Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  With a sweep of their pen, or a flourish on a keyboard, they let their time-traveling heroes and heroines pop in and out of the past as if such portals were revolving doors.

  Margo knew better.

  And she wanted to live her romance, not write or read one.

  “Margo ...” Magnus stepped back and gripped her chin then, tilting her face so she had to look at him. “I have no wish to speak of time gates. I see only you before me and that you are soft, warm, and desirable.” His words caressed her, warming her from within.

  “Your scent enchants me. It is like the clean, fresh air of a cold winter morning and heather, and—”

  “Not cold air and roses?” Margo knew her rose scent was no more. It’d been a Lunarian Organic perfumed body spray, Sea of Clouds, travel size.

  She also knew why she smelled of heather, but bit her lip.

  Magnus’s eyes heated and he pulled her close again, once more nuzzling her neck. “You bathed with my aunt Portia’s soap, didn’t you?”

  Margo nodded, the look in his eyes making her breath catch. “I mentioned loving roses and she told me she makes a special rose-scented soap. She gave me a jar and—”

  “You discovered it smelled of heather?” Magnus’s tone held amusement.

  “Actually, yes.” Margo smiled, loving the easy banter. It was a new side to him along with the dimple that flashed in his cheek as he smiled down at her.

  She met his gaze, her pulse fluttering. “The ‘rose’-scented oil she poured into the bathing tub also smelled of heather.”

  This time Magnus laughed. “Poor Aunt Portia. She makes all manner of soaps and essences, always announcing a new scent with such pride. Yet—”

  “It’s always heather.”

  “Aye, though none of us has the heart to tell her.”

  “I won’t, either. Don’t worry.” Margo’s heart warmed as she remembered the older woman’s pleasure in presenting her with the “rose”-scented toiletries.

  But when she felt her eyes starting to go starry again, she touched the plaid still slung over Magnus’s arm and looked up at him.

  “Why did you bring this?” She hoped her guess was right.

  He grinned, wickedly now. “To do this,” he said, shaking out the plaid and spreading it across a soft patch of low-growing heather.

  Turning back to her, he bracketed her face, kissing her deeply. “I would love you as only a Highlander can, beneath the wind and surrounded by heather, taking you on my plaid again and again until the light fades.”

  “Oh, Magnus, I—” She couldn’t finish. He stole her words with another kiss, this one harder and deeper than the last. The taste and scent of him flooded her senses, rousing and intoxicating her. His kisses were magic, the feel of his big muscle-bound body against hers beyond irresistible.

  She wanted him desperately.

  Before she could say so,he moved with lightning speed, rolling them to the ground so that she was sprawled on her back across the plaid. He straddled her, bracing his arms on either side of her and leaning forward so she was trapped by his powerful, kilt-clad body.

  “I want you, Margo.” His words made need well inside her, sharp and intense. “Here and now, the whole of me deep inside you.” He reached to pull up her skirt, baring her legs as he slid his hand up the inside of her thigh, stroking her nakedness, finding her slick and damp with arousal. “I can think of nothing but you, lass.

  “You are with me always.” His hand gripped her hard, squeezing. “Haunting my dreams and filling my days. There are times I think you always have been with me, even before . . . when I loved Liana. A part of me will love her always. She was good and—”

  “Please.” Margo pressed her fingers to his lips.

  “Don’t speak of her now.”

  He straightened his back, looking down at her. “But you should know that I—”

  “I know this is good.” Margo arched her back against the plaid, lifting her hips to increase the exquisite pressure of his hand clamping her mound.

  She had rather begged him to tell her that he loved her, but she wasn’t feeling particularly strong and courageous. Hearing of his shining devotion to his long-lost betrothed would shatter the bliss rippling all around them.

  It was a beautiful energy, and not purely from their own physical sensuality. There was something else, something that felt mystical. An elemental force that rose from the deep, peaty ground beneath his plaid, swirled out of the heather, and flowed strongly from the ageless, lichen-covered rocks. Perhaps the lifeblood of the land, it warmed the earth and thickened the air with its magic.

