“What’s that, lass?” he asked in a strained tone, doing his level best to survive this damn predicament like the gentleman he’d been raised to be.
“This is the perfect size.” She nudged deeper into his lap, shifted again, then took hold of his aching kilt-covered cock and squeezed. “Perfect size,” she repeated in a contented exhale followed by a faint clicking snore.
Ramsay swallowed hard, then thudded his head back against the couch cushion and stared up at the ceiling, his throbbing member screaming for more. “Sons a bitches,” he hissed under his breath. How the hell had his plan ended up this way? A delightful woman, obviously pleased with his man parts by her own admission, tightly latched onto his cock and passed out ‘til who knew when.
He tossed back his whisky and swallowed the liquid fire with clenched teeth. Lore a’mighty. What the hell do I do now? She’s no idea what she’s doin. Under no circumstances would he take advantage—he’d ne’er disrespect a woman in such a way.
Katie stirred the barest bit and gave his cock another long, hard squeezing pull. “Perfect shaft,” she mumbled. “Gotta feel the other hieroglyphs. Cypher the meaning out.” She worked her fingers and thumb up and down along his poor sufferin’ member as she tucked her legs up beneath her, shifted into a comfortably curled position across his middle, and decided to use both hands in her exploration of his aching cock.
Holy shit. Ramsay planted his feet, tightened his buttocks, and struggled against the urge to buck as Katie ran both hands up and down his long-sufferin’ cock as she lay across him with eyes closed and mumbling softly. She inched her thumbs up against his swollen head and rubbed them around the throbbing rim.
“Odd binding on the h-head,” she sleepily observed under her breath.
Hell’s fire—the woman thinks me hard-on is the spear. Ramsay bit back a groan, tossed his empty whisky glass on to the couch, then gently took hold of Katie’s shoulders and slowly rolled his body out from under her. She obligingly slid away and snuggled into the pillows but kept one hand locked on his kilt-covered cock with a deadly tight grip.
“Can’t lose the spear,” she mumbled. “Gotta hold tight.” She squeezed him harder.
Ramsay stood half bent over Katie, both hands propped against the back of the couch and his cock locked in her hand. He swiped away the beads of sweat running into his eyes and silently mouthed every Gaelic profanity he’d e’er heard and a few modern-day English ones as well. Unbelievable. Complete feckin’ idiot, I am. A possible solution finally muddled its way through the endless stream of curse words running through his mind.
After a deep, controlled inhale and then a slow exhale, he slid one hand up under his kilt, wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock and slid free by pushing up against the heel of Katie’s hand. She pulled hard and rolled away, maintaining a tight hold on his wadded kilt in her hand.
Still arched over her, Ramsay undid his belt, unwound himself out of his kilt and stepped back—his poor man parts bellowing for release. “I canna tend t’ye now, m’friend,” he whispered down to his long-sufferin’ member. “Later. I promise.”
Katie mumbled something unintelligible, hugged his kilt to her chest, and nuzzled deeper into the pillows.
Ramsay stared down at her. What a feckin’ mess. What will the poor woman think when she wakes in the mornin’ with a helluva whisky headache and m’kilt in her hands?
Gingerly, he tried to pull his kilt away, but Katie only hugged it tighter, wrapping both fists in the fabric and clamping them to her chest. Ramsay stopped. He didna dare wake her. Not when he stood there with nothin’ on but his léine and his stiff cock peeping out from under it.
At a complete loss, Ramsay stepped away with hands raised. “M’kilt is yers, dear lady. I can only do m’best to explain tomorrow.” He gathered up the rest of the yardage, carefully spread it, then tucked it around Katie.
After pausing the slightest moment, he bent and lightly brushed her hair away from her face, then pressed a kiss to her temple, taking in a long deep breath of her scent before straightening and backing away.
“Sleep well, dear one. And for God’s sake, take care with that spear in yer dreams.”
Chapter 5
“Dwyn—ye best talk to him. Ye ken well enough that Emrys isna well of late and Ramsay’s shamin’ by that damned woman just made him worse. He’s been a mumblin’ and a greetin’ about that boy night and day, as any father would but ye ken how unhealthy it is for m’poor dear husband. Visions a plenty too. Visions about Ramsay. The man’s addlin’ himself sick and that stubborn son a mine willna listen to a word I say ever since that whore Sylvia made him look the fool.”
