Kiss of the Highlander

by Karen Marie Moning

  Drustan had adored her breasts, and she planned to make certain he got to see a lot of them today.

  Whatever his feeling for his fiancée, it didn’t seem to have diminished his attraction to her one bit.

  Bending over at the waist, she cupped her hand beneath one breast, then the other, fluffing them higher in the snug chemise. When she stood back up and looked in the mirror, she blushed.

  One must work with what one has, she reminded herself. He’d said so himself only yesterday.

  “Good morning, Silvan. Where’s Drustan?” Gwen asked brightly as she slid into a seat next to him at the table.

  Nose buried in a book, Silvan didn’t glance up, merely finished swallowing a bite of his porridge, then mumbled, “Be with you in a moment, m’dear.”

  Gwen waited patiently, knowing how much she hated being disturbed when she was reading. Hoping Drustan would saunter in soon, she tipped her head back and admired the elegant balustrade that encircled the upper floor of the Greathall, then dropped her gaze to skim the brilliant tapestries adorning the walls.

  The castle was lovely and every bit as lavishly appointed as any of the modern-day castles she’d seen on the tour. Each piece of furniture she’d seen—from the dining table to the assortment of serving and end tables to the towering armoires, chests of drawers, and beds—was fashioned of burnished cherry and painstakingly embellished with intricate designs. The chairs were high, with carved arms and tall backs, topped with bright cushioned pillows and draped with soft woolen throws. The rugs were silky lambskins and woven woolens. Fragrant flowers and herbs were stitched in lace packets, tied with ribbon, and strewn about window ledges.

  When she’d come down, she’d passed dozens of maids scurrying through the corridors, airing out down mattresses and beating rugs. Castle Keltar was efficiently run and well-maintained.

  All in all, it was amazingly cozy and inviting. The only major difference she could see was a lack of plumbing and lights, and in the winter, of course, lack of central heating would be a nuisance.

  But, she mused, with so many fireplaces—most of them tall enough to stand in—and a big brawny Highlander in her bed, a woman might forgive a lot of things….

  She wiped the dreamy smile off her face when Nell sailed in and placed a platter of soft poached eggs and fat strips of ham on the table beside a bowl of peach slices, berries, and nuts in a lake of sweet cream. Next, she plunked down a tray of warm oatcakes and honey.

  Gwen’s stomach growled as she eyed the laden table. If she had Scotch tape, she could forgo eating and just tape the stuff directly on her hips and thighs, ceding to the inevitable. Her usual bowl of raisin bran before work had never inspired appetite, nor had it inspired the scales to tip heavier.

  “Put yer book down, Silvan,” Nell chided. “Ye have a guest at the table.”

  Gwen bit her lip to hide a smile. Everything Drustan had told her about his father and the housekeeper was true. They had a unique relationship, wherein Nell didn’t mince words or defer to his position. When Nell glanced at her, Gwen smiled and asked hopefully, “Is there coffee again this morning?”

  Silvan put his book down and glanced absently at Gwen. His gaze dropped to her cleavage, and a single white brow shot up. He blinked several times.

  “There certainly is,” Nell said, circling the table. She stopped behind Gwen and draped a linen cloth over her shoulder, so it tumbled from her neck like a bib.

  “Peel yer eyes off the lass’s breasts,” Nell said sweetly to Silvan.

  Gwen turned twenty shades of red, sneaked a hand beneath the bib, and tugged at her bodice, trying to jiggle them back down a little. Mortified, she devoted her attention to eyeing the medieval dining ware—plates and goblets made of heavy silver, a fat spoon and broad knife, and heavy blue bowls.

  “She’s the one who fluffed them up,” Silvan protested indignantly. “I didn’t mean to look, but they were…so…there. Like trying not to see the sun in the sky.”

  Nell arched a brow and circled round the table again. “I hardly think ’twas ye she fluffed ’em for, was it, lass?”

  Gwen glanced up and gave an embarrassed shake of her head.

  Nell bent over Silvan’s plate, fetching his empty mug for a refill, and her bodice gaped. When Silvan peered down it, Gwen nearly laughed, but the laugh died in her throat when she saw Silvan’s eyes change instantly.

