Her Highland Fling

by Jennifer McQuiston

  Which meant, of course, she needed to correct the oversight tonight.

  But bless his sometimes thick head, he did not seem to get her meaning. “If you prefer to wait for a fling, you have only to say the word. ’Tis a favorite of the crowd, you ken. The pipers will probably play one next.”

  She flushed, knowing she wanted a different sort of fling.

  But unfortunately, a fling was all it could be. In the few days she had known him, it was evident how much he loved Moraig. His family. She respected his devotion for those things, even as she wished desperately to grab some of it and keep it for herself.

  But it would not be fair for her to expect—or want—more.

  She had seen the way the town had rallied around him when he’d won the caber toss.

  He belonged here, with them, and they needed him more than she did.

  “MacKenzie.” She said his name like the prayer it was and stepped closer, until her dress brushed against his plaid. She was admittedly a little sore—though not so sore those parts of her weren’t declaring their intentions for more. Heat bloomed along her skin, remembering how he had touched her last night. “The dance I want involves privacy,” she whispered.

  There was a beat of silence, filled only by the heart-pounding rhythm of the pipers.

  And then he inclined his head, and his hand was reaching out to grab hers. “Your wish is my command, lass.”

  And then he pulled her into the night.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “MacKenzie,” Pen hissed. She fumbled for his hand, and as his palm met hers, she tightened her fingers over it. Given the steep, downward descent of the path, she could only guess they were aiming for Loch Moraig again. “I d-do not wish to see the crodh mara tonight.”

  And the dance she’d had in mind would benefit from a bed.

  “Trust me, lass,” was all he said, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze.

  So she followed him, her hand clasped tight in his, turning herself over to whatever he had in mind. He’d not failed her yet in that regard. Indeed, he’d proven himself capable of delivering some astonishing surprises. Perhaps there was even a symmetry here, a return to the place where this connection between them had started.

  Or had that place been the posting house, when she’d first seen him standing at attention, sweat dripping down his face?

  At last the trees thinned out, letting the moon shine down. They emerged at the edge of the loch, and Pen drew in a sharp breath at the sheer beauty of it. The water glittered in the moonlight, ripples of light that seemed to grow and spread like a living thing. She could hear the bellow of cattle, but it seemed a distant sound, perhaps a half mile or more away.

  As her eyes adjusted to the change in light, she realized they were not standing in the cow field, as she’d expected, but at the base of some ancient ruins. The tumbled stone walls were around chest height, and whatever roof had once graced the structure had long since fallen to the ravages of time and climate.

  “Are these the ruins of the original c-castle?” she asked in wonder, reaching out a tentative hand to touch the stones. They were cool beneath her fingers and slick with moss.

  “No, this was once a Roman outpost.” He tugged her hand, pulling her deeper into the maze of tumbled rocks. “My father is a scholar of Caledonian history, and we’ve dug for artifacts here on several occasions.”

  “I thought your f-father was the Earl of Kilmartie,” Pen said in confusion.

  He dropped her hand and moved away in the moonlight. “He was a scholar first. I suppose, in a way, he’s a scholar still. I studied history myself at Cambridge. Visitors interested in history will find a rich heritage in these hills. I thought you might wish to write about it.”

  “Oh,” Pen said, her head spinning at yet another facet to the man who was William MacKenzie. Heir. Benefactor. Son of a scholar.

  She exhaled, wondering which part she was coming to love.

  All of them, she suspected.

  “Is this where the artifacts in my room came from?” she said, remembering the beautiful pieces on display in her room at the Gander.

  “Aye. I dug those myself.”

  She bit her lip, knowing what she was about to say sounded selfish. “This is lovely, t-truly.” She squinted, trying to see what he was doing in the meager light. “But I’ve only a few hours left. Surely you didn’t bring me down here to d-dig for artifacts.”

  His low chuckle warmed her ears. “No lass.” Dimly, she could see him unbolting his plaid, and her pulse kicked up a healthy notch. “I know you’ve a bit of the adventurer in you. I’ve a mind to give you an authentic Highland experience, aye?”

