“Will is such an unusual child. But very loving, isn’t he?”
The boy had hugged her neck and kissed her good night before they’d left his room tonight. He’d also taken the opportunity to whisper a reminder to her that she was special and should be happy.
“Aye, that and quite advanced, too. Sometimes you’d think him an adult trapped in that small body. He’s verra intelligent, that lad.” He grinned again as he sat close to her on the sofa. Very close. “He is, after all, my godson, so I like to think I can claim some of the credit.”
“He does seem unusually mature at times. And he certainly has a vivid imagination.” She sipped her wine and tried to convince herself that she could not feel the heat of Ian’s body seeping through her dress where his leg touched hers.
“A vivid imagination? What makes you say that?”
“This afternoon I spent some time with him in his playground. We had a long talk, and he told me he’s descended from Faeries.” She ran her finger around the rim of her glass, wondering why the boy’s comments had disturbed her so deeply.
“He told you that, did he?”
“Yes. And that I am as well.” She turned to look at him. “Quite an imagination, huh?”
“Did he tell you what makes him think yer both descended from the Fae?” Serious dark eyes caught and held hers.
Ian had asked earlier tonight why she believed a relationship between them wouldn’t work. It was time she was completely honest with him. Then he’d have his full answer.
“Because we both can…um…feel things, sense things. Things about other people. About how they feel.” She watched him, wondering, fearing, how he would react.
“And can you, Sarah? Can you sense things about how other people feel, what they think?” The dark gaze still didn’t leave hers.
She paused, trying to determine what censure might lurk in those beautiful eyes, waiting to pounce if she answered honestly.
“Yes,” she whispered, though her mind screamed for her to deny it. It was time for honesty. She had to know what he really thought of her.
“Then perhaps you truly are a child of the Faeries.” He smiled and placed his glass on the table behind the sofa, then took hers from her hand and placed it next to his. Turning back to her, he lifted both hands to her face, cupping them there, just below her ears.
“In this light, I could easily mistake you for a Faerie goddess.”
“I meant it, Ian. I can sense things. Don’t you think I’m odd, or weird, or crazy, or…”
“Shhh.” He moved his thumb over her lips. “I dinna think yer anything but enchanting.”
He pulled her close, replacing his thumb with his mouth—a light brush across hers at first, then something more insistent, his teeth nipping at her lower lip.
“No.” She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. She couldn’t do this. He couldn’t possibly want her—not the real her. Not once he stopped to think about their differences. Not once he realized she was serious about what she’d told him. “I told you before. This can’t work. We’re too different.”
She started to wrap her arms around her middle but he caught her hands, moving them to his chest, where he held them trapped. Trapped over his rapidly beating heart.
“Because of what you feel or because of the numbers, Sarah? Is that it? Is that why you think this won’t work? Then now’s the time I promised. The time to revisit yer age obsession. Why does it matter to you so? Would you care if I were older than you?”
“But you’re not.”
“Answer my question. If I were fifty or sixty or even older, would it make any difference to you?”
“It’s not the same with men, Ian. All men want younger women. And they all want women who don’t go around sensing what everyone feels.”
“Not all men want that.”
“All the men I’ve known.”
“Then all the men you’ve known have been bloody great fools. And I assure you, Sarah, of all the things I am, I’m no bloody great fool.” He tightened his grip on her hands. “I dinna have a problem with what you feel. And I’ve told you before, yer age is of no consequence to me.”
Sarah watched, mesmerized, as he transferred his grip on her hands so that he held them both tightly with one of his, while with his other he tugged his shirt free from his pants. Then, reclaiming one of her hands in each of his own, he placed them on his chest, under his shirt and held them there against the warmth of his bare skin.
“You said you can sense things, things about how people feel. Then feel me, Sarah. Feel me and know that I tell you the truth. I dinna care about the numbers. And I dinna worry about yer ability to sense my thoughts. I welcome it.”
She relaxed her hands against his chest, and he let go of her. Her fingers explored the unfamiliar terrain, settling in the crisp hair. She closed her eyes and reached out with her mind, searching. Determination hit her first, followed by honesty. Her age really didn’t matter to him at all. More important, he didn’t think her strange. He found her fascinating. She continued to reach out and suddenly she found a well-spring of emotion, one so strong it swept the others away until only it remained, flooding her, flowing through her.
Her eyes flew open in surprise. “You want me.”
“Aye.” His hands moved to her shoulders. “More than I’ve ever wanted any woman.”
There was no doubt this time that he was going to kiss her and for a moment she froze.
“Wait. I have to warn you, Ian. Brad always said I should come with instructions. I’m not very good at…I can’t…” She struggled for the right words. She was terrible at this. Brad had told her so. The staggering emotions of her partner would inundate her mind, paralyzing her. If they went any further, she’d disappoint him and she desperately hated that idea.
“Bugger Brad. I’m no a man who needs instructions.” His eyes sparkled with his intent.
