As if to underline Malcolm’s point, Smokey also came forward into the light, his posture mildly aggressive as he took a position in front of his mistress, growling low at Davis.
Taffy watched without sympathy as her father divided his attention between the aggressive males of two species, and concern for the damaged barrow. Of her, he seemed to think not at all.
Finally, when the silence around them had grown unbearable, he made up his mind which statements most required his attention.
“Your wife?” Taffy heard him ask.
“Indeed. My wife.”
Taffy’s daughter shifted inside her as she felt her father’s annoyance with this stranger. The babe had grown greatly when Taffy passed through the faerie door and she had stepped between times. There, for an instant, the clock of the ages had been loosened upon her.
“We married four months ago,” she said, giving the earliest possible date for when she and Malcolm might have met and married, and drawing her father’s attention back to herself.
She felt Malcolm cock a mental brow, but he did not question her statement. In faerie time, who knew how long ago they had wed? And she could never explain that their nuptials had happened on a summer’s night two-hundred and forty-four years in the past. That was a bloodstained occasion of which she would never tell anyone—except their daughter.
“Malcolm is a piper,” she explained with ready invention. “He has lately been in service in Her Majesty’s armed services in India. We met when he was home on leave after an injury.”
“Bloody dangerous place,” her father said, the first glimmerings of approval in his voice. He strongly favored the imperial notion of bringing English enlightenment to heathen lands.
Having just been in the midst of such enlightenment, Taffy did not share his opinion. She did not however say so in front of their audience. She wished to conclude this discussion quickly and gain the privacy of the inn before anyone noticed the oddity of Malcolm’s clothing beneath the thick mud that covered it. Very few highlanders wore such long plaids anymore.
“Malcolm sent a cable, but there was difficulty tracking me down. When I finally received it just after dinner, I started off for Kilmartin to meet him. Unfortunately,” she said, rushing the story a bit as she was getting cold, and she had recalled a wonderful explanation from her days in America that would explain what had happened to the barrow. “There was a sinkhole that opened under our feet. I am afraid that the barrow collapsed into it. We were lucky to escape with our lives. From here forward, great caution will have to be used in the cemetery. The ground may be unstable in other places.”
“Certainly!” her father agreed, finally horrified enough at her description to show some concern for his daughter. “But Taffy—my dear! Why did you not tell me of your marriage? Four months—and not a word to me!”
“I did not want to disturb your work with outside concerns.” Aware of the intense interest of their audience, and the fact that Malcolm would need coaching in his role of military piper before conversing with the locals at any length, Taffy began walking toward the inn, hurriedly constructing the rest of her tale.
“We did not know whether Malcolm would survive. Right after our marriage he succumbed to a fever that had been troubling him for weeks—and I was sent away for fear of harming the baby.”
“You—you are—” Her father’s voice lowered as he strangled on the words he would never have willingly uttered in public.
“Pregnant. Yes.” She said clearly, leaning heavily on Malcolm’s proffered arm. Sensing his amusement with her father’s tongue-tied speech, she pinched his forearm lightly. “But all is well now, as you can see. I am sorry that this has been such a shock.”
She uttered the last sentence as a concession to her father’s stunned silence. And she truly was sorry that she had been forced to be so abrupt with her news, but she decided that it was best to get all the unpleasantness over with at once.
“We shall likely be going back to the States soon,” she announced, stepping through the fascinated throng of lantern carriers. She spared a small smile for Jamesy who was looking back and forth between her ears and Malcolm’s with alarmed speculation. “Malcolm comes of a restless breed, and I think that America will suit us well.”
“America,” her father repeated in failing accents, falling in behind them. Taffy looked back briefly. He seemed to be shrinking in stature with every step they took toward the inn.
Ahead of them a door was thrown open, letting out the smell of a busy kitchen into the night. Taffy’s elderly landlady bustled out into the yard.
“Oh, poor lassie!” she exclaimed, then seeing an even more filthy Malcolm and Smokey standing beside her, stopped in her tracks with her hands clapped to her round pink cheeks. “Ach! What a soss ye are!”
“I fear so, Mistress MacIntyre,” Taffy said, leaning harder on Malcolm and doing her best to look frail. It was only partly an act. She was very weary, very hungry, and very tired of her dirty jean dress.
“Come at once,” the elderly woman instructed, recovering herself. “Ye shall bathe in the kitchen. The lad may bathe after.”
“This is my husband,” Taffy quickly explained. “Malcolm MacLeod, late of Her Majesty’s army in India.”
“Yer husband? And a soldier?” Taffy was glad that she had thought of this tale. Everyone seemed to like it. “Well, he shall have his bath when yer done. And that filthy hound as well. What a strange beastie he is! I’ve never seen the like. And I’ll fetch ye a wee nip of whisky tae warm yer bones while water is heated.”
If you only knew! Taffy thought. Smokey’s ancient breed had surely been extinct for nearly two hundred years. No one in her time had seen his likeness.
“Thank you,” Taffy murmured with genuine gratitude for the show of caring that should have come from her father, but hadn’t. “We are both very chilled.”
