Wedding the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  He smiled, kissed her on the nose, and wiggled his eyebrows. “But I must say he is right about one thing. Ya do have perky breasts, Miss Hart.”

  “What?”

  Michael kissed her mortified face, letting his lips linger on her scorching cheeks.

  “He…Robbie said I have…oh, God,” she hissed, trying to melt into the bed. She pushed Michael’s mouth away and covered her face with the pillow. “I don’t even want to know how the topic of my breasts came up,” she muttered.

  Michael pulled the pillow away and threw it onto the floor. “It seems Frankie Boggs thinks small breasts are okay if they’re perky,” he informed her between kisses.

  “Who is Frankie Boggs?”

  “The class authority on women,” he returned, just as his hands ran up her ribs and covered her perky breasts.

  “Being a doctor, maybe you should offer to teach a sex education class at school,” he suggested, sliding his thumbs across both of her nipples.

  Libby sucked in her breath and tried to keep up with the conversation. “To—to second-graders?” she squeaked, just as he lowered his head and took one of her nipples in his mouth.

  “Shut up, Michael,” she said with a gasp, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him against her. “Just shut up and make love to me.”

  He sighed as he moved from one nipple to the other. “If ya insist, lass,” he muttered against her skin. “Just try and pay attention this time.”

  She’d pay attention, all right. She also intended to participate.

  With slow and tender attention to detail, Michael and Libby finally christened her new bed. They messed up the bed until only the bottom sheet remained, and that was starting to pull from the corners.

  In full light, unhurried by worldly obligations, they explored every inch of each other’s body. Libby found more than one sensitive spot on Michael, while he discovered a few more on her.

  The foreplay they’d gotten so good at these past two weeks now seemed to last forever, until Libby finally reached over her head and grabbed the hooves of the moose on her headboard. Michael knelt between her thighs, staring down at her with eyes of liquid, swirling metal, sheathed himself in protection, and then slowly lowered his body onto hers.

  “Ah, lass, but ya please me,” he whispered, carefully entering her, his mouth covering her moan.

  Sensations erupted as Libby felt herself stretching, slowly accepting his gentle invasion. She wrapped her legs around his waist and closed her eyes, holding on to the headboard as he set a gentle rhythm that rocked her with pleasure.

  But as nice as it was, it just wasn’t enough.

  “I guess this bed isn’t sturdy after all,” she whispered in challenge. “You seem to be worried it will break.”

  He stopped.

  Libby smiled up at him. “I won’t break, either, Michael.”

  He gave a small growl, covered her mouth, and moved again, this time with a bit more enthusiasm. Libby clung to his shoulders and moaned her pleasure out loud.

  He stopped again. “Don’t do that,” he hissed, his brow covered with sweat, his eyes dark with passion, and his arms trembling as he held himself off her.

  “Do what?”

  “That thing,” he whispered desperately. “There, that,” he hissed, pulling nearly out of her. “I want this to last.”

  Libby’s muscles involuntarily tightened, and Michael hissed again, pulling completely out and rolling onto his back.

  “That’s a terrible thing to do to a man who’s trying to hold on to his control.”

  Libby turned on her elbow and patted his chest. “I’m not doing it on purpose. I’m not even sure what ‘it’ is.”

  He picked her up as if she were a feather and carefully slid her on top of him. Libby sucked in her breath, dug her nails into his chest, and moaned. She set the pace this time and indulged herself in this newfound freedom to wiggle and move and drive them both mad.

  And she was doing a fine job of it, until Michael reached down and caressed her, just as he had that first night in front of the hearth.

  Libby’s last coherent thought as she climaxed was that the moose on her headboard had a silly smile on its face.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “You have six toeson each foot,” Libby told Michael, staring down at the bottom of the tub since she couldn’t look anywhere else without getting a face full of soap.

  “Nay!” he shouted in horror. “I do!”

  He also looked down, his hip pushing Libby into the shower wall. The spray from the showerhead hit her square in the face. She turned so she wouldn’t drown and gave Michael a sharp poke with her elbow to keep him from crushing her.

