“I fear that you are correct—about the daft part. But I wish you to know something,” she added, looking down as she unbuttoned her blouse with slightly clumsy fingers. “It didn’t occur to me to think of marriage in conjunction with our talk of a priest because I’m not Catholic. I was raised in the Protestant faith, you see.”
She cleared her throat and peeped up at him, wondering how the news was being received. Encouraged by his fascinated expression, she went on: “I wouldn’t mind getting married, Malcolm—in fact, I would like that very much—but I suspect that the Protestant ministers around here are just as superstitious and unchristian as the Catholic ones. I don’t think that we dare approach them. We shall have to settle for being lovers and know that we are married in our hearts.”
The last sentence claimed her final reserves of boldness, and she demurely turned her back on her lover as she peeled off her smoke-grimed blouse.
After all, though she was not a child, and not regretful of what they had done—and would do again—it was still high noon and they weren’t even undressing in the modest shadows of a cave or shady, tree-lined bower.
Chapter Nine
“Taffy lass.” A flask appeared over her bare shoulder, which was sporting fine crop of goose-bumps. “This will keep out the cold.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was sincere. It wasn’t cold that had her shivering, but the remedy would work for what ailed her. Taffy had screwed up her courage, prepared—as many women had no doubt been before her—to give her all for love. But a little liquid courage suddenly seemed like a sound notion. The suspicion that the role of forceful temptress was not going to be a natural one was rather strong in her mind, and some outside aid would probably not come amiss during this debut as a siren.
Of course, the situation was an unusual one. Had she ever imagined taking a lover, a notion which had not previously presented itself as a realistic one, it would not have been in these less than romantic circumstances.
Instead of playing the idyllic roles of Marlowe’s “passionate shepherd to his love,” where two well-dressed lovers lounged about sipping from the milk of paradise, it seemed to Taffy that she and Malcolm were more likely to end as Tristam and Isolde.
And she didn’t want to be Isolde, she thought resentfully as she screwed the cap back on the flask and set it on a conveniently placed stone table. She began to change out of her dusty skirts.
It galled her to admit it, but her father was right about the level of unattractiveness of this mode of dress; the fabric was an absolute insult to all romantic thought. She sighed quietly as she put the skirt aside, wishing for just one silk chemise.
Malcolm made an excellent Tristam though, she had to admit. But she had never had much taste for the great Wagnerian tragedies. Not even in the original Gaelic. They had too rigid a code for their lovers’ immorality. The hero and heroine always perished in some horrible manner—You have drunk your death! Wasn’t that what Isolde’s nurse said to the lovers?
Taffy sneaked a quick peek at Malcolm’s gorgeous, tanned legs as he pulled off his brogues, and then seeing the plaid puddled on the ground behind them, she turned and reached for the flask, taking another swallow of burning Scotch.
Yes, those were definitely epic legs on that man, she thought hazily. Legs like that could run forever, climb the steepest mountains. And his chest! That was more than epic. It seemed nearly invulnerable, something to decorate a Viking’s shield, or the prow of a ship. It provided her with inspiration.
And it was all hers for the taking, said something inside of her—if she could just muster the nerve to appropriate the moment. To be bold and lead the way. She needed to go to him.
Could she truly do that? Throw all feminine modesty aside and come to Malcolm as a full participator in love—a consort like—like—Cleopatra?
Or someone like Cleopatra who didn’t die. At the moment, Taffy couldn’t think of a single bold heroine who hadn’t perished in the end…but there had to be some bold woman somewhere who survived.
Taffy stared into the distance and strove for the audacity to be that heroine.
The wicked voice urged her to do what she secretly wanted. To take charge and not be a pawn—to make love to Malcolm because she wanted to, not because she had convinced herself it was a necessity. And she was listening because she couldn’t help but feel, though there was no proof that if she completely possessed his body, she would finally possess his heart, too. Because she believed that by actively giving, she made herself worthy of receiving.