“Not today, Máthair.” Ramsay steeled himself against the conversation he’d just walked in on and made his way to the coffeepot. He was in no mood. What is it that Mistress Lydia always says? Aye—I’ve bigger fish t’fry this day. He ignored the sympathetic looks of his brother Ross, his sister, Esme, and the demigod assigned by the goddesses to watch over them, Dwyn MacKay, guardian and neach-teagaisg, teacher, to all the druid clans but closest by far to the goddess-chosen MacDaras.
All were seated at the kitchen table already enjoying their breakfasts. Thank the goddesses that Katie wasna among them. That poor lass was probably still asleep. And a good thing too. When she awoke, she’d more than likely no’ be feelin’ verra well at all. Ramsay both looked forward to and dreaded seein’ her today. Several explanations were owed the lass.
“All I’ll say…” Dwyn paused as he snapped his magazine open and glanced over the shiny colorful pages. “…is that ye ken the folly of what ye did and ye shouldna worsen things by endangering the safety of the spear.” Dwyn looked up from the celebrity gossip rag he diligently followed and arched a brow at Ramsay.
A warning burn ignited at the base of Ramsay’s neck, seared its way down his spine, and ended at the crack of his arse. Ramsay clenched every muscle, readying himself for whate’er hell was about to ensue. He knows. Somehow, the wily immortal knew all that had happened last night. Ramsay could see it plain as day in Dwyn’s eyes.
Sons a bitches. Ramsay willed the crafty old bastard t’keep his mouth shut.
Dwyn arched the bushy brow higher and smiled. He gave Ramsay the slightest nod and a knowing wink as he folded the thin magazine in half and held it in one hand while he took a sip of coffee. He tapped the paper in Ramsay’s direction. “And I’ll add that ye’d best remember to treat yer mother with the respect she deserves. Ye ken as well as I that she’s more lenient with yer behavior than she is with any of the others.”
Every tensed fiber relaxed. I thank ye, Dwyn. Ramsay lowered his chin the barest bit in the demigod’s direction—the age-old move of respect. Thank ye for holdin’ yer tongue. He was positive Dwyn would bring up last night’s happenin’s. The old bastard wouldna pass up an opportunity t’nettle the hell out of Ramsay for such. But at least Dwyn had been kind enough t’wait until no one else was around.
“He’s always been Mama’s favorite,” Esme chimed in as she added a bit of cream to the bowl of strawberries in front of her. “You agree?” She poked her brother Ross in the shoulder before sinking her spoon into the bowl of berries.
“Aye.” Ross winked at Esme then gave Ramsay a mischievous smile. “It’s ‘cause he’s the runt—shortest of the MacDara sons.” He sopped up the remains of his fried eggs with a half-eaten biscuit then shook a chunky slice of bacon at Ramsay before stuffing it in his mouth. Talking around his chewing, he lifted his coffee cup and waved it in Ramsay’s direction as he spoke. “Yer spoiled, ye are. And a damn sight too sensitive for yer own good. D’ye think yer the first man who’s e’er been played the fool by a wicked lass?”
“Ye can go straight t’hell, Ross, and kiss the devil’s bollocks while yer there.” Ramsay turned back to the coffeepot and filled his mug, spilling it across the counter when a wooden spoon caught h
im with a hard, stinging thwack across the thickest part of his arse.
“Ye’ll no’ talk like that in my kitchen!” Sarinda drew the long-handled spoon back again, readying for another shot. “No son a mine—no matter how grown—will e’er treat me with such disrespect by sayin’ such things in my presence—be ye the so-called favored one or no’, ye ken?”
Sons a bitches. A man full grown and still gettin’ me arse whipped by me mother. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Máthair.” Hands raised, Ramsay backed away until his arse bumped the kitchen counter. Hells bells and demon bollocks. I’m cornered. “Forgive me,” he hastily added.
