Must Love Kilts

by Angela Quarles

  He faced Traci and propped himself up by his elbow, mirroring her pose. “So. We’re both misfits then.”

  She nodded. He couldn’t read her thoughts, but he feared they contained pity, and that he couldn’t abide.

  He pushed her shoulder, turning her around until he could tuck her up against his body.

  He’d ached to have her stretched out beside him, to feel her warm skin against his, but truth be told, this wasn’t the reason for his action. He wanted her penetrating stare directed away from him. She saw too much.

  She sighed and held herself stiffly at first, but he didn’t press any further, and soon she relaxed against him. Honestly—and he’d chop off his left cod before admitting this to any of the men—it was pleasant to be just lying here with someone. Lord knew he was tired.

  And it wasn’t just someone.

  It was Traci.

  Traci made him feel comfortable when he allowed himself to be still and let her presence soak into him. He’d discovered this accidentally when she’d ridden on the pony with him to Invergarry. They’d ceased talking and…relaxed into each other.

  It was an odd sensation. Part of him still prickled with awareness and restlessness all over his skin, sure, but he had no urge to brush her hair aside, skim his lips along her smooth, creamy shoulder, and whisper a soft, seductive word or two in her ear.

  Nay, that wasn’t exactly right, as the hard evidence at his hip could attest. But it wasn’t the only urge. He ignored the restlessness, allowed himself to settle beside her, against him, and just…be. Which was a wonder in and of itself. Never had he wanted to just…sleep next to a woman.

  Somehow, being beside Traci allowed him to snatch glimpses of himself, and he didn’t want to chase it away now that he’d glimpsed it.

  Maybe if he remained still long enough beside her, he’d find out…find out who he truly was.

  Because, while he had a role in his clan and filled it well, it wasn’t how he wanted to fit in.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My love has breath o’ roses,

  O’ roses, o’ roses,

  Wi’ arms o’ lily posies,

  To fauld a lassie in.

  “Merry May the Keel Row,” Jacobite Reliques

  “I can’t get a straight answer from any of these villagers.” Duncan thunked down his mug of ale and swung onto the bench in the tap room of the alehouse in Drumnadrochit. Though roughly forty-five minutes from the castle, it was the nearest settlement besides the one directly before its gate.

  Traci slumped against the wall and sipped from her own mug.

  Iain squeezed her thigh in reassurance. They’d been in Drumnadrochit for most of the morning questioning the villagers, but so far no luck.

  She set down the mug. “What are you hearing?”

  “Some saw a strange lass enter the castle, but I can’t get agreement as to whether she entered on her own or with a party of men.”

  “The same with us,” she sighed. “Maybe there are two different women, and their comings and goings are getting intertwined.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Iain said. “I talked to the castle servants when they visited the village. The good news is, there are no tales of an abducted lady or one who is in distress within the castle.”

  Traci nodded. She should be relieved, but it was all a lot of noise. Every hour that passed, the possibility of locating her sister seemed farther out of reach, and yet she couldn’t give up.

  But what else could she do?

  “In other news,” interjected Duncan, “my lot seemed fearful of some new gruagach.”

  Iain grunted. “Superstitious bunch, villagers are.”

  Duncan shuddered. “This gruagach would put a chill down anyone’s spine. According to the tales, its dress is tattered and mildewy, and it moans something awful. The racket has quite terrified the kitchen staff.”

  “What’s a gruagach, and why the kitchen staff?” Traci only half listened as she traced swirling figures in the water rings on the table.

  Iain waved a hand. “What you English might call a brounie. They are scary creatures with lots of hair, and they haunt buildings and rivers and waterfalls.”

  “Aye. Seems their new, otherworldly guest has taken up residence roaming the hall outside the larder.”

  Traci propped her elbows on the table and cradled her head. “Well, this is all very interesting, but it’s not helping us find Fiona. Aren’t all your castles haunted anyway? Doesn’t seem like something to get worked up about.”

