Before she knew it, she was in his arms, being whirled around like a dervish as he peered up at her in the fading dusk. She braced her hands against his broad shoulders and looked back down at him, a smile spreading across her lips.
He slowed in his twirling of her and set her back down on solid ground. “I missed ye, lass,” he crooned, his rough hands closing gently around her wrists. There was no threat in his touch as he lifted her hands to his mouth and kissed each palm, his eyes closing with a silent passion that made her skin tingle as if she had brushed by a thicket of nettles.
“Are you wounded?” she breathed, swallowing thickly.
His eyes opened, brimming with lust. “I’m as ye see me. Healthy as an ox.”
“But… you were hurt.” She pressed her palms to his hard chest and felt the unmistakable beat of his strong heart beneath. In the chilly fall of evening, his skin blazed like a fire in winter, thrumming with his vitality.
He shook his head. “That was long ago, lass. Me fightin’ is done, now, and I’ve come home to ye, at last. I never plan to leave ye again.” He pulled the strap of his broadsword over his head, separating them for a moment, and let the weapon drop to the pebbles below.
The next second, she was back in his protective embrace, pressed flush to his body, his arms wrapped around her and pulling her closer still. Against her belly, she became aware of his passions stirring beneath his kilt, and smiled as she buried her face in his neck. There, she smelled the earth and the metallic tang of the air before a storm upon his skin, inhaling it like the finest perfume, for it was his scent.
“Do you promise?” she murmured against the cords of his neck, before pressing her lips to that tender skin.
“With all me heart and soul,” he growled, his voice rough with fervor.
Pulling his head away, he brought up his calloused palms to cradle her face, his brown eyes gazing deep into the very core of her. Her own gaze did not waver, while her heart quickened, eager to shed her clothes and his so they could indulge in one another until the sun rose again.
“I thought of naught but ye, and this place, and this divine body of yers.” He pushed back a strand of her wind-tossed hair.
She chuckled. “As I have thought of nothing but you, and these arms around me, and… your lips against my skin.”
“Then I best nae keep ye waitin’.” He grinned, and dipped his head, catching her mouth with his in a desperate kiss. His lips ravaged hers as her arms encircled his neck, his hands sliding down the curves of her waist, and stealing a naughty grasp of her firm behind.
She giggled against his mouth as both his hands settled under her buttocks and hoisted her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he continued to plunder her lips, his tongue swirling against hers in a frenzied dance.
Carrying her as though she weighed nothing, he took her to the log cabin and kicked open the door. The heat from the hearth blanketed them in its warm welcome as Camdyn stepped closer to its flickering flames, and laid her down on the furs before it. The soft hides tickled Victoria’s back as his mouth explored, following the trail of her waking perspiration. When he came to the barrier of her shift, he grasped the fabric in his hands and tore it down the center, ripping it to the waist.
“Camdyn!” she cried, thoroughly overwhelmed by his ardor.
“Victoria.” He smiled at her, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Dinnae worry, lass. I’ll buy ye a new one.”
“You had better. That was fine cotton you have just destroyed,” she teased, her words concluding in a stifled gasp as he kissed along the rise of her plump breast. His mouth had just closed, wet and warm, around a hardened nipple, when the cabin, and the lake, and Camdyn’s attentions evaporated.
Victoria blinked up at the ceiling in confusion, her linens and blankets twisted around her like a fabric serpent. Her body prickled with perspiration, her cheeks feverishly hot, while her breath had yet to return to normal.
A loud knock came at the door. “Victoria? Are you well?”
Victoria realized that was likely not the first knock, for something had awoken her from her disorienting dream. “Genevieve?”
The older woman opened the door and peeked around. “I heard you call out and got worried. Are you all right?”
“Uh… yes. Just a… um… bad dream,” Victoria replied, her words stilted.
“I’ll have some tea sent up, to help you sleep.” Genevieve clutched her chest dramatically. “You had me worried for a moment. I thought you were in trouble.”
Victoria burned with mortification. “I am quite well, but I think tea would be soothing.”
“Are you certain you are all right?” Genevieve narrowed her eyes at Victoria. “You look feverish. Shall I fetch a willow-bark tonic from the study?”
“Let us begin with tea, and I shall see how I feel afterward. I am sure it is nothing,” Victoria said stiffly, willing the humiliation to be over.
Genevieve nodded. “I shan’t be a moment.” With that, she ducked back out into the hallway, leaving Victoria to dwell on what had just happened.
Oh dear… was all she could think.
Chapter 7
After two more days of languishing in his sickbed, with a full belly and some blissfully uninterrupted slumber, Camdyn mustered the strength to take a few turns around his room. At first, his legs were shaky underneath him, but they soon remembered what they were supposed to do.
“Aye, that’s better,” he said to himself, as he walked to the window. “Still nae sure about this, mind.” He pulled at the flouncy nightshirt that Genevieve had forced him into, claiming that his kilt “reeked to high heaven, and would soon walk out the door on its own foul legs” if she did not have it washed.
