
by
CAROLINA VALDEZ
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
An Amber Quill Press Book
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-60272-252-1
Cover Art © 2008 Trace Edward Zaber
Layout and Formatting
Provided by: Elemental Alchemy
Published in the United States of America
Avalanche!
Dark Stranger
In Passion's Thrall
Knight of the Captive Heart
Lure
Passion's Sweet Ecstasies
Portal To Darkness
Silk Stealth
Sweet Chocolate Ecstasy
Tears Of The Dragon
View From The Top
Where Vesuvius Sleeps
At the onset of the Writers Guild of America's 2007
strike, comedian Jay Leno, host of NBC-U's The Tonight Show,
commented that without writers, he wasn't funny.
Without editors, an author's work isn't publishable.
This book is dedicated to E. J. Gilmer, my editor.
Phebe Jones stripped and pulled a small machine from her bedside drawer before sprawling on the lavender-flowered comforter on her bed. The thought flitted through her mind she needed to replace the frilly cover. Now that her life was moving in other directions, it didn't fit her new image.
Capturing her warm breasts, she cupped them, letting them flow to fill her hands before pushing them together and releasing them. She played with her nipples until they were small and hard, sighing because, although it felt pleasant, it was nothing compared to a man's wet mouth flicking and sucking. She ran a finger down her cleavage before circling her navel, feeling her skin heat at her touch, and on to her damp pussy. Pressing her palm over her responsive mound was pleasurable, but not enough. Pulling her hand away, she wet one finger in her mouth and slipped it inside. This triggered tiny sensations as her palm massaged her clit, and she closed her eyes as she drew her knees up and dropped them apart.
She felt lewd, but her fingers or a dildo inside her were nothing compared to the delicious stretch of a man's swollen dick. Tonight she was going to do something about that.
With her free hand, she switched on the motor of the small stimulator. Arousal blossomed in her at its hum.
An experience of this kind of sexual pleasure was always different for her. There were times when her juices wouldn't flow and pleasure was mild. Or she'd give up, knowing an orgasm wasn't in the cards. Today she was so close to climaxing just from the sound of the motor she didn't worry about whether or not her juices flowed; she knew she'd come.
The vibrations ruffled through her clit and pussy lips as she circled her hips against the hard plastic to intensify its stimulation. There were often occasions when she'd need to stop and start to prevent coming too soon and not achieving a good orgasm. Stopping and starting allowed her to extend the minutes of sexual pleasure, until they'd developed to the level where she couldn't bear it any longer. When she would finally let herself peak, the rush was better.
This time the motor's hum had triggered healthy sensations, and she held nothing back as she rode them. "Oh. Oh, oh." Harder and harder against the plastic, then holding her breath and straining in exertion until she was almost over the top--reaching, reaching--and then it hit. "Awrgh." Her body arched, and she breathed again as small waves rolled through her.
When it was over, she went limp. Hitting the kill switch on the vibrator, she enjoyed the mild pulsations in her clit and inside passage until they'd faded. She drifted off for a few minutes. She wakened and tucked her vibrator back in the drawer before rising to shower and dress.
A fabulous weekend awaited her.
The sexy woman in the black lace gown who stared back at her from the floor-length mirror resembled no one she knew.
"That's me! That's really me. I can't believe it." Amazed and delighted by her reflection, Phebe laughed out loud.
She shook her head to feel her new layered haircut swirl and settle back into place about her face and on her shoulders. Her stylist had darkened her drab brown hair a touch, and it glowed with golden highlights.
The high-neck gown bared her shoulders. Turning, she looked again at how it plunged in back almost to her crack. It revealed far too much of her skin, but she had to admit it was sensual, even on her. The dress emphasized her waist and hugged her curves until it flared mid-calf into a short train in back. In front, it fell in soft folds to reveal feet in three-inch stilettos laced with straps pasted with twinkling rhinestones. Toenails painted bold red peeped from the end. Her fingernails matched.
She dug out the crystalline drop-earrings in green from her jewelry box and hooked them through her ears, pleased with how they brought out the green in her eyes. Even her makeup matched the sultry sexiness of her art deco costume.
Everything was perfect.
All in all, she thought no one would recognize her for the unsophisticated woman at the masquerade a year ago who'd dressed in pink tulle and sequins, worn a crown and carried a wand as Glinda, Good Witch of the South.
Dabbing perfume over the pulses at her neck and wrists, where the warmth of flowing blood would release the expensive scent, she sighed. That masquerade hadn't turned out well. What had begun as a fabulous Mardi Gras ball at Faye Morgan's New Orleans plantation had ended shrouded in mystery. Phebe's friend Diana Waters had disappeared. As had Diana's new boyfriend, Lance Davison, and even their hostess.
It'd been morning before anyone had realized it. She and some other guests had stayed the night in the large house built in the late 1700s. During breakfast, they'd realized Faye, Diana and Lance were absent. Phebe had searched for Diana, thinking she'd slept with Lance, but the beds in both rooms were unwrinkled. They'd been folded back, and a piece of dark chocolate still lay on each pillow. Nothing had been touched.
Lance's rental car was parked in the gravel drive in front of the house. When it was learned the D. J. and the caterers hadn't been paid at the close of the ball as promised, the butler notified police.
Their investigation proved fruitless. Some surmised the three had wandered into the swamp and been sucked under or become alligator food. Since others thought they'd been kidnapped, the FBI had been called in. No leads were found. Unless her friends had been air-lifted out by helicopter or alien spacecraft--and the party had been loud enough to shut out such sounds--there were no hints as to what had happened to them.
Phebe had found Diana's clutch purse on the grass near the carousel in the back yard. The damp grasses indicated footprints of three people. One set was the length of a man's and the depth a sizeable man like Lance might make in the moist earth, but those were the only signs they could have been out there. The footsteps led to, but not back from, the merry-go-round.
No one had heard from them again.
Diana's mother, who lived on the Wyoming side of Yellowstone National Park, had begged Phebe to move into her daughter's apartment in Arlington, Virginia. "I'm not asking you to keep a light on in the window. I just want Diana to be able to come home to a place she knows. I'll share the rent."
Touched by the woman's strong belief in her daughter's return, Phebe had given up her smaller place and moved in. She didn't have the sense Diana was dead, but the whole affair had left her feeling confused and helpless.
Now it was spring in Washington, D. C., and snowy blossoms covered the cherry trees along the Potomac basin. Tiny petals laced the walkways, and she was headed to her second masquerade ball, a fundraiser for the Smithsonian.
Phebe's philosophy about her life had been slow to change after their disappearance. Her parents were dead, and she had no relatives to speak of. When months had passed and her friend hadn't returned, it struck her how fleeting life could be, even at her young age. Tallying up her situation, which she found seriously wanting, she decided she didn't want to be pure, safe, silly Phebe-the-bookstore-clerk any longer. This weekend she was going to drink, party, and let it all hang out.
The mirror told her she looked sexy tonight. She felt sensual and wanton.
Her vibrator would remain here in the drawer while she experienced the real thing. Oh, she'd be careful and use protection, but she planned to seduce the first man who made her clit throb and her black lace panties dampen with dripping juices. Maybe she'd even abandon the vibrator, period.
The buzzer announcing her cab's arrival sounded. Phebe slid on black gloves that reached her elbows and grabbed her cloak. She slipped a mask of jet sequins and black feathers in place. Gathering up her overnight bag and the silver mesh purse holding the long cigarette holder she'd rented, she stepped into the elevator and punched "lobby" with panache.
"Good Lord, Cam, you look like a medieval Scottish laird. Or William Wallace, blue face paint and all. Wherever did you rent that costume?" Marvin asked his friend as he fingered the fine, white linen of Cam's shirt.
"It's not a costume," Cameron Alistair Alexander Charles Ross said, as he folded his long body into Marvin's hybrid auto, careful not to bang his head on the doorframe. "I suppose I'm cheating, but this kilt and plaid are national dress handed down in my family."
Marvin, wearing a dark, flowing cape as the Count of Monte Cristo, threw back his head and laughed. "I didn't know you knew anything about the Scots."
"Not Scots. Highlanders. I even know a little Gaelic. Actually, they're my own clothes. Don't tell, will you? Haven't been in them since I was big enough for them to fit. Why don't you get a larger car? My knees are almost under my chin."
"Really, Cam, beggars can't be choosers. Next time you can drive your own damn car if you don't appreciate mine. This one's my contribution to going green."
"Guess I can't quarrel with that. Drive on, James. Er...Count."
Phebe's taxi driver pulled up the long road and stopped behind a line of limousines on the drive in front of Blaird Castle. She had time to study the huge place before it was her driver's turn to let her out.
Patterned after an ancient Highland castle and built of grayish-white stone that lent it an air of solidity and protection, the central portion was three stories of turrets and towers adjoining a keep. A collection of single-story buildings fanned out on either side.
She'd been invited because she volunteered several hours a week at the Smithsonian, and this was their thanks to the volunteers. In view of her new philosophy about not holding back, she'd splurged and rented a room here for the weekend. Now in the entrance, she handed the envelop containing her invitation to a doorman dressed as Mindfreak's Criss Angel as she stepped across the castle threshold.
"Welcome to Blaird Castle, Mademoiselle Jones." His Brooklyn accent sounded real.
A hat-check girl in a costume that belonged in the Playboy Club, Las Vegas, took her wrap and presented her with a claim ticket. "In case you'd like to go into the gardens this evening without going to your room first."
