Maxwell cradled her closer, deepened the kiss and reveled in the warm sweetness of her mouth. She opened to him, welcomed him in and gave back in return.
Mine. The strength of the word surged through Maxwell’s being. Mine and no other’s. Maxwell deepened the claiming, cradling her head in the crook of his arm as he pulled her body tight against his. He traced his fingers along the warmth of her throat, tickled them up into the softness of her hair. Lore a’mighty. Trish tasted sweeter than he’d imagined. What the hell were they doing standing in the middle of a frozen garden when they could be enjoying each other in the comfort of his soft warm bed?
“Come with me,” he whispered against her mouth. “I need ye more than ye know.”
Trish turned her head slightly away, her hand sliding from around his neck to rest in the center of his chest. Her voice fell to such a soft whisper, Maxwell strained to hear her words. “I shouldn’t, Maxwell. It wouldn’t be right.” Her tiny hand pressed against his breastbone slowly slid away. “As soon as Ramsay figures out a way, we’ll be returning to our time.”
Maxwell slid a finger beneath her chin and raised her face to his. “Ye could find happiness here, Trish. This ripple of time is no’ all that bad.”
Trish shook her head and stepped away. “No.” She pulled Maxwell’s plaid tighter about her shoulders and turned toward the outer archways of the keep. “I don’t belong here, Maxwell. I’ve got a life back in my own time. As soon as I can figure out a way, I’m going to return to it.”
Maxwell clasped his hands behind his back, watching Trish’s swaddled form follow the wandering path out of the garden. Realization twisted through his heart, chilling him more than the frigid wind. Trish had to stay. She didn’t belong in the far off future. Trish belonged with him.
Chapter Ten
Deodorant. Tampons. Toothpaste. Steaming hot showers. Grape soda. And ice cream. What she wouldn’t give for a humongous bowl of tongue-tingling butter pecan ice cream. Which item did she miss the most from the future? Hard to say. Probably a three-way tie between tampons, the shower, and ice cream. Leaning forward on the window ledge, she gave herself to the velvety blackness of the starless sky. She caught her breath, a sudden feeling of claustrophobia wrapped around her and squeezed. The black of the night reached out like an endless, suffocating blanket. Strange how dark the night seemed when there wasn’t any sort of manmade lighting piercing through its folds.
A resounding thud of a dropped book and a muffled curse interrupted the quiet of the room.
“I take that to mean that the spell wasn’t in that book after all?” Trish didn’t bother pulling her gaze from the bleak wintry night. She supposed she should scold Ramsay for his choice of words, but why bother? The boy was frustrated and she didn’t really blame him. They’d been trapped in the past now for almost three months. Any hope of returning to the future was wearing thin around the edges.
Trish closed her eyes and counted backward. Ramsay’s little sister should’ve been born by now. In fact, as best she could calculate, the newest addition to the MacKay brood should be almost one month old. Trish turned, studying Ramsay’s bent head shining auburn in the lamplight. Poor Latharn and Nessa. They must be heartsick and completely frustrated at the loss of their eldest son.
Ramsay lifted his head and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. A lone teardrop escaped down the curve of Ramsay’s flushed cheek. Trish’s heart ached. What consolation could she offer the boy? Tamping down the urge to gather Ramsay into her arms, Trish forced herself to remain sitting in the window seat. So helpless. She was the adult and what had she done to see them safely home? Nothing. A sense of failure festered in the pit of her stomach and soured on her tongue. “I’m sorry, Ram.”
Ramsay cleared his throat, his voice quivering when he finally spoke. “I miss Ma and Da, Auntie Trish. Do ye think maybe they miss me just a little too?”
“Of course they do.” She couldn’t resist him any longer. Trish rose from the pillowed bench stretched in front of the window and hurried to Ramsay’s side. Wrapping an arm around his scrawny shoulders, she hugged him tight against her. “You know your mom and dad miss you just as much as you miss them. And I’m sure your brothers and your cousins are sad that you’re gone as well.”
“I bet Hamish isn’t sad. I bet he’s already laid claim to all my stuff.” Ramsay leaned forward over the table, propping his chin atop his folded arms.
