Kiss Of Fire (BBW Dragon Shifter Paranormal Romance): Dragon Shifter Romance

by Catherine Vale

The bathroom was clean, Spartan. She found a towel, soap, gave it an experimental sniff, and smiled. This was what Ross smelled like, beneath the heat and sweat of the forge. Lavender. It was unexpected, and it made her smile.

  She made the shower as brief as she could, eager to get downstairs, to see Ross. A smiled played on her lips; she was acting like a schoolgirl, giddy to see her latest crush between classes. But it had been a long time since she'd felt the ripple of excitement that came with a new guy.

  The sun slanted through the narrow window, and she looked out over the trees, the river below, watching a big bird flying low over the water. Maybe a heron, but she was never good at bird identification.

  Tears, sudden and unexpected, pricked her eyes. The towel slipped to the floor as the bird disappeared behind a screen of gray-green trees. There was a desperate loneliness in the image of the bird, on its solitary journey over the silver sheen of the river. Like Ross, alone all these years, alone with the portrait of Bridget, and her marker in the graveyard. How unbearable sad it must be to live with her ghost, with the portrait of her in the castle, and her marker in the graveyard.

  Scents reached her from the kitchen, chief among them coffee. Maybe bacon…eggs. Her stomach growled and she smiled at the thought. Breakfast was waiting in the kitchen, and so was Ross. But then the smile faded.

  All that waited for her in Ross’s room were the same clothes she’d been wearing since Monday. It was, what? Wednesday. Ugh. They were disgusting.

  Sans towel she slipped down the hall to Ross’s room. The door was closed; she was pretty sure she’d left it open. The horrible thought that it had closed and locked behind her sent her heart racing. But when she pushed against it, it swung open. She sent a brief thank you into the dim light and slipped inside.

  Halfway across the room she stopped, staring at the bed. On the tangle of sheets and bed covers were a white linen blouse and plaid skirt, and a woolen shawl. She reached out, fingering the material of the skirt. The plaid was the same as Ross’s kilt.

  It took her a minute to unearth her bra and panties from under the bed. They, however, were just as limp and bedraggled as her jeans and t-shirt. Holding them, looking down at the fresh white blouse and soft wool skirt…there was no way she could force herself to put on the grungy underwear. She'd just have to wing it and go without.

  With a smile she folded them and set them on the bed, making a mental note not to forget them when she went back to the inn. The inn—she hesitated, fingers brushing the fine linen of the blouse. She hadn't thought about going back to the inn. Her mind had been preoccupied, lost with thoughts of Craig—Ross. Certainly not where she was going to spend the night, other than in Ross's arms.

  The linen was cool, soft against her skin, smelling of lavender. She wondered who'd worn this last. Was it the mysterious Bridget? Or his mother? The skirt was too big around the waist and it slipped down around her hips. A few experimental tugs proved it wouldn't stay up. But then her fingers brushed across buckles and leather straps at the waist, and she cinched them tightly. The skirt stayed where it was supposed to. Beneath the clothes she'd found a belt, frowned over it, and then remembered the portrait in the other room. She pulled the belt around her waist, buckling it over the blouse. Slipping on her shoes, she looked down and giggled. Modern loafers weren't quite the right footwear for a period costume, but they'd have to do. She pulled the shawl around her shoulders.

  Ross stood at the sink, his back to her. Suddenly shy, she hesitated in the door. He turned, a chipped mug in each hand, and froze.

  “Arianna.” He took a step forward, and his hand shook as he set the mugs on the table. “Ye found the clothes.”

  “Yes, thank you.” God, that sounded stilted and formal. “I really appreciate it. I'm sure you're tired of looking at me in the same clothes day after day. I should really go back to the inn...” Better let that thought trail off. She walked into the room, pulled a chair out from the table and sat down, the shawl slipping down her arms.

  “Coffee smells good.” She dropped her eyes to the table, willing him to stop staring. It was obvious to her now the clothes must have been Bridget's. She was suddenly conscious of her lack of underwear, and resisted the urge to pull the shawl over her chest.