The Phantom of the Opera, wearing a white half-mask of the stage production, checked her name off the guest list and signaled to a Star Wars Sith dressed in vermillion-and-black leotards.
The Sith took charge of her overnight bag. "Here's your key, Miz Jones. Room two-four-eight. When you're ready, the elevator's on your left and the stairs on the right. Enjoy your stay."
She gave him her broadest smile. "Thanks. I intend to."
The smell of perfumes, hairsprays and aftershave mingled and drifted in the air. A disc jockey was playing Michael Bublé tunes, and the low hum of chatter rose above his voice. Phebe hesitated for a moment to inhale and listen, letting the excitement of the evening build. This was going to be a night to remember.
The ballroom, its dark hardwood floor gleaming under the lights, was two steps down from the entry. She'd feel humiliated if she tripped, and it would destroy the seductive siren illusion, so she took care as she maneuvered the steps in her stilettos.
Unlike New Orleans, there'd been no announcement of her name when she'd entered. What could the doorman have said anyway? Art deco femme fatale? Well, maybe. It does have a certain ring to it, she thought.
Hunger pangs drove her to the buffet table as her first stop. Planners had no doubt placed it near the front, knowing people would arrive wanting food. It was easy to recognize some of her co-volunteers despite their costumes. She sidled up to a young woman near her age and reached across her to pick up a cracker and spread it with pâté de foie gras. "Hi, Marla. Fantastic spread, isn't it? Hmm, I love this stuff."
Marla Rankin almost choked on the hors d'oeuvre she'd popped in her mouth. "Phebe, is that you?"
Phebe nodded. "Don't tell. It'll spoil the effect."
"Woman, you look fabulous. And here I am in a dreary antebellum gown."
"Well, you're married, and I'm not. Seen any hotties here?"
"Ooh, woman, I've seen several. Touching's strictly off limits, but I can look and enjoy the feast, can't I?"
"That's what the men do. Although, if they're married, they're careful to hide the looking, I think."
Marla chuckled. "They know they'd better or there'll be hell to pay."
A waiter offered crystal flutes of pale champagne from a silver tray, and Phebe took one. She let the bubbles rise to tickle her nose before taking the first sip. "Good stuff. They haven't spared the money on the food and drink, have they? I guess it takes this to attract the wealthy and their large donations."
"Yes, but it's too bad they didn't spring for a live band like last year. I mean, face it, a D. J. doesn't measure up to the real thing."
"Like a vibrator doesn't measure up to a man."
Marla threw her head back and laughed again. "Phebe, dear, what's gotten into you tonight?"
"Well, not what you think. At least not yet."
"My, but you're naughty."
"Oh, I am. I am." Phebe smiled and worked her way down the buffet.
Plate filled, she walked away from the table. As she turned, she noticed two men approach the doorman and hand over white envelopes she assumed held their invitations. The shorter man wore the long cape and attire of the Count of Monte Cristo. The second man wore a kilt. And blue face paint.
Intrigued, she stopped and watched. For a moment there was an open pathway from her to the men, and it was as if an invisible cord drew her to the man in Scottish garb.
It was crazy, but the first thing she noticed about him were his knees. His kilt ended just above them, and his tartan socks and boot laces ended about four inches below. The knees were framed by heavily corded muscles and sinew. The faint bulge of a sgian dhu, or black, hidden knife could be seen inside the right sock. With each step he took, the kilt rose with the movement of his legs and the flashes on his socks flipped. His knees flexed provocatively.
Too fascinated to look away, she let her gaze travel from those knees up the dark green-and-navy tartan to the leather sporran that couldn't disguise the natural bulge of his cock and balls, and to the matching tartan jacket ending at his waist. He wore a white, ruffled shirt open at the throat that was at once both masculine and deeply sensual.
When she looked into his face, she realized he was smiling at her. His gaze in turn moved with deliberate slowness from her sparkling stilettos up to her hips--where it lingered--and then to her breasts--where it paused again. When he reached her throat, he licked one corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. He looked into her face.
Oh, Lord, he knew I was giving him the once-over. She felt a great clutching in her stomach that spread through her torso and caused her inner thighs to heat, even as her face grew hot with embarrassment.
The old Phebe would have shrunk back into her shell like a frightened turtle, but the new Phebe refused to allow him to intimidate her. Head high, she smiled a slow, seductive smile and turned away, knowing she was showing her exposed back to him. She glanced over her shoulder as if to invite him to follow, but he was walking with the count through the crowd to the buffet table.
Rebuffed. He rebuffed me for food. Well, damn him. Her juices had dampened her panties, and her clit ached to be touched by the man's hands. Licked, she thought. You're the one, Mr. Sexy Knees. You're the man I'm going to seduce.
Marla joined her when they sat down to eat. There were eight at their table, including the count and the Scot. Light banter and laughter made for a fun meal hour. No one gave their real names. The unmasking at midnight was the time for name revelations.
As they sat through the welcome and a spiel from the institute's president, Phebe mapped out a plan to seduce the virile blond in tartan across from her. At times she thought she caught him sizing her up, but when the dancing began, to her disappointment, it was his friend, the count, who invited her to the floor. Kilt escorted Marla.
"You're gorgeous, mysterious woman in black lace." The count twirled her under his arm and smiled down at her.
No one had ever called her gorgeous before. It felt wonderful. "Why, thank you, Monsieur Picaud." Because of her beloved books, she recalled the count's name.
"Call me Pierre, please, mademoiselle."
In Dumas's novel, it was Pierre Picaud who had become the Count of Monte Cristo, and so her dance partner was as well-versed in the story as she. He was charming and good looking, with black hair slicked back and eyes the color of dark chocolate in a smiling face. He inquired if she was a volunteer or had some other connection with the institute. Her answer was honest. He told her he was an attorney and sometimes did pro bono work for them. Lawyers were known for their way with words, so that would account for his charm.
Was this man the one to seduce? He seemed nice enough and had shown interest in her, but there was nothing about him that made her pussy flutter.
His attempt to whirl her with big steps about the floor wasn't successful. Her snug gown came close to hobbling her. She laughed.
He apologized. "Sorry about that. We'll have to be content with the under-my-arm stuff."
"I'd appreciate that. You're quite the gentleman."
"Ah, but I'm a count, am I not?"
The dance ended. He bowed and thanked her.
Heart pounding, she approached the man in blue war paint across the room. Nerves made her voice low and hoarse. "Dance with me?"
His mouth tipped up at one corner in an amused smile. "Can't refuse a lady, can I?"
Sparks shot through her, hot and sharp, when he took her hand. She started.
He pulled her into his arms. "You felt that, did you? So did I. Nice, wasn't it?"
You bet I felt it. "Static electricity, I...I guess." Damn. She'd stammered.
"I think not. I think it was something much nicer." They danced for a time without speaking, then he said, "I saw you look me over."
"You did?" She looked up at him from under her lashes. "You certainly gave me the once-over. Did you like what you saw?"
He pulled her close. His breath touched her ear as he whispered to her, sending another shiver through her. "I did. Very much. And you?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she measured the strength of the arms around her, and the way his legs moved in time with hers, thighs touching. If it hadn't been for the damned sporran, she'd have been able to determine if his cock was rising. For a moment she closed her eyes, envisioning the cock and almost drooling at the thought of the pleasure it could bring.
He danced well and didn't try to sweep her about the floor as his friend had done. Clever man, she thought. He'd noticed the awkwardness of that attempt.
When the music ended, she brushed her lips against his cheek. "Thanks for the dance." She sniffed. "I like the way you smell." She took his hand and pulled him toward the gaming room. "Ever played baccarat?"
"Sure."
Everyone had received chips for gambling and, although there weren't any prizes, it was fun to play as people laughed and groaned. Cam laughed and groaned along with the rest of them, although she noticed he won more than his share of times.
For the games she wasn't familiar with, he coached her. She'd stand behind him, peeking over his shoulder, making sure he felt her body touching his. Phebe watched his hands handling cards and chips, his fingers long and his nails clipped, his movements deft and quick. He had an easy manner at every table, betraying a sure sign of familiarity with the games.
"Are you a casino dealer?"
He chuckled. "No, I tend bar. But I've been around cards enough. My dad owns a casino in Laughlin. My name is Cam, by the way."
"Naughty, naughty...we aren't supposed to do that until the unveiling. My name is Phebe, and I'm just a bookstore clerk."
"If you put it that way, I'm just a bartender. I'll take a bookstore clerk like you any day." His voice became low and husky. "I like that unveiling idea."
A shiver rolled through her clit. "That was blatant."
"Well, I'm a blatant guy. Let's dance again." He drew her out to the dance floor.
The D. J. played a slow tune. Cam locked his arms around her waist and pulled her hard up against him. Liking the sensations he was creating, she wrapped her arms about his neck, shut her eyes and laid her cheek against his.
When it was over, he released her. "I'm a little warm. Shall we get some air?"
She laughed, delighted she'd aroused him. "That's supposed to be the woman's line. But if a man's gotta cool down, he's gotta cool down." She retrieved her clutch purse and cape, and they wandered into the gardens hand in hand.
Reaching a deep pool of darkness, he turned her face to his and leaned in to kiss her. Her body responded like a rocket shot into the sky. Suddenly their mouths were fucking as their tongues darted and probed. He pulled his sporran around to the side, and she felt his erection hard against her.