Sarinda gave him a last warning point of the wooden spoon then turned back to the stove and lifted the lid off a small black pot on the back burner. “Lydia’s herbal tea is ready, Esme. Hurry and finish yer breakfast, lass, so ye can take her tray to her before she’s had a chance to rise from her bed. She was up later than usual last night what with preparing the dough for risin’ and mixin’ her marinade for today’s meat. Our dear Lydia isna gettin’ any younger, ye ken? We must see to her care whether she thinks she needs it or no’.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Nay, lass,” Ross corrected with a stern shake of his finger at his baby sister. “Ye say, ‘Aye, Mathair’ no’ ‘yes, ma’am.’ Yer a Scot for Bride’s sake. Not a bloody North Carolinian.”
Ramsay agreed with Ross but remained silent. Esme would win this oft-had argument between the siblings. Always did. After all, the wee lass had been born in North Carolina within a month after the goddesses had brought them forward in time. She belonged here—fit in perfectly because this was all she’d e’er known. But the brothers, the four of them, had been born in late ninth-century Scotland and the goddesses had plucked the entire MacDara family out of their broch early in the tenth century and dropped their arses here along with the blessed Heartstone and the goddesses’ weapons. Survival had deemed it necessary.
For all their sakes, Ramsay changed the subject. “Esme—once ye’ve tended to Mistress Lydia, would ye please check on our guest from the east wing? She might need one of Máthair’s herbal teas as well. Tell her I’ll bring her a plate if she’s up to havin’ some breakfast before I take her into town t’see about the repairs to her car, aye?” Best get the explainin’ about last night over with. Beasties are best faced head on.
Esme frowned at him across the breakfast tray she held in front of her. “You mean Katie?”
Something about the way everyone in the kitchen turned and studied him shot a jolt of wariness through Ramsay. He had the distinct feeling that he’d blundered and walked straight into a trap. “Aye. Mistress Katie Jenson. ’Twas too late last night to have her car towed so I assured her we’d have it seen about today.”
Esme shrugged and headed toward the door leading to Mistress Lydia’s quarters. “She’s long gone. Came down early. Got here even before Da and stayed long enough to have some coffee with all of us.” She paused, glanced back at Ramsay, and rewarded him with a wink. “Pretty cute, if you ask me. You might have a chance at her if you don’t go all pouty wounded hero on her like you do around us. I bet she’d cure what ails you in a heartbeat.” Esme gracefully balanced the tray on her hip and rested her hand on the latch as she gave Ramsay a displeased up and down look and motioned at him with a scowling frown. “And why are you wearing jeans? You not working at the park today? Who’ll demo the horses and the dogs?”
Ramsay drew in a deep rib-cracking breath and slowly blew it out. He didna have time for idle chatter and he’d also learned long ago that the best way to deal with his irritating little sister was to ignore the parts of her conversation that were meant t’piss him off. He’d defend her ‘til his death and even beyond the grave into the deepest levels of hell if need be, but lore ha’ mercy, the wee lass could be a royal pain in the arse on most days.
“What do ye mean Mistress Katie’s ‘gone’?” he asked in a carefully controlled tone, steering the conversation back to the most important part.
Esme shrugged. “Gone. Left. Probably in town by now. You know it’s not that far of a walk and it’s been over an hour since she left.”
“And none of ye thought to stop her? To ask her t’wait?”
Esme’s face lit up with an evil grin that made Ramsay want to turn her across his knee and warm her arse for her. Her tone shifted to the wicked teasing level that only a young woman hell bent on giggin’ a male could muster. “Well, now why in the world would we want to stall her, big brother? What…or better yet, who would she be waiting for?” She arched a brow and innocently widened her eyes. “Hmm? Well?”
“Esme…that’s enough. Cease yer nettlin’ of yer brother.” Sarinda shooed the girl away. “On wi’ ye now. Take Mistress Lydia her tea and make certain she drinks it to the last drop. I’ve laced it good and strong with some herbs that’ll help her sleep most of the day, so she’ll get some much-needed rest that she’s too stubborn t’take for herself.”
Esme’s expression clearly showed she wasn’t ready to stop pestering her brother, but she obediently pushed her way into the beloved housekeeper’s rooms. Before the door had fully closed behind her, she stuck her head back out and winked at Ramsay. “You do realize that all you have to do is go to Abernathy’s, right? That’s where she’ll be.”
