to a slave ship. I dinna remember any of that. Afterward, the other slaves told me I was delirious with fever on the ship and they all thought I’d die right there. But I didna.”
Unfortunately, he added silently.
“When we reached Baghdad, I was already recovering and could stand on my feet. In a slave market, the caliph bought me. My red hair and my size are verra rare and, therefore, valuable there. I’d thought I’d do construction or cut wood or stone. But the caliph had a different plan for me.”
Ian’s fist clenched around the cup uncontrollably, the metal felt like it would bend under his grip. Kate was just listening, her attention like a precious gift he couldn’t repay. He hadn’t realized how much he needed a friendly ear, how much he needed to share the heavy burden of his experience.
“What plan?” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
“The caliph had a secret kind of entertainment,” Ian said. “Inspired by the ancient Romans, as I learned later. Only the richest and most important viziers and noblemen were allowed to participate. They bet their treasure on us. And nae just gold. Their women.” His throat cramped, but he pressed out, “They won by having their best slaves fight each other until death.”
Kate inhaled sharply.
“And you as well?”
“In the beginning, I was just a slave with exotic looks. The caliph had never owned a red-haired man before, not to mention a Highlander. But then, as I continued to bring him victory, killing my opponents one after another, I became his favorite. He even came to talk to me on occasion. I was invincible. Red Death, they called me.”
Ian remembered the square courtyard brightly lit with a burning sun the first time he was sent to fight. The sticky sweat under his iron armor. His tightly clenched fist around the handle of the curved sword. The smell of hot dust and sweat. The other man, on the opposite side of the courtyard. It had been a taller man, brown-haired and heavy-built.
There were dozens of guests sitting along the long balconies on each side of the courtyard walls.
Ian’s right hand shook. He still wasn’t fully recovered from a piercing wound in his shoulder, just below the collarbone, that he’d received a moon ago. It ached constantly. The man was bigger and looked stronger than him, and the deadly threat on his face meant this wasn’t his first fight.
But it wasn’t Ian’s first, either, he reminded himself amid the bloodthirsty cries and cheers of the spectators. All he needed now was to survive. He remembered, he prayed a Celtic prayer before battle.
When the mouth shall be closed,
When the eye shall be shut,
When the breath shall cease to rattle,
When the heart shall cease to throb.
When the Judge shall take the throne,
And when the cause is fully pleaded,
O Jesu, Son of Mary, shield Thou my soul…1
The fight began. Ian’s opponent launched at him in a flash of golden hair and white flesh, with overwhelming power, like a battering ram. It took Ian all he had to not get killed. And even more, to wound his opponent. He didn’t want to kill the man. They were not enemies, not by choice. They were both victims of bad luck, forced to fight against each other.
He slashed the man’s thigh. The wound wouldn’t bring death but
was enough to immobilize him.
The man fell, clutching at his leg. Ian stood above him, panting. He’d expected the gates where he’d entered to open again and for him to be allowed to go back to the barracks.
But the crowd yelled. Their voices livid, men stood and waved their arms at him, urging him to act, to do something. Ian glanced at the caliph, the man in a white robe and a white turban, the only man sitting immobile. The caliph had a satisfied half smile on his face. He raised one hand, his ringed fingers glistening with gold and jewels, and archers appeared on the roofs of the buildings that were the perimeter of the courtyard, their arrows pointed at Ian.
The caliph said something in Arabic, which, as Ian later found out, meant that only one man would leave that courtyard alive that day. And it was up to Ian who that would be.
Then the caliph made a gesture of cutting his throat with his index finger.
That was enough to understand. Ian looked down at the giant, who was trying to rise but failing. His teeth bared in a terrible, desperate grin, he waved his sword helplessly at Ian, but Ian only stepped aside.
He had to kill the giant or be killed himself.
Understanding hit him like a cold shower.
It was one thing to fight for his clan, for his family, for the people he loved, for the cause he believed in.
It was another to kill people who hadn’t done him wrong. To kill them because a man with gold and jewels on his hands told him to.
To kill them to buy his own life.
The caliph cried a word, and the archers pulled the strings of their bows back.
Ian couldn’t hesitate. It was either his life or the blond man’s.
“O Jesu, son of Mary, shield my soul,” Ian whispered and slashed the man’s neck with his sword.
The spectators erupted in cheers. Some were happy, others angry. The archers disappeared. The caliph met Ian’s glance and gave a barely noticeable nod, his face impartial and still.
Ian shook himself like a dog, shaking off the memory. He looked at Kate who eyed him with concern and compassion. The words poured out of him, painful and yet cleansing, like opening a rotting wound and cleaning it.
“The Red Death won every single fight,” Ian said. “Eleven years. Dozens of lives. Husbands. Fathers. Brothers. Sons. From Africa. China. India. England. Egypt. Many, many Arabs. At times two or even three were up against me. I killed them all…”
He looked at his hands, surprised there was no blood.
“I’m a beast, Kate. A monster. I will never be whole, and there will never be redemption for me.”
She took his hands in hers, and a soft, gentle current of tingling went through him. He met her eyes.
“You’re not a monster, and you’re not a beast,” she said firmly. “The monster is the caliph. The whole system of slavery is the beast. You’re a survivor, Ian.”
A tremor went through him at her words, like the pus had been cleaned out of the wound and now the healing balm was applied, and it burned.
“Ye are too kind, Kate. I dinna deserve yer good heart.”
“Don’t punish yourself more than life has already punished you. I know you seek forgiveness, but it’s not anyone else’s to give. It’s your own forgiveness that you need.”
He shook his head. “How can I forgive myself when I vowed to God to never kill again and yet—”
He poured more wine.
“Ye’ve seen me.”