He broke the kiss, breathing fast. "Whoa. This isn't the place for this. I'm staying over. Will you come to my room? I'd like to have a little with you."
Have a little. That's an invitation for sex. She nodded, amazed this had happened so fast. He gave her the number.
"Let's walk until my dick has cooled down."
When it had, her heart thudded as she tried to look normal when they reentered the ball and headed for the stairs. "I need to use the ladies room first."
"That'll give me time to get rid of my mask. See you soon." Cam ran his hand over her butt again as he pushed a strand of her hair aside to tongue one ear.
Not believing her boldness, she slipped a hand behind his sporran, brushing a light touch across the firm rod she found.
He growled. "Don't be too long."
After she'd used the facilities and retouched her makeup and perfume, Phebe climbed the stairs. Having reached the second floor, she stopped.
Cam's room was only a few doors away. She hoped he hadn't ordered more champagne. Much more alcohol and she'd be too drunk to seduce him. Sexual excitement fluttered in her chest and belly as she imagined his warm, satiny erection in her hands and his mouth at her clit. She shivered with pleasure. It was too hot to consider.
Opening the door to what she thought was his room, she stepped inside and stopped. Two men and a woman were engaged in a ménage à trois. She could tell by the masks and the lack of blue face paint that neither of the men was Cam.
I'm in the wrong room, thank goodness.
So that's how it's done. Instead of exiting right away, she stared at the activity before her. She'd never seen anything like this and couldn't pull herself away. They were too busy to notice her.
The figures were naked, except for masks and the men's socks. It might have been ridiculous, except for the sounds and sights issuing from the three. Phebe could smell the woman's thick, heady perfume even from the doorway. She lay on her back on the bed, knees bent, legs spread wide enough her knees almost touched the covers. One man's face was buried in her pussy. His erection touched his navel.
The second man stood beside the bed, rubbing his cock. His gaze never left them.
Fascinated, she watched as, under his fondling, it swelled and rose from a patch of auburn hair.
Judging from the rocking of the bed, and the gasps and sighs issuing from her throat, the woman was enjoying what was transpiring between her thighs. Holding the man's head, she moaned louder and lifted her hips, gyrating against his face.
She could tell when the woman climaxed because she grabbed the man's shoulders and cried out. This appeared to be the signal for him to fuck her because he climbed on the bed and straddled her. Her hand closed around his dick to guide it into her slit before wrapping her legs around him. He began to pump.
The standing man lay down on his side on the bed, his wet cock near her face. He reached for her breast, and the woman turned her head and took him in her mouth, one hand stroking his balls.
This wasn't to her taste. Phebe couldn't imagine "letting it all out" this much, but she admitted the tableau had triggered throbbing in her clitoris and the desire for a man to go down on her pussy, too. She chose not to stay for the finale. Stepping into the hall, she shut the door so it latched without noise.
Checking his room number again, she realized she should have been the next floor up. As she passed the balcony overlooking the dance floor, she stopped and looked down to make sure Cam wasn't still there. Staring at the scene below, all thought fled.
What the hell?
No D. J. No music.
Long tables and benches dotted what had been the ballroom, and a fire blazed in a huge open hearth. A pot hung over coals in the corner from a tripod. Rough men dressed in plaids sat on the benches and drank from tankards. They tore at huge drumsticks of meat held in their hands or spooned a stew of some kind into trenchers. Voices rose and the men laughed deep, booming guffaws. Sometimes one of them would slap another on the back or shove shoulder to shoulder. One tipsy man tumbled off the end of the bench after a shoulder shove, and that triggered doubling-over gales of laughter.
It was surreal. She shook herself. She wiped her eyes and looked again. Nothing had changed.
What was this? Had the masked partygoers left and a new group arrived? That didn't make sense, she told herself. Like her, many of the costumed people were spending the weekend at the castle. Maybe this was a play geared to inspire guests to increase their pledge card amounts. Or perhaps they were shooting a film.
If she didn't get to her rendezvous soon, she'd be too drunk to be fucked by the sensual Cam, much less to remember it.
Locating the correct room, she reached for the doorknob, then stopped. To her surprise, the new Phebe wasn't firmly entrenched. With her courage at ebb instead of flow, she asked herself if this was really what she wanted to do. Determination raised its head. Removing her mask, she straightened and drew in a deep breath.
Show time, woman. She opened the door and walked in.
Darkness had settled in when Alistair Alexander Charles Cameron James Ross and his men swung down from their horses. He handed his reins to the waiting stable boy. "Wipe him down, will ye, gille? He's had a long day."
"Aye, laird."
He ruffled the lad's tousled head, knowing the boy's eyes shone with happiness that he could perform a service for his laird. Alex recalled a day when he'd felt the same. Only it had been for his father, who was then, bless his soul, the laird of this holding.
Removing his gloves, he rubbed his neck with one hand as he entered the castle from the courtyard. Chilled, he was too weary to sup with his men, almost too tired to climb the stairs.
In his rooms, a familiar form unfolded from where it had been seated on the chest. "'Evenin', Alex. Did things go well?"
Although he was the laird's right-hand-man, Hamish often served Alex as his valet. He unbuckled his laird's pistol and holster belt and pulled them away with his dirk and sword.
"Aye, they did. And things were quiet here?" Alex removed his coatee.
Hamish nodded. "Marabella foaled. No problems. Nice little stallion."
"Glad to hear it. I'll check him out tomorrow. Any word of the Watch in these parts?" He untied his leather sporran and tossed it on the chest with the coatee.
"Nay."
"Good. I'm not wanting to be locked up in some filthy English prison again anytime soon. Especially for a murder I didna commit." Weary as he was, he couldn't keep the anger from his voice.
The candles had been lit, and in their warm glow, Alex could see steam rising from a tub of hot water in front of the blazing hearth fire. He took Hamish's place on the chest and untied the laces of his elk skin boots and pulled them and his stockings off. Standing, he released the narrow leather belt holding his plaid in place, and Hamish pulled the long yardage and folded it with practiced hands.
The creamy white shirt Alex had on beneath it ended mid-thigh, and he pulled it off over his head. Once he'd removed the underarm scabbard that held his sgian dhu, he stood, relaxed and naked, beside the tub.
"I had a lad watching to signal us when you entered the pass, so the tub's hot and ready. Cook left a bowl of stew on the hearth, with bread and a tankard of beer on yer table."
"Thank cook for me, please. And thanks to ye. You're a duine math, Hamish." Alex stepped in, sank under the near scalding water and came up with a sigh, brushing his damp hair out of his eyes.
Hamish scooped up shirt, dusty boots and stockings and left the room.
Alex had spent the day visiting his tenants, dressed in his finest plaid and regalia, and accompanied by some of his fighting men. It'd been a tiring business, for they'd ridden far, but it was the duty of every laird to visit his people, and he'd enjoyed spending time with his men. It was also the occasion to collect the rents, some of it in coin, some in produce or stock.
For him, the fatigue created by smiling as he spoke with each family and listened to their concerns ranked up there close to having been in battle. Or evading the Watch. He'd done that for a year, after having assumed the last name of his maternal uncle and living in his uncle's castle for two years, well hidden by friends and family.
When the Watch had discovered who and where he was, he'd fled, hiding in the caves and dense woods of the Highlands for more than a year. He hadn't even been able to attend his beloved father's funeral. It had been a lonely, bitter time.
Only three months past had he dared return to Balmarbroch and use his own name. There was still a price on his head, and as soon as the Watch figured out he was here, he'd have to become a fugitive again until he lost them or they tired of searching. In his absence, Hamish and his men had seen to the land. They would again if necessary.
His bath finished, he dried off and wrapped his body in a clean plaid. He wolfed down the hot food and drained the tankard. While he ate, servants drained his tub and carried it away.
He was standing near the hearth, one arm braced against the stones above, letting the heat from the flames warm him and soothe his fatigue, when a woman spoke.
"Hello." Her voice was as soft and liquid as molten gold.
Startled, he whirled, his body tense.
She was leaning against the closed door, a door he could have sworn hadn't opened or closed since the departure of the servants who'd carried the tub away. Light from the fire and candles bathed her slender form, lending it an ethereal grace and creating soft, flickering shadows on her face.
He'd never seen a gown such as she wore--all fine, black lace and so snug it displayed every shapely curve. His eyebrows rose at the sight of it. The skirt flared above slender ankles, and diamonds sparkled and danced on little straps wound about her feet. She smiled as if she knew him, and he watched a dimple form in one of her cheeks. He couldn't believe how lovely she was. His breath got trapped in his throat, and his dick wakened as if from a long sleep.
Where had she come from? What was she doing in his rooms?
Was she an expensive English whore Hamish had procured to welcome him home? No, that wasn't done in these parts and, of a certainty, never for him. Perhaps she was a selkie, risen from the loch and taken earth-born form. If so, and if someone had hidden her selkie skin, she'd entice him to love her, even bear him sons and daughters, until she found it. Then she'd wrap herself in it, change into her true form and disappear into the sea. He would be left a grieving, heart-stricken man, lonelier even than he was now.
He didn't believe in selkies, but since she'd appeared by some mysterious means beyond his ken, the thought she might be a witch, which he somewhat believed in, created havoc in his chest. However, it didn't dampen the sensations roiling his randy cock.