He crushed her to him, his mouth coming down on hers, tender but demanding. The tip of his tongue danced against her mouth, darting side to side until she willingly parted her lips.
Her hands, still caught against his chest, moved up toward his shoulders, her fingers filling her with delight at the tactile sensations they fed her mind as they made their journey upward.
Waves of frustration rolled over her, and she realized with a shock they were her own. Frustration at having her hands stopped in their travels, trapped in Ian’s shirt, unable to reach those magnificent shoulders she longed to trace with her fingertips.
A tiny moan and Ian pulled back from her to search her face.
“I’m caught,” she breathed.
A grin, the grin, spread over his face as he leaned away from her long enough to pull his shirt over his head and toss it to the floor.
“Better?”
“Oh my. So much better.”
His chest was wonderful, like a fantastic unyielding landscape, undulating in the firelight with each movement he made. It should be photographed.
“So very much better.”
It should be studied, it should be…She lowered her head to that sumptuous chest and sucked his nipple into her mouth, running her tongue round and round the dark little nub.
“Holy Mother of God,” he groaned.
Clasping his arms tightly around her, he rolled them from the sofa to the floor, cushioning her drop with his body, a move that plastered her to the length of him. Her head cradled to his chest, she could feel the proof of how much he wanted her pressing against her stomach.
His hands slipped under her arms and pulled her up the length of his body until her face met his. He kissed her mouth briefly before burying his face in her neck, alternating kisses and tiny, painless nips with his teeth in the sensitive area where her neck met her shoulder.
Her long skirt had tangled and slipped up in the tumble from the sofa. His hand, slowly skimming up her thigh, encouraged it higher and higher until at last her legs were free of the restrictive material, allowing her to slide a
leg to either side of his body. Straddling him, she used his chest to push herself up to a sitting position.
The long, hard length of him pressed against her intimately. She could feel movement as, locked away from her by only a few thin layers of material, he grew larger still. She felt tension in the muscles of his chest as she ran her hands from his stomach to his shoulders and back again.
He watched her, their eyes locked on one another.
His hands, which had stilled when she’d straddled him, started moving again, skimming over the shimmering material of her dress, up her stomach, and across her breasts, where they lingered just long enough to draw a sharp moan from her when his thumbs, his magic thumbs, slowly circled her nipples.
They continued on then, moving to her shoulders, as he used his unbelievably spectacular abdominal muscles to sit up. Pulling her to him, he lowered his head, encasing the tip of her breast in his mouth, sucking through the silky material of her dress and bra. His tongue moving back and forth, his teeth gently nipping.
He was a wonder to her. She’d never felt any of this, anything like this in her life. There was none of the pounding need and self-absorption she’d experienced in the past. None of the greed and contempt she had felt in Brad. There was only warmth. The warmth that came from desire and caring. She was surrounded by it, immersed in it, floating in it.
She closed her eyes and burrowed her hands into his hair as she’d wanted to since the first night she’d seen him. She buried her nose against those same dark locks and inhaled deeply, taking in the clean, masculine scent of him. She kissed the top of his head as he continued to spark feelings in her body with his mouth at her breast.
She felt as if she might explode at any moment—a feeling so good—she feared she might scream.
When she opened her eyes and saw the grinning face staring at them through the glass door, she did scream.
Her figment was back.
Fourteen
“Have you forgotten your oath so soon, my son?” His father stood tall above him as he had in Ian’s youth, a disappointed frown on his brow.
“No, Father, I remember and honor it. Always.” He heard his own voice as it had been in his childhood.
“Take care that you remember your vow to protect the Mortals, else the day come when you’re forced to choose.”
“I am ever conscious of my oath, Father.”
Larkin turned away, shaking his head sadly. Bright sunlight glinted off the shining silver armor he wore, blinding Ian for an instant. And in that instant, his father disappeared.
“Come back,” he cried aloud, waking himself. He lay on the sofa, his covers kicked to the floor in a tangled heap. When he stood and looked around the room, the reality of where he was returned to him.
It had been a dream.
He scrubbed at his face. Some nice strong coffee would drive away the cobwebs from his brain. He’d only taken a couple of steps toward the little kitchen when his foot landed on something sharp.
“What the bloody hell?” He leaned over and picked up the offending object, a high-heeled shoe. Sarah’s shoe.
He thought of when he’d seen it last, as she slipped if off just before tucking those lovely feet under her when she sat down on the sofa. Last night. Just before he’d lost control and everything had gotten completely out of hand.
He carried it with him to the counter, tucking it in the waistband of his pajama bottoms before putting the coffee on to perk. Sarah thought he made it for her each morning, and he hadn’t the heart to confess that it was his own little vice, an addiction picked up on one of his visits to the States many, many years ago.
His shirt still lay on the floor where he’d tossed it last night. With his freshly brewed coffee in hand, he walked over and picked it up, flipping it over his shoulder on his way out the glass doors to the patio.
After setting down his cup, he walked over to have a look around the French doors. He and Daniel had checked the area last night, but found nothing. He was hoping something would show up in the morning light.