  Oh, my, she thought, going very still. Silvan might have looked at her breasts, but he’d looked at them as a man might eye a pretty flower or a well-bred mare.

  Now, glancing down Nell’s bodice, he wore an expression of pure hunger, a look both tender and fierce.

  Gwen’s smile faded and she stared, filled with a wistfulness she wasn’t certain she even understood. But it had something to do with a man wanting breasts that were much older and not nearly as firm—all because of the woman they belonged to, not because of the breasts at all.

  Silvan MacKeltar had deep feelings for his housekeeper.

  She stole a furtive glance at Nell, who seemed oblivious to what Silvan was doing as she collected his mug and went back to the kitchen.

  Silvan must have felt her gaze upon him, because he jerked slightly, as if coming out of a trance, and glanced at her.

  “I wasn’t looking at her breasts—” he began defensively.

  “Save it for someone who didn’t see the look on your face. And if you don’t make any funny comments about me fluffing myself, I won’t make any comments about what you feel for Nell.”

  “What I feel for—what I—” he sputtered, then nodded. “Agreed.”

  Gwen turned her attention to the platter of food, wondering why food tasted so much better in the sixteenth century. Was it the lack of preservatives? The smoky-peaty flavor of the meat? The genuine butter and cream? She slipped a knife beneath a soft poached egg and transferred it to her plate.

  “So, why did you…er…” Silvan gestured toward her linen bib.

  She sighed. “Because I thought Drustan might be at breakfast and I hoped he’d notice me.”

  “Notice you, or drag you off to tup you?”

  “I might have settled for either,” she said glumly, helping herself to another egg.

  Silvan snorted with amusement. “Are you always so honest, m’dear?”

  “I try to be. Dishonesty increases disorder exponentially. It’s hard enough to communicate when you’re telling the truth.”

  Silvan paused, his mouth halfway closed around a bite of poached egg. He withdrew the laden fork from his mouth carefully. “What did you just say?” he asked softly.

  “Lies,” Gwen said, her gaze on the thick slab of ham she was trying to spear with a misshapen fork. She pierced it with a tine, but it slipped off. “They increase disorder. Difficult to predict all the variables when you keep tossing more variables in.” She glanced at him. “Don’t you think?” she asked, with a nod for emphasis.

  “Exponentially?” he asked, his brows furrowing together in a single point.

  “Any positive consonant raised to a power,” Gwen said, cornering the ham against the lip of the platter. “It’s a function of math, used to express a large number. Like Avogadro’s number, 6.023 X 1023 and represents the number of atoms in a mole of any substance—”

  “Atom?”

  “The smallest component of an element having the chemical properties of the element, consisting of a nucleus, containing combinations of neutrons and protons and one or more electrons—hey, maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this!”

  Silvan snorted. “I know of what you speak. ’Tis a hypothetical particle of matter so small to admit no division—”

  No, no, no, no physics over breakfast! “Yes, but who cares? Look at this scrumptious food.”

  He sounded strained when he asked, “Do you play chess, m’dear?”

  She brightened and, finally securing the ham, smiled. “Of course. Would you like to play?”

  “On the terrace. In two hours, if you will.”

>   Gwen beamed. Drustan’s father wanted to spend time with her and play a game. She couldn’t recall a time her father had ever done such a thing. Everything had been work-oriented, and the one time she’d coaxed him into a game of Pente, he’d gone off on how one could calculate every possible outcome….

  She shook her head, pushing that memory far to the back of her mind, and eyed Silvan speculatively. Maybe, if Drustan had told him her story, she could work on him. Perhaps he might be more inclined to listen. Winning his support would definitely help.

  All while sitting in the sun and playing…

  “I don’t usually show so much cleavage, Nell,” Gwen poked her head in the kitchen and said apologetically to Nell’s back. She had some time to pass before meeting Silvan and wanted to get better acquainted with Nell. She suspected the housekeeper probably knew everything that went on in the castle and might be a source of information regarding who might wish the MacKeltars harm. Plus, she didn’t want Nell to think badly of her. Next time she bared so much, she would make sure it was for Drustan and only Drustan. Her breasts were now demurely tucked beneath her bodice.

