Highlander of Mine

by Red L. Jameson

  “Aye.”

  “She’s probably due for more in an hour or so.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t like that his ma needed the medicine so often. That was decidedly not a good sign. So he changed the subject.

  “Ye speak a different language, eh?”

  Her dark brows furrowed. “I speak a little Latin. It’s been useful with my career. But I—” she stopped quite suddenly, almost appearing as though she wouldn’t continue. Her lips pursed, twisted, then softened with a shy smile. “I speak a little Lakota Sioux, my native language. At least I did when I was young. I don’t know if I remember much of it.”

  “Ye do in yer sleep.”

  Those lovely dark brows shot up, arching in surprise. “Really?”

  He nodded. “It sounded so bonny, what ye said.”

  “Can you repeat it?”

  He struggled to remember, then shook his head. “Sorry, nay. But it was pretty.”

  For a long moment they stared at each other. She caressed some of his wild red hair from his cheek, pulling it behind his ear, where her delicate fingertips lingered on his lobe, then grazed his whiskered jaw line. He caught her hand, laying it on his blue plaid lap, making her stop the blazes it evoked.

  He tried to think of something else to say, anything, because the heat in her eyes made him think that if he divulged in it he would surely drown in her fire. Again, she must have read his mind, for she pushed forward, catching his lips to hers. It was just a slight taste of her, barely a kiss, but the instant she touched him, he was done fighting. His mouth moved of its own accord, melding against her, pushing back. His tongue was in her mouth faster than he could think, his hands around her uncorseted waist quicker than he should have moved.

  She merely wore a white shift. And when he kissed down her thin neck, he saw that the fabric was nearly translucent, allowing him to glimpse at her perfect round breasts, the dark color of her nipples showing as they pebbled while he kissed along her collarbone. Lord, how he wanted to cup her globes, feel her hardened nipples against his palms.

  Wrapping her fingers into his shirt at his shoulders, she pulled him down. Easily he acquiesced, licking and kissing the valley between her breasts. Her skin was so luscious and golden. So lovely. And somehow tasted lightly of salt and...flowers. Or perhaps that was her scent invading his thoughts? Her natural odor was soft, floral, feminine, yet somehow still strong. It was intoxicating, especially so as he nibbled around her neckline, wishing her shift would simply vanish.

  She channeled her fingers through his hair. He felt the leather tie at the nape of his neck give, and she fisted his waves, slightly pulling as she gasped when he kissed closer to her right breast. Glancing up, he gauged her reaction. Had he gone too far?

  Of course he had. He was mauling her mere minutes after she’d woken. He tried to brace himself with his arms beside her body, tried to lift away, but she caught him, pulled his lips to her own, where she hungrily tasted him, invaded his mouth with her hot tongue. She kept tugging, pulling, arching until his chest met hers. He moaned into their kiss as he felt the tight peaks of her breasts brush against him. His body instantly reacted, tugging at his bullocks, making his cock come to life. Jesus, he wanted her, wanted nothing more than to strip her naked, kiss every inch of her lithe body, then lick her between her legs until she cried out for him. Only then would he fill her, let himself feel her internally. He thought of her hot and wet and ready for him, and through brute force he pulled himself away from her, fearing what he wanted was too much, too fast, too sweet. And would hurt like hell when she left. It would hurt that much more if he made love to her.

  She gasped looking up at him quizzically. Her lips were reddened and slightly swollen and he wondered if he’d already been too rough. He had to shave, that was for sure.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “I think I’m supposed to be the one sayin’ that.”

  She grinned, but shook her head. “No, I took things too far.”

  So they had pushed things a bit much. She agreed apparently.

  His heart tugged within his chest. He’d hoped she’d think the kiss, actually the kisses, hadn’t gone too long, hadn’t had too much passion, but was the right thing to do.

  Swallowing, he tried to think of anything to save his wounded pride. “While ye slept—”

  “Which you let me sleep way too long.”

  “Ye needed it.”