  “This isn’t working,” she sputtered. “You’re hogging all the water, and I’m getting squished.”

  He tried to pick her up to set her in front of him, but she slipped through his fingers like unset Jell-O. Libby shrieked, scrambled to stay upright, and got another mouthful of water. Michael quickly used one hand to protect her head from slamming into the wall and wrapped his other arm around her waist before she could fall.

  “And you worry about us wearing a helmet,” he said with a laugh. “You’re a bit accident-prone, aren’t ya?”

  “I am not. This shower wasn’t built for two people,” she sputtered, finally giving up and stepping out of the tub. She peeked back past the curtain at Michael. “Not when one of those people is a giant.”

  He quickly rinsed off, having to duck to rinse his hair, and stepped out beside her. “Your turn now,” he said, holding the curtain back. “I’ll just stand here and watch, to make sure ya don’t kill yourself.”

  A loud knocking suddenly came from the kitchen.

  Libby gasped and grabbed a towel to wrap around herself.

  Michael just closed his eyes. “I know that sound,” he said with a sigh. “That’s a cane knocking against your door.”

  Libby didn’t gasp again, she shrieked. “Oh, my God. You have to hide,” she said, shoving at Michael. “No. Wait. Get dressed, and crawl out the bedroom window.”

  He gave her an incredulous look. Then he took his time wrapping his towel around his waist before he sauntered into the kitchen to greet their urgently knocking, uninvited visitor.

  Libby ran into her bedroom and disappeared inside her closet, not coming out until she was fully dressed. When she walked past a mirror on her way to the kitchen, she noticed her hair was standing on end and she still had soap in one ear.

  Dammit. Why did Father Daar have to come to breakfast this morning? If he really was a wizard, he wasn’t a very bright one. He was always popping up at the most embarrassing times.

  Libby stared at herself in the mirror, watching her face suddenly fill with horror. Oh, God. He knew. Father Daar knew about her gift—and he was in the kitchen, with Michael, whodidn’t know about it.

  And he never could know. Michael would think she was a freak or something—an aberration. And he’d probably never let her anywhere near his son again.

  She had to talk to Father Daar before he said something. Michael still had to get dressed, and that was her chance. Libby took a deep breath, rubbed the soap from her ear, and ran her fingers through her hair. Suddenly, having Michael greeting the priest wearing only a towel was the least of her worries. So, as calmly as possible and with a smile plastered on her face, Libby finally walked into the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Father,” she said, going to the counter and starting the coffee. “Did you weather the storm okay?”

  Both men eyed her suspiciously.

  “Michael, why don’t you get dressed while I make breakfast?” she instructed as she sliced the bread. “And could you go check and see if the girls gave us any more eggs?”

  He appeared to be rooted to the floor, water dripping from his hair, his arms crossed over his chest, and his towel barely clinging to his hips by one small tuck of its corner.

  “I already checked yar girls,” Father Daar said, pulling eggs from his
pockets. “And I only found these three,” he said, glaring at Michael as if he were the uninvited guest.

  “I’m hoping ya got more in the fridge, ’cause I’m mighty hungry this morning.”

  Libby shot her own glare at Michael, nodding her head toward the bedroom, silently telling him to go get dressed. He smiled, tucked his thumbs into the waist of his towel, and slowly strolled into the bedroom.

  Libby waited until the door shut, then went up to Father Daar just as he was opening the fridge. She grabbed him by the arms, forcing him to face her. “I don’t want you to say anything to Michael about my gift,” she whispered. “I don’t want him to know.”

  Daar raised one bushy white eyebrow. “And why would that be?” he asked, not bothering to whisper at all.

  “He’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “MacBain?” he asked in surprise. “Nay, girl. He’s the last person who would think such a thing.”