  “Aye, well...” He turned abruptly away.

  “Look, if it's uncomfortable for you, I can change...”

  “No. I set them out for ye. I just...” When he turned back she saw the shine of tears in his eyes. “I didn't think it would be like this...that I'd feel like this.”

  “I look like her?”

  “Aye, it's that. I knew that...but I know you're not her. I thought...” He ran his hand through his hair, worrying the dark strands between his fingers. “Maybe I dinna think.”

  “Well, if it makes any difference, I do appreciate them. My other clothes were getting a little shop worn. And...you promised breakfast.” She smiled at him. “I am hungry.”

  He held her gaze for a minute and then returned her smile. “Breakfast. Aye.” Two plates sat on the counter and he scooped them up, setting one in front of her, dropping into the chair he usually sat in. She picked up a fork.

  “This looks amazing.” Eggs, toast, something that looked like ham. “Thank you.”

  “Will ye be working today in the library?” The tension ebbed out of his shoulders and he picked up his fork, took a bite of eggs.

  “Actually I think I need to go to town, to the newspaper, to look up someone from an old clipping I found.”

  “Oh. Aye...your car is fixed. Ye can go.”

  Something in his tone made her look up. “Or, you know, I can still work here. There was a book I found I could read.”

  He pushed his plate away. She had to smile. Whatever shock he'd had at the sight of her in Bridget's clothes, it apparently hadn't affected his appetite. The plate was as clean as if he'd never used it.

  “But...I do have to go back and get clean clothes. At least clean...underwear.” She grinned at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “I can't wear this all the time, as lovely as this is. And I can't keep not wearing anything underneath.”

  Ross pushed away from the table. The look he gave her—the lift of his lips, one raised eyebrow—sent a little wave of heat washing through her.

  “I thought there was sommat different about ye, and the clothes. There's a...” He moved his hands in a vague way around his torso. “Another piece that goes with it.”

  “A corset?”

  He took her hand, pulled her up from the chair and into his arms, hands resting on her hips. The shawl fell to the floor.

  “Aye.” He nodded, his smile going all dark and sexy around the edges. “It holds all the softest bits of ye where they should be.” His hands moved from her hip, skimming over the blouse, barely brushing against her skin.

  “Like this.” His hands cupped her breasts, pushing them up and together. “At the right level.” He bent his head, nuzzling her breasts.

  “The right level?” She let her head fall back, sighing.

  “Aye.” His voice was muffled against the linen of the blouse. “The right level.”

  He lifted his head, dark eyes meeting hers. “Ye need to leave, Arianna.”

  She blinked in surprise. “I do?”

  “Aye. Ye need to go to work, as do I.” His smile deepened as he kneaded her breasts.

  “But you'll need to release me first, sir. Unless you plan to hold on to me while I read.”

  He laughed, a deep sound that she thought she could listen to forever. “I guess ye have a point.” Reluctantly he took his hands from her, but he didn't step away.

  “Then I'll be in the library, and you'll be out in the shop?”

  He nodded. “Aye. At the forge.” He looked out the window. “It's strange, but for the first time in decades I've not met the dawn with the forge already lit.”

  “I'm teaching you bad habits, then. Or keeping you up too late at night.”

  He kissed her on the forehead a
nd released her. She watched him across the courtyard. He pulled aside the large wooden doors and disappeared inside. She caught her reflection in the window, saw the smile on her face.

  Well, she was happy. She turned away from the window, tripping over the hem of her skirt. She giggled; learning to maneuver in full skirts was going to be a challenge. Gathering the tartan in her one hand, she made her way to the library.

  Her books were still spread across the table. So much had happened since she'd been here last. Even though its history was still the same, her whole view of the castle had changed. Her whole view of Ross had changed.

  Sighing, she sat down. Thinking of Ross wasn't going to get her any further along in her thesis. She was here for this, not for a highland fling.