But there was a part of her that was still fearful. The notion of Malcolm’s powerful body being at her call wasn’t much consolation when facing the realization that if she was to return home, he would be parted from her forever more—dead and buried in some unknown grave long before she was even born.
Better not to think about such things, the wicked voice said. Live in the moment. It is all that you can ever with certainty possess. It could as well be you, not Malcolm, lying dead on the morrow.
Taffy took a last hefty pull on her flask and then bent to remove her boots. It was tiring and confusing to have her brain pulled in two opposite directions, to constantly hold two contradictory thoughts—and that only when she wasn’t being harried and had time to think.
Naturally, she couldn’t explain her war of emotions to Malcolm. Everything she felt was either depressing or depraved. She was better off not thinking of the future at all, at least for the moment, for she found that she was in another kind of mood altogether. A romantic one.
Actually, she was excited and frustrated, and all but crawling out of her tingling skin. She felt this way every time they brushed up against these faerie lands. It was as though their magic touched some chord inside of her body that started it resonating. The inner vibrations at first exhausted her and then made her feel reckless and irresponsible—free of moral constraint.
Or perhaps it was just intense hunger or a heat rash plaguing her, making her feel flushed and…whatever she was feeling. No matter what the case, Malcolm—she was certain—was the antidote to her woes. He was release, freedom—and most importantly, peace.
“Bloody laces,” she muttered plaintively, sorting through the knots that held her boots together. “Cleopatra didn’t get knots in her sandals. She didn’t have to run away from Campbells through mud and thunderstorms and mess her hair up.”
It was not helpful that her first attempt at leading a seduction would be somewhat overshadowed by war. Battle and its aftermath was not at all what she had been led to believe by the great poets. It wasn’t glorious. It was wasteful and sad—and ugly beyond all measure she had ever applied to life.
But in this place, it was easy to forget the destruction they’d witnessed. Taffy paused in her tugging long enough to look around. The land scape that met her eyes was a study of artistic hues, lavenders and greens against a perfect blue sky. No trace of war or death ruined the scene.
And her wicked voice was right about one thing. Now was all the time they had. Regardless of other unfortunate circumstances, and the not quite real feeling of this outdoor corrie, she was certain that she wanted do this one wild, licentious thing.
Yes, she was certain. For Malcolm was the most—well, gorgeous—man she had ever seen. He would be her only lover. He deserved a woman who was courageous and strong. She had faced ghosts, living nightmares, and Campbells; she could be brave about this. She could seize the moment offered and bend it to her will. She would no longer close her eyes against her lover. All her life she had followed; it was time to be audacious and lead.
Taffy reached again for the flask, deciding that one more nip would restore her to a happy equilibrium. She would be like the swaying wild grass; she would bend her morals without actually breaking her sense of integrity. Of course, society would say that she had sinned with Malcolm. And her father—
Suddenly, Malcolm was kneeling before her, assisting her with her knotted laces, which would not come undone. Golden sunli
ght glinted on his powerful shoulders. All thoughts of her father and society’s displeasure left her mind, displaced by Malcolm’s presence.
“Ye’ve badly tangled yer laces, lass. Let me sort them out.”
“Thank you,” she enunciated clearly, finding the th rather hard to produce with lips that had gone numb. She recapped the flask without drinking. “They seemed to be caught in a Gordian knot.”
“I’ll have ye free without cutting through them,” Malcolm said as he looked up at her and then laughed. He pulled her boots off and tossed them aside. “Ye nearly look an Amazon, lass. All ye need is a bow and arrow.”
Taffy forgot her own nearly naked state and stared in appreciation at the rare and adorable crinkles at the corners of his beautiful eyes. How she loved seeing him smile.
Malcolm stood in a dizzying rush, one instant at her feet, the next towering over her.
“Come, Taffy lass.” He stepped backward toward the waterfall, and since he had taken a firm hold of her wrist, Taffy went, too.
“You don’t mind that I’m not a Catholic, do you?” she asked. “I mean, you’re not hide-bound about our religious differences,” she blurted, tackling one of the few barriers that might remain between them.