Thank heavens, his response to her was hidden under the loose plaid covering his naked body. Witch or not, he waited without speaking. She fascinated him.
Still smiling as if they were acquainted, she dropped her dark cloak, a feathered mask and a small purse on the chest. Then she walked toward him--steps slow and deliberate, hips swaying, diamonds winking. As she drew closer, he could see her eyes were as green as the crystals dangling from her ears.
He took in a deep breath. Despite not believing in selkies, relief swept through him that her eyes were not dark brown like theirs were reported to be. Her hair was brown, but streaked with gold, as if lightened by sunlight. A selkie's head would have been almost black. He'd never seen hair cut as hers was--soft waves framing her face and touching her shoulders.
Her skin was like a white dove's against her black lace gown.
Desire flared molten and deep in his gut. He fought the sudden urge to crush her to his chest and carry her to the floor so he could penetrate her silken secrets and plunge his way into her. Control yerself, duine.
Some sanity returned when he reminded himself she was a stranger, and mayhap even a witch. As she drew closer, wariness would've caused him to step back if he hadn't been in front of the stone hearth. There was no way to inch around her to get to his pistols or dirk.
Then he realized how silly he was to worry. She was tall enough, but slight. It would be easy to overpower her, and he'd be surprised if a weapon was hidden in that tight dress. As far as he could see, she wasn't even wearing stockings. That in itself aroused him.
Having almost reached him, she stopped. Looking him in the eyes, gaze unwavering, she slid her tongue over her lower lip as she peeled away one long glove with deliberate slowness and released it. It dropped to the floor. She removed the second glove with the same tantalizing slowness. It joined the first.
His knees weakened. He couldn't take his eyes off her hands. What would she remove next, he wondered, as his skin prickled all over his body. His ballocks tightened, and his damned cock rose now to full attention. Restlessness enveloped him.
Saints, but he wanted her.
Two steps more and he felt her fingers, slender and fine, touch his cheeks to follow his jaw line and slide to his mouth. Her exotic fragrance enveloped him. She touched his lips with one finger, and he noticed how she caught her lower lip in her teeth as she studied his mouth. Her hands framed his jaws as she drew him toward her. He allowed it, but before her lips could close on his, he sealed hers with tight hunger. She uttered a little sound of satisfaction.
He wrapped his arms about her, and shock raced through him when he realized her back was bare almost to her tail bone. Not only had he never seen a gown as tight as hers, he hadn't seen one without a back.
Soft and sweet, her kiss spun his senses. Saints, but she was nice to kiss. When she tried to break it, almost as if sudden shyness had swept over her, he held her tight, forcing her to open to him. He didn't know who she was, where she'd come from or why she offered herself to him--and maybe she'd bewitched him--but he was going to taste her, to rove that succulent mouth until he'd had his fill.
Even through his calluses, he sensed the tiny tremors running down her spine as he caressed her bare back. He slipped his hand inside her gown and felt her bum. Her skin, unfettered by smallclothes, was like cool silk--smooth and supple beneath his work-worn hands. Her bum was firm and round. She squirmed a bit as he slid a finger down the tantalizing crack almost to her hole.
He pulled her tighter to bring her breasts to his chest, and when she leaned deeper into him and danced her tongue with his, he knew she could feel his stone-hard cock. She rubbed against it, even as he thrust his pelvis against her.
Logic and doubt forgotten, passion drove him to have more of her. He needed to fuck this woman, this willing seductress who'd come to his rooms and invaded his privacy. He needed to do many things to her to assuage his clamoring want.
As she wrapped her arms about his neck, he released her bum to slide his hands down her body. It was an automatic thing, developed during his days on the run. He didn't think she carried a concealed weapon, but it'd become a habit. Eyes closed, his warrior hands roved her curves as each valley, hollow and rise imprinted in his mind.
Alex had determined she had no weapons when she reached up to her neck and fumbled with her dress. His eyes flew open. Her dress dropped to her waist, and he looked down on firm tits with rosy, taut nipples and areolae like lily pads supporting sweet flowers.
Before he could stop her, she'd pulled the plaid off his shoulder. Not being fastened with his belt, it fell to the floor, exposing his nakedness and full arousal.
"Oh." It was a little gasp, and her eyes went wide when she saw what she'd done. She glanced down, where his cock pointed at her navel in invitation.
He glanced down, too. It was a shaft to be proud of. The fine blue lines of the veins stood out and, as it always did when hard, the foreskin had slipped back, revealing his prick's large head, the deep color of plums. Drops of pre-cum covered it like inviting dew. She stared at it as her hands explored his bare shoulders and chest. When she kissed his neck and leaned to scatter kisses and nips across his chest and nipples, he was the one to gasp.
He stood entranced, letting the sensation of her fingertips, as they zigzagged down his chest to his center, inflame his desire for her. When her hand trailed along the path of hair from his belly button to the tight nest between his hips, and at last touched his dick, he sucked in his breath as his pelvis and girdle tightened even more.
"Saints preserve us." His voice was neither steady nor strong.
Her fingers caressed him from base to tip, then folded around him and stroked up and down. Taking his cock in both hands, she played with it, twisting, tugging. He fought not to spurt into her hands. Instead, he captured them and held them behind her as he kissed her again and crushed her to him so he might feel her tits, skin to skin, against his nude chest.
With his free hand he slid her gown down, letting it puddle at her feet.
With his shaft nestled against the warm satin skin of her belly, it was his turn to explore. The exotic scent at her slender throat filled his nostrils. As he probed her mouth with his tongue and grazed her throat with his teeth, he could sense her need for him growing, but it was too soon for her. Before he'd enter her, she had to be wild with wanting.
He fought to keep himself under control, primed as he was to ravish her.
Hamish had taught him how it was with women. "Rushing a woman's the act of a poor lover. They got to be wooed. And cuddled just a mite after. When a man's done, he's finished. For them it isna over until their bodies have settled in."
Alex wooed her. With his tongue and lips and hands. He kissed her inner wrists, intoxicated by her perfume there. He released her bum and watched her nipples tighten into buds at the touch of his breath when he blew across tits that were lush and full. Bringing his hands in from the sides to stroke them, his thumbs played with her nipples. He kissed her neck and slid his kisses down her chest to her tits. When he bent his head to suck them, she made noises deep in her throat and pressed hard against him. Her hands closed on his butt cheeks.
He slipped a hand between her thighs and ran a finger up between her pussy lips. When she caught her breath, it told him where to rub and twist the bit of flesh that would bring her to fulfillment. Her juices made his hand slick as his finger searched for her slit.
It slid in as if it had come home. In and out he stroked. He withdrew his finger and tasted her cream on it.
"No," she whispered in a broken voice, and spread her legs a bit, inviting access to her again.
He took a deep breath and plunged his finger in again as he massaged her swollen clit and wet pussy lips harder and harder, circling and circling as she pressed down and moved her body over his hand again and again.
He sensed she was growing frantic to have him inside her. Lord knew he wanted to be there.
He closed his mouth over one teat and pulled hard. When he moved to the other, he felt her muscles tighten and then go still for a moment. She was on the brink of orgasm. This excited him even more, and he captured her mouth and sucked her tongue in as he massaged harder to bring her over the edge to ecstasy.
Her fingernails hurt, digging into his shoulders as she cried out, the sound stifled by his mouth. Her back arched. She trembled as shudders rolled through her body. The spasms in her inner walls tightened and released around his finger.
Withdrawing his hand, he kicked her gown away and looked at her. She stood with eyes downcast, lashes shadowing her cheeks, clad only in a wisp of black panties of delicate French lace, the dangling green crystals and glittering high heel sandals.
In the golden candlelight, she looked like a goddess. Legs as slender and long as a filly's, breasts that filled his hands, nipples so responsive they tightened with only the softest of breaths. And a bum tight and round and dick-pleasing--all that plus the thick bush of brown hair between her thighs that shielded her mysterious passage.
Her beauty left him breathless.
He couldn't hold back much longer. He needed to sink his dick deep into the wet, enclosing sheath shielded by that bush.
He knelt and removed her sandals. After ridding her of her panties, he ran his hands up the warm, smooth skin of inner thighs juicy with her cream. When he spread her and licked the salty juices of her slit, she gasped and anchored her fingers in his hair. Her box still pulsated.
Trembling with the need of his cock in that tight passage, he stood. Sweeping her up, he carried her to his bed, and covered her with his body. Resting his weight on his elbows so as not to crush her, he slipped his thigh between hers. She responded by spreading her long, lovely legs.
He tried to push into her. She was as tight as a virgin.
A whoosh escaped her. "Stop!"
He groaned, gritting his teeth. "Can't, lassie. Not now."
"But it hurts. You're too big." Her hands pushed hard at his chest.
If she thought to move him, she hadn't a prayer. "Lord luv ye, hold still." He pulled back almost all the way. "Better?"
"Yes, but take it out. Please!"
Her eyes were wide with panic in the dimness. The tension in her body radiated to him. As did her heat, and the way her walls resisted him. He pulled out a bit more. Reaching for his dick, he circled her gently with it, right where he knew she'd be sensitive.
"Oh."
He probed a little deeper. The resistance of her passage leaves lessened, but if she didn't stop wiggling, he was going to plunge in and make them tighten up again. Her heat was driving him wild enough already. "Hold still, lass. You're verra tight. Have ye not done this before?"
Indignation colored her tones. "Of course, I have. But not with anyone so big."
