The Immortal Highlander

by Karen Marie Moning

  Let me die, Adam. I beg of ye, let me die, a smoky feminine burr swirled through his mind.

  He tossed his head viciously, shaking the voice away. That was a memory best left in those dark times where it belonged.

  Striking without warning, giving her no chance to react, he fisted a hand in the fabric of her shirt, pulled her close, ducked his head, and brushed his lips to hers. Though at the merest touch of his mouth to hers, his cock surged painfully in his jeans and his body raged for more, he kept the kiss light.

  Merely rubbing his lips back and forth over hers, with a husky little purr.

  The hand not holding her shirt clenched into a tight fist at his side as he battled the urge to crush her to him, shove his tongue into her mouth, drop her back onto a seat, strip her jeans down, and thrust himself between her thighs.

  But he gave her only the barest taste of a kiss. Savoring the erotic friction. Feeling her lips soften beneath his. Relishing the tiny catch in the back of her throat.

  Then letting her go.

  When he released his grip on her shirt, she stumbled back slightly, looking utterly dazed, much to his satisfaction. Her lush mouth was soft, her green-gold eyes startled and confused and very sleepy-sexy aroused. And he knew if he reached for her again, she’d not fight.

  Good.

  He wanted her wanting. Wanted her wondering why he’d not taken more. Wanted her primed for the next time he reached for her.

  Hunger for me, ka-lyrra, he thought silently, get addicted to me. I will be both venom and antidote, your poison and your only cure.

  Aloud he only said softly, “Yes, Gabrielle.”

  13

  They disembarked that evening in Atlanta, Georgia, and “checked into” a hotel Adam-Black-style.

  Only for the night, he said, as they needed to keep moving. But tonight they would shower, rest, and eat “real” food (by which she guessed he meant his usual fare: five-star dining).

  He certainly did have exquisite taste, Gabby thought, as she wrapped her long wet hair in a fluffy towel and stepped out of the shower. Along with absolutely no qualms about taking the best of what he wanted. The bathroom she was standing in was nearly the size of her turret bedroom at home, and a designer’s dream. Cream marble shot with rose and adorned by gold fixtures, it had a walk-in marble shower with a built-in bench that sported top-of-the-line toiletries, as well as a decadent soaking tub.

  She snorted, recalling how effortlessly he’d “appropriated” their luxury accommodations. He certainly did know his way around the human realm. He’d left her standing in the domed entrance to the hotel, gaping at the abundance of glittering crystal, antique furnishings, and Old World elegance, feeling—despite the attempt she’d made on the train at freshening up—the epitome of I’ve-been-dunked-in-a-lake-and-slept-in-my-smelly-clothes grunge. He’d stalked off for the reservations counter while the doormen had stood sniffing disdainfully at her, and gone to work, invisible and undetectable, at an unoccupied computer terminal.

  A few moments later he’d returned with printed reservations in his hand. He’d taken her arm (which had caused the doormen to stiffen and blink suspiciously at the space she’d only an instant before been occupying) and guided her past them, into the elevator, up to the twenty-third floor.

  I’d have gotten the penthouse, he’d told her with a vaguely apologetic air, but it’s occupied. This is second best. If you like, we can go to a different hotel.

  As if. She’d never seen such exquisite accommodations before. The suite had three sumptuous rooms: a large, opulent bedroom with ornate mirrors, richly brocaded chairs, patterned-silk wallpaper, a real fireplace, and a magnificent canopied king bed; a dining room with an elegant table and leather chairs positioned before a sleek wall of windows that overlooked the city; and a living room with an oversized pullout sofa bed, a plasma TV, two sitting alcoves, and a small attached wet bar/kitchenette.

  Why did you bother with reservations? she’d asked. Why didn’t we just sneak into the room?

  If it were only me, I would have, but since I won’t be holding your hand nonstop—unless of course you’d like me to—he’d purred with a sexy smile and a glance in the direction of the shower, it’s simpler this way. More convenient for you.

  He’d pushed her toward the bathroom, told her he would return in one hour, then vanished.

