Choosing the Highlander

by Jessi Gage

  Terran had cautioned him she might intend him harm and act upon such intent while he slept, but Terran forgot what a light sleeper he was. Wilhelm doubted Constance bore him any ill will, but if she stole close enough to harm him in the night, he would wake. He would then relish reversing the advantage and pinning her beneath him to deliver punishment of a sensual sort.

  So far, he had acted a gentleman with her, but should she prove to be a viper, he would show her that he, too, could strike. He would reward any treachery she might attempt with an assault of passion. He would subdue her with kisses and caresses until she learned beyond any doubt they were not—and never would be—enemies.

  His cock stirred at these thoughts and lifted his plaid in a telling fashion. Clearing his throat, he got up to pour the wine into their bowls lest Constance notice his state.

  “You told me about your intentions for an act of parliament,” she said when he handed her a steaming bowl.

  When he sat again, she scooted close to his side, cupping the bowl between her hands. Leaning against the sleeping pallet, she stretched her stocking feet toward the fire and sipped the wine. A hum of approval accompanied the momentary closing of her eyes.

  A pang of desire shot through him.

  Would that he could be the cause of her bliss instead of a sip of hot drink. He sipped from his own bowl to ease the tightening in his chest and the renewed stirring of his cock.

  “You believe every child of the nobility should obtain an education,” she went on. “And yet you called it a judicial act. Why not call it an education act?”

  Wilhelm did not oft speak to women about his political aspirations because he had learned they did not typically take interest in the topic. Constance was different. She’d listened to his ramblings on the matter and had understood enough to ask an astute question. His esteem for her grew. So did his determination to make her his. A woman like Constance could not only serve him as lover and friend, but as adviser as well. Such a treasure she was!

  “The proposal is named for its intended result,” he told her, proud to share his ideas with her. “Education for the children of nobles is merely a beginning. The result is that in time, those children will rise to hold positions of power. They will become lairds and earls and stewards of their holdings. They will rule in disputes from large to small, and their judgments will be more consistent and more fair if they have all been educated in the same manner. Stability for our people will come only once a foundation of education is made available to all who may one day rule. You see? Education begets a stronger foundation for justice. That is why I call it a judicial act.”

  Constance blinked several times then took a long draught of wine.

  “Easy, lass. The monks may serve weak beer, but their wine is strong.”

  When she lowered her bowl, her cheeks were flushed with the most delicate shade of rose. How bonny she was with her coppery hair and her eyes of every color. She bit her lip and released it. “You have a passion for justice,” she said. “Is that why you named your horse as you did?”

  “Aye.” Her ability to draw such conclusions pleased him. “Tell me,” he said putting his arm along the pallet, circling her shoulders but not touching her. “What prompted the choice of Honesty?”

  Constance smiled demurely and leaned into him, inviting him to embrace her fully with his outstretched arm. When he did so, her lashes lowered then lifted, revealing those stunning eyes. Och, the firelight made the various hues dance with each shift of her gaze.

  “Well,” she said with a mischievous quirk to her mouth. “Where I come from, there is a musician—a bard—named Billy Joel. He sings a ballad by that title. It’s one of my favorite songs.”

  So, she’d named the horse after a song sung by another man. This unsettled him.

  By the twinkle in her eye, that had been her intention.

  Playfulness aside, he sensed she was not telling him the whole truth, ironic given the subject of their discussion. “Is that the only reason you named him Honesty?” He rubbed his thumb over her upper arm, a teasing touch, a testing touch.

  “No.” She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder, indicating his touch had been well received. “I thought it might be nice for Justice to have a companion named Honesty.”

  His heart melted for her.

  “And,” she said softly. “I have decided to tell you only the truth from now on. No more lies. But.” She sat straighter and gave him a look of warning. “If you ask me something I don’t want to answer, I’ll say so.”

  He coaxed her back into the space between his arm and his side. “So I shall have honesty, but not totality.”

  “Correct.”

  “I suppose I shall have to accept your terms.” Their banter was light, but he understood it for the delicate dance it was. As he’d suspected earlier, she was inviting him to question her. But there were things she did not feel safe divulging. So be it.

  In time, she would come to understand that she could trust him with all of her. Every last secret would be his to protect. Every problem she faced would be his to solve. Until then, he would ask of her only what she could give.

  He fingered her hair. It shone with health and was soft as rabbit fur. “Will you tell me this? What is your full name? Who is your father?” Who must he inform of his intention to wed her?

  She leaned into his petting like a contented feline, but her voice was steel when she said, “I’m not ready to tell you that.”

  That gave him pause. Why would she not wish him to ken the name of her father? Was it someone he’d dealt with? An enemy? Not Ruthven, since she hadn’t known the man’s name until Wilhelm had told it to her.

  He tried a different tack. “Very well, lass. Will you answer this? Where is your clan, your home?” It could not be far, because they could understand each other. Were she from as far away as France or the Slavic lands, she would not speak English. Nor would she be familiar enough with the patterns of speech in England to speak it so convincingly. He’d only detected the lie in her dialect due to his truth sense.

  “I don’t want to tell you,” she replied, eyes narrowing as if she expected him to argue and was preparing for verbal combat.