“Now Ram.” Trish swallowed a giggle. Knowing the avaricious Hamish, Ramsay was probably right. “You know your mom and dad aren’t going to let anyone pillage your stuff.”
“Auntie Trish?” Ramsay whispered, his gaze focused on the flickering flames of the iron candelabra centered on the table.
“Yes, Ram?”
“What if it takes us years to get back? What if we canna get back at all?”
Trish’s heart lurched. She couldn’t tell the boy she feared the exact same thing. Ramsay needed to feel that she believed in him. Neither one of them could afford believing they’d never make their way back to where they belonged. “We’ll get back. You’ve got to believe that or your magic won’t work. You know that, Ram.”
Ramsay sniffed, continuing to focus on the dancing yellow flame. “Yeah. But if we do make it back, then you won’t get to see Maxwell no more. Won’t that make you sad?”
Maxwell. Trish hugged herself and turned away from the boy. When had Ramsay gotten so perceptive? “Of course I’d miss him but we don’t belong here. Don’t you remember all those lessons your father taught you about throwing the continuum out of balance?”
“The MacKays have always kept the continuum thrown upon its ear. Why should any of that change now?”
Trish whirled toward the doorway and the mesmerizing sound of the deep baritone voice that always filled her with conflicting emotions. Nodding toward the smiling boy at the table, Trish pointed toward the door. “Ramsay, why don’t you go see if Keagan’s had any luck translating those scrolls he keeps in his room?”
Ramsay winked at Maxwell then hopped up from the table and bounced toward the hall. “Sure, Auntie Trish. I’ll check with Keagan and I’ll prolly spend the whole entire night in his room. So’s you can have some time to yourself.”
Trish decided against scolding Ramsay when she noticed the look on Maxwell’s face. As the patter of Ramsay’s footsteps faded to nothing, she leveled an accusing gaze on Maxwell. “Did you put him up to that little statement?”
Maxwell raised both hands level with his shoulders, his moustache quivering as he obviously struggled not to smile. “I’ve not seen the lad all day. He’s been up here with you.”
“Why do I not believe you?” Trish edged farther away from the blazing hearth. The room suddenly seemed overly warm.
Maxwell closed the door and leaned against it. Trish heard the metallic clink of the latch as he slid the bolt into place.
“Why are you locking me in?” As Maxwell moved toward her, a wave of molten heat centered in Trish’s belly and spread to regions much lower.
Maxwell shook his head ever so slightly and pulled her into his arms. “I’m no’ locking ye in, sweetling. I’m bolting the rest of the world out.” He bent his head and tasted her with a hesitant kiss, gently suckling her bottom lip into the inviting warmth of his mouth.
Trish groaned, leaning into him as she tangled her fingers into the hair at the base of his neck. A hint of ale laced his delicious flavor as she opened to his exploring tongue. His hands slid down her back, cupped her buttocks and pulled her into his hardness. Trish shivered, pressing tighter until his heartbeat hammered between her breasts. She needed this, needed him. Damn, she’d wanted this so long.
“Tonight.” His voice rasped hoarse with urgent need, his warm breath tickled down her throat. “I canna wait any longer.”
All the reasons why she shouldn’t whirled through Trish’s mind. All the reasons why she should pulsed liquid heat between her thighs. “To hell with it.” Trish gasped against the deli
cious assault of his lips across her collarbone. “I’ve never behaved myself this long before.” She slid a hand up Maxwell’s muscled thigh, groaning with a satisfied shudder as she confirmed what a true Highlander hid beneath his kilt.
Maxwell scooped her up and took her over to the table, gently laying her atop the sturdy oak. He trailed his fingers down along her throat, pausing with a teasing touch when he reached the sensitive skin between her breasts. “If ye’d worn your dress like a proper woman, I’d have a much easier time getting to your charms.”
Trish unzipped her jeans, slid them down her hips and popped open the snaps of her blouse. Licking her lips, she reveled in the shocked delight shining in the depths of Maxwell’s gaze. “If I were a proper woman, I doubt very much that I’d be spread across this table like your own personal banquet.”
“Now there’s a fine idea, if I do say so myself.” Maxwell slid his hands under her hips and stepped between her thighs. With slow deliberation, he ran the tip of his warm wet tongue in maddening circles along the flesh of her inner thigh.