Ramsay sucked in another deep intake of air through gritted teeth then nodded at his conniving little sister. “Do as Máthair bid ye, aye?”
Esme rolled her eyes and disappeared into the room.
“The keys are in the Jeep,” Ross supplied as he reached across the table and speared another biscuit with his fork, split the steaming medallion open, and shoved several pieces of bacon between the flaky layers. “And it’s parked in the courtyard. All gassed up and ready.”
Ramsay gave Ross a curt nod, plunked his coffee cup onto the counter, and headed toward the outer steps leading to the private courtyard. He threw open the door—
“Son!”
No matter how old he got t’be, Máthair’s call would always halt him in his tracks. With one foot out the door and every fiber of his being straining to be on his way, he turned and faced her.
“Aye?”
Sarinda motioned him back into the room with a nod and a gentle but commanding wave of one hand. “There’s something ye should know afore ye seek out Mistress Jenson.”
Her tone hit him like a wall of ice water, shocking all his senses to battle-ready alertness. Slowly, he allowed the door to bump closed against his back then widened his stance to brace himself for whatever she was about to say. “And what would that be, Máthair?”
Her face grim, Sarinda shot a quick look over at Ross and Dwyn still sitting at the table. Both men gave her a slight nod as though agreeing that whatever she was about to say had to be said. She faced Ramsay, studied him for a long moment, then methodically smoothed her hands down her apron. “Mistress Katie met yer father this mornin’. They visited quite the while as she enjoyed her coffee.”
A hard knot tightened in the center of Ramsay’s chest then burned a trail down to his gut and settled like a chunk of molten iron. Katie had met Athair. This couldna bode well.
Athair hadna lived an easy life as high chief to all the druid clans and lead protector of the Heartstone. And the leap forward through the centuries had nearly killed him. Of all the MacDaras, the goddesses had ne’er sifted Athair through time more than the once to North Carolina when they discovered ‘twould be his end to send him traveling through time again. If a trip through time was needed, the MacDara sons were always sent in his stead. Emrys MacDara’s mind had taken all it could stand.
“And how was he this mornin’?” Ramsay asked, all the while dreading the answer. He loved and respected his father but High Chieftain Emrys Danann MacDara was dangerously unpredictable of late. The proverbial loose cannon—especially here in the twenty-first century.
Sarinda’s grim look softened into a sad smile. “More lucid than usual.”
“And he met Katie?”
Sarinda’s smile strengthened and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She faintly nodded as she picked up a crumpled dish towel from the counter and refolded it with quick jerking movements. “Aye. He not only met her—but took a great liking to the lass and she to him, I think.” She turned to Dwyn. “They had quite the long conversation, did they not?”
Sliding his magazine to the table, Dwyn gave Ramsay a look that sent a trickle of cold sweat down between his shoulder blades. “Ye found quite the lass in the woods last night, m’lad. She didna bat an eye nor act as if anything was amiss when Emrys told her he was proud t’finally meet her because the goddesses had shown her to him in every vision he’s had since the new moon.” Dwyn paused a long heart-stopping moment then gave Ramsay a curt nod like a warrior chief passing out orders. “He told her the goddesses had promised him she’d come to ye soon so the two of ye could be joined and set to the seedin’ of yer first son. They talked at great length about Danu, Scota, and Bride.”
“Sons a bitches,” Ramsay hissed under his breath as he scrubbed a hand across his face, wishing like hell he’d made his way down to the kitchen well before Katie. He looked to his mother. “They talked at length? Why did no one steer Athair to a safer subject?” What a feckin’ mess. Now he had even more to explain to Katie—if he ever saw her again.
Sarinda moved forward and rested a hand on Ramsay’s shoulder. “She handled it well, son. Treated him with great respect and kindness. I’ve no’ seen him as peaceful and sane in weeks as he was this mornin’.”
Rising from his chair, Dwyn smoothed out the wrinkles of his impeccably perfect pinstriped suit, stole a final sip of his coffee, and stepped away from the table. “Mistress Katie thinks Emrys t’be an addled old man that’s deserving of her goodwill and patience. She’s a fine woman with a heart overflowing with compassion. The goddesses wouldna send ye someone any less.”
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