  “Aye,” she whispered, her heart now pounding in full agreement.

  He unwound the plaid from his body, and she watched him with a hunger that made her question whether she was meant to be a spinster after all. Surely a woman content to spend her life in the company of newspapers should feel a bit more embarrassment watching a man undress under moonlight. It seemed endless, that plaid, and yet far too short, because all too soon he was standing only in his shirt tails, his strong, muscled legs braced apart.

  Pen swallowed her nervousness. “Verra nice,” she told him, purposefully rolling her tongue into the burr she heard on every street corner.

  He chuckled and then pulled his shirt over his head in a smooth, efficient motion.

  She sucked in a breath. She’d seen him last night, of course. Traced her hands over those bulging arms and calves, pressed kisses to places that even now made her blush at the thought. But that had been at close range, in a bed, safe and artificial. She’d not had a sense of the entirety of him. Standing nude in the moonlight, surrounded by the trees and rocks, the sound of the nearby water lapping in her ears, he was a far more potent assault to her senses.

  The son of an earl had no business looking so . . . so . . . so perfect.

  Had she once questioned his status as the most handsome man in a room? How naïve she had been, to judge a man’s attractiveness solely on the basis of his smile. Or for that matter, to insist on a room. The architecture of his muscles seemed to perfectly complement the night. Her gaze swung lower, to the part of his anatomy that had caused her that slight bit of pain last night.

  There was even beauty to be found there, if one only had an opportunity to look.

  He was giving her that opportunity, and more, it seemed.

  He spread his plaid on the grassy earth. Lowering himself onto it, he patted the ground for her to follow. She dropped to her knees and then whooped out loud as his arm snaked around her and she was flipped onto her back.

  “Close your eyes,” his graveled voice whispered in her ear.

  She obeyed, keeping them closed even when the tug of fabric and the rush of cool night air on her skin told her he was undressing her as well.

  The plaid-covered grass felt soft beneath her back, as soft as any bed, and it was no hardship to lie still while his fingers brushed against her newly exposed skin. In the imposed darkness, her other senses felt heightened. Her skin prickled in anticipation, gooseflesh being the natural response to both the cool night air and MacKenzie’s touch. In her ears, the night sounds reigned—insects, water, and the distant lowing of cattle all combining in a delicate symphony.

  She felt alive, aware of her surroundings and the potential in her own body in a way she never had before. He had given her these gifts, pulled her from her world of books and pencils and notebooks, and shown her that to know life, one had to experience it, not only write about it.

  She felt the warmth of his mouth on her shoulder, a kiss pressed to skin. “Now open them,” he commanded, “and look straight above.”

  She did. And was promptly lost in the beauty of the sky.

  It was stunning. Midnight blue, with just a faint rim of light on the horizon. Stars spilled across the canvas of sky, so brilliant as to hurt her eyes. She blinked, wondering how this could be the same sky she’d seen all week.

 
; “It looks d-different,” she gasped.

  She felt his lips trail down her bare arm and shivered into the feel of him. “The walls of the ruins block the moonlight as it reflects off the surface of the loch,” he explained. “So the effect of the stars is intensified.”

  “Oh,” she breathed and then nearly whimpered as his mouth met hers, warm and insistent.

  Had she thought the night perfect before? Now it was perfect, his kiss so deep as to make her feel as though they were breathing the same air. He pulled her closer, and she welcomed the heat of his body, pressed fully against her front, the cooler air at her back.

  It would hurt to say good-bye to this man tomorrow.

  But for now, at least they had tonight.

  He was already dreading the end, but William tried hard to focus on the opportunity now in his hands. She was here tonight, lying in his arms and bathed in starlight.

  They could worry about the leaving later.

  He kissed her as though there was no tomorrow. Pressed his mouth to secret, fragrant places, until she writhed beneath him and cried out his name. She still called him MacKenzie, though, rather than William. He was determined to eventually change her mind.

