by Ju Ephraime
“What does yer life in America have to do with anything? Are ye planning on taking me with ye?”
“If you behave, I’ll consider it. It will give you a break from the warring and fighting,” she told him, looking at him through her lashes. Coira couldn’t tell what had gotten into her that she was flirting with him. It could be the knowledge that he was trying to figure out a way to send her back home that had affected her.
Without any warning, he moved closer to her and very gently brushed his lips against hers. The action was so unexpected she stood there, frozen. He must have taken her lack of resistance as permission because he repeated the action. His lips were firm and soft. She found herself waiting for the feel of them against hers again as she stood with her eyes closed and her lips pursed.
He didn’t keep her waiting. He kissed her for the third time, softly and excruciatingly slowly, as if she were a butterfly and he was scared of frightening her away. If this was a coaxing, a tempting, an initiation to his kind of kissing, as well as a strategy to break down her defenses, he was succeeding beautifully. Coira could feel her heart racing as her blood coursed through her veins, igniting a fire in her. She was afraid to breathe too deeply for fear of disturbing the focused concentration he had on her lips. She felt as if she was flying; Coira lost track of time and had no idea how long he spent caressing her lips. She knew only that she would remain this way forever if need be.
He took hold of her face and traced the seam of her lips with his finger, all the while following the path of his finger with his lips. He did not offer to enter her mouth. All this kissing was done to her lips. If his purpose was to make her crave more, it was working. She couldn’t help touching his finger with the tip of her tongue, thinking to take it into her mouth.
With a hoarse groan, he moved his hand to her head and followed her tongue inside her mouth, stroking it with his in a velvety dance that had her moaning, opening to give him better access. She brought up her hands, plunging them into the silken fall of his flaming hair. She was kissing him back with the same rapacious hunger with which he appeared to be kissing her when, suddenly, he was gone. One minute she was running her fingers through his hair and the next she was holding air… He had spun on his heels and walked away.
Coira was too stunned at her behavior to react to his. She stood there watching him stride down the corridor, feeling confused and bereft. Her lips were tingling and slightly swollen from the abrasion of his beard rubbing against her softer skin. Coira watched him walk all the way to the end of the hallway. As he was about to walk through the doorway, he turned and gave her a wicked smile.
Coira was mortified. So he knew what he was doing all along. He was playing with her. Well, she’d not play this game with him. He’d better keep his hands off her, or she’d hit him where it’d hurt. For now, she had to mull over the outrageous story Alasdair had just told her. It didn’t make any logical sense.
Why would his people expect him to marry her? There had to be an explanation that was better than the one he so glibly told her. Hers was not to question the wherefore and whys of this Laird. She just knew there was no way she would allow him anywhere near her body. He was too dangerous. She sat down on the first available chair she came to, too ashamed to leave the room for fear of encountering anyone. She had no idea how long she sat there before quietly getting up and making her way to one of the outdoor gardens.
This was much more relaxing than her verbal or physical match with the Laird. She spent the better part of the day in the garden, too distraught to venture indoors or return to her room. She had been sitting for several hours, trying to figure out her situation, when Imogene found her. To hear her tell it, she’d scoured the entire castle searching for her when the Laird told her to check the garden. So he’d known where she was all along.
She walked back into the main castle with Imogene, trying her best to make herself invisible. She didn’t want staff staring at her, and they did. She felt like a specimen being examined for everything she did. Coira wanted to be back in Manhattan in her apartment, visiting her dad and doing a job she loved. She was no good at being idle. If she was to spend more days like the one she’d just had, she’d go stark raving mad, and she couldn’t afford to suffer that fate.
“Would ye like to freshen up before dinner, m’lady?”
“Yes, Imogene. I’d like that.”
“Are ye going to be having dinner in yer room, or will ye be joining the Laird?”
“I really don’t have much of anything to wear, so I believe I’ll be having dinner in my room.”
“What happened to yer bags, m’lady?”
God forgive her, but she’d have to make up a lie. She blamed Alasdair for this. He had her involved in his tale of lies. “I lost some of bags during my journey here, I only have the one small bag.”
“Would ye like our dressmaker to attend ye, m’lady?”
“You have a dressmaker?”
“We have several, m’lady. The Laird is responsible for the entire village beyond the castle, so it’s easy to find a dressmaker. Do ye have to talk with the Laird about it?”
“No, take me to the dressmaker, Imogene.” This would serve him right if she ran up a large bill. She hadn’t asked to be here.
They set off at a brisk pace in search of a dressmaker among the castle staff. They were in luck. They found three women. Two of them were older women and a bit standoffish, but the third one, Ally, was younger, about her age, and very enthusiastic to try her hand at designing a wardrobe for the Laird’s future wife. Coira had dinner in her room, crying tiredness from the long trip on horseback.
* * * *
It took Ally two days to create three beautiful dresses for her. One of them was fashioned with a cotehardie, which she loved. The cotehardie was a truly dramatic garment. It had a snugly fitting bodice and sleeves attached to a long, very wide skirt with many folds. The skirt began just below her breasts, and its fuller bulkier skirt showed off her waist beautifully, making it appear longer than it was.