Ian was convinced that whoever was stalking Sarah was no figment of her imagination, especially after she admitted that she’d seen the same man in town yesterday watching them while they had lunch. Her description of the man she’d seen through those doors last night seemed very like Daniel’s description of the elusive Mr. O’Dannan.
Later this morning, he planned to walk up to the manor house and make a point of meeting the man. If he was the one spying on Sarah, then Ian had a score to settle with him. First, for frightening her so badly. Second, for ruining what had been a very promising evening.
Ian smiled and picked up his coffee, enjoying his first sip.
Although logic told him he couldn’t afford any involvement with Sarah, to his warrior’s mind last night had felt like the right time and the right place for what had almost happened.
He refused to tarnish that now by worrying about what a bad idea it was to let his relationship with her go any further. She was a forever type of woman and he couldn’t afford to be mixed up with one of those. His forever was already spoken for. He knew what he needed to do. He just wasn’t sure if he could do it—or, more accurately, not do it.
The interfering Peeping Tom had simply prevented something that shouldn’t have happened anyway.
Ian walked to the door where the mystery man had stood. The only thing out of place was a crumpled piece of paper wedged under the roses. He leaned over and picked it up, hoping it might be some type of clue, but it was only the note he had left for Sarah yesterday.
There were no other signs. No footprint of any kind marred the soft dirt on either side of the doors. But he had no doubt someone had been there, and with the vibrations he was sensing so fresh, that left only one possibility. Their voyeuristic visitor was Faerie. A Nuadian Faerie.
Thinking of the Fae brought the memory of his father and the dream rushing back to him.
He sat down at the small iron table and propped his bare feet on the chair across from him, savoring his coffee once more.
It was only a dream.
Only a dream? Who was he kidding? His dreams were never just dreams. Every single dream he’d ever experienced had come to pass at some point. This one was a warning. They always were.
Now he merely needed to figure out what it warned of before something terrible happened.
* * *
The smell of coffee tickled at Sarah’s nose, pulling her from the safe cocoon of sleep. She stretched and sat up. Heat flooded her face as the memory of last night washed over her.
The memory of Ian.
He made her feel things, want things she’d never felt before, never wanted before. Was this how it was supposed to feel, those things she wrote about but had never experienced for herself?
She crawled from the bed and headed downstairs, drawn by the fresh-perked aroma filling the cottage.
At the foot of the stairs she paused. Ian was nowhere to be seen. She continued to the counter and poured her coffee, determined not to think about last night—not Ian, not the face in the door—none of it.
Her good intentions lasted only until she turned from the counter and caught sight of Ian through the open glass door. Her heartbeat quickened until she could feel the blood pulsing through her body. Even doing something so mundane as sitting, he was majestic.
The early morning sunlight shone on his bare chest, highlighting his muscles with each tiny move. He ran his hand across a piece of paper on the table, flattening it, over and over, his brow wrinkled as if in deep thought about what he saw there. Then he took a drink from his cup and leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed.
Sarah couldn’t stop staring at the scene in front of her. Couldn’t stop remembering. Her fingers could feel the soft texture of the dark hair that curled against his neck. When she breathed in, she could still smell the heady masculine scent of him.
In that moment she admitted that she wanted him as badly as she knew he had wanted her
last night. Ian McCullough had touched her, the real her, like no one she had ever known.
But while she wanted him, she was terrified of that wanting, terrified of him. Just as he had the power to make her feel things she’d never felt, he also had the power to hurt her as no other ever had.
Her father’s rejection had come as no surprise. He had left his family long before her mother’s accident. She was surprised more than anything when he came to visit, still the beautiful, tall blond god she remembered from her mother’s stories. For a long time after, she liked to pretend it was longing she’d seen in his green eyes when he took his leave of her, but eventually she accepted the truth, and she felt no pain as she went on with her life.
Her grandmother, embittered by her own husband’s desertion, was angry at the role life had given her—angry at having to raise her daughter’s child. Sarah never had any illusions about her grandmother’s wanting her. She always knew the woman raised her as a duty, not out of love. That early knowledge enabled her to steel herself, to protect her emotions.
Even in her marriage, she’d managed to keep an important part of herself separate, tucked away and untouched. Brad had been able to embarrass her, to disappoint her, to make her doubt her own worth, but never to really damage the core of her. When their marriage ended, she picked herself up and continued on.
Sarah turned and headed back up the stairs. The hand holding her coffee shook.
Ian was different.
If she let him in, when Ian walked away she might not be able to pick up the pieces and go on.
Ian had the power to break her heart.
* * *
“What do you mean, he’s gone?” Ian turned to glare at his friend.
“Exactly what I said.” Daniel glared back. “Gone. As in no longer here. I stopped by his room this morning and when I got no answer to my knock, I let myself in. Nothing to show the man was ever here except for his note.”
“How the bloody hell did he manage to leave without anyone knowing? How did he get through yer security?”
Highland Guardian Page 13