  But as she turned to a clean page in her notebook, her hand stilled. Was this a highland fling? She didn't want it to be, for either herself or for Ross. It was more, for her. And she hoped it would be for him as well.

  * * *

  The light was fading when she pushed away her books. Her neck was stiff and she stretched, easing the kinks out of her shoulders and arms. The research she'd done had been interesting, and now that she'd been here, she could almost see Castle Nathair as it had been, when Ross was young.

  She froze, arms over her head. When Ross was young? Everything they'd talked about in bed came back to her. He'd told her what sounded like a preposterous tale, a story of witches and magic and a curse, one that left him forever young as the world moved past him. He'd told her a story that he was over three hundred years old. Was it all true? It all sounded outrageous.

  Sinking back into her chair, she thought about what that meant, whether she believed him or if it was true. He believed what he'd told her. Did it really matter if she did?

  There were witches...had been witches. She'd read enough accounts in her research about covens and witch hunts in Scotland. But were those women really witches, or just old hags persecuted for some other reason?

  She shook her head. Did it really matter if he thought he was three hundred years old? She pushed away from the table. He was here now, a living breathing man. And a very sexy, and dominant man, at that.

  Images of them in bed rose up in her mind. He was so masculine, so different than any man she'd ever dated. There was no denying the sex was amazing, but it went beyond that. He was confident, without being arrogant. Except when he meant to be. She smiled. He was a rogue, that was the word she wanted. A Scottish rogue. And right now, he was hers.

  And where was that man? Probably still working in the blacksmith shop. She thought of him—bare-chested and sweaty, muscles rippling as he hammered a piece of iron into submission—and smiled, pushing away from the desk.

  She ran down the stairs and through the kitchen. The fire in the hearth had died down to just glowing coals, nothing simmering in a pot. Maybe he hadn't taken a break for lunch either. She opened the door to the courtyard.

  In her isolation in the library she hadn't noticed it had started to rain. She shrugged; it was Scotland.

  Gathering her skirts she ran across the cobblestones. The rain soaked through her blouse, dampened her hair. Head down she ducked into the darkness of the low building. It was warm inside and she stopped just inside the door, shaking the water off her skirt. She looked up expectantly, but Ross was facing the forge, his profile limned in the soft light of the banked fire.

  She started to walk around the wooden table just inside the door, but then hesitated. He was focused on the glowing piece of metal he pulled from the fire. He turned, put the piece on the anvil and brought the hammer down. Sparks flew, and she watched in amazement as he worked the metal, starting what looked like a scroll, shifting the piece he held with tongues, hammering the glowing end of the metal. He gave it one more critical look, then turned back toward the forge.

  He saw her then and smiled, dropped his hammer on the anvil, and turned to shove the cooling iron back into the furnace. Her heart did a nice little double thump and she crossed the space between them, stopping a respectful distance from the forge. It was warm here, but the heap of glowing orange coals, the tiny licks of fire were a little intimidating.

  “Arianna, ye're soaked through. Come here.” He reached out to her, pulling her against his chest. “Ye'll catch a chill.”

  “You're very warm.” She snuggled against him. He was warm, and solid beneath her hands.

  “Aye, well, ye'd be warm too if you worked in the forge.” He set a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. “But we need to get you dry. Come here.”

  He turned her around, her back toward the forge. Warmth soaked through her wet blouse, caressing her skin.

  “This is nice. It must be nice working in here on days like today.”

  “Aye. It's nice in the winter as well. On a sunny day, it's another matter.”

  He frowned, fingering the damp fabric of her shirt. “We need to get this off ye.” His fingers were already working at the buttons of her blouse, pulling it free of the belt, then pulling it down her arms. She let him undress her, let him take the blouse away. Where it went, she wasn't sure. Nor did she care.

  He brought one hand up, touching her breast almost reverently. Then he raised his eyes to hers.

  She could feel the smile on his lips as he kissed her. His arms went around her, his hands sliding down to circle her waist. They moved lower as the kiss deepened, cupping her ass, pulling her against him, his hips flexing slightly. It was clear from his movements what was on his mind, and she broke the kiss, grinning up at him.

