Seduced by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  He inclined his head at her, as if to suggest it was a dangerous thing of which to remind him.

  In a flash of movement he reached out and pulled her close. He crushed her body against his and wrapped his arms around her, keeping her warm as he feathered his lips across her cheek.

  “You’re right,” he whispered in a low, seductive voice. “I’ve been aroused since the moment I met you, but I have not felt that way in a long, long time—because when you’re celibate long enough, you eventually begin to forget how it feels to even want it.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” she shakily replied, fighting against overpowering desires that left her trembling with need. “I don’t remember how I felt about my first time. It disturbs me greatly to think that I have lost that part of my life.”

  He nuzzled her ear, and she knew in the depths of her soul that he understood her meaning.

  “You don’t have to talk about it, lass.”

  “I might want to someday.”

  “If you do, I will listen.”

  She snuggled closer to him, burrowing into the warmth of his body, the soft wool of his tartan, and the clean, musky scent of his skin. There was nowhere on earth she would rather be than right there on that rock, with him, where she felt safe, protected, and cared for, even after he had told her to keep away.

  Catherine lifted her face to look up at him. “Will you ride with me tomorrow?” she asked. “There is no reason why you shouldn’t. We’ll be on horseback. There will be no touching.”

  His head dipped lower, and she could feel the curve of his smile when he spoke. “You say that while your hand is rubbing my chest and your sweet breath is beating upon my neck.”

  “I can’t help it,” she replied with laughter. “I’m cold, and you are so warm. I need your heat.”

  He gathered her closer, bracing both feet on the ground to keep them from sliding forward, supporting her legs across his lap. “Is that better?”

  “Yes. I only wish we could stay like this forever.”

  They sat together in the rolling fog, their breaths creating steam, while Catherine gloried in the sensation of his hand toying with the locks of hair at her temple, cupping the side of her face.

  “We should go back,” he said after a while, brushing his lips across her forehead.

  “Not yet. Please, just a few more minutes. This feels so good.”

  “You shouldn’t say things like that, Catherine.”

  She didn’t plan it or think about it consciously, but somehow her hand slid down his chest to his hard stomach, along the side of his hip, and lower still, across the front of his kilt.

  He was fully erect, and she buried her face in his shoulder. All she wanted was to feel the shape of him, to know the contours of his body, but he quickly seized her wrist.

  “Not a wise idea.”

  She swallowed hard, frustrated by the sudden wall that came crashing down in front of her. “I didn’t mean to start anything.”

  They stared at each other tensely in the wintry chill.

  “It’s time to go now,” he gruffly said, rising to his feet. “I’ll take you back.”

  Catherine slid off his lap while her blood pumped hotly through her veins, sending a rush of unfulfilled desire straight to her core. She felt light-headed and dizzy. It was a wonder she did not faint dead away at his feet. “Are you angry with me?”

  He shook his head. “It was my fault.”

  “No, it was mine.”

  Again, like the night before, he escorted her away—to leave her in the care of others. It was the gentlemanly thing to do, of course, but it left her wanting so much more.

  “Will you ride with me tomorrow?” she asked again when they reached the cave entrance.

  He leaned very close—so close she felt the scratch of his whiskers on her cheek. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking of me.” He whistled at the others to indicate that it was time to leave the cave. “Out, now!” he shouted. “Lady Catherine needs her rest.”

  But rest was not what she needed, and just before Lachlan turned away, he gave her a look that indicated he knew exactly what it was that she required.

  And that particular thing … He needed it, too. Far worse than she did.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Lachlan did not ride with Catherine the next day, nor did he sit with her when they stopped to eat a light lunch at noon. Instead, he sat on the other side of the cook fire with Rodney and Roderick. Afterward they practiced a few maneuvers with their claymores while Gawyn cleared away the food and eating utensils.

  They stopped again later in the afternoon to water the horses at a shallow burn and eat a light meal of bread and cheese, but Lachlan went off alone while the others took care to see that Catherine was looked after.

  Not a moment passed where she was not aching to be with him, but he made every effort to avoid her and maintain a certain distance at all times. Their eyes rarely met—he seemed determined not to acknowledge her existence—and it was all Catherine could do not to march straight up to him, pound her fists on his chest, and demand that he talk to her.

  By nightfall, she was more frustrated than ever and determined to crush her unbidden desires for him. She would not continue to yearn for a man if he did not welcome her attentions. She would move forward and forget him. She had a sister to meet after all—a twin. That would be enough.

  The sun was setting in the sky by the time they rode onto a pebbly beach, where Gawyn was already waiting for them with a roaring fire, an open jug of wine, and a sizzling skillet that gave off a succulent meaty aroma.

  “It smells delicious, Gawyn,” Catherine said to him as she dismounted and led Theodore to the water’s edge, where he drank thirstily.

  Feeling tired and clammy, she looked down at the water lapping up onto the shore at her feet and wondered how cold it would be, for she longed to take a bath. She looked up at the clear evening sky, blew into the air to see if her breath was visible in the chill—it was—then wondered when they would reach a village where they could enjoy a full night’s rest in a warm and cozy inn, before reaching their destination.