He inched in a little deeper. "It's been a long time then, has it?" Talking was difficult. Her slippery tightness was making him burn to forget wooing and slam into her until he exploded. He reached down and rubbed the small nub again, just above where he'd penetrated her. Her quick inhalation of pleasure almost put him over the edge, but his cock continued to arouse her again.
He edged in farther each time, rocking and probing. He groaned as her inner leaves let him in all the way. "Better?" It was so much better for him he knew he was going to come any second.
"A little. It doesn't hurt as much."
That was all the answer he needed. He plunged in with abandon, pushing until the pulsations in his ballocks began and his seed spurted into her. She came a second time.
In that moment, the world shifted, and he knew, for him, life had forever changed.
"A Mhicheal bheannaichte, dion sinn bho dheamhainnean." His prayer begged for protection from demons--which he hoped might work as well for witches. Just in case.
It was as he'd been taught. He was finished. His desire had been sated and no vestiges of it remained. But he remembered what he'd been told, and so he pulled the covers over them, lay close enough that their bodies touched, and held her hand as they slept.
He wakened in the deep of the night. Amazement swept through him. She was still here, her breathing light and even beside him, her heat blending with his under the quilt. He'd never slept all night with a lass before, and he'd expected this one to disappear as mysteriously as she'd come. But she was here. Alive and warm beside him. Moreover, she was real.
Mist covered the moon, but the candles still burned low and he could see her outline as she lay on her back next to him. Lord, but she was fine. He knew the touch of that skin now--pale, and as soft as the most expensive silk--he'd kissed the upturned tip of her nose and swept his tongue into those shell pink ears while she'd squirmed in his arms from the excitement of it. The saltine taste of her cunt was a memory on his tongue, as was the fire of her passage wrapping around his engorged cock.
Instantly, he filled. He would have her again. Now--their bellies slippery with sweat as they fucked.
He ran a finger down her cheek. She stirred. He took her arm and lapped her palm in the same way he'd lapped her wet pussy, then kissed and licked her sensitive inner arm up to her elbow.
"Wha..." Her voice was heavy with sleep.
He straddled her and leaned down to kiss her as his hands kneaded her breasts and fingers squeezed her nipples. He dragged his cock and balls over her flat belly as he wakened her.
She came alive beneath him, opening her mouth and thrusting her hips up to reach his dripping prick. Her hands closed on it, and she guided him to her slit, already flowing with juices.
He sank into her, groaning with satisfaction. This time, her walls welcomed rather than fought him, and he rocked in. He lay on her and rolled, pulling her on top.
"Sit on yer knees." This brought him so deep into her cunt he thought his release was near.
She gasped as she sat up. He was inside her to the hilt, and her pussy leaves were soft and wet around him.
"Now lean back and ride me. Oh, yes, that's it." She went wild on him. "Holy Mother...yes!"
They reached the peak of ecstasy together, and afterwards she wept in his arms and clung to him.
He let her sleep another hour or two before waking her again.
Phebe opened her eyes. It wasn't dawn yet, and the candles had burned very low. She'd expected to see him in jeans and T-shirt, but he stood beside the bed, dressed again in a plaid, arms folded. In contrast to last night here, he was dressed in a shirt, and his plaid was fastened with a belt. The wide tail of the fabric spread across his chest and over one shoulder, wound around his back and was fastened in front at the waist on the other side with it. He wore his sporran.
He was about the size of the Scorpion King. If there was any man who exhibited more testosterone and virility than this one, she hadn't met him yet. She stretched and sat up. "Good morning. At least I guess it's morning."
"Sleep well?" His face was like a cat who'd discovered the cream.
"Yes. That is, between..." She stopped, feeling her face grow hot. She barely knew him, and to refer to their heated lovemaking made her blush. The room was thick with the tart scent of it.
He just smiled.
Studying him, she said, "That's not the tartan you wore last night. The colors are different."
It was a simple comment. She had no idea it would lead to disaster.
He shook his head. "Nay, 'tis the same tartan--scarlet, green and blue woven in the Ross sett."
Thinking of what he'd worn at the ball, she said, "But you must have another. The one you wore last night had only dark blues and greens." In books she'd read some clans had used leaf and earth tones when they hunted. An ancient version of camouflage. "Maybe it was your hunting tartan?"
He stiffened. "Aye, that tartan is for hunting all right. Hunting men. Those are the colors of the Watch. No Ross will ever wear the Watch plaid." His jaw clenched.
He'd pronounced plaid as plade.
Am Freiceadan Dubh. The Black Watch. She knew about it. In 1729, George II had organized independent clan chiefs to control warring clansmen in their own territories. Ten years later, he'd formed them into a regular royal regiment with the distinctive dark uniform. Hence the name. They watched for and hunted down outlaws and arrested traitors to England--the Jacobites, who supported Prince Thearlaich's uprising to restore Catholicism and put a Stuart on the throne of England and Scotland again. In her day, Thearlaich was known as Bonnie Prince Charlie.
She'd been so certain of Cam's tartan colors, but...
Now she was the one who stiffened. "You aren't Cam!"
His smile was slow and lazy, as if he enjoyed her discomfort. "Aye, Cameron. Alistair Alexander Charles Cameron James Ross."
She grabbed the bed linens and pulled them up to her chin. "Where am I?"
He laughed, voice low and husky. "In my bed, mo calman geal."
She groaned. "I have no idea what that means. Of course, I know I'm in your bed. What I mean is, where is this bed?"
He looked astonished, as if he thought she should know. "In Castle Blaird."
Thanks heavens for that.
His brogue was thick, the r rolled and almost swallowed. She covered her face with her hands, forgetting the linens had slipped and her breasts were exposed. Realizing what had happened, she yanked them tight about her body and jumped from the bed. She couldn't stop shaking as anger shot through her. She stamped a bare foot, wincing a little when it hit wood instead of the expected carpet.
"Are you his twin? You must be his twin, and you traded with him to trick me."
She hadn't consented to that. She felt unclean. It was ménage with a twist. "Was it you the first time? Or your brother?"
The confusion on his face was evident. "I ha' na twin nor even a brother. There's only me. I'm called Alex because my uncle is Alistair. No one calls me Cameron." His voice grew husky. Sultry. Pure sex. "But ye may, if ye wish."
She sat down hard on the bed. "Dear Lord, what have I done?"
"Seduced me. Most thoroughly." He knelt in front of her, a hand resting on the bed on each side of her. He smelled clean, like grasses and green fields. "I'm sorry if I dinna please ye. Ye pleased me immensely."
She covered her mouth and nose with her hands, as if to drive away what she didn't understand. At the masquerade, Cam's eyes had been blue. The gray eyes she now looked into studied her, but didn't mock. Strands of dark blond hair, darker than Cam's bright blond, curled around his face here and there. They'd escaped his attempt to tame his long hair by wearing it tied back in a braided queue interlaced with leather strips.
The temptation to smooth the rogue strands back was strong, but, instead, she touched the ridge of the scar near the left side of his mouth. That oh-so-kissable mouth. Cam hadn't had a scar. She'd have noticed it when she'd kissed him.
"No brothers? A cousin maybe?" It came out in a frightened squeak. Bartender Cam's hands weren't callused. This man performed manual labor with his.
"Nary a one, lass. If ye're worrit, my cock was the only one exploding in yer sweet cunt last night."
"I must be mad."
"A bit confused, mayhap, but not mad." He brushed her hair back behind one ear.
Her ear tingled with heat as his fingers touched it. She stared at his mouth as his hand slid to the back of her neck and he leaned in to kiss her. She couldn't stop the audible intake of her breath as she let him. She had the sense that if she merged her lips with his, she'd be his woman for a lifetime.
But after last night, not responding to his kisses or his cock was impossible.
She didn't think he'd planned this, but the kiss deepened into one more urgent and demanding. Want roared in her as he pulled her sheet down to get to her breasts.
Liquid heat flooded her when he removed it all the way
"Come to the edge of the bed and spread yer legs for me. I want yer pussy."
Oh, how much she wanted him to have it. She leaned back on her elbows and widened her legs.
His mouth was as hot as her core when he kissed her there, his tongue caressing her clit once more into arousal. Stroking down... down... It entered her.
The harsh sound escaping her was one of deep sensual pleasure as Cameron anchored her hips with strong hands and plundered her sensitive tissues with mouth, teeth and tongue. His teeth worked their magic until it almost hurt, but they drove her over the crest of desire and into the tumultuous slide and release.
When she cried out in her climax, his tongue and mouth disappeared as he knelt over her thighs. Taking his stiff shaft in his hand, he found her opening and penetrated her. He was orgasmic in three pushes.
He wore nothing beneath his kilt.
How convenient, she thought, as her body settled in the aftermath of the mind-blowing sex.
When he pulled out, he stood, bringing her up to stand in the circle of his arms. His lips pressed the top of her head. "Glory, but what ye do to me. And I dinna even ken yer name."
"Phebe. Phebe Jones." She had difficulty getting it out. What was a just-plain-Phebe-Jones in comparison to an elegant Alistair Alexander Charles Cameron James Ross?
Taking another plaid from the chest in his room, he wrapped her in it, then sat and pulled her onto his lap. She leaned against pectorals that were slabs of marble, yet so tuckable she rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder. His warmth spread to her naked body through the plaid.
"Who are ye, Phebe Jones?"