  “So do you. Lay down. It’s your turn to rest.”

  Before he could stop her, he found himself right where her wee body had been. She’d pulled him down, and the instant he lay on the pillow she’d been on, he scented her all over again, making his erection more noticeable, he was certain. He tried to sit up, but she straddled him in a heartbeat, pushing him down with her hot core on his stomach, the heels of her hands pressed against his chest.

  “I insist you sleep here.”

  Lord, if she wiggled down, she’d find his hardness against her pert bottom.

  She cocked her head with a grin. “I want you closer. You sleep here from now on. Got it?”

  He could only nod, barely able to think other than her warmth on his belly. Then in a flash she flung herself off him. He still had both feet on the ground and faster than he could protest, she was unlacing his boots. After taking both hoses off his legs, she made sure he was fully in the bed, under the covers, which he bunched around his pelvis, hoping it concealed the proof of his desire for her.

  “I’ll tend to Helen now. You rest. Got it, big guy?”

  He found himself smiling at that as she stood beside the bed with a faux scolding expression.

  “I want to meet the laird’s personal physician when he’s here.”

  She nodded. “Then I’ll wake you at that time.”

  That would more than likely be six hours away, and he wasn’t sure he could sleep. He should have been exhausted. Hell, he knew he was. But with Fleur’s scent invading his mind, his body, he could think of precious little else other than the way she kissed, the way she pulled him until they’d touched, heart to heart.

  God, it would kill him when she left him.

  She gave him a sweet, tiny kiss, then straightened. “I know you understand orders, so listen to me, Duncan. I need you to get some rest now. I’ll take care of everything meanwhile. If something happens, I’ll wake you. I promise. But now, you just sleep.”

  She soothed some hair from his face, caressed his forehead with her cool fingertips, and before he knew what had happened, he followed her orders.

  *

  A week passed with Fleur seducing Duncan into her bed, only to have her leave it the moment his head hit the pillow. There were strange interludes where Fleur would kiss him senseless, and he would wonder if he wouldn’t just give in, roll onto her and see where things might take him. Of course, he knew where he wanted to go with her.

  Or did he?

  She would leave. Leave him.

  Everyday Helen made little progress, further dampening Duncan’s mood. If it weren’t for the mind-blowing sessions with Fleur, he might have taken to the sport of caber tossing. He did feel tense enough to uproot a tree and throw it. And as much as kissing Fleur made his head spin and put a massive grin on his face, the moment it was over he was drawn back to his time, this moment.

  His mother only woke for more laudanum. Mrs. McVicar and he had to force her to eat. He woke once to hear the sounds of coughing and retching, then found Mrs. McVicar, Dr. Stevens—the laird’s physician, and Fleur funneling a tincture of beef tea and medicine down Helen’s throat. It was wretched to watch, and he could only turn, feeling like a coward. He should have helped, he thought. But he couldn’t.

  That was his ma who wouldn’t wake.

  That was his ma who starved into a small shape of herself, her face more bones than soft smiles.

  That was his ma. The women he’d loved and adored throughout his life, no matter her decision about Albert.

  S
he was leaving him.

  Since he’d come back from Sweden, he’d felt...being home and around his mother, it had started to feel as it should have been all along—a connection with his ma that he’d remembered from when he was a bairn. But now she was . . .

  He couldn’t finish that thought. Wouldn’t dare.

  Waking in the early dawn, tucked deep into Fleur’s scent and white blankets, he felt at once more lonely than ever before as well as more content. As much as he knew Fleur was leaving, like his mother, he couldn’t stop himself from feeling...

  Well, that was another thought he didn’t want to finish.

  He knew he felt strongly for the lass. There was no doubt about that. But let himself name that feeling? Nay. May as well finish him off then, for he knew once he gave the word for how he felt, he’d want Fleur to stay with him. Thanks to the fae, or however she’d come to be here, she was already gone while she remained.