He sank down onto the window seat to give himself a brief reprieve and turned to look at the landscape beyond. Long green lawns stretched away toward a perimeter of densely clustered oak trees, the emerald grass bordered with drab flowerbeds that would bloom in the warmer months, and transform this garden into a truly beautiful sight.
It is nae as wild as home, but it is nae bad, neither.
Resting his head against the wall, he thought of his meagre lodgings in town, and wondered how he would be faring if he had tried to walk the rest of the way there. No matter which way he thought about it, he figured he would probably be dead.
He laughed drily. “Murdock is probably mournin’ me, right now.”
The truth was, he knew he could not stay here indefinitely. At some point, he would have to leave and return to his normal life, away from all this finery and that angelic woman he could not get out of his head. The Jacobite campaign might have been over, but he knew there were rebels out there, like him, who would need help.
According to Genevieve, the English had decreed that they would not pursue the remaining Jacobites, but Camdyn did not believe a word. They would simply be persecuted in secret, and run to the corners of the country, until every last one was gone.
“One whisper to the wrong person, and there’ll be bodies pilin’ up in alleyways, and a whole host of ‘accidents’ takin’ place around Scotland.” He sighed, and looked back out of the window, not sure whether to count himself lucky, or if he was just extending his fate.
His body jolted upright as he saw the angel herself, wandering across the lawns. Dressed in a long tweed skirt of olive green, a matching green casaquin, and the high-necked shift he had thought of often, with a cloak lazily pinned at her chest, she swept across the grass in something of a daze.
Camdyn smiled. “Is she talkin’ to herself?”
That appeared to be the case, for her mouth moved as she walked, her expression scrunched up in a look of bewilderment. Her slender fingertips toyed with the cameo brooch at her throat, and he felt comforted when he saw that there were no lasting bruises on her skin. At least, he could not see them from where he sat.
I should go down and talk to her.
He contemplated the idea for a while, but there was something about her
demeanor that kept him where he was. She did not look as though she wanted company, least of all his, considering the grudge she still bore against him.
During the last two days, he had continued to wait for his opportunity to see her again, so he might speak the apology that had turned his tongue leaden. But she had not come. She did not even tread too close to his room, though he had heard her in the hallway once or twice, whispering with Genevieve or instructing one of the servants.
I’ve got to make it right before I go. I’ll nae forgive meself if I dinnae.
Even if he never saw her again after he departed this house, he wanted to make sure there was no lingering sourness between them. Although, the notion of never laying eyes on that ethereal creature again brought a lump to his throat.
“Who else can say they’ve had a real angel watchin’ over ‘em, eh?” he said sadly, watching Victoria as she turned circles on the lawn.
He had heard the folktales of mystical beings and haloed women coming to the rescue of those in dire trouble, but he had never paid them much heed. They were just the ramblings of drunkards and fools. And yet, now that he had met Victoria, he wondered if there had been some truth in those ramblings. Only, the angels were not celestial beings, but very real women, with a tender touch and a knowledge of medicine that rivaled any titled physician.
Look up at me, lass. Let me see those eyes again.
But she did not, and he knew he would have to do more than just watch her to get her to listen to his heartfelt apology.
That night, Victoria and Genevieve were sitting together in the downstairs drawing room, bathed in the warm glow of a roaring fire. The day had been surprisingly busy for Victoria, with a bevy of ailments coming through her door: a child with a fever, an expectant mother with some birthing concerns, a few soldiers—who had not disclosed which side they had fought on—with weeping wounds, plus the usual citizens with a variety of coughs and sneezes.
Victoria yawned. “After three rounds of cribbage, I am afraid I must retire victorious, before you trounce me when I grow too tired to concentrate.”
“You’ve been working yourself too hard,” Genevieve chided.
“I hardly think that I have.” Victoria stood on weary feet. “There are women in Inverness who work from dawn until dusk and do not pause for hearty luncheons. Indeed, they struggle to afford one meal a day. They are the ones who work themselves too hard. I saw a young lady today who already had arthritic joints from her daily toil, and she was not much older than me.”
Genevieve smiled sympathetically. “Your heart is too big, Victoria. You mightn’t think it, but you earned this life.”
“Did I?” Victoria gathered her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders for extra warmth. Out in the hallways, one could feel the true chill of the wintry evening.
“You put up with a wretch, for one thing.” Genevieve cackled. “I’d say that’s worth the price of this house, God rest his soul.”
Victoria mustered a tired smile. “It just does not seem right to me, that one’s fortune at birth can dictate the rest of their lives. I happened to be born to a family with wealth and some station, and I have never wanted for anything. But… I believe it is our duty, as those who have so much, to feel guilt.”
“As I said, your heart’s too big. I don’t think I know of any other lady like you,” Genevieve said tenderly. “The rest of the fine ladies I’ve encountered wouldn’t hesitate to step on a pauper if it meant they could keep their shoes clean.”
“And that is why I must do all I can, while I can.” Victoria paused to drink the rest of her nightcap, letting the peaty taste of the whisky tingle on her tongue, before swallowing it down. “Goodnight, Genevieve.”