  “I’m not taking that chance. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

  Both of his brows rose. “Do ya truly think ya can keep something like that a secret?” he asked, sounding incredulous. “Libby, hiding yar gift from MacBain will cause ya far more trouble than the gift itself. Do ya have any idea what the man is capable of if his temper gets riled?” He visibly shuddered and stepped back, out of her grip. “I’d rather not be a party to that, if ya don’t mind.”

  “I’m not trying to deceive him. I’m trying to protect him.”

  “From what?” Daar asked, frowning.

  “From me. From whatever this is I’ve got.”

  “It’s not a disease,” he snapped. “It’s a gift.”

  “It might as well be a disease,” she snapped back, getting a bit angry herself.

  He sighed, scratched his beard, and studied her with sagacious regard. “Libby,” he earnestly began. “Trying to hide it from MacBain will only compound your troubles. It takes a powerful lot of energy to keep a secret. Energy that could be better spent understanding your gift instead of trying to ignore it.”

  “What are ya trying to ignore?” Michael asked, tucking his shirt into his belt as he walked out of the bedroom and over to the counter. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “What should Libby ignore?” he repeated when neither of them answered. He turned and looked at Libby, lifting one brow in question.

  “Ah—the mystery of who made my bed,” she quickly prevaricated, shooting a glare at Daar when he snorted.

  “Father Daar said I should just let it go. That it probably really was made by Santa, and if I keep pushing the issue, I’ll never get my matching bureau.”

  She was blathering like an idiot, probably because she knew Michael knew damned well she was lying. He sipped his coffee, eyeing her over the rim of his cup, and then turned back to the counter and popped the bread into the toaster.

  “I take my coffee black,” Daar said, sitting down at the table. “In case ya forgot how I like it,” he added, giving Libby a pointed frown. “Did ya get your mama on the plane yesterday?”

  “Yes. She said she’ll be back by Thanksgiving.”

  “Well, that will give ya a few days of privacy,” the old priest said with a snicker, looking down at the table. “I like yar tablecloth. Is it new?”

  Libby had just started to pour his coffee when he asked his question. She turned toward the table and gasped when she saw the blue checkered tablecloth that was decorated with tiny green Christmas trees and bright red balls perched on their points.

  “Wh-what is that doing here?” she asked, looking at Michael. “Where did you find it?”

  “In your truck,” he told her, buttering the toast. “I unloaded everything for ya last night.” He popped two more slices of bread into the toaster and pointed the butter knife at the ceiling. “And I put up all your damned stars,” he said, turning fully to face her, setting his hands on his hips, the butter knife in his fist. “Do ya have any idea how many seven gross of stars are?”

  Libby looked up, and her mouth fell open. Her kitchen ceiling was covered in stars. They were barely visible in the morning light, but come nightfall, they’d probably blind her. She turned her gaping stare on Michael, who was grinning like a boy waiting to be praised, his arms opened slightly, as if he expected Libby to throw herself at him in gratitude.

  “You—ah—you put them all up? All seven packages?” she whispered. “In my kitchen?”

  “And the living room and your bedroom. Hell, I even put some in the bathroom.”

  “B-but why?”

  “To help ya nest.”

  “Nest?”

  “Aye, nest,” he told her, sounding a bit defensive. “Ya went shopping for women’s stuff, so that means ya’re nesting.”

  One or both of them were confused, and Libby was afraid it was her. “Nesting?” she repeated.

  “I think he means he’s trying to help ya settle in, girl,” Father Daar said, standing up and grabbing his forgotten cup of coffee out of her hand.

  “Settle in?” she parroted, shaking her head as she continued to gape at Michael. “Wh-what else did you do?” she asked, scanning the kitchen.

  “I set up yar lamps over the mantel, and put the rug in front of the couch. And I hung that picture of the moose over the hearth.”

  Libby walked into the living room, stood behind the couch, and stared. There was the print of the moose, hanging over the fireplace, with her chickadee lamps on either side of it. The bird rug was on the floor, right where Michael said it would be, and the quilt she’d intended for her bed was lying folded across the back of the couch.

  She looked up. The ceiling was covered with stars.