Ally also made her two complete sets of undergarments and two sleep chemises, one made out of linen and one made out of wool. Two of the dresses were low cut, and one had a high neck. She was given a supply of hose for her legs, which came in a variety of colors and were secured above the knee with garters.
Coira loved them all. Her favorite was a simple but elegant number in the clan’s colors. It had a longer dark green skirt with layers of fabric, which swept the floor when she walked. The dress had a shorter skirt in dark blue, which came down into four points, two in the front and two in the back. It had a princess waistline in the clan’s plaid, decorated with single beads. The bodice was white with wide bell sleeves, each with a dark blue ribbon that formed a bow at her shoulders. She felt like a princess when she tried it on. It was a work of art.
The other two dresses were much simpler and, therefore, easier to make and easier to get into as well. She had been wearing borrowed shoes because her tall, spike-heeled boots were not conducive to walking in the Highlands, so they visited the cordwainer while they were at it. He was able to fit her for a pair of dress shoes and a pair of walking shoes.
Coira was beginning to feel a bit more comfortable wearing the outfit, not that she wanted to trade places. She knew she had to make the most of her circumstances until she could figure her way out of there. For now, she was willing to fit in, and if that meant dressing as a villager, then so be it. She preferred not to have them viewing her as English because she was not.
After all the running around, she was determined to present herself in the great hall at dinner. Imogene had one of the other women adjust the two outfits she had brought with her from Alasdair’s sister to fit her. She now had five dresses. She still didn’t have suitable shoes. Coira supposed it was either wear her spikes, go in borrowed shoes that didn’t fit properly, or go bare foot, and she didn’t think the latter was a viable option for her.
* * * *
Alasdair
had been scouring the castle looking for Coira. She seemed to have vanished. No one seemed to have seen her. His heart was racing as he returned to the blue chamber for the third time. Not expecting her to be there, he didn’t bother knocking, so opening the door, he walked in. The sight that greeted his eyes had all the blood leaving his brain and rushing to his groin.
“Why are ye always in a state of undress? Do ye do this to torture me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. There are several things wrong with this statement. To begin with, this is supposed to be my room; as such, I expected some privacy. Two, I don’t think about you when I’m undressing”—liar, but he doesn’t need to know that—“and, three, I didn’t think I had the power to torture you. On the contrary, you have all the power.”
Alasdair had a difficult time arguing with her while she was thusly dressed or undressed, depending on how you looked at it. Hell, he had a problem arguing with her if she was covered from head to toe in flannel. She had a way of getting under his skin.
“What have ye been up to? I was going to ask Imogene to take ye to the dressmaker to get something appropriate to wear.”
“Why?”
“I want ye to dine with me tonight.”
“Well, well, well. You didn’t ask, you just commanded me to dine with you. Please keep in mind I’m not yours to command.”
“No, because ye are soon to be my wife, and ye have to be presented to my clan that way.”
“Get it through your head, Laird. I’m not marrying you; therefore, there’s no need for the charade.”
“The only thing that’s keeping ye safe is the fact that ye will soon be my wife. So if I were ye, I’d be very grateful for that option. Yer very life depends on it. Also, it’s imperative that ye go around representing yer station.”
* * * *
Coira couldn’t allow him to keep going on and on. She needed to finish dressing. “If it will set your mind at rest, Imogene took me to a dressmaker and a cordwainer, so I have a couple changes of clothes.”
“How were ye able to pay for such things?”
“How do you think? I put it all on your account. Everyone went out of his or her way to accommodate me.”
“Ye are a very enterprising woman.”
“Yes, I am. In my world you help yourself or get left behind. Now, will you please allow me some privacy to change?”
* * * *
Alasdair stood there watching her. He couldn’t imagine her being left anywhere. He found no reason to continue the argument, but he was reluctant to leave. He wanted to tell her to continue with what she was doing and pay him no mind.
He was burning up with his need to tup her. He couldn’t get it out of his mind. Ever since he’d first set eyes on her, that thought was ever present in his mind. Alasdair knew, if she looked down, she’d see the evidence of her effect on him because his plaid was straining at the groin.
When she flat-out refused to continue with what she was doing, he had no other choice but to leave her to her dressing.
CHAPTER TEN
Alasdair made his way to his chambers, still thinking about the lass. He couldn’t help thinking he was evidently not having the intended effect on the lass. He should stop thinking of her as “the lass” and think of her as Coira. The walk to his chambers was accomplished with a great deal of difficulty. He didn’t know what it was about her that caused him to feel so strongly, but he did.
Also, walking in to find her in various stages of undress didn’t help matters. He took a deep breath and felt the power of the geas surging through his veins like molten fire. He had resisted using magic to find out about Coira, but he had no other choice now. He’d given up fighting the way Coira made him feel.