  After he’d gone, she’d suffered a momentary, nearly immobilizing flash of panic—what if the Hunters somehow managed to find her while he was gone?—but it dissipated swiftly, leaving her astonished to realize that she truly trusted him to keep her safe, at least from everything besides himself.

  After raiding the wet bar for snacks, she’d taken an inquisitive peek inside the bathroom and begun stripping where she stood, leaving her dirty clothes in a pile outside the bathroom door. She’d lingered in the marble shower for twenty glorious minutes, letting the three steaming, jetting pulses—one above, one on each side—work magic on her cramped, sore muscles.

  Now, slipping into a thick, downy-soft, white courtesy robe, she stepped out into the bedroom.

  Her gaze fell on the bed. The only bed. Looked like she’d be sleeping on the pullout sofa.

  He’d kissed her.

  Out of the blue and without warning. Grabbed her by the shirt, yanked her close, and lowered that sinfully sexy mouth to hers. And when he’d done it, her lips had been slightly parted. (Okay, so maybe she’d parted them a teeny bit more at the last moment.) She’d expected him to take advantage of it, to thrust his tongue deep, to take her in a demanding, hungry, hot, and slippery kiss. She’d expected a full assault on her senses. She’d expected that kiss to escalate into a hot, steamy make-out session.

  Not.

  A chaste little kiss. Hardly even a kiss at all. Not that she would have invited his kisses, but—since he’d gone ahead and taken one and she was already damned for permitting it—was it too much to ask that he commit to it? Exercise a little follow-through?

  But no, he’d just stood there, not even really touching her except for the handful of shirt he was holding (and he hadn’t even tried to cop a feel of her breast while his hand was right over it; what kind of man passed up such an opportunity?), cocooning her in that erotic, spicy scent of jasmine and sandalwood, brushing his full, sexy lips against hers so lightly that it had made her want to scream. Or bite him.

  That tiny little touch, that thing that hardly even qualified as a kiss, had left her feeling hot and achy and miserable.

  She’d just stood there, dazed, looking up at him, knowing she should have put up at least a token fight, for heaven’s sake!

  Wishing he’d do it again. The right way.

  And, damn it, he’d known exactly what effect he’d had on her; the pure masculine satisfaction in his eyes had been unmistakable.

  With a little growl of irritation, she rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand and forced her mind away from that abysmal, aggravating, humiliating kiss, to what she’d learned over a pilfered lunch on the train.

  Which wasn’t much. No one could ever accuse Adam Black of overdisclosing. He either didn’t like to talk to humans about Faery, or he didn’t like to talk to her about Faery, because she’d had to pull teeth to get anything out of him at all. And what she’d gotten was, she figured, not even the tip of the iceberg.

  The beautiful, scarred, copper-haired Fae she’d seen was Darroc, a High Council Elder and an ancient nemesis of Adam’s. He believed Darroc had armed the Hunters with human weapons to make his death look like an accident, as if he’d inadvertently gotten caught in a spray of mortal gunfire. He believed Darroc was planning an attempt to usurp the queen’s power and, as they’d ever been on opposing sides, was taking advantage of the opportunity to get Adam out of the way once and for all.

  And that was the sum total of what she’d managed to learn. He’d refused to tell her what plan he had for saving them, only that he did, indeed, have one. He’d refused to discuss why he and Darroc despised each other so g
reatly, though when he’d spoken of him his deep voice had resonated with fury, forcing her to finally admit that part of what she’d been raised to believe was simply wrong: Fae did feel emotion.

  She could no longer deny it anymore. The evidence was right there in front of her eyes, and the brehon in her could not ignore evidence no matter how much she might like to. She could no longer tell herself that he was experiencing feelings because he was in human form and subject to the human condition. No, Adam and Darroc had hated each other for millennia, she’d heard it in his voice, and hate was emotion. Strong, deep emotion. Emotion he’d experienced in his Tuatha Dé form.