  Duncan chuckled, the sound rough. “Worked up about? You have the oddest expressions, but I ken your meaning. Pay no attention to me. We’ll keep trying.”

  “For how long, though?” She turned to Iain. “Can’t we just go up to the castle and ask to come inside?”

  “It’s not that simple, lass. We risk much being in this village as it is. Our relations with that castle’s lord are not an easy one. We cannot traipse up to their gate and request entry. Especially if our only question is to ask if they’ve taken your sister.”

  “But what if we don’t learn anything this way?”

  “We’ll think of something.”

  “If my sister’s in there willingly, I can’t imagine she’d continue for much longer. She’d go back to the inn to find me. I know she would.” At least she thought so. “But if she’s held against her will…?”

  Duncan’s voice was gentle. “We haven’t heard any evidence that that’s the case.”

  “I know. I’m just worried.”

  Iain put his arm around her shoulder, and she hated that it felt good, but dammit, it did. “We’ll find her. We have kin nearby and can work out a way in when it comes to it. Have faith, my wife.”

  She wanted to “my wife” him with a punch to the ribs, but it wasn’t his fault. She just felt so useless. Ineffectual.

  And she hated feeling that way.

  To calm herself—who was she kidding—to stop herself from pushing the table away from her, grabbing a sword, and storming that friggin’ castle like some avatar in one of her computer games, she pulled in a deep breath and allowed Iain’s presence to soothe her. He might be a big flirt, but right now, he was her big flirt, with a nice, muscly, protective arm slung over her shoulders and a wonderful scent of Highlander pervading her senses.

  Traci’s limbs ached from slogging all around the village, up and down the rocky inclines and paths, talking to anyone and everyone who’d listen. She was useless in questioning villagers on her own, since she didn’t speak the language, but for this afternoon’s jaunt, she’d requested to go with Duncan instead of Iain.

  Iain looked a little hurt but quickly joked it off and set off in one direction.

  It was for her own preservation really. She’d been getting too comfortable with him and could feel her heart becoming more and more squishy. Besides, she wanted to spend more time with Duncan, because she suspected something had happened between him and her sister that night. But he rebuffed her every attempt to pry with the ever practical admonition of, “Let us concentrate on finding Fiona.”

  She rapped on yet another door of a cottage on the outskirts of Drumnadrochit. Like the others they’d visited, it was a quaint stone house with a thatched roof which thickness and profile reminded her of drawings of houses in the fairy tale books she’d read as a kid.

  Chickens clucked and pecked the ground behind her, and off to the right, pigs rooted in an enclosure. She shivered and glanced at the sky—the sun was edging down. This might have to be their last stop.

  A gaunt woman with a baby on her hip, and a tousled-blond toddler hugging her leg, opened the door. And like the others, greeted them in Gaelic.

  Duncan asked his usual questions, and they conversed for a short while until Duncan turned to her. “She also saw a woman matching your description enter the castle but has heard nothing of her afterward.”

  “She took that long to say that?”

  Duncan chuckled and rubbed his cheek. “Nay. She
also asked me about the gruagach and if I’d be so kind as to curse it back to where it came from.”

  “Again with this gruagach.”

  “And a Sasannaich one at that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She says it speaks in your English tongue.”

  She groaned in frustration but stopped. “Wait. Ask her what this gruagach looks like.”

  He raised a brow but spoke in Gaelic to the woman. She motioned with her free hand around her head and replied in a stream of lilting words.

  “The creature is short, with tattered white robes, and its hair is crazed.”

  “Can you ask her if there are any other details she can recall? What does it say?”

  Duncan asked and then turned back to her. “Only that it keeps repeating a phrase.”

  “What phrase?”

  “She doesn’t know since it’s in your tongue.”

  “Can you ask her to repeat the sounds?”

  He asked, and she nodded and said in the tone of someone mimicking something they’d heard often but didn’t understand the meaning, “Ai yam the coast of grismasbast.”