  Duncan stretched in the large feather bed as he noticed through one of the chamber’s windows pink etchings against puffs of midnight blue clouds. This room had been his brothers’. But hardly one of them had lived here. It was such an odd predicament, and somehow like Fleur—gone while she remained, a comfortable room where no one lived. It was a dichotomy he didn’t know how to remedy, other than to just let it happen.

  He’d keep falling for Fleur; his mother’s illness would augment; Cromwell’s New Order Army would continue marching north, then he’d end up alone with his sword, the one instrument in this world he resented more than anything else.

  During this week he’d come to realize how he hated being a mercenary, hated training young men to kill, hated the lot of it. He’d have to talk to Rory about needing to stop, permanently. But his captain had gone again with a couple dozen of the troops. No one knew where he’d ventured, or what he was about, but it gave Duncan more time to think of a way to convince Rory to discharge him.

  Duncan had no clue what he could do after he retired his sword. But it felt like the right thing to do.

  Besides, once his mother and Fleur left him, he’d more than likely run around the countryside like a loon, chattering to himself, and go insane.

  Suddenly a small hand stretched across his chest. A delicate forearm rested on him.

  He hadn’t even seen her, Fleur, sleeping beside him. He’d been so lost in his thoughts as well as trying so hard not to think about some things.

  Her head burrowed into a white fluffy pillow, her long, black hair spread about like the remains of a storm. He smiled at that. Even with the small amount of light the rising sun offered, her hair shone with purple and red colors. Her tresses were glorious always, but at that moment, so messy and wild, he adored the way she looked. It clenched in his heart how much he loved just peeking at her.

  Oh, she was a bonny one. That there was no denying. But it wasn’t the only reason why he loved to look at her. It was...because she was she. He knew under the hair, the soft, sleepy expression was a hellion who tempted him something awful, a woman who held his mother tight when she moaned in pain, a woman who held him tight when he wouldn’t utter a sound about how hard it was to watch his mother become a living skeleton.

  Fleur wiggled slightly, exposing more of her face to him, stretching her body closer to his. He felt her warmth first, then a fabric-covered soft breast nestled against his arm.

  Damnation.

  Although only early autumn, the weather had been so hot, and when he’d first been in Fleur’s bed, he’d slept fully dressed. But he’d sweated so much he feared he’d musted her bedding. He’d laundered them and washed himself. Of course, his stepfather would have had a laugh at his expense for cleaning the bedding, doing a woman’s chore. But it had reminded Duncan of before Albert, of helping his ma with the clothing and such. And at a time when all his family was either thrown to the wind, or...Lord, he couldn’t admit what his ma’s health was, but at this terrible time in his life, he philosophically wondered why women had certain chores.

  He’d gotten another letter from his brother, Jacob, informing him they were all well in Virginia. Jacob had written about different chores he did, also wondering if he were doing women’s chores in America, but it was good to be helpful. The lad had saucily used a code Duncan had taught him to let his big brother know he was making love to a woman in the tribe. Duncan had had to stifle his laughter at Jacob writing about clams and fish in the sea—their code for coition.

  That night Fleur had again coaxed him into her bed, but after she’d kissed him, bitten down his neck and then left him sweating and aching for her, he’d finally relented and taken off his plaid. Being wool, it was too warm for the summer-like nights anyway. But keeping his long shirt on had also been a bit too hot. He hadn’t had to worry about being properly covered in so long, and wasn’t too sure how to remedy his problem.

  Then last night had been...he remembered the way Fleur had found him just outside her chamber’s door. Without saying a word she reached up on her toes and kissed him, invading his mouth instantly, hungrily. After a few moments, she’d let her fingertips caress against his chest and stomach as if she were memorizing his shape. Twice she’d grazed against his erection, and he’d pretended each time that she hadn’t, trying with all his might not to moan and shudder into the accidental touch.

  Or had it been accidental?

  Lord, she was bewitching him, torturing him, seducing him without making love. So last night he’d slept nude.