  “I appreciate the compliment, Lady Catherine,” Gawyn called out to her. “I only hope it tastes as good as it smells.”

  She tossed her head and smiled to indicate that she had every confidence in his culinary abilities, then heard footsteps crunching across the pebbles, approaching from behind. It was Lachlan, leading his horse to the loch for a drink. He came to stand directly beside her.

  Their eyes met in the pink haze of the setting sun, and all at once the anxieties of the day went quiet and still in her head. She could almost hear the gentle rush of her blood, whispering through her veins. She felt frozen in time, at rest and peaceful. He was so impossibly handsome, and everything about him made her feel safe and euphoric—but she willed herself to maintain her good sense. She simply had to.

  He peered at her sideways, assessing her mood, and she decided to speak frankly. “You were very rude today,” she said.

  “It was for the best, lass. We both know it.”

  “Yes, after today, I have come to realize that. There is no need to repeat it.”

  Thirst quenched, Theodore lifted his head. Thankful for his convenient timing, Catherine turned away and led Theo back to the edge of the forest, where he could nibble on the tall grasses. Roderick greeted her there.

  “I’ll take him from here, Lady Catherine.” He proceeded to remove Theo’s saddle and lead him away to be groomed.

  Farther from the beach, within the shelter of the trees, Alex and Rodney were assembling a tent for her to sleep in.

  Catherine approached Gawyn, who was shaking the sizzling skillet to and fro over the fire.

  “How soon will it be ready?” she asked.

  “It’s ready now, my lady,” he replied.

  Somehow she managed to paste on a polite smile while glancing briefly over her shoulder to watch Lachlan lead his horse into the woods.r />
  * * *

  Shortly after midnight, Catherine woke from another frightening dream to discover a hand covering her mouth.

  Eyes wide, heart pounding like a drum, she realized it was Lachlan. He was using his body to pin her down while she wildly thrashed about.

  “Shh, lass, calm yourself,” he whispered into her ear. “You’re dreaming again.”

  She could not seem to think clearly enough to form words. Perhaps she had cried out. It was likely that she had. What had happened? She was out of breath now, and perspiring.

  Slowly he withdrew his hand, and she lay very still, staring up at him, bewildered and disoriented, while the warmth of his body helped to calm the fires of her anxiety.

  He relaxed as she did, and inched back slightly. “Are you all right now?”

  She labored to catch her breath. “I think so. Did I wake everyone?”

  “No, just me. Luckily it was my turn to be on watch. The others are sleeping on the beach. The sound of the waves would have drowned out the sound of your voice.” He pushed her damp hair away from her face. “Was it like before?”

  “Yes. Only this time, I saw a wee bairn. It’s a dream I’ve had before.”

  “What sort of dream?” His brow furrowed with concern.

  “I saw myself smothering the life out of an infant boy, or attempting to. They were my own hands on the pillow, and it was always the same—blue with white fringe. I could not seem to stop myself, even though I knew it was wrong.”

  The features of Lachlan’s face contorted into a frown, and he sat back, recoiling from her. “Whose baby was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Oh, God. Was it her own? Did she have a child? Had she tried to kill it?

  The possibility of such a hideous act flooded her mind with horror, and she scrambled away from Lachlan, rising in a flash to her feet.

  “Light the candle,” she whispered. “Please hurry.” She could not bear to be in darkness.

  He moved to the table, found the flintbox, and struck a flame. A flickering golden light illuminated the tiny shelter.

  I am a madwoman …

  The unwelcome thought shrieked through her brain.

  Or a killer. Perhaps I should run!

  Catherine stood in a panic, astonished, and let her hands fall away from her face and drop to her sides. Her eyes darted to the tent flap.

  Lachlan held up a hand as if she were a frightened animal in the forest who might spook and dash. “It was just a dream,” he said. “It might be nothing. Maybe it was a vision of something—something that has nothing to do with you. Remember your sister.”

  “Raonaid. Yes. She sees the future.”

  “Aye, she has a gift. Clearly you have one, too. Maybe what you saw was something else.”

  Catherine sucked in great gulps of air. He was suggesting that there might be other explanations for the disturbing images that haunted her sleep. It would be a comfort to believe he was right, but alas, she suspected otherwise.…

  “I think I may have done something very wrong,” she said. “I fear I will be caught.”

  His voice lowered to a hush. “That’s how they found you, isn’t it? In a farmer’s stable, huddled and shivering in a corner, terrified out of your wits? You wouldn’t let anyone touch you.”

  “I was running from something.”

  Time seemed to stand still for a moment. Their breaths puffed into the air, for it was cold inside the tent. Catherine hugged her arms around herself and shivered.

  In the next instant, Lachlan was gathering her into his arms and holding her against the solid warmth of his body. His breath was hot and moist against her neck. “Let’s get you warm.”

  He led her back to the bed of fur and knelt down on one knee, but her arms tightened around his neck. She gathered the wool of his tartan in one fist, his linen shirt in another, and pulled him closer to prevent him from drawing away.

  “Please stay.”

  Still down on one knee, leaning above her, he glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t want the others to know I’m here.”

