Tempting the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

“Because I want you.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve given you a stout stick.”

  “I do not hit people!”

  “But you will have to, little Cat,” he whispered, taking hold of her chin again and leaning close. “Because that’s the only way to get rid of me.”

  “I’ll just leave,” she said, her words washing against him, only to echo back the regret in her voice.

  “You’re done running, Catherine. You’ll take your stand here, with me, or you might as well dig a hole and crawl inside and pull it closed behind you.”

  “You’re doing it again,” she said, scrambling around until she knelt facing him, determined to make him understand. “You’re seeing something that’s not there. I’m not the brave woman you keep saying I am. I have all I can do to get up every morning and face another uncertain day.”

  “But ya still get up, lass.”

  “I don’t want you to want me,” she whispered. “It will only hurt us both.”

  “Too late,” he murmured, cupping her face. “When you found me on the mountain and chose to save my life rather than run, it was too late for both of us.”

  Catherine thought about telling him that she hadn’t had any choice at all. She thought about going over and getting that stick and finally making him understand. And then she thought about how secure she had felt in his arms when he’d hugged her. How brave. And yeah, how strong.

  So strong in fact, Catherine decided as she looked into his compelling gray eyes, that she could finally quit wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by Robbie MacBain and simply kiss him herself.

  Mimicking his hold on her, she cupped the sides of his face and pulled his mouth down on hers. And it wasn’t a fleeting kiss she gave him, by God, but one that wouldn’t leave any doubt that it was happening.

  Robbie made a noise—she couldn’t decide if he grunted or groaned—folded her into his arms, and leaned back against the wall. He canted his head and deepened the kiss—that she had started—by parting his lips over hers.

  He tasted like very fine scotch, a perfect blend of heat and masculine appeal that set her mind spinning. There was nothing tentative about him this time, nothing fleeting or obscure.

  Catherine opened her mouth, her growing urgency yearning for more, and melted against him, tasting, teasing his advancing tongue, welcoming the tremors racing through her. She also made a sound but recognized it as her own sense of wonder that she was not frightened but empowered by his response.

  The muscles of his shoulders tightened under her hands, the tendons in his neck straining as he moved to taste her. Her breasts felt heavy, her nipples quickening from the blasting heat of his chest against hers.

  Catherine rose to meet each new sensation and decided her libido was far from dead. This towering giant of a man, with his maddening choice of a stick or a hug, only mocked her fears with his mouth, his taste, his all-consuming presence.

  He broke the kiss, his lips forging a trail of quivering pleasure along her jaw, up her cheek, and across her temple. And then he covered her head with his hand and tucked her under his chin with a sigh so fierce the air rushed from her lungs.

  “I’m thinking we should stop now,” he whispered. “Before I forget my noble intentions.”

  Catherine would have sighed herself if his impassioned embrace would have let her. She’d somehow ended up straddling his lap, and the indecent position—and the blatant evidence of his not-so-noble desire pushing intimately against her—finally unnerved her.

  She tested those very intentions by trying to wiggle free. He groaned quite loudly, picked her up, and stood her on the floor before she could gasp.

  She faced him, clutching the front of her sweater in her fists, her forearms pressed against her sensitized breasts, her face feeling as if it was about to combust.

  “No more choices, Cat. Just turn around and walk away.”

  “I…this was…that kiss wasn’t…”

  “Go in the house, Catherine.”

  She spun toward the door.

  “And take the stick with you.”

  Catherine turned back, shaking her head. “I don’t want it.”

  He slid off his perch and walked to the stick, and picked it up, then came over, put it in her hand, and closed her fist around it. “But I do want ya to have it. Stand it next to the clock in the kitchen, and if another fight ever breaks out and I’m not home, use it.”

  She tried to shove it back at him. “I won’t hit anyone.”