  Nell glanced over her shoulder. Flour dusted her cheek and brow, and she had her hands in a mountain of dough. “I dinna think ye did, lass,” she said with a gentle smile. “Despite ye showin’ up bare as a babe. I know ofttimes a lass feels she has few choices. Ye needn’t barter yerself for shelter and food. I suspect ye’ve more choices than yer thinkin’ ye do.”

  “What kind of choices?” Gwen asked, stepping into the kitchen.

  “Know ye aught about bakin’, Gwen?” Nell withdrew her hands from the dough.

  Gwen nibbled her lip uncertainly. “Not really, but I’m game to try.” Is that what Nell meant about choices? Were they going to offer her a job in the kitchen? A dismal vision of herself cooking for Drustan and his wife made her scowl.

  “Ye’ve two fine hands and, if ye dinna mind, I could start on the lamb. Just poke ’em in there and knead. Wash up first.”

  Gwen washed and dried her hands before poking tentatively at the mound. Once she’d sunk her hands in it, she decided it was rather fun. Sort of like Play-Doh, which of course she’d not been allowed to have. No Silly Putty either. Her Sunday comics (neatly removed from the paper before she ever got to it) had consisted of her father’s witty drawings of black holes sucking up all the Democrats who preferred to fund the environment over the Department of Defense’s obscenely expensive research projects.

  “That’s it, lass,” Nell encouraged, watching her. She skewered a large roast on a spit. “Now, do ye wish to talk about it?”

  “About what?” Gwen asked uncertainly.

  “What happened the night ye arrived. If ye dinna wish to, I willna pry, but I’ve a willin’ ear and a shoulder if yer needin’ it.”

  Gwen’s hands stilled deep in the dough and she was silent a long moment, thinking. “How long have you been here, Nell?”

  “Nigh on twelve years,” Nell answered proudly.

  “And have you ever noticed anything…er, unusual about Drustan? Or any of the MacKeltars,” she added, wondering how much Nell knew. A part of her longed to confide in Nell; there was no question in her mind how loyal the housekeeper was to her men. Still, it would be safer to acquire more information before revealing any.

  Nell finished basting the roast, then slid it above the fire before answering. Wiping her hands on a cloth, she regarded Gwen levelly. “Be ye meanin’ their magic ways?” she said bluntly.

  Magic. That was exactly what Drustan’s unusual intelligence and command of cosmology would seem to a sixteenth-century woman. Heavens, it was exactly what it seemed to her. Although she knew there was a scientific theory behind his use of the stones, she couldn’t begin to comprehend how he’d done it. “Yes, that’s what I mean. Like the voice Drustan can use—”

  “Ye’ve heard it?” Nell said, surprised, making a mental note to pass that tidbit on to Silvan. “The one that sounds like many voices?”

  “Yes.”

  “He dinna use it on ye, did he?” Nell frowned.

  “No. Well, once, sort of, when he asked me to leave him alone for a little while.” And that other time, she thought, remembering what he’d said after they’d made love, but telling Nell about that would definitely be overdisclosing.

  “I’m surprised. They’re overcautious of that spell. Most often they use the healin’ and protectin’ spells.”

  Gwen gawked.

  “If ye’ve heard Drustan use the voice, ye shouldna be too surprised. Druids have many unusual abilities.” Nell let it slip casually.

  Druids! The mythical alchemists and astronomers, who’d studied the sacred geometry of the ancients! They’d really existed? “I thought Druidry died out long ago.”

  Nell shook her head. “ ‘Tis what Druids wish people to believe, but nay. The MacKeltar descend from the oldest line of Druids who served the Tuatha de Danaan.”

  “The fairy?” Gwen squeaked, remembering that Drustan had claimed they were one and the same.

  “Aye, the fae. But the fae have long gone elsewhere and now the Druids nurture the land. They tend the soil and beckon the seasons with their rituals. They honor the old ways. They scour the land after storms and heal the wee creatures harmed by the tempest. They protect the villages, and legends tell that if a grave threat should e’er come against the land, they have powers most scarce dare not whisper of.”