  The O’Callaghan Books clearly said, as Gram had confirmed, that Fae were incapable of any emotion. Large or small. That they were cold, icy, arrogant, unfeeling. Nor was there any mention of politics or feuds or any of those human-sounding things going on in Faery—as if the Fae were actually very much like humans. How could the books have been so wrong?

  Gee, maybe because they were written by the O’Callaghans who’d escaped the Fae. By ancestors who never interacted with one, never even spoke with one. Would you believe the report of an investigator who’d never even interviewed his subject? Present such a shoddy bit of “proof” in a case? The prosecution would have a field day with it!

  Oh, such thoughts were shaking her foundation at the very core. She blew out a gusty breath.

  Try to see past your preconceptions, Irish, would you? he’d said.

  Damn it all, he was blasting through them, one by one.

  After she dried her hair, Gabby used the hotel phone to check her messages at home. Her mom had called four times to remind her that she’d promised to fly out to California for her stepsister’s graduation next weekend, and she’d really like to talk to her before then.

  Gabby sighed. She hardly even knew her stepsiblings. In fact, she had been to California only twice in the past five years and couldn’t understand why it was suddenly so important to her mom that she attend a stupid high-school graduation. But lately her mom seemed to be coming up with all kinds of excuses to get Gabby to fly out for a visit.

  She may not be perfect, but she’s the only mother you’re ever going to have. You need to give her a chance, Gram had said a hundred times.

  I gave her a chance. I was born to her. That’s a chance. She left.

  Gabby, you need to try to see things from her—

  No.

  As she sat in a hotel room in Atlanta, she could still hear her mom’s voice from all those years ago as clearly as if she were seven again, awakened by a need to go to the bathroom, standing in her nightgown at the top of the stairs in the drafty, winter-chilled house, clutching a tattered stuffed unicorn, clinging to the carved post in the dark.

  She’s fascinated by them! She thinks they’re beautiful and wants to go live with them!

  She’s a child, Jilly. She’ll grow out of it.

  Then, you’ll have to help her grow out of it, because I can’t. I can’t deal with this.

  That night, had her vision been an appendage she could have hacked off with a knife, she would have. Stay, Mommy. I’ll be good. I promise. I don’t mean to see them.

  Gabby squeezed her eyes shut. Inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly.

  Then glanced at the clock and picked up the phone. It was dinner-time in California; her mom would be at work at Trio’s, the restaurant she managed.

  She dialed the home number, to get the answering machine. She left a terse message explaining that something had come up and she wouldn’t be able to attend the graduation, but she’d send a gift and call in a few weeks. Feeling guilty, as she usually did where her mom was concerned, she added, “Maybe I can fly out for Christmas this year, okay?”

  Assuming she was still alive.

  Outside the suite, Adam sat with his back against the door, shifting restlessly, impatient for a shower himself, and to further Gabrielle’s seduction.

  They could have slept on the train, in a passenger compartment with berth and bath, but he wanted her to taste more of the life he could give her, even without his full powers. Seduction required the appropriate stage, and luxury always made a splendid one. Besides, he wanted to do a bit of “shopping.” Trust would be a hard thing to win from her, but he could and would begin binding her to him this night with sex and gifts—those were his strengths, the things he could give better than any other man.

  He knew she liked the suite. He’d seen it in her eyes. He’d seen also her instant wariness when her gaze had fallen on the only bed. He’d removed himself for a time to give her a chance to acclimate, wanting her shower-warmed and relaxed, her guard down (in as much as she would ever drop her guard) when he returned.

  A glance down the hall at the clock above the elevators told him it would be soon: fifty-two minutes down, eight to go.

  Though he was certain they were safe stopping—the four Hunters Gabby had seen would have a hard time tracking them in modern cities with their millions of inhabitants and confusing man-made scents, and could only cover so much ground—he wasn’t about to leave her alone.

  Now that he was sifting place again—despite the tangle he’d left in Kentucky and all the Fae-residue in Cincinnati—he guessed they had a full day, at most two, before Darroc arrived in the general vicinity. Which was an acceptable risk, for by morning they would be gone. But this night, this one stolen night, would be his first.

  Then he would implement the plan he’d formulated on the train.