Her breath caught in her throat. She wasn't sure why this seemed complicated, but it did. "I sell books in a bookstore. I'm not married."
There was a pause before he said, "I like it that ye havna wed."
She could feel the vibrations of the broad rumble of his brogue. Safe and comfortable in his arms, she gazed about the room, taking in the stone hearth and the floor planks--wide and hand-hewn. Not a thread of carpet was in sight. His bed was on a platform, not a Hollywood frame. A battered shield hung from a wooden peg above the chest alongside an axe. A heavy sword with a broad blade rested on a shelf beside it. She looked down at his feet. This morning they were encased in deerskin boots whose straps wound up his legs and were tied halfway up. The outline of a sgian dhu in his sock was missing.
The acrid smell of peat, giving off blue flames as it burned, was sharp in her nostrils, but it produced enough heat to fill the room and, between it and Cameron's body, she was warm.
Peat. Hand-hewn plank flooring. The thick brogue absent last night. A small bell jangled in the recesses of her brain. What was odd about this picture?
Sitting up straight, she asked, "Do you do re-enactments?"
"What?"
"You know, where people dress up like in olden times and play out a scene from history. Like, this isn't a real castle, is it? It's a stage prop."
He looked thoroughly puzzled. "I havna heard about that. The castle's real. It's my castle."
Her throat tightened because she feared the answer, but she had to know. "Who are you?
"I told ye just now. I'm Alistair Alexander Charles Cameron James Ross, laird here at Balmarbroch."
"And Balmarbroch is where?"
His laugh was soft, as if she teased him with her silly question. "In the Highlands, of course."
Her vision was dimming, and she fought to recall what she'd read about Scottish history. Highland history. Grasping at a straw she hoped would keep her afloat in the sudden quagmire she found herself in, she asked in a voice so small he had to lean in to hear it, "Culloden. Has there been a major battle there between the Jacobites and the English?"
Alarm spread across his face and he laid a finger against her lips. "Shush. Never speak of Jacobites. 'Tisna safe. But, na, there has been na battle at Culloden. Why do ye ask?"
He'd said Cull-OD-dun. She'd never been sure how the name should be pronounced. No matter how you pronounced it, he'd said it hadn't yet happened.
Phebe knew it had happened.
In 1746, at Culloden, the Jacobites had fought Hanoverian soldiers under George II to restore the House of Stuart to the Kingdom of Britain. They had lost, and the Highland clans had been crushed almost out of existence.
A wave of nausea welled up. "I think I'm going to be sick."
She shut her eyes as her mind backed down a long, dark hall. She'd never passed out before, but she knew she was going to now.
The sooner I faint, the sooner I'll come to...and this nightmare will be over.
She let herself fade into soft darkness.
She woke up flat on her back on the bed, still living the nightmare. The Scot sat beside her. He'd brought her around by washing her face with a cool cloth and chaffing her hands.
"Are ye all right, lass?"
His brogue awakened something inside her. She touched his face to smooth away the furrow of worry on his brow. His skin was warm and real. She realized he wasn't much older than she was. "Yes."
"Sit up to be sure ye aren't dizzy."
A strong hand at her back helped her up.
"Not dizzy." She didn't tell him she still felt shaky.
"Phebe, ye must tell me how ye got here. 'Tis verra important. A woman doesna stay the night with a man, especially a laird. I must get ye away before dawn."
Tears welled up and her hands trembled, but she refused to cry. "I don't know how I got here. I was at a masquerade ball, and I entered the room of a man dressed in Highland garb named Cam. With the blink of an eye, I was here with you--but I thought it was him."
"Are ye a witch?" There was no doubting the seriousness of the question.
Horror spread through her at the thought of what they did to witches in this age. "A witch? Of course not!"
He let out a slow breath. "Thank the good Lord for that. I've brought clothes for ye. They were my mother's, bless her soul"--he crossed himself--"and I think they'll fit well enough. 'Twill go verra bad for ye if I do not get ye away before ye're seen." He cleared his throat. "And, uh, ye canna be seen in that black gown."
He pointed to a screen she could dress behind, and she choked back a nervous giggle. He'd tasted, licked and inserted his huge dick into parts of her body no man had ever even seen, much less touched, but she sensed he felt as strained as she did about the intimacies of the night, no matter how wonderful.
The clothes fit well enough--woolen socks and short boots that cramped her toes a bit. The dress was a bit too short. This mother had been much shorter than her tall son. Phebe pulled petticoats and a long dress with a gathered skirt and high-necked, long-sleeved bodice over her head.
When she came out, he'd added a short coat under his plaid. He wore pistols and dirk on a belt about his waist. An empty leather bag hung at his side. Its strap crossed his chest and shoulder. A quiver and bow rested on his back.
With half a smile, she noticed his knees were even sexier than those of the Washington Cam. A wild urge to kneel and lick them, and then continue tonguing up his big, muscled thighs to what she knew rested there surged through her.
Hysteria. I'm on the brink of hysteria. I must get hold of myself.
He handed her a cloth bag. "Here are yer clothes. Wear yer cloak. 'Tis cold outside."
He made her look away while he opened what had to be a secret passage. Taking a torch from inside, he lit it on the burning peat and cast its light on a stair landing.
From over his shoulder, she could see dust covered the floor. No one had been in there for a long time. No doubt he was making sure she hadn't discovered the passage and entered his room through it.
Cameron motioned her inside. He had to stoop to enter. She stepped through with at least a foot of head clearance.
The scrape of the stone door as it shut was like fingernails across a blackboard for Phebe. She cringed and shivered in the damp space. Her nostrils rebelled against the smell of mold. She hated dark, tight places. Fear made her balk. "Are there snakes?"
"Nay."
"Bats?"
"Nay. Here. Put yer hand on my shoulder and follow me down. The steps are narrow, so stay close to the wall. I willna let anythin' hurt ye. This takes us beyond the castle walls. I ha' to pretend to find ye wanderin' in the woods."
She had no choice but to trust him and follow, but fear was still a rock in her gut. Fear, not just because she hated dark, enclosed spaces, but because, by some mysterious means, she'd traveled back in time almost two-hundred-and-sixty years.
And if she didn't know how she'd gotten here, how in hell would she ever get back? Right now it didn't bear thinking about.
The steps spiraled down to a path that leveled off, and there the Scot took her hand. His strides were long and fast. She stumbled on the rough floor to keep up with him. The tension in his arm transmitted to hers as he sought to get them to the outside while it was still dark. At one point, when she'd tripped for the umpteenth time, and her breath was coming short and fast, he wrapped an arm about her waist and pulled her forward with him.
She almost wept with relief when they reached the entrance. A horse stood there, blowing in the cold air. Its feet were covered with cloths tied at the pasterns, no doubt to muffle its hoof beats.
He crooned to the horse in Gaelic, and the animal stood still as he lifted her onto its blanket-covered back and swung up behind her. With a slight adjustment, the Scotsman wrapped his plaid around her, and pulled her back against him, once more sharing his body heat.
The mist was thick and cold, and he would have known how little protection her evening cloak would have afforded. This laird had very sexy knees and was big and urgent in bed; he was also considerate.
They rode in silence. Phebe knew better than to talk and give them away. As the mist dampened her hair, she recalled reading that Highlanders had been called the Children of the Mist. It would make a great book title. And maybe I can write that book. Hysteria again, she reminded herself. She must not give way to it.
They dismounted when they'd reached an abandoned stone croft equipped for hunters. He brought the blanket inside, started a fire and hung a pot of water over it. He produced two candles from his pouch and lit them. Seated on the blanket beside the fire, they devoured bread and cheese he'd also brought. Even as low as her spirits were, Phebe couldn't recall a time when she'd been hungrier.
After they'd demolished every crumb, Cameron stood and checked the water to be sure it was warm. Pulling a small cloth from his sporran, he handed it to her. "I've no soap, but this will help with washing. I dinna think ye'd like to meet my people with my scent on ye."
Her face heated, and she knew he could see her embarrassment even in the weak light.
"Ye've a comb in yer purse, but I think ye'll want these, too." With a more than wicked smile, he withdrew her panties from the sporran and dangled them from one finger.
She grabbed them and balled them up in her hands to hide them.
He chuckled. Bending, he kissed her. "I'm going hunting. Sleep. Ye'll be safe here until I come back." At the door, he turned. "Don't go anywhere." Then he was gone.
Where would I go anyway? she fumed. Well, she did have somewhere to go. After he'd disappeared into the darkness and mist, she crept behind a bush next to the croft and relieved herself.
Inside again, she washed her face and hands, drying them on her skirts. She held the hot cloth to her very tender, personal areas before cleansing them with care. It would be a while before she would be having sex again. The ride hadn't helped in that department.
The heat felt good, but the water soon cooled in the chill air. She dried herself and stepped into her panties. She had but one pair. How would she keep herself clean?
"Well, you'll have to figure that out, woman." She ran a comb through her hair, grateful for the easy-care cut her hair designer had given her.
Without warning, fatigue surged through her. Even the hard dirt floor seemed inviting. She curled up in the blanket and lay down. Was this what had happened to Diana? Were she, Lance and Faye somewhere in a different century, too? If so, maybe she'd run into them here. It would be wonderful to have friends from her own time.
Back in D.C., Cam Ross would think she'd stood him up. If he'd suffered any wounded pride, she knew he'd get over it. They hadn't known each other, and it was a party fling. She had no family to worry about her, but poor Diana's mother would be very confused, unless Diana had returned.