Trish closed her eyes, arching her back and writhing beneath the delicious tickle tracing up her leg. “Dammit, Maxwell. You’re killing me. Please…”
“Please what?” Maxwell paused, blowing a long hot breath into the center of the reddish curls directing him to the prize.
Trish panted and gripped the sides of the table. Hooking her legs atop his shoulders, she pulled, urging him forward. “Please…Maxwell…I need you.”
“Do ye now?” Maxwell chuckled, dipping his tongue into her pulsating center. “Mmm…” Maxwell purred as he dove deeper and suckled her aching nub. “Sweeter than honey-flavored wine.”
Trish shuddered, filled her hands with his thick hair and pulled his mouth harder into her body. Lord have mercy but this man knows how to use that tongue. Arching her back, Trish shook with the need coursing through her flesh. A purring groan tore from her throat as thrumming pleasure threatened imminent explosion. When Maxwell treated her to a slow luscious finger buried deep and suckled hard on her nub, Trish released a shouted, “Yes!” Shudders of uncontrollable ecstasy shook her as delight reached critical mass and pushed her over the edge. Wondrous spasms rippled through her flesh as she clenched Maxwell between her legs. Moaning, she laced her fingers in his hair and rocked into his talented mouth with gyrating hips.
“Take me, Maxwell. Take me now,” she gasped without opening her eyes. Damn, she needed to feel him pound inside her. She needed…more.
“Aye, m’love.” Maxwell raised his head and pulled her down to the edge of the table. “’Tis definitely time for the claiming.”
A satisfied growl escaped from Maxwell’s lips as he slid partially into her depths. Trish wrapped her legs around his waist, gasping as he paused. “Don’t stop now, for God’s sake.”
“I dinna want to hurt ye, love.” Maxwell’s face reddened as he struggled with self control. “God’s beard, woman, hold still. Yer so damn tight yer gonna make me spill m’seed before I’ve given ye any pleasure.”
“If you give me any more pleasure, I’m gonna freakin’ die.” Trish dug her nails into the knotted muscles of Maxwell’s forearms locked on either side of her body. Wriggling her hips, she clenched him tighter with her legs, pulling him deeper into her body. “Enough talk. Dive in and move!”
“Yer a bossy wench.” Maxwell groaned as he buried himself into her depths. Sliding back out, he immediately hammered back into her and pressed his forehead against hers. With a quick kiss to the end of her nose, Maxwell repositioned his hands closer to her hips. “But who am I to argue with a woman who knows what she wants?”
And then he pounded into her until their cries melded as one and echoed into the night.
Chapter Eleven
“She’ll no’ be traveling back now. Ramsay shall return to his family alone.” Maxwell drained the tankard in one long draught, then lowered his mug with a triumphant thud to the table.
Faolan leaned forward, eyes round as he tapped a finger against Maxwell’s forearm. “She agreed to stay here—in this time? Ye asked her to complete the melding and become your wife?”
Maxwell brushed away Faolan’s hand as he pushed himself up from the table. “I dinna have to ask her to be m’wife. She should know that I’ll no’ have any son of mine growing up in the future without a father.”
“A son?” Faolan halted amid rising from his seat, spreading both hands atop the table as though he’d suddenly grown very weak. “Are ye sayin’ Trish carries your child?”
Why did the man sound so surprised? Did he think only a MacKay capable of siring bairns in just one bout of pleasure? Maxwell paced across the rush-covered floor, scattered reeds greeting every step with a dry shooshing crunch. “She could be with child. ’Tis too soon to know for certain.” Maxwell waved a hand through the air. “But I’m certain my son took hold last night. ’Twas different then I’ve ever experienced before.”
“It was different because you’re in love with Trish, you pompous idiot.” Ciara swept in from the archway connecting the dining hall to the main kitchen, her dark eyes snapping with indignation. “And don’t you think you need to talk with Trish before you decide her future?” Ciara jabbed an accusing finger mere inches from her husband’s nose. “Men! What the hell is wrong with the lot of you?”
Faolan backed away, hands held high as though that would help deflect Ciara’s words. “What the hell did I do, wife? ’Tis Maxwell who’s acting the fool.”