  “Liana is no more, lass.” The finality in Magnus’s words made her heart jolt.

  He didn’t sound crushed or even angry. He sounded only matter-of-fact. And—Margo gulped—he was using his free hand to tug off his plaid. He tossed it aside, and then reached for his sword belt, his fingers expertly working the clasp as he leapt to his feet, stripping so fast she saw only a blur of flashing tartan.

  Naked, he offered her his hand, pulling her to her feet in front of him. “I want you to ride me, Margo.” His hands were at her neck, undoing the knot of her shawl, then the clasp of her woolen cloak. “Like you did when I saw you in the kettle steam, but now, and here on my plaid.”

  “O-o-oh ...” Excitement made Margo light-headed until a rustling in the trees behind them burst her sensual bubble. She remembered that even though Dugan and Brodie had tactfully stepped back into the trees, they were still around. And they’d surely be watching.

  She could feel her cheeks coloring as she glanced at the wood. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” She scanned the dense fringe of pines, seeing nothing.

  Still...

  “Thon men will have their backs turned. Ne’er you worry.” He was pulling up her gown, already easing her arms from the sleeves. “They will have slipped deep into the gloom lest they wish to make me very angry, which they will nae.”

  Margo wouldn’t argue that.

  Besides, it was too late.

  He had her fully naked now. Their clothes were strewn about the heather and he’d once again thrust his hand between her legs, gripping her possessively.

  And just as he slid one finger inside her, teasing and tantalizing her, he lowered his head to lick her nipple.

  Margo cried out at the inferno of desire that flamed in her veins. She rocked against his hand and raised her breasts, offering them to him as he suckled her.

  Whatever concerns of modesty she’d had were now racing away on the cold Highland wind.

  It was too late to care.

  She wanted Magnus more than decorum.

  But she did hope he was right about Dugan and Brodie.

  Then she knew nothing except the liquid hot need rolling through her in great, glittering waves of pleasure. Incredible, sweeping desire crashed over her, nearly cresting, when he lowered himself onto the plaid and stretched out, opening his arms in invitation.

  She went to him eagerly, her entire body hot and trembling as he pulled her down on top of him and ran his hands up and down her sides.

  And as they kissed, Margo sensed the strange energy almost crackling in the air around them, the passion-warmed earth seeming to hum and breathe in tandem with them, keeping pace in an ancient, soul-binding rhythm.

  It flashed across Margo’s mind that Scotland was claiming her, too.

  Welcoming her, and sanctifying her love for this Highland man, initiating her in a long-forgotten pagan rite when people believed that making love so intimately close to the naked earth made them as one with the land.

  She loved the notion.

  But just now, she had to do something about the rivers of heated tingles racing back and forth across her neediest places, making her desperate, hungry inside.

  Surely knowing how much she desired him, Magnus gripped himself, holding the long, hard length of him in place for her as she scrambled over his thighs. She planted one knee on either side of him, and—being very s
trong and courageous now—arched her back to better display the fullness of her breasts as she lowered herself onto him, slipping down slowly, savoring each and every hot, rigid inch of him.

  “Margo ...” Never had her name sounded more beautiful as in his deep, buttery-rich burr, turned so husky by his passion. “Precious lass, you will split me.”

  He’d been running his hands all over her, but now he spread his arms out to the sides, fisting his hands until his knuckles gleamed white. His jaw clenched and his entire body tightened, veins standing out in his neck as he closed his eyes, inhaling through his teeth, as she lifted herself up and down, riding him.

  Margo threw back her head, pulling in great, greedy gulps of the chill air as molten pleasure heated her from within. Never had she felt this way, so fiercely connected to a man—and to the earth, wind, and sky all around them. It was a heady, empowering sensation.

  And so wondrous, so stunningly incredible, she couldn’t bear for it to end.

  But her heart pounded furiously and her fast-approaching release roared through her blood, urgent, demanding, and relentless. Any moment, she would shatter, splintering into nothingness.

  And she wanted that so badly.