  She tasted like home—sweet, earthy ale from the Gander and salt-slick summer days—and her skin carried the faint scent of lemons from the soap she used. He licked at the indentation of her collarbone, nipped at the delicate skin of her neck, as though she were a cake laid out to assuage his appetite. His fingers swept across the curls that guarded her secrets, and the moisture there told him how much she wanted this.

  Wanted him.

  He slid a finger inside her warmth and lowered his head against her neck, breathing in deeply. Bloody hell. “No sponge this time?” he nearly groaned in frustration.

  She shook her head. “I had thought to p-put it in when we went back to the room.” He could feel her body quake as his finger swirled inside her. “You surprised me.” She gasped in pleasure. “P-perhaps it won’t matter?”

  He released the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Having Pen naked in his arms was like holding a loaded gun. And Christ above, he wanted to make love to her, here, on the banks of Loch Moraig, where she wouldn’t soon forget her visit. Forget him.

  If they made a child tonight, it would be a way to keep her, he was sure of it.

  But could he live with himself, knowing he had trapped her in such a way?

  He was not sure he had the strength to do what he was about to promise, but he didn’t see another way. “I won’t spill my seed inside you,” he told her.

  She nodded, clearly trusting him.

  He only hoped he trusted himself.

  He slid inside her, and the feel of her body and the slight sound she made there in the back of her throat—the same sound, in fact, she had made during their first kiss—nearly made him break that promise.

  He stilled. Let his body settle and adjust to the bright white pleasure of simply being inside her. And then he began to move. She moved with him, her head tipped back, and tonight he could see she kept her eyes open, as though not wanting to miss a moment.

  He placed his hands on either side of her face and stared down into those beautiful, wide-open eyes, holding her close as he moved inside her. He murmured to her in Gaelic and comforted himself with the knowledge she need never know he’d just told her how much he loved her. All too soon she was shuddering beneath him, coming apart in his arms, and he knew he had but seconds to earn the trust she had so willingly placed in his hands.

  He pulled from her, finishing the last few strokes himself.

  And then he collapsed, pulling her so tightly against his chest he was probably bound to crush her. But she didn’t protest, only burrowed deeper with a melting sigh of contentment.

  He pulled the edges of the plaid around them, shielding her against the night’s cool air. Her breathing slowed, and at the sign of her recovery, he kissed her fair shoulder, knowing the moment of reckoning was here.

  “I love you, lass.”

  She stiffened. “You d-don’t mean that.” Her voice sounded muffled against his chest. “We hardly know each other.”

  “I do, Pen. I would marry you tonight if you would but have me. And we could, too. The blacksmith is just beyond Main Street.”

  He could feel her start to shake, but was it with emotion or regret?

  “MacKenzie,” she said, her voice small and uncertain.

  “William,” he nearly growled.

  “I’ve a j-job in London. An assignment to complete.” She pulled away from him, her hands pressed flat against his chest. “You’ve known that from the start.”

  “I ken you’ve a job to do. I can respect that.” And if his plans for Moraig were to be realized, he needed her to return. He swallowed, an idea swimming drunkenly in his mind. He could not imagine living anywhere but Moraig, but neither could he imagine living without her. “I could come with you to London. I would make you a good husband, Pen.”

  “I d-don’t need a husband,” she protested, sitting up now and fishing about in the dark for her clothes. Her voice sounded on the verge of panic.

  He shook his head. “I dinna say you needed a husband, lass.” He hesitated, knowing it came down to this. “The question is, do you want one?”

  In the darkness, her face seemed very pale and unsure. “I . . . I d-don’t know.” She stood up and clasped her gown against her front, but it couldn’t hide the way she was trembling. “I would make a t-terrible c-countess.” She cringed. “My stammer means I would b-be judged. You would be judged. You d-deserve someone normal.”

  “I disagree. You would make a brilliant countess.” He shook his head. “And if I’d wanted someone normal, I wouldn’t have kissed you to start.”