  He continued to hold her fist closed over the stick. “If a stranger comes to the house and threatens your children, will you waggle your finger at him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “If Rick starts fighting with Peter and won’t stop, and there’s no one else around, what will you do?”

  “I…I would…I’d…”

  He gently ran a finger down the side of her face. “It’s only a weapon, Cat. An equalizer that can multiply your strength times ten. A stout stick can make the difference between being completely defenseless against someone twice your size or being victorious.”

  “It’s also a weapon that could be turned against me.”

  “Aye. But tomorrow I’ll begin teaching you how to keep that from happening.”

  “What?”

  “Weapons are only as effective as the person using them, Catherine. But with the proper training, you could drop a bear in its tracks with only a stick.” He smiled and lightly tapped the end of her nose. “And I’m going to show you how to do that. You can always find something for a weapon, be it a baseball bat, a broom handle, or a tree branch.”

  She pulled free, clutched the stick to her chest, and rubbed her nose on her sleeve. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out, so she snapped it shut, spun around, and marched toward the end of the barn.

  “Sleep well, little Cat,” he softly called after her.

  Catherine stopped at the door and turned back to him, still clutching the stick to her chest. “I—I would like for you to set an example for Nathan and Nora,” she quietly told him. “And I do want to help with the boys.” She lifted her chin. “But I also want you to stop whatever you’re doing up on that mountain.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to settle for two out of three.”

  “I could stop you by telling your father.”

  “Aye, but you won’t. It’s not adventure that takes me up the mountain, Catherine, but duty. And the one thing you must never do is interfere in my duty.”

  “Your duty,” she repeated, glaring at him. “What kind of duty compels a man to get beat up and nearly killed? That’s not duty, that’s foolishness.” She waved her hand in frustration. “And if you know you’re going to get in a fight, why in heck don’t you carry something better than that stupid sword you had when I found you?”

  He softly chuckled. “That stupid sword is my weapon of choice, just as that stick will be yours once I’ve instructed you. Go in the house, Catherine. You’ve dealt with enough for one day. In time, you’ll come to understand why I do what I do, but not tonight.”

  She stared down the long aisle of the softly lit barn; he stood with his feet planted firmly, his arms crossed over his chest, and his piercing gray eyes focused directly on hers.

  Catherine turned and quietly walked out of the barn.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He didn’t know why he was surprised that when Catherine Daniels set her mind to something, she approached it with the fierceness of a lion protecting her cubs. But as she again tried to split open his head with her stick, Robbie wondered if he was creating a monster or merely providing an outlet for six married years of abuse.

  He robbed Catherine of her target by simply ducking her impressively vicious swing. “You’re letting your emotions rule your actions,” he pointed out as she turned to face him, her stick raised for another strike.

  He held up his hand to stop her. “This is what I was trying t
o explain earlier, Cat. You started with calculated moves, but now you’re just taking wild swings out of sheer frustration. If you become emotionally involved, you’ve lost the fight.”

  She stood the stick on the ground and leaned against it as she wiped a shaky hand over her brow. “When someone’s trying to knock your teeth out, it does get emotional,” she said, her face red with exertion.

  He walked up and disarmed her, then balanced the stick on one of his fingers. “Nay, it’s about control. Your weapon is your lever, you’re the fulcrum, and your strength is multiplied when you power your swing through your body.”

  “My high-school physics is rusty.”

  “But you still use it every day. You pry the stubborn lid off a jar or displace your weight when you lift a twenty-pound roast out of the oven. Use your body, Cat,” he said, positioning her hands, putting one in the middle of the stick and one about eighteen inches off center. He moved to stand behind her and placed his own hands over hers. “Don’t swing it like a baseball bat. Push the stick away from yourself,” he instructed, thrusting her right hand forward.

  He followed that move by pushing her left hand in a downward arc and then up, stopping with the shorter end of the stick about level with a man’s jaw.