  Traci frowned and rolled the words around in her head. The hairs on her neck lifted.

  It was her sister!

  Her knees nearly buckled in relief.

  She grabbed Duncan’s arm. “Tell her thank you. We need to get back.”

  He nodded, and they retraced their steps to the village center. “Duncan, that’s my sister. She’s the gruagach. Let’s find Iain. Can we get into the castle now?”

  “How do you know?” While he played it cool, she detected a trace of hope in his tone.

  “It’s what she says. I’ll tell you when we find Iain. We can’t lose any time. We have to go in there now.”

  “Wait. Let me talk to someone I met on my rounds this morning to see if we’ve raised any suspicions. You find Iain, and we’ll make a plan. The gates close in an hour, so let’s talk tonight, make plans, and act first thing in the morning.”

  Traci gritted her teeth in frustration but saw the logic in that. By now, they were at the back of the alehouse.

  “I’ll take my leave of you now. I’ll seek you both out inside upon my return.”

  “Thank you, Duncan.” She scrambled over the stile in the fence and stepped around the dovecote. Up ahead, several village girls sat atop the fence, their heads bent together, staring at something off to the left that was blocked from view by the stables. Whatever it was had their faces flushing and giggles erupting every other moment.

  Never mind them—she’d just nip around the side of the stables and use the well water to wash her face and hands before seeking out Iain. The news that her sister was safe quickened her steps.

  She skirted along the back side of the stables—the girls now out of sight—and turned the corner where the well was located. She pulled up short.

  Ha. Now she knew what had caught the girls’ attention.

  Iain stood by the well, his body soaked with water, the rivulets and drops glinting teasingly off his muscled back in the late afternoon sun. Was he nak—? No. He had on his kilt, but still. He might as well have been naked, for the cloth was sopping wet and clung to his muscled butt and thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  She dragged in a slow breath and willed the blood to stop its stupid rushing through her ears. Her traitorous nipples tightened and poked against the smooth linen of her dress.

  He bent over, giving her an even more indecent view, and grabbed a sponge from a bucket. With the slowest, most luxuriant strokes, he glided the sponge down his left side, then across his front, though she couldn’t see what he did.

  Oh! But those girls could! What a show off.

  God, and who could blame them? She settled in for the show, propping her shoulder against the corner of the stables. After all, she needed to speak to him, and what harm would ogling do? He obviously didn’t care who watched him bathe, and she’d be damned if those girls were the only ones to enjoy the show.

  For it was a show. The flirty devil knew those girls could see him. How could he not? He took his time with that stupid sponge too. With each slide down a muscled bicep, with each slide across a broad shoulder, something inside her grew more and more agitated. At first, she thought it was impatience—a wish to have that sponge in her hand, feeling it squish and flex between her fingers as she trailed it along the dips and ridges of his skin.

  But as she pictured it and the feeling grew darker, she stilled, horrified.

  Good God. She was jealous.

  She wanted to be the only one gazing on him and wishing she could hold the sponge. She wanted to be the only one realizing he’d smell just a little different, with the heat from the sun on his skin, the tang of the soap.

  Move. Slip back around and go into the inn and wait for him.

  But her feet didn’t budge. And her shoulder didn’t budge from the wood as she took in her so-called husband taking a bath in his kilt by the well. And the full extent of how deep she’d let herself get hit her.

  He upended the soap bucket, the water gushing out in a miniature facsimile of an ocean wave, eventually lapping against a nearby boulder. He rinsed it with water from another bucket, then attached it to the well rope. He lowered it, then pulled on the rope, his muscles flexing, and hummed a jaunty tune. Once the bucket was back up, he hoisted it over his head. For a moment, he paused, the muscles in his biceps bunching. Then he tipped the bucket, and the water poured over him in one powerful splash.

  She stepped back, though she wasn’t in danger of getting wet.