Genevieve raised her glass. “Goodnight, Victoria. Try and sleep well. If not, you know I am only a shout away, and I shall have fresh tea with you before you know you have even asked for it.”
“What would I do without you?” Victoria walked to the older woman and bent to kiss her cheek.
Genevieve chuckled. “Well, I daresay you’d be exceedingly bored.”
“I do believe you are right.” Smiling, Victoria exited the drawing room and mounted the curving staircase to her bedchamber. Since her rather unexpected dream the other night, she had become cautious about falling asleep. But, right now, she was much too tired to worry about such things.
It will be an entirely dreamless sleep, she told herself, as she walked along the shadowed corridor.
However, she had just reached her door, when a strange bump snatched her attention away from a quiet evening of rest. It sounded as though someone had walked into something, or fallen from something. Her mind immediately turned to Camdyn, a few doors down the hall.
What do I do?
She hesitated, only for a second bump to echo through the dark corridor. A faint groan followed, prompting her to make her decision. Grumbling under her breath, for she had solemnly hoped she would be able to keep her vow of not seeing that man again, she stalked down the hallway until she reached Camdyn’s door.
Tentatively, she pressed her ear to it, listening for any sound of distress. For a moment, she thought about calling for Genevieve, but if Camdyn was hurt, there would be no time to waste.
Suddenly, the door swung open. Camdyn’s shadow was silhouetted in the doorway for a moment, before she felt a strong arm seizing her about the waist. She tried to shriek, but a rough hand covered her mouth, silencing her. With panic pounding in her veins, she was dragged inside the room.
No one was coming to help her.
Chapter 8
Inside the lamplit room, Camdyn did not immediately release Victoria. His hand remained over her mouth, his calloused palms scratching against her soft skin, his face so close to hers that she could have slapped him or kissed him. She froze, staring up into his warm brown eyes, panic-stricken.
This is not a dream.
There had been no fear in that peculiar nighttime delusion, and he had used his fearsome strength for far more enticing purposes.
“I dinnae mean ye any harm, lass, but I need ye to promise ye will nae scream,” he said earnestly. “It’s just… there’s somethin’ I’ve got to say to ye, and I cannae if ye’ll nae listen to me. Nod if ye’ll stay quiet.”
Victoria gulped, and slowly dipped her head in a nod. She could feel his breath on her face, smelling faintly of Genevieve’s rosehip tea, and the subtle aroma of willow-bark tonic. Her eyes flitted curiously toward the taut cords of his neck, her foolish mind wondering if his skin smelled of earth and stormy air, as it had done in her dream.
He dragged you in here! You should not be thinking of such things, she scolded herself, as she felt his hand fall away from her mouth. The motion, and the freeing of her lips, sparked her fury. A second later, she unleashed hell upon Camdyn McKay.
“How dare you!” she barked. “If you had something to say to me, you ought to have sent a message through Genevieve, or sought to encounter me in a more civilized manner. This is… unacceptable! I am a lady, Mr. McKay, and I will not be pawed at like a common wench by your brutish hands!”
He put up his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Ye dinnae leave me much choice, lass, and this is nae somethin’ I could pass to Genevieve to give to ye. I had to speak with ye direct.”
“How is this somehow my fault?” Victoria gaped at him in disbelief. “You know why I have not returned to tend to you. You were intolerably rude, and I do not stand for such behavior in my house. Indeed, you lost your right to speak to me when you showed nothing but derision and mockery toward me.”
“Lass, would ye just take a breath before ye burst one of them veins in yer head?” he replied, with the same crooked smile she had seen in her dream.
Victoria floundered. “Even now, you taunt me! I am well aware of how angry I can become before I burst a vein, and I am nowhere near that point.”
“Will ye just listen to me?” he pleaded, his expression turning serious. “A few minutes of yer time, that
’s all I ask. If ye dinnae like what I have to say, I’ll nae bother ye again.”
She exhaled sharply. “Come out with it, then.”
“I’m sorry, lass. That’s what I wanted to say.” He fiddled with the collar of his nightshirt, drawing Victoria’s attention to the line that ran down the center of his chest. Her breath hitched as she realized she could see right through it, immediately drawing her eyes up so she did not accidentally look beneath the indents of his hips.
“That is hardly an apology, Mr. McKay,” she muttered thickly, her cheeks warming up like embers.
He nodded. “I ken. I am nae done yet.” He mustered a rakish smile that made her stomach flutter. “I should nae have acted the way I did when I woke up. I were startled and I were angry, and I took it out on ye. It was wrong of me. Badly wrong. It is nae yer fault, what happened to me. It is nae yer fault, what happened in that battle. I dinnae mean to mock ye, or say it was nae ye who sewed me up and nursed me. I acted a brute, and I dinnae want ye to think that’s what I am, ‘cause I am nae. So… I’m sorry for me wrongs against ye, and I hope ye can forgive me.”
Highlander's Fallen Angel : A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 6