  “There,” he said. “You smack him on the shoulder first and quickly follow through by using the momentum of his reaction—which will be to push the stick away—and come up and strike him under the chin. Or here,” he suggested, jabbing the short end forward again. “You can aim for either his throat or his sternum. One quick, powerful thrust, and he’ll be gasping for breath.”

  “But what if the person I’m fighting knows how to fight?” she asked, stepping out from his embrace and turning to face him. “What if he’s someone like you and knows all the tricks?”

  Robbie gestured toward the pasture. “Then you revert to your trusty old standby. You run like hell.”

  “And if I can’t run? If I’m cornered?”

  He nodded at the stick in her hand. “You’ll at least be able to fight your way out of a corner by the time we’re done. But Cat, most of the people you encounter won’t be trained in hand-to-hand combat.”

  “And they’ll think I don’t pose a threat, because of my size and gender,” she repeated from his earlier lecture.

  “Aye. Surprise is your greatest weapon.”

  She looked down at the stick, then back up at him, and broke into a brilliant smile. “Thank you. I never thought violence could have a bright side, but being able to defend myself sure beats the heck out of spending three weeks in the hospital.”

  “Aye. But it’s only violence if you allow your emotions to get involved. Properly used, a weapon is nothing more than a tool. You don’t want to kill anyone but protect yourself. And you accomplish that by being the one who is in control.”

  She twirled the stick in her hand like a baton and shot him a smug smile. “I rather like that idea. What other tricks have you got up your sleeve?”

  Aye, he was creating a monster, all right. But at least she would be a prepared monster from now on. “How do you feel about knives?” he asked.

  Her smile left as quickly as it had come. “You have to get close to someone to use a knife.”

  He dismissed her concern with a shake of his head and leaned over and pulled his small dagger from his boot. “But it’s still better than a stick,” he said, holding out the dagger for her to take. “And can be handy for other things as well.”

  She examined the sharp, tiny knife. “This looks old.”

  “Aye. It’s about the same age as my sword.”

  She canted her head at him. “Where is your sword, by the way?” she asked, lifting a brow. “And the two plaids I washed and mended and put in your closet?”

  “Stashed on the mountain.”

  She stared at him, obviously weighing her chances of getting him to elaborate. She must have decided he wouldn’t, because she dropped her gaze to the two weapons in her hands.

  She gave the dagger back to him. “I think I’ll learn how to use the stick first,” she said, placing her hands where he’d positioned them before. “It’s much more scary-looking and will be more intimidating.”

  Robbie slid the dagger in his boot with a chuckle, then planted his feet and crouched, holding his arms out and waggling his fingers at her. “Come on, then, little Cat. Let’s see if you can’t take my breath away.”

  She eyed him, eyed her stick, then looked back up, her fierce expression broken only by her determined smile. But she didn’t go for his shoulder first and then his jugular as he had showed her. No, the little monster feigned the expected attack, then aimed her first strike at his knees—just as a green Suburban pulled into the driveway.

  Distracted by both the arrival of company and her deception, Robbie misjudged Cat’s swing, and the solid maple stick connected with his left knee. He was only able to keep his head from being cracked open as she followed through by speeding up his unexpected journey to the ground.

  He heard Cat’s gasp at about the same time he hit the dirt. Aye, Dr. Frankenstein had nothing on him when it came to creating monsters.

  “Ohmygod! You let me hit you!” She grabbed his shoulder and tried to lift him up. “You’re supposed to pay attention!”

  He let her roll him over and lay with his eyes closed, hiding his smile as she continued to scold.

  “This is why you come home all beat up,” she muttered, brushing the dirt off his cheek. “You allow yourself to get distracted.”

  Robbie heard four truck doors slam, quickly followed by approaching male laughter he would recognize from his grave, and female tsk-tsk-ing.

  He finally released his smile and opened his eyes. “My papa’s about to praise you for your trick and probably give you a hug for bringing me to my knees.”