  “Very well,” he said, continuing his stroking. Gentle with her. Easy with her.

  When training a young horse, one didn’t toss a saddle on its back immediately. The trick was to determine what each young horse would accept and then gradually introduce new things while providing rewards.

  Constance was not an animal, but her skittishness reminded him of some of the fillies he’d observed at the stables. She was equally spirited and willful. Just as the most spirited and willful young horses grew into the most prized mares, this fascinating lady would be well worth his patience in earning her trust.

  He ran his hand down her head in long, slow passes, combing with his fingers. When he met with a tangle, he worked it carefully. He refrained from asking more questions. He was rewarding her for accepting his touch and for holding to her word. She might not have answered his queries, but he hadn’t attempted to lie. This was progress.

  She propped her chin on his chest to gaze up at him. The wariness was still there, but it had eased somewhat. “Very well? You’ll accept my non-answer?”

  “Of course. I agreed to your terms, and I am a man of my word.”

  Her slow smile took his breath away. Her eyebrows remained slanted, mayhap with caution, but clearly with gratitude. He’d not seen such softness from her before. Not even when he’d had her naked so he could bathe her. The fact that he had put that beatific expression on her face made his chest swell with pride.

  “Shall I make another attempt? Will you answer this? Wherever your home might be, do you wish to return?”

  She went very still. “I do,” she said. Her brows slanted even more. Her expression was one of apology.

  “Then we have a problem.” He continued stroking.

  “Yes.” Her agreement came as a surprise. So did th
e way she leaned into him and licked her lush lips.

  Their faces were close. Close enough that he could kiss her with naught but a dip of his head. He was considering doing just that when she surprised him again by climbing upon his lap and squeezing him between her thighs.

  She clasped his face, thumbs grazing his cheeks. “But it’s a problem for another day.” She sealed her mouth over his, and the distance between them shrank to insignificance.

  Chapter 14

  Kissing Wilhelm was more than a physical connection between lips and tongues. More than a clutching of arms and a melding of stomachs. More, so much more, than a simple expression of mutual affection.

  This kiss, like their first, was need expressed through motion. It was the potential energy of desire turned into kinetic passion. Together, they closed a circuit. Sensation was amplified until the heat from their joined mouths spread like wildfire through her whole body.

  This is what it’s supposed to be like. This is the part that’s always been missing. Fire. Excitement.

  Wilhelm’s crushed her in his arms. Having her breasts mashed up against his hard chest should have been uncomfortable. Instead, the pressure soothed something deep inside her that verged on aching.

  One powerful hand squeezed her hip, keeping her pinned in such a way that she couldn’t miss they physical effect of his growing interest. As his arousal lengthened and hardened, it provided friction in just the right spot at the apex of her thighs. Shards of pleasure sang through her nervous system. The only other times she’d felt such jolts of sensation had been when she would touch herself to urge her body on when the few lovers she’d had would do their thing on top of her.

  But tonight, she wasn’t touching herself. Neither was Wilhelm. Well, not with his hands. It was as if the arousal she felt for him had primed her for pleasure and the coming together of their bodies set off a chain reaction of sensations. She’d never experienced anything like this before.

  Is this why Leslie dives into relationships head first? Is it simply easier for her to feel aroused than it is for me?

  Connie might have been more interested in the physical aspect of relationships if she reacted to other men the way she reacted to Wilhelm.

  She hardly recognized the crazed creature she’d become. She should be embarrassed about writing on the lap of her traveling companion, biting at his lips, and moaning into his mouth. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Not when he pushed back at her with tiny lifts of his pelvis. Not when his heavy breathing matched hers. Not when he cupped her head with one huge hand to keep her where he wanted her so he thrust his tongue even deeper.

  Oh, yes. He’s burning too.

  The thought drove her to clutch him tighter, to give him more of herself. She wanted to give him all of herself.

  Crazed with need, she scrabbled at the buttons at his throat. The pourpoint had dozens of them staked one on top of the other. “Want you,” she muttered between kisses, despairing at the time it was going to take to expose his chest.

  She changed tactics. Below his groin, the pourpoint parted to allow for the movement of his legs. Reaching into the gap, she found his linen shirt underneath. Grabbing onto the fabric, she rucked it up, pulling it from where his great kilt wrapped around his waist. All she managed to do was create a pouch of fabric. The shirt kept coming, like a handkerchief out of a clown’s pocket.

  A whine of frustration burst from her. She needed to feel his skin so badly she was near tears.

  Wilhelm stilled her hands and leaned back from their kiss.

  Reality crashed over her. She met his eyes, seeing herself from his perspective. He must think her completely uncouth. Respectable women in this time probably didn’t throw themselves at men and claw at their clothing.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said, her cheeks flaming. “I don’t know what came over me.” Continuing down this path would be unwise. They both knew she intended to return home. Surely, that’s why he’d stopped her. Either that or because of her unwillingness to answer his questions.

  She couldn’t meet his eyes as she waited for his rejection.

  But his crooked finger under her chin didn’t feel like rejection.

  “Look at me,” he commanded.