  “O-o-oh, God . . .” She lifted and dropped back down on him faster, bending her back. She’d braced herself with her arms and now her hands slid off the edge of the plaid, her fingers digging deep into the soft, peaty earth.

  “Magnus, I ...” The words became a gasp, a shuddery cry, as an intense rush of pleasure spiraled through her. She was suddenly aflame, soaring to the headiest heights. She was only vaguely aware of Magnus lifting his hips up beneath her, shouting her name as they shared their completion.

  Panting and drained—but in a delicious, wonderful way—she would’ve collapsed limply on top of him, if he hadn’t reached for her, easing her into his arms.

  “How did I e’er live without you?” He rolled them onto their sides, careful to make sure his arm and shoulder supported her. “You needn’t worry about being swept away from me, Margo-lass.” He stroked her hair, traced a finger along the curve of her breast, then gently circled her nipple. “I’d rip open the sky to find you. And I’ll no’ frighten you by saying what I’d do to anyone who’d even try to injure you. You’re safe with me. Always.”

  “I know.” Margo could hardly speak.

  She did snuggle closer against him, the after ripples of her climax still rolling through her, beautifully languorous.

  Somehow, she dosed, stirring only when Magnus lifted her shoulders to ease her gown back down over her head, dressing her with an ease she’d have to ask him about someday, when she didn’t want to break the mood.

  His hands were wonderfully skilled. Even his most innocent touches made desire spiral inside her, tempting her to arch her body against his. She wanted his mouth on hers again, needed his kisses so much she could scarcely breathe. He could so easily sweep her away on a rush of passion. And she was so blessed to be with him.

  Already dressed, he stood looking down at her, a smile tugging at his lips. “You are now a true Highlander’s woman, Margo-lass. No woman can make the claim”—his gaze flicked to the rumpled plaid—“until her man has had her in the heather.”

  “Some might say I had you.” Margo looked up at him, pleased when his smile deepened, showing his dimple.

  “And you may have me again, later this e’en if you wish.” He placed a hand on his sword hilt, his expression turning serious. “For the now, I must return to Badcall and see if my lads are doing well with their sword and ax training. Will you come back with me?”

  “I don’t know.” Margo started to rise, but her limbs still felt like wet noodles. Each breath was an exertion and her heartbeat was yet ragged. And now that they were both dressed again and the strange pulsing earth magic that had thickened the air had faded, she did have a slight niggle of propriety concern.

  People could always tell when someone had just had a hot tumble in bed.

  She was sure medieval Highlanders knew when a woman had just enjoyed a lusty roll in the heather.

  A quick glance at the trees, where Dugan and Brodie had reappeared like clockwork, proved her theory. The two men looked painfully uncomfortable.

  No way was she going to place everyone at Badcall Castle in such a position.

  “I’ll stay here a bit. Thank you.” She leaned back on her arms, tipping her face into the wind. “It is a lovely afternoon and ... you know, it’s very special for me to be here. I’ll come back before dark, and then I’ll take another of Aunt Portia’s ‘rose’ baths before supper.”

  “You’re sure?” Magnus lifted a brow.

  “I am.” Margo smiled.

  “As you wish, sweet.” He bent to ruffle her hair and kiss her brow.

  Then he turned and was striding away from her, heading for the thick line of trees and the darkness beyond. Margo’s heart seized when he disappeared from view. She loved him more than life itself.

  And he might not have said the words, but she was starting to suspect that he could love her, too.

  Whatever happened, she knew she’d never forget this time with him.

  Not that it would matter.

  Because if she lost him, life as she knew it would no longer exist.

  Her heart would be left in turmoil. And she knew she’d go through her days walking blind and unable to breathe. She’d be living proof that the old adage about time healing all ills was a total falsehood.

  The passing years wouldn’t soothe her.

  They’d destroy her.

  Chapter 19

  Hours later, Magnus stood in his torchlit hall at Badcal Castle, looking on as Gilbert, a kitchen laddie, piled driftwood onto the hearth fire. Magnus’s two aunts, who were secretly known as the Ship-Breast Sisters because of their sturdy size and large, shelflike bosoms, were fussing at the lad. Agnes kept warning him to take care as he thrust the twisted, silvery wood in with the peats. Driftwood hissed and spat, and Agnes had set a basket of tatty, moth-eaten plaids, shirts, and table linens close by the fire.