“Well, I’ll truly be damned.” Maxwell spun away from the soothing heat of the roaring hearth and stormed back toward the table. “God’s beard, man. Where’s your loyalty?”
“With my wife. I tend to value my hide.” A mischievous grin played across Faolan’s lips as he took a swat at Ciara’s rump then jumped back when she snapped the twisted linen dangerously close to his most prized appendage. Rubbing a hand against the front of his kilt, he hitched a bit farther out of her reach. “Mercy, woman. Mind your aim. Ye nearly stung m’bollocks.”
“Next time I will.” Ciara stretched the rag between her hands, wrapping the ends tighter around her knuckles and snapping it as taut as a bowstring. “And you—”
Maxwell retreated a few steps behind the safety of the broad trestle table. He’d be damned if he’d stand there and be unmanned with a kitchen dishrag before having a chance to defend himself. “I meant no disrespect to Trish. I just know she feels the same.” How could she not? His traitorous cock stiffened at the mere mention of her name. The memory of last night’s sweet love play raged anew through his flesh.
“I feel the same about what?” Trish emerged from the entry hall, tucking a cream-colored tunic inside the loose waistband of an unusual skirt colored with what looked to be every shade of a faded, weary rainbow.
“What in Brid’s name are ye wearing?” Maxwell circled Trish, stroking his fingers through the wiry hair of his beard as he peered closer at the odd-looking weave. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she’d wrapped one of the tapestries from the second floor around her body.
Two patches of red blazed high on Trish’s cheeks, highlighting the splash of freckles peppered across the bridge of her nose. Her chin lifted a bit higher as she spun in a slow circle. “You know I can’t wear wool.” She paused, smoothing a stubborn puckered seam running down the side of her hip. “Ciara sent for a hank of heavy linen but it’s not here and my other clothes aren’t dry from their latest scrubbing. So I kinda made this fashion statement out of one of the hangings in my room. It’s silk or something.” Trish paused and smoothed a hand across the top of her multi-colored thighs. “Whatever it is at least it doesn’t make me itch.”
Maxwell held his breath. If he laughed, she’d surely skin him alive. Tapping a finger against the tip of his nose, he hid an uncontrollable grin behind his hand. Lord ha’ mercy, but she is a fine one. The stubborn lass cared more about comfort than the gossip she’d stir walking around in such unusual garb. Swallowing hard against the almo
st unbearable urge to chuckle, Maxwell tucked his chin against his chest and clasped his hands behind his back. “’Tis verra…fine. And I must say, ’tis much more proper than your trews from the future.”
“Jeans, Maxwell.” Trish rolled the over-long sleeves up higher on her slender arms. “They’re blue jeans. Remember?”
“Aye.” Maxwell nodded and offered his arm. Perhaps, now was the best time to sit the lass down and discuss how things should be between them.
“So tell me.” Trish slid an arm through his, treating his tensed muscles to the warm softness of her tempting full breast as she pressed close against him “What was everyone fussing about when I came into the room?”
“Beg pardon?” What the hell did the woman just say? Damned if he couldn’t concentrate when the fullness of her flesh and the sweetness of her scent rendered him incoherent. Maxwell helped her maneuver the broad bench beside the table, reluctantly letting go of her hand once she’d settled into place. “What was it ye said?”
“I said”—Trish patiently drew out the words as though speaking to a slow-witted servant—“what was everyone talking about? I thought I heard my name mentioned.”
“Tell her, Maxwell.” Ciara folded her arms across her chest, a wicked look of supreme smugness spreading across her face.
One of the kitchen lads scurried into the room, a pewter tray nearly as large as a good sized shield teetered on his shoulder.
“Oh good,” Trish scooted closer to the table, stretching to see what the tray held. “I’m starving and do I detect the aroma of some of that lovely tea?” Rubbing her hands together, Trish wiggled in her seat like an excited child about to open a cherished gift. “I love the tea here.”
The gangly lad grinned and bobbed his head in silent greeting while settling the teapot, a cup, and a platter of thick-sliced bread spread with a generous dollop of butter in front of Trish.
“Ye see?” Maxwell settled on the bench beside her, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist. “I told ye she’d be having m’bairn.”
A Highlander in Her Past Page 7