It was only an hour later that they managed to close their door to the outside world. Taffy’s room was small, but she had insisted that it would do for the two of them for that one night.
Once dressed in clean clothing—Malcolm’s borrowed from a still stunned Davis—they had sat down to dine. Though hungry, they had only eaten lightly of the offered soup, finding the salt flavor overwhelming after the blandness of their previous diet.
Finally, their various immediate needs seen to, they had managed to escape their curious audience who had crowded into the inn to stare and listen while they ate. They retired to bed in Taffy’s small chamber.
“Phew!” Taffy leaned back against her door, wishing it had a bar.
“Aye!” Malcolm agreed, drawing the shutter over the window. He did not bother to light the lamp. “Yer father was beginning tae bestir his thoughts and ask questions of me. And that Jamesy man was casting a strange eye o’er my face and ears.”
“He isn’t stupid—my father,” Taffy said, coming away from the door. “Just very involved in his work. Actually, we will have to be careful of Jamesy, too. He knows all the local legends, including yours.”
“Including mine,” Malcolm repeated and then shook his head in bemusement. He began to strip off his borrowed clothing, starting with her father’s trews, which Taffy could tell he did not like.
“Well, you and Colkitto are rather large legends in these parts,” she explained, also removing her briefly donned clean apparel.
“I dinnae feel legendary. Except perhaps when ye look at me,” he added, raising his gaze to her body. He noted at once the slight changes that had taken place; a thickening at the waist and slight swelling in the breasts. “Then I feel like a king—with ye as my queen.”
Taffy blushed, but did not cover herself with a nightrail.
“Well, you certainly look the part of a legend,” she said, walking the paces that were between them and wrapping her arms about his lean hard waist. She rested her head upon his breast and listened to the reassuring beat of his heart, keeping time beneath the cage of his ribs and impressive muscles.
He touched her hair.
“It occurs tae me, Taffy lass, that yer likely as large a legend as I am.”
“What?” she looked up, startled.
“Did ye no’ hear the MacColla talking o’ the wild stories of a Sassenach lady come tae rescue me?”
“But…” She thought about the strange looks Jamesy had been giving them. “Dear heaven above! Perhaps you’re right. Well, that’s all the more reason for us to depart on the morrow.”
There was a slight pause.
“Aye. We’ll depart on the morrow.”
Taffy stared into Malcolm’s eyes, trying to read what was there. For the first time since their reunion, he was holding something back from her.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked with alarm. “You don’t think that the still-folk will try and stop us somehow?”
“Nay. Their door is closed now,” he assured her, gathering her close and then laying her on the narrow cot. “They willnae interfere, nor would I think they’d want to.”
“Malcolm?” she coaxed.
“Did I no’ hear ye wishin’ for some coverpanes and a proper bed? Behold! Yer wish is granted.” He lowered his lips to hers. His kiss was coaxing and hungry, and feeling the anticipation building in her own body, Taffy decided to let her questions rest until later.
His hands slipped over her hips and he pulled her into his body as he carefully fitted them onto the narrow cot. He looked down at her pale breasts and then gave a sigh.
“So bonnie,” he murmured, sliding down her to set lips to her nipples, which he laved tenderly.
Taffy arched, pressing closer. Her head swam giddily as she rubbed against the man she knew and loved so well. Malcolm paused long enough to look up and smile at her. As always, the sight of his rarely expressed happiness made her heart turn over in her breast.
Malcolm’s clever fingers moved up the edge of her legs and then slid slowly to the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Though loving the feel of her beneath his hands, he did not dawdle there, so great was his desire to find her warmth and make a place for himself there.
“Ah,” he breathed with satisfaction when he found her damp and ready.
Taffy shivered, her heart thundering in her chest so hard that it interfered with her breath. Her body, always sensitive to Malcolm’s touch, was now acutely aware of his every movement and driven wild by them.
She sighed with pleasure as he settled upon her and wrapped her arms and legs about him. Malcolm gently kissed the curve of her jaw, feathered over her cheeks and ears, and then returned to her beautiful mouth. There he plundered happily while the tide of growing desire surged through their bodies.
When uncontrolled shivers wracked her body and her breast and loins were so tight that they ached, Malcolm finally fitted himself against and pushed his way inside her. His hands grasped her buttocks, pulling her closer to him.
“In the time we have left here,” he whispered, “I can think of no better place tae be than inside ye.”
The breath left Taffy’s lungs. Her hands quivered as they moved up and down Malcolm’s sweat-slicked spine. Heat was pouring off of him, off of her, melting them both into a state of thoughtless desire where even speech was an impossible feat. The riptide of passion was moving through them, hastening them toward their goal.
He moved in and out of her with increasing speed until their bodies writhed. Such intensity of need and desire could not be long sustained. Taffy felt as though her lungs had stopped moving, that her heart was going to burst in her chest.
He rolled his hips against her, and with that the passion became too much to bear. Crying out, Taffy was catapulted into fulfillment.
Malcolm’s hoarse shout said that he too had let go of this world.