  She hated how automatically she obeyed. No. She hated him for wielding such power over her that she actually enjoyed obeying him.

  As quickly as her anger flared, it fizzled at the sight of his flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. He’d wanted her to look because he’d wanted her to know the need wasn’t one-sided. He looked as desperate for her as she was for him.

  She hadn’t realized she’d clenched her fists at her sides until he took her hands and one by one replaced them around his waist, encouraging her to hold onto him.

  “Lass,” he said, cupping her face. His hands were warm and callused and so big they seemed to swallow her up. His hoarse voice held her every bit as captive as his gentle grip.

  She swallowed thickly, wishing he would fall on her like a beast and make love to her so she could take the memory of him back to Chicago. But she knew better. He was about to set a boundary. How would she survive without his touch? Without his kiss?

  “My desire for you overcomes my good intentions,” he said.

  She could relate. “I understand.” She pulled her arms from around his waist and tried to climb off his lap.

  “Nay, lass.” He gripped her roughly and held tight, banding an arm around her lower back. He was still hard beneath her, and judging by the way he held her, he didn’t mind her knowing.

  He wasn’t alone in his arousal. Her body was alight with it too. Her breasts felt wonderfully swollen, and her underclothes stuck to her inner thighs with wetness. She’d never wanted like this before. She’d never actually craved sex before.

  “I want you, mo luaidh. I want you with everything I am.” He cupped her head again and brought her close so he could kiss her temple.

  The feel of his lips on that tender skin made her shiver. His scent made her feel drunk. “But,” she whispered, bracing herself for whatever he said next.

  I canna lie with a woman who willna tell me her full name, she imagined him saying.

  “I shouldna touch you in such a way until I can call you my wife.”

  She blinked. “Wife,” she stated flatly. An image of saying vows before Anselm as she stood hand-in-hand with Wilhelm bloomed in her mind. Then she came to her senses. “We can’t get married. I’m from—I’m from far away. I need to go home.”

  “’Tis a problem for another day,” he said with a grin, echoing what she’d said before she’d accosted him. His hands roamed her back, stroking her, showing her he truly did want her, but not all of her, not unless she married him, apparently.

  “But—then—” She couldn’t tell him that if he was waiting for marriage, they’d never become intimate. She wasn’t about to marry a man from the past, no matter how wonderful he was. He belonged here. His clan and country needed him. She belonged in 1981.

  “I’ll have you, lass. And I’ll give you all of myself in return. But not as long as my future is uncertain.”

  That was the sweetest, sexiest thing she’d ever heard. It was also highly disappointing since she was worked up now.

  “Dinnae fash, lass.” He stroked his thumb over her frown. “’Tis only precaution. When this business is behind us, I’ll be courting you in earnest. But for now, we must both of us exhibit patience.”

  He thought she was worried about whether he would manage to clear his name. She was worried about that since he’d gotten into this mess by saving her life. But she was more worried about whether she would make it home. Wasn’t she?

  It must be her lingering arousal clouding her mind. She couldn’t decide which she wanted more. The uncertainty should be enough to kill her arousal. But it wasn’t.

  Wilhelm brushed his knuckles over her cheek, and she leaned into his petting. It felt so good, being touched this gently, having a man she liked and respected so much d
eclare his intention to court her, even if it couldn’t possibly lead anywhere. It would be wrong to encourage him when she intended to leave.

  On the other hand, it could take weeks or even months to find the shopkeeper she’d dreamt about. All she knew about the dark-haired man was what he’d told her in the dream: “I have not been to Inverness again since then, though I do open my shop from…time to time.”

  Her entire plan for returning home hinged on finding this guy, and she didn’t even know whether he was real. He’d said she didn’t have enough imagination to create something like him, but it had been a dream. It could be nothing more than wishful thinking making her suspect the shopkeeper was real and could help reunite her with Leslie. She had no proof.

  What if she never found him? What if she did but he couldn’t or wouldn’t help?

  Would it be so awful to spend time with Wilhelm while she searched? Dornoch wasn’t far from Inverness, after all. But to spend time with him the way she wanted to—between the sheets—it seemed she would have to marry him.

  She enjoyed Wilhelm’s company. They had amazing chemistry. But even if she weren’t planning on going home, it was too soon to talk of marriage.

  Besides, she could never marry someone she had to hide things from. Marriage partners were just that: partners. They helped each other, shared everything with each other. The most essential part of who she was, a twentieth-century professional woman, was something she could never explain to Wilhelm. He might recognize the truth in her words, but there was no way he could possibly believe what had happened to her. He would think her crazy, babbling about time-travel and a future world with cars and telephones and sky-scrapers.

  She should climb off his lap and keep her distance from him, but she couldn’t bring herself to break their contact. “Wilhelm.” She breathed his name, at a loss how to respond to his attempt to comfort her.

  “I like the sound of my name on your lips, lass, but this—” He touched between her brows. “This, I doona like. Why do ye fash? Tell me, my Constant Rose.”

  She couldn’t help smiling at his nickname for her. He’d given her another name, too, a Gaelic one, by the sound of it. “What does it mean, that other word you called me? Moe-loo-ee?”