If Diana had traveled to another age and come back, that would mean she'd found a way to go home. Knowing Phebe had also disappeared at a masquerade ball, she might guess what had happened and not be worried about her. Phebe was determined to find her way home again.
Meanwhile, what was this Cameron Ross going to do with her?
It was too much thinking, and she was too weary to deal with it now. She fell into an exhausted sleep.
Daylight was showing through the kinks in the thatched roof when the back of a finger brushing across her cheek wakened her.
The Highlander crouched beside her. He was smiling, and his plaid smelled of cold air and open woods. Naked, she knew, he smelled all man. Thoughts of his hot body inside her and the gentle slide of his hands sent a tiny quiver of desire through her. She tamped it down.
"Feeling better?"
"Much." She smiled back. "I'm hungry again. Are you?"
His laughter rolled over her like a caress as she shook out her skirts. "Lass, I'm always hungry. We'll go back to my keep and eat again. Give me a kiss before we leave."
In daylight, she felt strange about kissing him. He must've felt it, too, for the touch of his mouth was light and reserved. Last night had been wild and uncensored. Today she was all too aware he was a stranger. And she was a sassenach, a foreigner, although that word usually referred to the English and she was not English.
"For the story I've dreamed up, we must get ye dirty." Pulling her outside, he insisted she roll in the soil dirt and bracken. Reaching up, he smeared mud across her jaw and then brushed most of it away. She had no idea why he was doing this.
He'd removed the cloths from the horse's hooves. When she was up on its back, he handed her the bag that had been across his chest.
"Grouse and hares."
The mist had lifted, but sunlight hadn't broken through. He walked the horse. "Are ye English, then?"
She'd thought this through earlier. "No. From the Colonies."
"And ye were visiting the English?"
"No. I was at a masquerade ball in the Virginia colony. I stepped across the threshold of the room of a Cam Ross and found myself here. I have no idea how that happened." She'd been in D.C., but it hadn't been a colony in this age. Virginia had, and she lived in Virginia. It was an easy substitute.
Disapproval colored his words and his body stiffened. "And when ye seduced me, ye thought it was him?"
Oh, Lord, how was she going to explain this? She didn't know if they had one-night stands in the seventeen hundreds, but it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible. Unless she was going to tell him everything--such as she'd come from the twenty-first century--and she didn't think their relationship at this point could stand that stress.
"Yes, I did. He's blond, although lighter and more yellow than your hair. He was dressed as a Highlander, and you were in your plaid. The light in your room was dim, and I was nervous because I'd never approached a man that way before. It was an honest mistake."
He didn't speak for the longest time.
Fear began in her chest, making it difficult to draw in air. What would he do to her if he thought she'd lied to him or even betrayed another man? Would he maybe think her a common whore, going from man to man?
The sound of the horse's hooves coming down on the thick mulch underfoot, and the occasional cry of a bird were the only sounds that could be heard.
At last, his body relaxed. His lips were soft against her neck. "I love the secret scent of yer skin here. I'm keeping ye."
She almost slipped from the horse because she went so limp with relief, but his powerful arms at the reins locked her in.
As they came down the mountain into the glen, it was obvious Blaird lacked many of the outbuildings of the castle in Washington. Here the keep appeared larger and more dominant. Judging from the number of steps they'd descended, she guessed his rooms were on the top floor.
A boy with sandy-colored hair ran out of the stable when Cameron stopped the horse. He looked up at his laird with what Phebe recognized as hero-worship.
Cameron smiled down at him. "Good mornin'. Grouse and hares are in the bag she carries. Take them to the cook, please? That's a gille math."
The boy reached up for the bag, then turned and ran toward the keep.
After dismounting and helping her down, he led the horse into the stable and put it in a stall. She stood and waited while he brought it a bucket of water. While the animal drank, he brought in a bucket of oats and other grains.
"What's a gille math?"
"It means 'good boy' in Gaelic," said the deep voice of the burly man who approached from the far end of the stable. He was dressed in a short kilt, the kind she was familiar with, in the Ross clan sett. He was older than Cameron.
"Fearghas, I rescued this lass from a band of Wild Scots when I was hunting." He dropped his voice. "They were going to ravish her."
The man turned to her, his sandy hair shot through with gray. "No one better to be rescued by than the Laird of Balmarbroch. Ye'll have nothing to fear here. What are ye called?"
"Phebe."
"Ah, English then. Some of us speak it, but most of what ye'll hear will be French or Gaelic. Welcome, Phebe." He went outside.
"What are Wild Scots?"
"Outlaws. The cruelest of the Highlanders, I'm sorry to say. 'Tis why I dirtied ye. Anyone would understand why I took ye from them." Cameron touched her lips with his fingers and sighed. "Much as I should like it, I cannot hold yer hand or touch ye in any way unless we're verra private. Ye understand that, don't ye?"
"Of course."
"My aunt will take ye under her wing, and ye'll eat in the kitchen this morning. She's a bit stern, but dinna be afraid of her. She runs my household. Tonight at dinner ye'll sit at my table, but not near me. She'll sit beside ye. That way, sassenach or na, my people will understand you're under my protection. If any harm came to ye, it wouldna go well for them."
She remained a step behind him as they walked to the keep. Without any idea of proper etiquette with a laird, it seemed appropriate. Her gut tightened at the thought of meeting strangers and not betraying herself, but the presence of this big, vital young man in front of her should shield her from anything.
Gennot Ross, with hair the color of her nephew's and height near to matching his, pursed her lips and glared with suspicion when he introduced Phebe and explained her predicament. No word of welcome was issued.
"You're late, Alex." Her voice was sharp enough to cut.
"Hunting, auntie. Grouse and hares for supper." He pecked her cheek.
Phebe thought she saw the woman blush and suspected he'd learned young how to charm the dour woman.
"Come along then afore the parritch gets cold." They followed her into the large kitchen adjoining the main hall. Turning to a woman with a big apron over her clothes and a mob cap on her head, she ordered, "Eby, take food to the laird in his office."
Cameron took that private moment to shrug and smile at Phebe. She knew he meant to reassure her, but when he left, she felt abandoned.
The oatmeal parritch was thick and blessedly hot. In no time, the pat of churned butter on top had melted and, as she stirred it, Eby set down a bowl of heavy cream and demonstrated how she should dip each spoonful in it as she ate. She also brought a wedge of dark bread and a tankard of cider. Then she picked up a tray and must have headed for the laird's office.
Phebe spoke no Gaelic and understood but a smattering of French. Gennot refused to converse with her in English. Phebe struggled with French. She sensed the woman derived a certain amount of pleasure in discomfiting her. The why of it puzzled her. Why would she disapprove of someone she'd just met?
Gennot took her to her room. It was on the second floor of a building adjoining the keep. From her window, she could see the keep itself. And the top floor window where her supposed "rescuer" and skillful lover lived.
She missed him already.
Her room was small and furnishings were sparse, but it was clean and pleasant. A large wooden tub of hot water sat in the middle of the room.
Gennot broke through her reverie. "The laird thought ye'd wish to bathe after yer ordeal. He also asked me to find some other clothes for ye. I think these will fit. For now."
"I'm sorry to be such a bother, but how kind of you. Thank you. And please thank the laird for me. I feel so grimy."
"Mmphm. Shall I send a woman to assist ye?"
"That's thoughtful, but, no. I'm used to taking care of myself."
The hot water was heaven to her still-sore pussy after a night of vigorous fucking. Using a sea sponge and soap, she washed all over, including her hair. Stepping out, she dried herself as fast as possible. A warm robe had been laid out, and she wrapped herself in it, then knelt beside the tub and washed out her undies.
Rolling them in a towel to get out all the dampness she could, she hung them in the small wardrobe in her room and shut its door. She hoped no one would find them until they'd dried and she could hide them in her purse.
A discreet knock when she was toweling her hair dry announced a bevy of bucket-carrying maids, who came and went, emptying the tub. Then, working together, they huffed and puffed, chattering in what she thought must be Gaelic, as they pushed it into the hallway.
The new clothes fit better than those she'd had on. The undies were more like bloomers, with a slit in the crotch for relieving yourself.
Also handy for a stolen fondling by a man, she thought. Or the thrust of a dick.
Her big toes were sore, and when she eased into a different pair of boots that didn't cramp them, she sighed a happy sigh. Had Cameron noticed the shortness of his mother's dress on her and figured the boots might be too small?
I think so. She smiled and went to the window to look up at his rooms, but there was no sign of him.
There was a knock at her door. She opened it to a man in a kilt standing there. He was what her grandfather would have called a fine figure of a man.Shorter than Cameron--everyone seemed to be shorter than Cameron--with hair the color of rich mahogany and eyes where browns and golds created a soft calliope of color.
His tartan identified him as a Ross.
He addressed her in quite good English, albeit with a brogue and an occasional lapse into Gaelic. "I'm Hamish, mademoiselle. Oft times valet to our laird. He bid me take ye on a tour of the castle, if ye please."
"I'd love that, Mr. Hamish."
"Seein' as how Mistress Ross has taken yer cloak to be brushed and cleaned, the laird asks that ye wear this."
She accepted the soft woolen plaid. The stripes were in blues, black, yellow and red around white squares. "It's lovely, but not Ross, is it?"