  Libby didn’t know whether to weep or laugh. She’d planned to use two packages of stars in her bedroom, and the rest were Christmas gifts for Robbie and the MacKeage girls. The tablecloth was another Christmas gift, for John Bigelow. And the candles that Michael had thoughtfully placed on the end tables—helping her nest—were for Grace.

  “Ya bought some beautiful things, lass,” Michael said, moving up behind her, wrapping his arms around her, and pulling her against his chest. “And now you’ve turned this house into your nest.”

  “Y-yes, it seems I have. With your help,” she quickly tacked on, relaxing into him and covering his arms with her hands. “Thank you.”

  There was nothing else she could say. He must have worked all night putting up, what? More than a thousand stars. She didn’t have the heart to tell him the difference. So she turned in his embrace, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed his throat—since that was all she could reach.

  “The toast is burning out here,” Father Daar hollered.

  “And the frying pan is smoking.”

  “Wasn’t there something ya wanted to ask me this morning?” Michael said, ignoring Father Daar, not letting her go. “Ya mentioned dinner last night.”

  “Oh, yeah. I thought we could go to dinner and maybe dancing or a movie or something,” she whispered, looking at his third shirt button. “If—if you’d like.”

  “Are ya asking me out on a date, Miss Hart?” he asked, lifting her chin.

  His eyes were a deep, warm pewter, filled with a laughing tenderness that bolstered Libby’s courage. Why was it so hard to ask the man out, especially considering how intimate they’d been less than an hour ago? She moved out of his embrace and headed into the kitchen, giving him a sassy smile over her shoulder.

  “I’ll pick you up at six,” she told him. “Dress casual.”

  Father Daar was standing by the door, putting on his coat and glaring at her. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he grumbled. “I hate burnt toast.”

  “Oh, come sit down,” Libby said, moving the smoking frying pan off the burner. “I’ll make you some new toast.”

  “I don’t know,” he said petulantly, running his hand over the top burl on his cherrywood cane, his old, weathered face set in the pout of a recalcitrant child.

  “I’ll show you a wonderful surprise if you do,” Li
bby offered next. “Something I think you’ll find interesting.”

  That piqued his curiosity, as she knew it would. He might be old, and he might be a wizard, but he was still human—wasn’t he?

  “What is it?” he asked, taking off his jacket and hanging it back on the peg. He walked over to the table, got his coffee cup, went to the counter, and refilled it. He suddenly stopped on his way to the table and eyed her suspiciously. “It’s not one of them blasphemous books on magic, is it, that ya found in a bookstore?” He shook his head. “There’s only one book that’s worth anything, and I already got it.”

  Libby moved out of the way so Michael could wipe out the frying pan and start the eggs. “You have a book?” she asked, intrigued. “Of spells?” She ignored Michael’s snort and sat down at the table beside Daar. “Will you show it to me?”

  “I might,” Daar said, his chin lifted in challenge. “If yar surprise really is interesting.”

  Libby looked down at the cane he’d hooked over the edge of the table. “Did you make that?” she asked.

  He frowned at her, his expression guarded. “Aye. From a sapling that grew on Fraser Mountain. Why?”

  “Do you suppose that’s where my cherrywood stick came from?” she asked Michael, turning to look at him.

  “The one Mary brought me?”

  She quickly turned back when Daar gasped. “What stick?” he all but shouted, standing up. “Robbie’s pet brought ya a cherrywood stick?” he asked, looking around the kitchen. “Where is it? What does it look like?”

  Libby was confused by his reaction. “It’s on the mantel,” she said, heading into the living room. “It’s about two feet long, it’s thick, and it looks very old.”

  Daar all but ran over her trying to get to the mantel first.

  Libby jumped up onto the bottom hearth to get the stick, but it wasn’t there. She looked down at Daar, who was wringing his hands and dancing from foot to foot.

  “Well?” he said, excitedly. “Where is it?”

  “I—er—it was right here. Michael,” she shouted to the kitchen. “Did you move the stick when you decorated last night? Where did you put it?”