  “You're insatiable, aren't you?”

  He shrugged, an elegantly simple gesture. “I am what I am. I'm a man; ye're a woman. A woman I crave.”

  His words took her breath away, and before she could think of anything to say, he was kissing her again, then turning her around, pushing her back against the high wooden table full of tools. Behind her something fell over with a muted crash.

  He lifted her bodily, setting her on table, one hand moving quickly beneath her skirt, pushing it up her thighs as he pushed her legs apart. Then he was pushing against her, his cock sliding along the inside of her thighs.

  With a gasp he broke away from her mouth, dropping his head to her shoulder, his mouth pressed against her skin. He thrust into her. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back, hanging on to him as he drove himself home inside her, over and over, his breath rasping from his throat.

  She came suddenly, fingers gripping his shoulders, her legs sliding up his torso, pulling him even closer. He grunted against her and then joined her, his body shuddering as he came, filling her with his heat. He went very still, breathing hard, head still on her shoulder. She raised a hand to his head, and he turned, burying his face against her neck.

  They stayed joined for a long time, the warmth of the forge surrounding them. Ross kissed her neck, tiny kisses, moving to the angle of her jaw, then kissing her cheek. She turned to him, finding his lips, the kiss slow and deliberate. A kiss that sealed something between them.

  He rested his forehead against hers, fingers caressing the nape of her neck.

  “Ye be warmed now, I suspect?”

  She breathed out a laugh. “Aye. I be warmed now.”

  His laugh was just as soft. “Did ye have some other reason for coming to see me? Other than seducing me and taking me away from my work?”

  She pulled her head back, saw the smile on his lips. “I came to see if you were hungry. It's way past lunchtime. I don't know how to make a fire or I'd have cooked you something.”

  “Aye. Food.” He straightened, moving away from her. Cool air brushed against her legs, and she pulled down her skirt. Ross reached out, hands on her waist, and helped her down from the table.

  “The hearth fire is tricky. I'd show ye how, but it's easier if I do it. Are ye done working for the day?”

  “I can be.” He kissed her on the cheek, and then turned back to the forge.

  “Do you need to do something here?
I mean, can you just leave that?”

  “Go in and I'll be there in bit.” He bent down, picking up her blouse. “Ye might need this though.”

  Grinning she took the blouse and shrugged into it. It was dry, and warm, and slightly dusty from being on the floor.

  “I'll be waiting.”

  The rain had stopped and she took her time crossing the courtyard. The air smelled clean and fresh, warmer than it had been earlier. But gray clouds still hung low over the castle, the threat—or promise—of rain still heavy in the air.

  She poked around in the kitchen, found the tea mugs, and the tea. Ross was right; the hearth looked more scary than complicated, and she thought she'd leave it to him to start the fire.

  The kitchen door opened and Ross came in, now wearing a sleeveless white shirt, a twin to the one he'd been wearing the first day she'd walked into the forge. He shook himself, drops of rain hitting the flag floor.

  “It started raining again?”

  “It always rains again.” He pulled her against him as he walked past, planting a kiss on her forehead.

  “Sit and I'll make tea.”

  She did as she was told and he added wood to the fire. Within minutes its warmth filled the room. Ross moved about efficiently, and soon the kettle was boiling, and a moment later a steaming mug of tea was set in front of her. He brought his mug and sat across from her.

  “How long have you been a blacksmith?” She blew across the scalding hot tea.

  He sat back, tilted his head to the side, looking up at the rafters overhead. “I learned when I came back. I learned from the smith in the village. It was before...” His gaze dropped to the mug in front of him.

  “It was before the witch and her curse. I wanted to start making repairs to the place. But I wanted to do them myself, not pay the smithy.” A smile played around the corners of his mouth, but she saw it didn't quite reach his eyes.

  “He dinna like the idea. He wanted to do the work himself, but I offered to apprentice to him in exchange. He dinna like that either. But then I met his daughter.”

  “His daughter was Bridget Munro?”