Slowly, Taffy regained her senses and she could feel the aftermath of passion being wrung from Malcolm’s body. After a few moments, his muscles finally unknotted and he gradually subsided upon her.
Taffy, feeling fiercely protective and suddenly shadowed with worry, touched him gently. Her hands were tender as they stroked up and down his back.
“Love?” she whispered.
“Aye?” Malcolm turned onto his side, bringing her with him, refusing to uncouple them.
He looked into her dark blue eyes framed with tussles of silky honey hair. They still carried the sparkle of the incandescent joy they had shared, and he hesitated to speak any words that might dim them with worry. He wanted to spend this night lost in the depths of her pliant body, reveling in her sweet-scented skin and looking at the love that shone out of these beautiful, ocean-deep eyes.
The mere sight of her caused hunger to grow in him again. It would not take an effort of mind or body to again lose himself in making love to her. The worry which crouched nearby could wait.
“Forgive me, Taffy lass, but ‘tis a greedy man ye’ve married.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
“That was a masterful piece of distraction,” Taffy said gently, as Malcolm finally pulled a blanket over them. “But I have not forgotten anything. Well, I didn’t forget for long.”
He grunted, but didn’t answer.
“You may as well tell me the truth. My imagination will run amok else. And if I cannot sleep, I promise, you shall not either.”
“I’ve no mind tae be sleeping this night,” he said, meeting her eyes.
“Are you concerned about the future?” she asked. “Worried of what will come when we leave here?”
“Nay. I’ve no fear of departing this place wi’ ye, Taffy lass.”
But he did fear the future. Or rather that they might not have one. Taffy either did not know, or had forgotten what happened to people that had been long in the faeries’ world. Her well-being he did not fear for; the faeries would have exercised the greatest care in seeing that she was not harmed. But he had no way of knowing how long he had been lost underground, wandering in the ancient faerie tunnels, and what would happen when the sun rose upon them on the morrow.
There was always the possibility of obliteration by the sun’s cruel rays that kept him from being able to plan any of the days that might stretch before them. The only certainty was that they had this night. He would not waste any of their precious time in sleep.
But should he speak to her of his worries? What if sorrow clouded the only time they had and made it bitter and grieving instead of joyous?
“Malcolm, you cannot hide your concern from me. I sense it. Will you not speak to me of whatever is troubling you? Please.”
“Let us no’ speak of the future until after the dawn has come. Sometimes the light of the sun changes what one may plan.”
Taffy’s gaze probed his.
“I don’t see how. Do you think that I will love you less when I get a look at you in morning light?”
“I bloody well hope not,” he muttered, frustrated with himself for being unable to hide his unease and letting it spoil their night.
“And will you love me less with the passage of a few hours—Or do you love me at all?” she asked, her gaze direct. “You’ve never actually said.”
“Of course I love ye,” he answered, shocked.
“That relieves my mind.” Taffy rose up on her elbow and pushed her hair back from her face. Mane disposed of, she laid a hand along Malcolm’s cheek. “Very well, then. Let’s have the truth and no more messing about.”
In spite of himself, Malcolm smiled at her gentle command. His shy lass had learned well how to straightforwardly order things in life to her liking. He could not help but be pleased that it was so, though it made keeping secrets from her inconvenient.
He wondered, if he rolled her beneath him again, could he perhaps shake her thoughts loose from her tenacious line of questions?
“It won’t work,” she told him, feeling him stir.
The challenge hung in the air between them.
“And you are a cowardly craven to even think of trying it,” she informed him with a glower.
“Aye, that I am,” he agreed, running an appreciative hand over her smooth flesh. “But why trouble ye with a foolish fancy?”
“Because it might not be foolish,” she answered promptly. “And I do not care for unpleasant surprises. What is there about the sunrise that—”
She stopped speaking, and Malcolm saw realization dawning on her face. Instantly, he pulled her close and began to speak soothingly.
“ ’Tis only a chance—an old wives’ legend,” he assured her.
“It would be just like the faeries though, wouldn’t it?” she said, burying her face in his chest. “To spite me for what I said. About taking their child.”
“Aye, it would,” he admitted. “But this wasnae a faerie plot. They made no devious plan. Mischance brought me here, so I think we needn’t fear any trickery from the still-folk.”
“But that still leaves mischance,” she said, wrapping her arms about him and holding him as tightly as her muscles would allow.
“Aye.”
“What happens to people when—when—” He could barely hear the unfinished question, her voice was so strangled and muffled by the linens that she was hiding under.
“They turn instantly to dust. Or salt,” he answered, thinking truth kinder than a lie at this point.
“How long until dawn?” she asked at last.
“Only a bit. An hour, no more.”
Impossibly, her arms tightened.
“Be at ease, Taffy lass. Strangling me will no’ hold back the sun.”
“I hate the sun,” she muttered, but relaxed her grip slightly. Holding Malcolm’s strong body against her own, it did not seem possible that anything as fragile as dawnlight could harm him.
“Well, I’ve no great liking for this sunrise,” he admitted, settling her into her blanket cocoon and turning his gaze to the window. “Try and rest, lass.”
“You must be jesting,” she muttered.
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