  Again, rivulets coursed swiftly over his skin, soaking him, making his great kilt cling even more enticingly against his splendid form. Then, like some California surfer dude, he tossed his head, flicking back his hair. Inexplicably, anger threaded into her jealousy—this was all just a spot of fun for him. He had no idea she was behind him being rocked by this new discovery.

  He paused for a moment, still in the sun. Again, she told herself to slip away—he and his ego didn’t need to know he’d had one extra female gaze on him. Or how it had affected her. She glared at the ogling girls.

  His head turned sharply, and he speared her with his piercing blue eyes. They were unreadable, and now her feet moved. She took a step back, and another, while he only stared at her, unmoving.

  Until he slowly pivoted and stalked toward her.

  With each step he took toward her, the kilt slowly tented, despite the weight of the wet fabric, his gaze locked on hers. She found herself rooted to the spot.

  Chapter Nineteen

  White was the rose in his gay bonnet,

  As he faulded me in his broached plaidie…

  “Carlisle Yetts,” Jacobite Reliques

  Enough was enough, Iain thought, as he stalked toward his wife. Aye, he’d known the second she’d appeared behind him as he bathed. He always knew when she neared. Somehow the air sharpened and…touched him, a featherlight weight, as if his skin prickled at her nearness, eager to have her closer, to have her skin touching his. To close the distance.

  It was the most maddening thing.

  Always, he answered that call—got closer to her—but stopped short of touching her as he ached to. Except for the stolen moments he’d taken full advantage of in the last few days.

  But as he’d stood there, his back to her, holding the sponge and again flexing and showing off for her like the daft fool he was, he found he’d grown…what? Angry?

  Was that what now galloped through him, making his blood pound? Anger? Frustration? Or some kind of premonition, some kind of fae sense telling him they’d soon find her sister.

  And Traci would be gone.

  Gone from his life forever, in some future world he couldn’t even begin to understand.

  But when he’d turned, caught her jealous gaze, and seen her quickly cloak herself with cool indifference? His emotion, and its cause, clarified. Anger.

  Anger at her denial of her feelings for hi
m.

  Anger at himself for not being enough to push her past her mask.

  Anger that he had not the time or skill to woo her properly.

  But anger switched to determination.

  Now he stalked toward her, his blood singing in his veins. His cock hardened further at the naked lust visible in her eyes before she quickly veiled it.

  He didn’t stop until he was a scarce inch from her body. He looked down at her. He wasn’t trying to intimidate her. Nay, he was doing his damnedest not to shove her against the stables, lift her skirts, and plunge into her. If he lifted his hands and touched her… Well, he didn’t trust himself.

  Their breaths filled the charged space between them. She straightened to her full height, which brought her to that perfect distance below him, her mouth inches away, spannable by a mere duck of his head.

  “You know what I think?” he asked, his voice surprisingly husky. Damn, what this woman did to him.

  She swallowed. “What do you think?” she whispered, her voice shaky.

  He forced himself to flash his woo-the-lassies smile while inside his heart pounded, pounded. He bent forward until he was right by the delicate shell of her ear, the dark red wispy strands of her hair tickling his nose as they curled around her ear. He inhaled her scent, now mixed with the heat of the sun on her skin, and felt himself harden impossibly further. “I think you want me.”

  He’d swear she trembled for a lovely wee moment. “You do, do you?”

  “Aye. Surely you know I’m gone for you. It’s making both of us addle-pated.”

  “It is?”

  “Aye. Even now, you’re repeating my words like a parrot.”

  She snapped out of whatever spell she’d been under and placed her hand on his bare, wet chest, as if to shove him from her. She quickly removed it, as if he’d seared her, and ineffectually moved her hand around the area between them, as if seeking a safe surface to shove him away from. She gave up, stepped back, propped her hands on her hips, and looked him in the eye.

  “Don’t you be working your wiles on me.”

  He smiled. “My wiles?”