The past week in her company had been hellish. He’d always believed in training to keep his men in prepared shape, but Coira’s arrival had him training twice as hard and more frequently to keep those feelings she evoked in him at bay. He had to exhaust himself every day so he might fall asleep at night. So far, it was not working.
He thought of nothing but being buried between her thighs. She was an exquisite temptation. Alasdair feared if he didn’t have her, and very soon, he’d go up in smoke. He was going to scry his future to see what was in store for him with her.
He had not scryed before, although he had witnessed it done by members of his clan, especially his mither. She did nothing without scrying. She believed in it. He had tried to distance himself from the practice, but now that she’d made him the product of Druid magic, he supposed he had to use what he had.
He had to prepare himself for the task ahead of him. He would do as he had seen her do and go into meditation before attempting to scry. The Druids used the central symbol of a tree in their meditation. Powerful and peaceful, still, and yet fully alive, the tree breathed in and out, acting in service to all of life to complete the transition into meditation. While some meditation methods sought to transcend the body, Druids used meditation to honor the physical realm, to deepen their awareness of its sacredness and needs and their sense of connection to all life, whether embodied or otherworldly.
The technique, called inner journeying used to enter Otherworld, was one of the few he was good at. He had learned it at his mither’s knee when he was a child, though he did not practice it often. It was draining, and oftentimes, he did not get the answer he sought, but this he had to do. He needed to know if this time his marriage to Coira would take place. Alasdair knew she did not believe in the magic that had been a huge part of his life from birth and, even it seemed, in death.
He could remember the events of his life only in picture frames. He had lived so long, always on the periphery, never really participating, more like an observer. He had never had a wife or children. He had been too transitional to put down roots in any one place. He was curious to know what the future held for him now that Coira was in his life.
Sighing, Alasdair picked up the crystal ball off his night table, and after walking to the rear wall of his chamber, he placed his hand against it until he located the marks for his fingers. Placing his five fingers into the indications, he pressed down hard. It took three tries before the wall began to move until it was replaced by an opening into which he stepped down.
The room was pitch-black, the soil moist and damp, fed by the stream of volcanic activity that flowed beneath the castle. As he stood to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, the holly tree, which had been growing there before his ancestors built the castle around it, seemed to glow, beckoning him.
He approached the tree with rapid strides; as he drew near, he could see a shiny object hanging on the tallest branch of the tree. On closer inspection, he saw it was his old shield. It was a shield he had used before his death; it seemed someone, most likely his mither, had thought to preserve it for him. He remembered it well. It had saved his life many a times.
He took it onto his shield arm, his left arm, and assumed the defensive position. He was immediately assaulted by a surge of power racing through his body, it convulsed in his left arm, and the shield began to pulsate. The longer he held it, the stronger the pulsation was until he was shaking from the power produced by the shield. He withdrew his sword and lashed out at an imaginary opponent, the strapping of the shield tightened around his wrist as it became an extension of his arm. It was like nothing he had ever felt before.
He tried removing the shield, but he couldn’t. It was only after he had sheathed his sword, did the pressure from the shield relaxed, and he was able to remove it. Alasdair returned the shield to the location where it had been. He would get back to the shield later; right now, he had some meditating to do.
Stepping away from the tree, he sat down on the warm soil and proceeded to begin the process of clearing his mind. The transition was rapid; in no time he had entered a trance, as his surroundings gradually receded. He allowed himself to remain that way until he was no longer aware of his surroundings. The focus of his attention became the crystal ball. He co
ncentrated on the center and very soon, the ball disappeared, and he began seeing shadowy images where the ball had been.
Alasdair started to chant to establish a free association with the perceived images. This technique of deliberately looking for, and acknowledging, the images aloud, however trivial or irrelevant they might seem to an observer, was nonetheless important because it served to deepen the trance. In this stage he was able to hear his own disassociated voice affirming what he saw or thought he saw.
At first the visions were very hazy, from tiny inclusions, web-like faults, and a cloudy glow within the ball. He couldn’t make out the images. That was the reason he didn’t like messing around with scrying. He was just about to bring himself out of the trance, when the images slowly coalesced and he could make out a figure lying on his bed, naked and spread-eagled. He could feel his heart rate accelerating as he strained to make out the face of the woman lying in his bed.
She was primed for sex, her female part pink and moist as she looked at the man in the room with her with love and anticipation shining on her face. Her full breasts were gorgeous, the nipples erect, jutting upwards like two twin peaks. Her luxurious dark hair fanned out over the pillow, and her long legs spread open wider as her companion approached the bed. Many a night he had imagined those legs wrapped around his waist as he slammed into her pink moistness. While he was watching, he could see the moisture increase in her pink flesh. That told him she very much desired the man in the room with her.
Alasdair stared in wonder at the picture she presented. He couldn’t see the features of the person in the room. He sucked in a shallow breath as he watched the interaction between the two. He was pulling her toward the edge of the bed and positioned himself to penetrate her. Then, as if sensing he was being observed, he turned and Alasdair was staring at himself as he entered her with one thrust of his pelvis. She wrapped her legs around him, and the image vanished.