  It was now imperative he secure an audience with Aoibheal. She had to be apprised that Darroc had brought forth her Hunters from the Unseelie realm, something not only forbidden but costly to do, as the Hunters were mercenary to the core and handsomely retained by Aoibheal in exchange for powers and privileges.

  Adam knew of only one thing Darroc might have promised them to turn them from the queen’s service. The one thing the Hunters knew Aoibheal would never give them: freedom from their realm of shadow and ice. A return to the old ways.

  Which meant that Darroc was planning an attempt to overthrow the queen, and soon. And Adam had no doubt that, should Darroc come to power, not only would The Compact be immediately voided, the Unseelie would be freed and it would be war between the realms. Man would be plunged into a Dark Age the likes of which they’d not seen in millennia.

  He could no longer afford to waste time waiting for Circenn to resurface. It was no longer a case of him seeking an audience merely because he was fed up with his punishment. The queen was in danger, his Sidhe-seer was in danger, the future of all the realms was in jeopardy, and he was going to have to force Aoibheal to appear.

  When she’d first made him human, he’d toyed with this idea initially but had decided against it. Not only had he lacked the intermediary necessary to make it work, he knew the queen’s fury would know no bounds if he did such an unthinkable thing.

  But now, he thought darkly, he had a reason. Faery was doing precisely what he’d always suspected it would do without him—falling apart.

  In the morning, they would leave for Scotland.

  And there, on the first day of August, on the feast of Lughnassadh, a mere ten days hence, one way or another, by fair means or foul, Adam would do the unthinkable.

  A thing no other Tuatha Dé in existence would ever even consider doing.

  The queen would be incensed at first, but upon realizing why he’d done it, upon discovering Darroc’s treachery, she would be pleased and grateful. She would swiftly reinstate his power and restore his immortality. He probably wouldn’t even have to apologize (for things that he shouldn’t have to apologize for anyway). And all would be well once more.

  But tomorrow would be soon enough to contemplate such matters. Tomorrow would be all about becoming immortal and regaining his powers again.

  Tonight—he spared another glance at the clock, his dark face lighting with a smile to see that her hour was up—tonight was all about being as human as a man could possibly be.

  “Ar
e you ready to shop, ka-lyrra?”

  Gabby blinked and turned toward the door. Adam stood in the doorway to the living room, leaning against the doorjamb, wearing only a towel. She looked hastily away. But it was too late, the image was burned into her mind. Wet, glossy black hair slicked back from his face, magnificent chest and arms, powerful legs. Itty-bitty towel. Eternally present heavy bulge lifting said itty-bitty towel.

  A tiny, dreamy sigh escaped her. She camouflaged it hastily with a cough.

  “I didn’t hear you come back,” she said stiffly, fixing her gaze on the TV. She’d been sitting in the living room, flipping stations, waiting for him to return. Unable to bear the thought of pulling dirty, smelly jeans back on over her clean skin, she’d hand-washed her clothes in the tub, hoping they’d be dry by morning. Now she was seriously regretting it. She needed more than a robe on around him. She needed a full suit of armor. And so did he, she thought peevishly. How dare he just saunter about flaunting all that golden, muscular, masculine splendidness?

  “I sifted directly into the shower.”

  “There’s another robe in the bathroom,” she informed him tightly.

  “I know. I ripped it down the back when I tried to put it on. Men aren’t built like me in your century, are they?”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, Greek gods aren’t built like you, she thought irritably.

  “Come,” he repeated, joining her by the sofa and tugging her up by a hand. “Let’s go.”

  Taking a deep breath, she stood and forced herself to look directly into his face, denying herself even the tiniest skimming glance over his body. His gaze met hers, then dropped to the cleavage at her lapel. He wet his lip and gave her a slow smile, white teeth flashing in his dark face. The pink tip of his tongue danced against his teeth for a moment, sexy and playfully inviting.

  “What are we shopping for?” Oh, God, she thought dismally, had that been her breathy voice? Had the fourteen-year-old part of her psyche taken over control of her vocal cords?