  Now he felt every inch of his bare body awaken with the realization that Fleur was snuggling closer. She lifted her head, eyes still closed, then rubbed her nose against his bare chest, next settling her cheek where her tiny nose had been.

  He had to leave. Get out of bed. He was naked, and she was still in a shift. Thank the Lord her nightwear was thicker than some of her other shifts, which he could easily make out her nipples. Still, what she wore was the perfect compliment for her golden skin, making it glow in the pale morning’s light.

  He needed to leave.

  His cock tightened as she took in a deep breath, her breast pressing against him, her arm squeezing him that much more.

  Why was she here anyway? Who was watching over his mother?

  Aye, he needed to get the hell away from Fleur.

  She moaned and stretched against him, this time resting a leg of hers over one of his. He became glaringly aware of her hot core pressed against his thigh. Swallowing, he thought of her body, his own so vulnerable under the bedding. Jesus, he was hard. So very hard.

  He’d ached for her for near a month now, and the last week had been excruciating with how she kissed him, caressed him, and then would vanish. For a good cause. Aye, he needed to get dressed and check on his mother.

  But he kept staring at Fleur, feeling her body against his, let her consume his senses. Her wee hand stretched, and one finger flexed his nipple. He hissed as pleasure spread throughout his body, but tried to repress it. Biting his lip, he looked to the ceiling, praying for strength to leave the bed.

  Just lift her arm and squirm away, he told himself.

  He looked down at the dark head on his chest.

  Fleur’s eyes were open.

  Oh Jesus. Lord have mercy.

  She reached up without a word, eager lips attached to his own before he could react. They both moaned, as if they both ached for the same thing. The hand that had been on his chest was suddenly against his cheek, holding him to her. Then she slid her upper body on his, crushing her breasts against him. He opened his legs slightly, when he realized she was balanced on one of his. She adjusted and was somehow even more on him. Her hip was now against his cock, making him nearly lose his mind.

  His mouth gained entrance into hers as her hand slithered down his too sensitive body. All he could do was hold her, caress down her back, and try to keep up with his mounting desire as well as hers. Their tongues met, as did their breath. His lungs grew too warm and shaky, but he kept inhaling, perhaps too fast. Then he realized her tiny ha
nd was lowering down to . . .

  “Oh,” was all he could say as she found his bullocks.

  She lifted her bonny face, smiling at him as she wrapped her hand around his length. “You are naked.”

  “Mmff,” he whispered.

  She silently giggled. Then she stroked up his hardness and began to descend, when he finally grabbed her and stopped the lovely motion.

  She made a pouting noise, which made him almost give up and let her keep doing what she was, but somehow a crack of sense entered his mind, just as the sun was rising in the horizon.

  Although words were hard to think of, he did manage to say, “Have to...check.”

  Fleur’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sorry. I fell asleep. I was going to wake you, but you looked . . .” She gazed down at him, his chest, his stomach. Her hand was still on him, but he had his hands over hers. Still, her dainty fingers squeezed slightly as she tilted her head to look under the bedding to what was in her palm.

  He moaned as she did too.

  “You looked so good.” Her voice was lowered and hoarse.

  Suddenly she stopped. “I keep doing this.” Her hand sprang away, yanking and twisting in the process, making him wince, grabbing his crotch, and stop breathing.

  “Crap. I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  His testicles had suddenly entered his throat when Fleur had accidentally jerked his penis. He’d live, he was sure, and it was more than likely for the best that the pain he was experiencing was enough to counter his desire for her. However, he couldn’t quite talk just yet.

  He nodded.

  “I did hurt you?”

  He tried to shake his head.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “Nay,” he grunted. “I’m fine.”

  “Like hell.”

  Chuckling somehow made the dull pain erode slightly.

  She smiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I ken.”

  Her grin waned. She blinked, then looked at his lips. “I like your beard.”

  He hadn’t shaved for the last few days. He’d just forgotten. But it was making it so that every time he’d kiss Fleur, her lips would redden and swell within a few moments.