  “Th-That’s your father?” she groaned, looking toward the driveway, her face turning a lovely shade of red. “Ohmygod,” she whispered, glaring at Robbie just before closing her eyes. “He’s going to think I’m more crazy in person than on the phone.”

  Robbie sat up and brought his nose inches from hers. “I’m impressed, little Cat.”

  “For hitting you?”

  “Nay, for deciding I wouldn’t retaliate. I saw it,” he whispered. “In your eyes, right when you hit me. I saw your horror, and then I saw the moment you realized you had nothing to fear from me.”

  “All that while planting your face in the dirt?” she asked. She reached over and tapped the end of his nose. “Amazing, considering you couldn’t see my swing coming.”

  Robbie touched his nose and hid his smile by standing up and taking the time to rub his knee.

  “Now I’m understanding how ya’ve been able to keep this one longer than the others,” his papa said as he brushed past Robbie and over to Cat. “She’s the one terrorizing you.” He held out his hand. “I’m Michael. We met on the phone yesterday.”

  “It—it’s nice to meet you, Mr. MacBain.”

  “And I’m his mum,” Libby said, taking Cat’s hand from his father to hold in hers. “Please, call me Libby. I’ve been hearing some wonderful things about you. Not from Robbie,” she added, turning to frown at him before looking back at Cat. “Rick and Peter stopped by two days ago for a short visit.”

  “And this is Gram Katie,” Robbie added, putting his arm around Libby’s mother and bringing her over. “And you’ve already met Ian.”

  His poor housekeeper tried to tuck her hair into place, and then she brushed down the front of her grass-stained sweatshirt. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she told them, giving each a nod as she slowly inched her way toward the house. “I’ll just go put on the kettle for tea. I have a pan of blueberry cobbler cooling on the counter.”

  “We can’t stay, I’m afraid,” Michael said. “We’re on our way to Bangor to shop. We’re just dropping off Ian.”

  Robbie looked at his uncle.

  Ian lifted his chin. “I hate to shop. And I feel like a walk
in the woods, with you along to protect me from the bears.”

  “He’ll walk with you, Ian,” Libby said, staring at Robbie. “Just as soon as I get a hug. You live two miles away, and I haven’t seen you in nearly two weeks.”

  “You’ve been at Maggie’s when I’ve tried to visit,” Robbie said in his defense, reaching out and giving her a hug.

  He suspended his breath and waited, but Libby only patted his back, gave him a squeeze, and stepped away with a nod.

  “There. I feel better now.” She turned to Cat, who had managed to inch her way a good ten feet closer to the front porch. “You’ll have Robbie bring you to dinner this Sunday,” she told his housekeeper. “And please, bring your children. I’m anxious to meet your family.”

  Cat looked from Robbie to Libby and nodded. “Thank you. I’d like that. I’ll bring dessert.”

  “I believe you have my lasagna pan,” Kate said, taking Cat by the arm and heading toward the house, Libby falling into step on the other side of her mother. Ian muttered something about this taking a while—and something about blueberry cobbler—and tagged along behind them.

  Robbie turned to his father, who was eyeing the stick lying on the ground. Michael picked it up, hefted its weight, and looked at Robbie with one eyebrow raised.

  “It’s a long story,” Robbie said, leaning over to rub his knee again.

  “I imagine I have time to hear it, considering the women are in the kitchen. They’ll likely be there an hour talking about recipes.”

  Robbie sighed, sat down on the ground, and wrapped his arms around his bent knees. He stared at Pine Lake, waiting until his father was settled beside him.

  “She and her children were camping out in that old cabin up on TarStone, on the land I bought from Greylen two years ago.” He looked at his father. “She’s running from an abusive ex-husband who just got paroled from prison three months ago.”

  “Aye. I guessed it was something like that from what Peter and Rick said.” Michael rolled the heavy maple stick in his hand. “And so you’ve taken in another stray—three, actually—and you’re teaching Catherine how to deal with her ex-husband?”