  “Oh, God,” Gwen murmured, as the pieces began to slip into place. A Druid. Possessed of alchemy and sacred mathematics and magic.

  There’s no such thing as magic, the scientist protested.

  Right, there’s no such thing as time travel either, she retorted acerbically. Whatever it was, he had knowledge beyond her comprehension. Druids existed, and the man who’d taken her virginity was one.

  “Tell me, lass, knowing he’s a Druid, do ye still have a fondness for Drustan MacKeltar?”

  Gwen nodded without hesitation.

  Nell wiped her hands on her apron and propped them at her waist. “Three times now that man has been betrothed, and three times the woman has abandoned him before the formal vows. Did ye know that?”

  Gwen’s jaw dropped. “This is his fourth betrothal?”

  “Aye,” Nell said. “But ’tis not because he’s not a fine man,” she said defensively. “ ‘Tis because the lasses fear him. And much though he wishes otherwise, I suspect Anya Elliott will be no different. The lass has been sheltered all her young life.” Her lip curled disdainfully. “Och, but he’s arranged things quite tidily this time. In the past, he handfasted first, and each of the three, after passin’ time at Castle Keltar, upon overseeing or overhearing somethin’ that fashed ’em, packed up and left with scarce a farewell. And as braw and rich in coin and land as that man is—well, let me tell you it’s left him fair uncertain of his charms. Imagine that!”

  “Impossible to imagine,” Gwen agreed, wide-eyed. Suddenly, quite a few things made sense. She’d wondered why Drustan hadn’t told her the full truth while they were in her century. Now she knew. Her brilliant, powerful warrior had been afraid that she would leave him. He couldn’t have known that she was one of few people who might have understood him—after all, she’d concealed the extent of her intelligence from him. In the past few years of working at Allstate, it had become instinctive. One didn’t rhapsodize about quarks and neutrons and black holes during happy hour at Applebee’s with insurance adjusters.

  Three failed betrothals also explained why Drustan was so aggressively determined to wed his fourth betrothed. The Drustan she’d come to know was not a man to accept failure, and he’d made it clear that he was a man for marrying and wanted children.

  “This time he’s arranged to wed in a Christian ceremony, and Anya will be here but a fortnight afore the wedding. I fear he will succeed in hiding his nature until after the vows. Then she willna be able to leave him. But”—she paused and sighed—“like as not, it willna prevent her from despising him lat
er in the marriage.”

  “Has it occurred to him that it’s not nice to trick a woman like that?” Gwen said, grasping at straws. Maybe she could berate him for his underhanded tactics and guilt him into calling off the betrothal. Then again, she thought, maybe she could be underhanded, and once Anya arrived she could trick him into revealing some of his “magic” in front of his fiancée, to drive her the same route the first three had gone. Dirty pool, but all in the name of love, and that had to count for something, didn’t it?

  “I suspect he’s preferrin’ to believe he’s not trickin’ her but hoping that she’ll one day grow to care for him. Or mayhap he thinks he can hide forever.”

  Gwen poked at the dough for a time. “How long has he known her?” she finally asked. Does he love her very much? was the question coiled on the tip of her tongue.

  “He’s ne’er met the lass,” Nell said flatly. “The marriage was arranged between Drustan and the Elliott through messengers bearing the bride offer.”

  “He’s never met her?” Gwen shouted. Her heart took wing; feelings of guilt about trying to break up the betrothal went up in a puff of smoke. He hadn’t neglected to mention Anya because he loved Anya; he’d not mentioned her because he’d not even met her! It wasn’t as if she was trying to break up a real relationship!

  Nell smiled faintly. “Och, ye’ve much feelin’ for him. ’Tis plain to see.”

  Feeling suddenly euphoric, Gwen said pertly, “Speaking of feeling that’s plain to see, what about you and Silvan?”

  Nell’s smile faded instantly and her expression grew shuttered. “There is naught betwixt me and that canny old badger.”

  “Well, there may not be on your end, but there certainly is on his.”

  “Where do ye get yer daft ideas?” Nell snapped, leaping into a flurry of activity, banging pots and moving dishes. “Let me finish that bread, for ’tis plain that it’ll be the morrow before ye’ve got it properly kneaded.”