  “Tell them I had a nightmare, that I was frightened to be alone. It’s the truth.”

  He hesitated and cupped his forehead in a hand. “It’s not really their opinions I worry about, lass. It’s what might happen between us.”

  She moved to make room for him on the makeshift bed. “I trust you.”

  At last, he stretched out beside her. He wrapped an arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “There is something you should know about that dream,” he whispered as he nuzzled his lips across her ear. “It might be disturbing for you to learn of this, but I cannot keep it from you, for you need to know what is happening in the world. If there is some connection between your dreams and these events, it might help to restore your memories.”

  She leaned up on one elbow. “What events?”

  His eyes focused closely on hers. “Before we left the castle, Angus told me something about your sister, Raonaid. She has formed an attachment to his enemy, Murdoch MacEwen, Gwendolen’s own brother, who was responsible for the siege on Kinloch three years ago. Murdoch was a passionate Jacobite then, but something has happened that has reignited his ambitions to reclaim the throne for the Stuarts.”

  Catherine took a breath and braced herself. “Tell me what it is.”

  “Are you aware that King James’s wife gave birth to a son last December? They called him Charles.”

  “Yes, I know of it.”

  “He is the heir to the Stuart dynasty,” Lachlan continued. “But not long after his birth, there was a plot to murder him in his cradle—obviously to thwart any future threat to the Hanover throne.”

  Catherine frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

  His hand cupped her cheek. “The child was born in Rome, where the Royal Family is in exile. That is where the plot was hatched and discovered.”

  “They never found the culprit?”

  “No.”

  “And I was found in Italy, not far outside of Rome.” She pressed her hands to his chest and looked him in the eye. “You think I was involved in the plot to kill the prince?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you are thinking it, as I am. What if it is true? What if I was a spy using my father’s reputation and friendship with King James in order to gain entrance to his court and kill his son?” She sat up abruptly. “It cannot be true. I would never try to kill a child, and surely my grandmother would have known if I was a member of the Jacobite court abroad, yet she claims to know nothing of my whereabouts over the past five years.”

  “Are you sure she can be trusted? She did not tell you about Raonaid.”

  Catherine considered it. “Perhaps she never knew about her.”

  Lachlan sat up. “What about your cousin, John? He is a staunch Hanoverian.”

  “Yes, but he has never shared his political ideas with me. Since my return, he has always been careful to avoid the issue of the succession, and I assumed it was because he did not wish to enter into a heated debate with me, for I was a passionate Jacobite in the past. At least, that is what they tell me. But what Jacobite would ever want to kill the Stuart heir?”

  A gust of wind swept across the roof of the tent, and the canvas whipped noisily. Lachlan reached for the heavy woolen blanket she had kicked off during her sleep. It was balled up at her feet. He shook it out and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “Is that better?” he asked, sitting up beside her, rubbing her cold hands between his and blowing into them.

  “Yes.”

  He kissed her on the forehead and lay down beside her again. The fur was soft and warm beneath her body, and his presence in the cold night was a soothing balm to her anxieties.

  “What would I do without you?” she asked. “You have come to my rescue more than once, and have taken such good care of me.”

  “One could argue the opposite. I took you away from the safety of Dr
umloch, and now look at you—having nightmares in the wilds of Scotland, sleeping outdoors beside a cursed Highlander who may be more of a danger to you than anything else you might envision in your nightmares.”

  She snuggled close to him, praying that he would not, in the next few minutes, decide to leave her. She wanted him to stay. He was her lifeline out of this empty void of her existence, where her past was merely fodder for speculation. He was an anchor of true human connection.

  “As bad as it feels to imagine that I might have been involved in such a twisted plot, what if it’s not that? What if I simply had a child of my own, and I tried to harm him?” The notion made her stomach roll with nausea.

  “I do not believe you would do such a thing,” he replied. “Not under any circumstances.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It is not in your nature, lass.”

  She wondered how he could speak with such confidence about her nature when neither of them knew a thing about her behavior in the past, before her grandmother found her in Italy.

  She gazed at Lachlan, sprawled out beside her, his rugged beauty a constant reminder of her frustration at not being free to love him. How could she when she did not know who she was?

  “It would be best,” he said, “if you did not tell anyone about your dream. Your own sister is at the center of this new rebellion, and if Murdoch suspects you of being a spy, involved in the plot to kill the Stuart prince, they might not…” He paused. “They might not welcome us with open arms.”

  “If I am guilty of such a crime against Scotland,” she said, feeling increasingly uneasy, “would you not feel an obligation to turn me in?”

  He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. “My only obligation is to protect you.”

  She chose her words carefully. “But if I tried to murder a child, I would not be worthy of your protection.”

  “You didn’t,” he said. “And nothing will convince me otherwise.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  For a few hours they slept soundly in the tent, until Lachlan stirred, shortly before dawn. Half-dozing, he grew conscious of Catherine’s warm body, snuggled close to his in the darkness. He breathed in the enchanting fragrance of her hair and wallowed drowsily in the forbidden bliss of an early-morning arousal. She felt like heaven lying next to him, her soft, lush body conforming perfectly to his, and he sighed with pleasure, shifting his hips ever closer.