“Ian,” she whispered. “You stopped. I saw that it was the darkness that sucked you in, but you found it in yourself to see the light.”
“Because of ye, Kate. Everything good in my life is happening because of ye.”
She cupped his jaw, and he turned and kissed her palm.
“No one has ever done anything to save me,” she said. “What you did for me… No one has ever protected me like that.”
“I’ll protect ye until my last breath.”
And he’d love her even longer.
Their eyes locked, and he got lost in Kate’s gaze. She stood up and came to sit on his lap, enveloping him in her delicious smell. Without another word, she kissed him. Her warm, soft mouth tasted delicious and felt like heaven. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed her against himself, her body pliable and responsive under his palms.
He wanted her whole, body and soul. He wanted to show her how much her acceptance meant to him. How much he wanted her. How much he needed her.
His heart expanded, his body light, his skin tingling as he picked her up and carried her to his bedchamber.
Chapter 20
In Ian’s arms, Kate felt like a warrior’s prize. Like she weighed nothing with her 170 pounds. Like he’d fight the whole world for her.
Surely this was just her wishful thinking. A dream or something.
If it was, she didn’t want to wake up. Ian climbed one flight of stairs and pushed the door to his bedroom with his back. He laid Kate on a massive wooden bed. It smelled like him—leather and steel and woodsmoke.
The fire was already playing in the fireplace. Besides that, there were several chests and a table with a slanting top. A giant barrel stood by the fireplace. It looked like an oversize whiskey barrel with straight walls, and was big enough to fit two or three people.
Ian’s arms pressed into the bed on each side of Kate’s shoulders. He kissed her deeply, sending an electric current of pleasure right into her groin.
“I am going to wash ye,” he purred when he stopped the kiss. “Then ye’re going to wash me, and then I’m going to make love to ye.”
The promise in his voice was heavy and intoxicating, and filled Kate’s whole body with bubbly anticipation.
“Aye?” he said.
Oh God, how did one construct words? “Yes, please.”
He nodded, male satisfaction on his face. “I will bring hot water. Dinna go anywhere.”
Her legs were like jelly, so she couldn’t have moved even if he’d tried to chase her out with a stick.
Ian brought two steaming buckets of water and poured them into the barrel.
“Come,” he said.
The prospect of undressing in front of him heated Kate’s cheeks and neck, but she wasn’t sure if it was because she was ashamed of being naked in front of him or because he stood by the barrel and looked at her with dark, hungry eyes.
In either case, she wouldn’t back out now.
She stood up from the bed and walked to him on weak legs.
“Turn around,” she said.
“Nae.” He chuckled.
Oh Jesus. He’d see her naked and run away. “Turn around!”
“Nae.”
Ian hooked the edge of his tunic and pulled it up and over his head. Kate’s mouth dried at the sight of him. He was all lean muscle and male gorgeousness, with a broad chest and shoulders, firm pecs, and a triangle of muscle at the bottom of his hard stomach leading down under his breeches. Several silver scars caught her attention—a long one on his side, a ragged one above his heart and beneath his collarbone, and a few smaller ones across his shoulders, solid biceps, and chest.
Kate’s throat convulsed at the thought of what those scars signified. The hardships he’d gone through, the pain, the constant fear and torture he’d been living for eleven years.
They also signified his strength, his unbreakable, unbendable spirit.
And they made her love him even more.
Kate reached out and gently stroked the big scar above his heart with her thumb. “That’s when all this started, isn’t it? When the MacDougalls wounded you?”
Ian looked at her hand as though she’d touched him with red-hot iron tongs. Kate moved her hand, but he pinned it in place, pressing her fingers to the scar.
“Aye,” he said, his voice rasping. “Touch me here. Touch me anywhere. Make the pain go away. Make me whole again.”
Kate’s fingers burned. She? Make him whole?
“How can I make you whole when I’m damaged myself, Ian?” she asked.
His eyes softened, and something connected between them on a level deeper and stronger than she’d ever imagined. Maybe their souls came together, maybe it was something else, but he became an extension of her, and she became an extension of him.
“I dinna ken. But ye’re already doing it.”
An unexpected tear crawled down her cheek. She? Healing anybody, making anyone’s life better? She hadn’t done anything.
“It’s you,” she said. “You’re the one healing me. Not the other way around.”
He stroked her cheek with his knuckles.
“And now, I’m going to wash ye, lass,” he said.
He removed his pants and stood before her, completely naked, and completely breathtaking. Long legs with the muscles of a skier, narrow hips and…the biggest, most beautiful penis she’d ever seen.
How would he even fit inside her?
Kate breathed out softly. “You’re…you look like a god.”
Ian shook his head and laughed softly. The sound beautiful and dear and precious.
“’Tis a sweet way to try to distract me, Katie, but it wilna work. If one of us has a connection to the divine, ’tis ye, nae me. My soul is bound to hell. But I will show ye the stars before I go.”
Kate licked her lips. She opened her mouth to protest. He wasn’t bound to hell. He was some sort of a Celtic god, the flame itself, hot and powerful and all-consuming.
But before she could say anything, he said, “Ye’re thinking too much.”
Then he drew her to himself and kissed her.
His hard body pressed against hers, but his lips were the softest things that had ever touched her. He eased his tongue between her lips and began a teasing game of stroking, licking, gently sucking, and nipping. Kate’s bones turned to mush, and a deep moan built in the back of her throat.
“Aye, ’tis better,” Ian mumbled approvingly.
He undid the girdle at her waist, then pulled the edge of Kate’s sleeveless overtunic over her head. Then he did the same with the soft linen gown that had been under it. Kate tingled more and more as he got closer to her skin with each layer.