  She wanted to sort through the discarded goods and hoped the fire glow would aid her no-longer-so-sharp eyes as she searched for reworkable bits of cloth.

  Aunt Agnes enjoyed giving new life to her treasures, as she called such rescued scraps.

  Magnus folded his arms, hoping he wouldn’t have to intervene.

  His aunts were forceful women and arguing with them only made them cross. But in truth, he loved them dearly.

  He was especially pleased by how well they’d taken to Margo. They’d accepted her quickly, cosseting her as if they’d loved her forever. There wasn’t a day they didn’t show her warmth. And more affection than he’d ever seen them give anyone. They clucked over her like two mother hens.

  Magnus suspected they looked on her as the daughter neither of them ever had. For a number of unfortunate reasons, the sisters hadn’t wedded, remaining lifelong maids, much to their unspoken sorrow.

  At times, they could be daunting.

  This was one of those instances. Gilbert was a wee mite and a timid lad.

  He was terrified of the two women.

  Sadly, he was also afraid of Magnus. He had only to glance at Gilbert and the boy nearly jumped out of his skin. Something Gilbert did because, according to Calum and others, Magnus so often walked about wearing a dark scowl.

  Lately, he smiled much more often.

  Now that Margo was with him.

  He’d even surprised himself by laughing on occasion. It’d been a greater wonder to learn how good that felt, to laugh again. But Gilbert hadn’t seen him in a while, certainly not in the weeks since returning from Redpoint with Margo on board the Sea-Raven. So Gilbert was avoiding looking in Magnus’s direction, although Magnus was sure the boy knew he was there.

  “Don’t be putting it there, lad.” Agnes tsked just as Gilbert stretched to drop a twist of driftwood onto the top of the peats.

  “His name is Gilbert.” Magnus s
poke low from the shadows. “You’ll scare him less if you call him rightly.”

  “You’re one to tell a body how not to frighten a soul!” Agnes bent an annoyed look on Magnus as she bustled between the boy and the fireplace. Huffing as only annoyed older women can, she maneuvered her bulk so that Gilbert couldn’t thrust a large piece of driftwood into the smoldering peat fire.

  “Put the wood in the back, see?” She pointed, indicating where she meant. “That way we’ll not have sparks shooting onto my creel of treasures.” Gilbert complied, quickly tossing the driftwood deep inside the hearth.

  “Agggh! Not that way.” Agnes waved her hands, wailing. “Don’t be throwing the wood. You’ll have ash raining all over us.”

  “And let’s have the next piece here, eh?” Aunt Portia lent her opinion, her heavy heather scent wafting in the air as she extended her arm to direct the lad.

  “Aye, Lady Portia.” Gilbert bobbed his head and picked up another twist of driftwood, moving toward the fire to do as she bade.

  But he didn’t look happy.

  And when Magnus saw Agnes swell her formidable breast and prepare to scold the boy anew, he strode forward to snatch her basket of discarded cloths off the floor.

  “We need a good fire this night, Aunts.” He braced the basket against his hip, looking at them levelly.

  “Even”—he winked at Gilbert—“if driftwood spits like the devil hisself.

  “I like the blue flames.” He wasn’t about to tell his aunts why. That the seductive blue-purple fire with its haunting hint-of-the-sea scent swept him back to a tiny cothouse in Badachro where he’d first made love to Margo by the light of a driftwood fire.

  Instead, he straightened his shoulders. “After we’ve dined and the hall is cleared for the night, I’ll have extra candles taken to your quarters. You can sort the cloth remnants there, Aunt Agnes.

  “By the light of a few fine candelabrums and no’ here before the hall fire, where you had to know the driftwood hisses and spits.” He set a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder, his grip firm as his aunts fussed and spluttered before sailing away into the gloom of the great hall.

  Once they were gone, he roughed the boy’s hair.