  “I kissed you first,” she said miserably.

  “Not tonight.” He tried to smile. “I don’t want normal, Pen. I want brilliant. And you are that and more.” He was ready to kiss her again, to prove to her they belonged together.

  But now she was throwing a hand to one side, gesturing toward the loch. “C-can’t you see? This isn’t about me, MacKenzie. I c-can’t see you living in London. You might as well try to put your water cattle in the Serpentine. It would kill you. Kill your spirit, the thing that makes you who you are. You belong here. In Scotland. Surrounded by p-people you know and love.” She shook her head, as if it was all too obvious. “You belong in Moraig.”

  His heart felt heavier than the damn caber. “I belong with you, lass.”

  She jerked her gown over her head. “You don’t understand.” She drew a deep breath and then faced him. “I don’t want you to c-come to London.”

  Her eyes glittered through the darkness. He felt as though she could see right through him but yet couldn’t see a thing in front of her. He was suddenly very aware of his own nudity. It hadn’t mattered when she’d been staring at him in want, but now that she was rejecting him, he felt a burning need to cover himself.

  He spent an inordinate amount of time arranging his plaid. In his heart, he agreed with her—to a point. As the heir to the Earl of Kilmartie, his rightful place was here, in Moraig. Moreover, he didn’t want to leave the Highlands. He loved this country, had never been more miserable than the four years he’d spent at Cambridge.

  But he’d meant it when he said he loved her. Following her to London was a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant keeping her.

  And if the city was so terrible, why was she so determined to return?

  “Will you at least think on my offer?” he asked gruffly.

  She did not answer.

  He pulled the plaid around him and then gained his feet and belted it into place. He had one more thing to say to her, and he hoped she was listening. “I ken you’re a good reporter, Pen. I can see it in the way you work, the questions you ask. I’m not asking you to give that up. I would come to you, wherever you decided to live. But living a life of loneliness is no life at all.” He hesitated. “I know, beca
use it’s the life I’ve led until now.”

  In the darkness, he could hear her swallow.

  “I won’t press you, if the thought of me coming to London is so distasteful. ’Tis your choice, and if you go, know you are always welcome to return, whenever you want. But you don’t need to be independent to prove yourself to other people, or to me. I ken how brave you are. But perhaps it’s sometimes braver to risk your heart, aye?”

  She stood motionless. Wordless.

  And he knew then that he’d lost her. She was going back to London. Without him.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop her.

  The London Times, Tuesday, August 22, 1843

  AN IDYLLIC SETTING IN

  MORAIG, SCOTLAND

  by P. Tolbertson

  It is rare that a holiday changes your life.

  Most people travel for a bit of adventure or perhaps a well-deserved rest. Others travel to visit a location of historical significance and spend their time prowling for artifacts or knowledge. But it is uncommon to find a place that has all these things and moreover leaves you transformed by the experience.

  Moraig, Scotland, is that place, and more.

  Londoners seeking an escape from the swelter of summer can find no more perfect idyll and should set their sights on this charming little town posthaste. Visitors are greeted by men draped in ancient plaids, their Highland heritage on full and proud display. Refreshing breezes off the nearby Atlantic coast and well-furbished rooms at the local inn tempt you to spend the entire holiday in a state of relaxation. At night, Moraig’s residents enjoy a bit of revelry, and the town boasts a dozen varieties of fine Scottish whisky. Try the local ale at the Blue Gander’s public room, and be sure to ask for Miss Sally, who will serve you a wink along with your pint. History lovers will appreciate Kilmartie Castle and the ruins along the shores of Loch Moraig. Keep an eye out for the crodh mara, fairy creatures who emerge from the loch under moonlight—they might very well steal your desire to return home.

  And should you find your heart captured by the loveliness of the town or perhaps one of its residents, do not despair. The local blacksmith can marry you, if you’ve a notion. And if you are unsure of your heart, remember . . .