Taffy made her eyes stay on Malcolm’s face. Raging curiosity was no excuse for staring rudely. To lower her eyes would be to commit the last act of immodesty. She stubbornly refused to give in to the impulse.
“Nay, Taffy lass. I am no’ so set in my ways.” The voice was faintly amused, though she could not imagine why. “Have a care, sweet. The ground is uneven and I fear that ye are a bit the worse for the drink.”
Taffy walked slowly because the whisky was swishing around in her head and she didn’t want to make any unlady-like staggers.
“I am not inebriated,” she told him, speaking very carefully, as the uisge beatha had drastically thickened her tongue. Perhaps it was the lingering faerie magic, but those few sips seemed to have affected her like pints. “I am simply tired from walking all night.”
All the while that she was speaking, Malcolm was watching her with his alert, gray eyes. Eyes that were very like the ones on the cat they’d seen in the woods. Eyes that were inhumanly beautiful and wise.
“A good rinse in the cool water will make ye feel more awake. More lively. I shouldnae have given you the flask. I’d forgotten that such things will affect ye more now.” Malcolm’s other arm reached around her, his hard hands hot on her bare skin.
Yes, she thought, this was the anodyne she sought.
Cold water splashed playfully at her toes. Taffy paused.
She was naked but for the covering of her hair. With a man. Standing in the middle of a rock corrie where anyone might see her, including curious still-folk.
Suddenly, the notion of communal bathing seemed unbearably forward and wanton. All she wanted to do was hide—either in the bushes or in Malcolm’s arms. She suppressed a groan at her cowardice and concentrated on the small cleft in Malcolm’s chin.
“Am I so very fearful then? That ye needs must drink some courage afore inviting me tae yer bed?”
“I haven’t invited you to bed. I’ve invited you to bathe,” she answered, pleased with her ability to reason. She stepped to one side, half-turning from him and scanning the acreage about them. “And I invited you to join me before I tasted the whisky.”
“So ye did. Then obviously ye have no fears.” Malcolm glanced at the cascading water and then stepped completely into the stream.
Taffy’s eyes slipped briefly downward as he disappeared under the falls and she caught a brief flash of tanned leg and other things before she hastily diverted her eyes.
“This is insane! I can’t do this. Anyone could be watching us.” She turned completely away, but before she could escape back to her clothing, Malcolm had her caught. A quick tug and she was pulled under the waterfall’s cool rain.
“Malcolm!” she gasped, trying to elude the deluge that was sopping her hair with an ice bath that was suddenly much colder than it had seemed on her hand.
“I am sorry aboot the cold water, but I wish for ye tae be somewhat alert for what comes next,” he said, subduing her thrashing arms.
Malcolm turned his suddenly shy temptress about and took a look into her eyes. Taffy was shocked and dazed—and a wee bit the worse for dipping so deep in the whisky—but not fearful or deeply ashamed.
“Go on now. Ye were doing fine. I’m willing tae be ravished,” he teased, surprising himself with such brash words. “Even if ye are no’ Catholic, and a Sassenach tae boot.”
Taffy spluttered, but she had stopped twitching and her eyes began to gleam.
“Oh, are you? How noble of you to sacrifice yourself to the enemy.”
“That I am. But yer no enemy of mine, lass.”
Pleased that she didn’t shy away, he gently captured her hands and slowly dragged them down the length of his body. Her fingers kneaded him slightly, nipping with gentle claws until they reached his manhood.
Strange, new emotions were raging through him, making him surge hotly under her warm, delicate hands. The pace of his heart doubled and redoubled while all around him, the moment expanded until time itself all but stilled.
“Are ye awake now, lass? Mindful of what yer doing?” he asked softly, before pulling her close and allowing himself a taste of her lips. Every time he touched her, she grew more attractive to him. More necessary for his happiness—perhaps even for life.
Taffy resisted, for the slightest of moments, trying still to free her arms, but then relaxed against him. Her mouth softened under his. Her lips parted.
Distracted, Malcolm loosened his hold. Her soft arms slid around his neck, pulling herself closer and mating their bodies mouth to knees.
He caught a brief glimpse of something moving in her eyes before her lids closed over them. Malcolm went into shock as he felt her tongue touch his lips and then invade his mouth in the brashest possible manner. Passion poured into the kiss with the force of oceans at the turning tide.
Every part of his body went rigid.
Taffy bit lightly at his lower lip and he realized that in that instant the situation had turned about. His shy lass was playing with him! Ravishing him, as he had teasingly suggested. He shuddered with unanticipated pleasure, pulling her in tight.
He wanted to demand of his modest lover where she had found the audacity to kiss in this manner. The kirk had always preached against such displays, and the women he had known had been affected by that. But Taffy was acting…He couldn’t think of a word that meant both indecent and arousing.
Whatever his previous teachings believed or approved of, his body loved what she did. Excitement at her bold invitation fired through him. Her fearless kiss made his senses blaze. Her hands felt like live coals laid up on the tinder of his body. The firestorm it ignited within him was a shocking contrast to the cool stream of water washing down his back.
His body ignored the water, reacting instead to Taffy’s touch. His sex thickened, heated, grew stronger. As had happened the day that Taffy rescued him from the Campbells, he could feel some wild part of himself slip free of his stern control and come surging to the fore, where he had to wrestle with the impurest of impulses.
And the impure impulses were winning. He could not stop them.
As quickly as possible, he moved her from the slippery wet rocks. Malcolm managed to stagger perhaps an arm’s length away from the falls. He would contemplate later what there was about this woman that was so arousing to this inner beast in him, what it was that his lust could gain the strength to throw off his hard-learned voice of reason.
“Taffy, lass?” he heard himself growl, his fingers tangling in her dripping hair, turning her face up to his.
She answered with a small moan that was both question and agreement.
“Ye shouldna be shy with me ever. We were meant tae be as one.” Even as he said it, Malcolm knew that the reassuring words were superfluous. Taffy was not acting li
ke a woman who was overcome with modesty. She seemed to sense the same hand of destiny that was now upon him and her own inner beast was awake and on the prowl.
He leaned back against the dry rock’s rough face and pulled her to him, melding her softer flesh into his own. The contact only inflamed the lustful beast and made it want more.
Taffy didn’t notice. All her previous worry about witnesses had been driven from her mind. Her sole ambition was to assuage the hunger prowling through her body, tightening her skin, weakening her knees, burning her alive. It was stunning—wonderful—to let all restraints slip and do what one wanted. She could not envision turning away from this world of feelings and sensations. She couldn’t imagine why she had shut her eyes against it before.
“I’m not feeling at all shy,” she assured him in return, as her hands traced up his flank and over his shoulder blades until they encountered the hot stone that cut into his back.
“These walls are so hard,” she muttered, tremors rippling through her body as she pressed into him. “I might hurt you.”
“Nay.” The sharpened rocks at his shoulders should have been uncomfortable with their combined weight forcing them into the stony ledge, but he didn’t feel a thing beyond the lustful fire consuming every inch of his flesh.
“Hurry,” Taffy suggested, riding the wave of the licentious euphoria that had swept over her brain. It was a desire so strong she had no words for it.
Hard hands clamped around her waist, lifting Taffy into the air until they were pressed loin to loin. His hips moved and they both groaned.
A stray spray of ice-cold water hit Taffy’s back, shocking her into some semblance of intelligence. The wet stones near the falls would be dangerously slippery and there was a lovely bed of grass nearby.
“Malcolm.” Taffy tried to wiggle free of his iron grip.
“Aye?”
“Malcolm, love, not here. It isn’t safe. We have to move. Duine!” Taffy bit his ear lightly to get his attention. She could tell that he was nearly beyond understanding her in any language. His pulse hammered against the bronze flesh of his throat. “We have to lie down before we fall down.”
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