"Nay. 'Twouldna be proper to wear the laird's colors. 'Tis the dress Stewart. His mother was a member of the Stewart clan afore she marrit."
The clan of Mary Stewart, Queen of the Scots, France, England and Ireland, who changed the spelling of her name to Stuart when she married the dauphin of France. Phebe had always been fascinated by the tragic queen, and now she would wear her clan's tartan. It was unbelievable.
Wrapping herself in the warm wool, she braved the outdoors with Hamish. He told her about the craggy mountains surrounding the glen and showed her the fields where they grew barley, wheat and the famous parritch oats. Next she saw the kine, cattle with shaggy coats so long you couldn't see their eyes and horns stretching as wide as a Texas longhorn's.
He also informed her what to do should they be raided by rival clans. That set her back a bit. She paused before continuing to stroll with him.
Returning to the comparative warmth of the castle, he took her through the main hall, with its stone hearth and hand-hewn tables. "This is the laird's table where ye'll sit tonight."
It was at the front, near the hearth. Tremors of excitement went through her at the thought of seeing him again, even though she couldn't talk with him. She'd thought perhaps she'd be staying in the castle, where a secret passage way would connect to his room. Instead, she was in the next building, separated from him.
From the second floor, she looked down on the setting for the scene she'd thought she'd conjured up in her tipsy state last evening--a wide stone hearth, tables and benches--and knew it had been real. She could almost see the Scots tearing meat from joints, draining tankards of ale and spooning stew into trenchers.
She froze. This means that whatever brought me here to this century occurred after I'd left the ménage because that's when I looked down and saw this.
I was in my time in that room, and when I reached this spot, I was in the eighteenth century. I wasn't aware of it until I stepped into Cameron's rooms.
Straight into his arms.
Correction: You only became aware of it after you'd humped each other to exhaustion.
"Mademoiselle?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hamish. I was distracted. It's been a difficult day."
"Aye, I'm sure it has. This is the laird's office." He walked past it.
The door was shut, and an ache started in her center because she couldn't catch a glimpse of him. He was her anchor, her one anchor, in this age. He was the one who knew, and believed, her mysterious appearance from the Colonies. In the Americas.
"Down here's a room he thought ye might like." He opened the door, and her hand flew to her heart. His library. She stepped inside, as if she should remove her shoes for this was sacred ground.
She stared at beautiful books bound in leather, some of them quite old. Some titles had been penned in gold by a fine hand on the spines. The volumes were arranged in glass fronted cabinets. She spun around to face him.
"They're wonderful. I'm a bookseller, you see. I'm not sure I can read the language they're written in, but to see and touch them would be heaven for me. Tell him I do like it. Verra much."
Hamish made a half-bow from the waist. "We'll not go to the third floor. The laird's private rooms are there. His aunt's rooms are on this floor."
He returned her to Mistress Ross, who put her to work like a common kitchen maid, peeling potatoes. Hamish frowned when he saw how Gennot was treating her.
To avoid any problems, Phebe smiled and reached for a knife and a potato after she'd returned the plaid to Hamish. "I've done this before for my mother. Many times."
It wasn't as easy as using a modern peeler. However, she managed to limit the cuts on her fingers to one.
Gennot had left the room, and Eby clucked her tongue and applied a smelly green salve to the cut and wrapped it with a narrow strip of cloth she tied off. Then she made her sit while she poured a cup of hot tea and added a bit of cream and honey to it.
"I'm thinkin' the laird wouldna be pleased to see his guest doin' kitchen work. Especially after the Wild Scots have tried to have at her."
Cameron's lie made her feel uneasy, but she said nothing. Peeling potatoes wasn't her first choice of how to occupy her days, but she'd need to find a way to be useful while she solved the puzzle of getting home.
As the afternoon wore on, she faced the dinner hour with anticipation and dread. She'd see Cameron again, but nerves put her on edge about being there at all. She wasn't sure how she should act or how people would respond to her.
Dinner was served around four o'clock because daylight faded fast at this time of year. She washed up in her room and ran a comb through her hair. No doubt all her lovely makeup had rubbed off.
With sudden onset, her vision blurred and she could see the familiar winking Cs right in the center of both eyes. Damn it, an optic nerve migraine. She lay down and waited for it to fade. She'd never had one last over twenty minutes. More often they were gone in ten. Restlessness always plagued her during an attack because she couldn't get away from those Cs. Even if she closed her eyes she'd see them.
By the time Hamish came for her, they'd faded.
He was the laird's trusted man, and she was grateful for his presence when a hush fell as they entered the huge hall, where over a hundred people sat at tables. She didn't think the tamping down of noise occurred because of him. She wanted to run and hide from all the staring faces, none of which were smiling. Hamish must have sensed it, for he put a firm hand under her elbow and guided her to her seat at the table. There was no sign of his boss.
Plates of crusty brown bread and tubs of butter were passed down the tables, and tankards were filled.
A sudden quiet settled over the room. She looked up, and he was there. Her heart began a frenetic beating in her chest. Tonight he wore the short kilt and his sporran was fancier, fashioned of an animal skin with fringe. The full-sleeved shirt lay open at the throat, and she could see the shadow of fine brown hairs that had felt so soft to her exploring fingers.
Hamish spoke in his ear, then returned to sit at the table where she sat. Cameron walked over to his aunt, who was overseeing the serving staff. He seemed to be sharp with her, and Phebe thought Gennot responded with irritation. She had the feeling he'd reprimanded her for the potato incident for she glowered at Phebe once he'd turned away and headed for the table.
"To the bens and the glens!" A man at another table stood, tankard aloft.
Everyone repeated it in unison and drank to it. Eating commenced with fulsome noise and in great earnest.
After the toast, the meal was much as she'd observed last night in D.C.--the unfettered, rough and guttural sound of Scotsmen speaking Gaelic, guffaws and shoving in jest.
Last night. Dear Lord, it seemed light years ago, in a distant galaxy.
She tried not to stare, but it fascinated her to study the man she'd been intimate with. The men were a rough bunch, and he was cleaner than many of them. He ate with gusto, although neater than most, but he laughed and joked with the best of them. She watched his hand on the drinking vessel, reliving the sensation of it caressing the delicate parts of her body into arousal. And fulfillment.
Laughter bubbled up at the ridiculous thought of him sitting there, everyone in awe of him, and he with nothing but his bare ass, balls and cock under that kilt. Phebe dropped her gaze, closed her mouth and pressed her fingers against them to suppress it.
No one introduced her. Cameron didn't welcome her in front of them or approach her, although at one point their gazes met across the table's expanse, and he smiled. He also licked one corner of his mouth with deliberate intent. She went hot all over.
When the meal had almost ended, a flicker of pain slid down the left side of her head and she had a slight feeling of fullness in the vein at her temple. Ignoring it, she whispered to Gennot, who'd taken the next seat on the bench. "Is anyone going to speak to me?"
"Nay. It wouldna be polite."
"Do they know who I am?"
"Oh, aye. They even know yer name." A viciousness crept into her voice. "They know ye're English and claim to have been accosted by Wilders, but they suspect you're a spy wantin' to tell the Watch their laird's come home. Sentries are posted on the grounds and in the woods to warn him in case the Wilders return with soldiers."
"Why would they believe such a horrible thing? They don't even know me. I have no idea how I got here! Of a sudden I was here and there was...Alex." She'd almost called him Cameron. "I remember my name and that I was a bookseller, but that's all."
It was a partial truth, but she would stick with that story. If they knew more, they might drown her or burn her at the stake as a witch. What they did to spies, she wasn't sure, but figured it wouldn't be pleasant. Even if they handed her over to the English, it wouldn't go well for her. Of that she was certain. She rubbed her temple as a mild ache replaced the flicker. Jesus, a migraine coming on. Full blown. Without her medications, how was she going to deal with it?
"I'm sorry. I have a terrible headache starting. I must go to my room." She started to get out off the bench.
Gennot's hand locked around her wrist like a steel band. "Sit down."
"No. I do need to lie down. I suffer with these from time to time, and I have no medicines with me."
"Ye'll sit and na embarrass the laird."
There was no way Phebe wished to do that, so she sank back down and fought the onset of the nausea accompanying this type of headache. She might have guessed the visual migraine had been a precursor of something worse to come, although she couldn't have prevented it. She didn't have so much as an aspirin with her.
The voice of the man who'd given the toast rose above the din, and people quieted.
"Hear ye, o ye nations! The Ross of Balmarbroch has dined, and the princes of the earth may now eat!"
There was a rumble and the clang of tankards against each other once again.
She winced as the sound intensified her headache. She opened her eyes to see Cameron and Hamish stand, as men and women clustered around him.
She was truly ill now. Even the fading light was unbearable. She reached for Gennot. "Help me. I'm going to be sick."
A strong arm went around her waist, and she leaned into the dour woman's side. It didn't matter if the woman hated her, she needed someone.
In her room, she vomited into the chamber pot while Gennot held it for her. The woman led her to bed and dipped a cloth into the pitcher of water on the washstand and cleansed her face. She offered a bit of ale for her to rinse her mouth. Trapped in an ancient time with a migraine headache and no way to get home...tears slipped from beneath Phebe's lids.
Eby appeared and left to reappear with a posset. "I saw the mistress helpin' ye to yer room and was worrit. Sip a bit of this, lass. It'll calm the roil."
To her embarrassment, she threw up the first bitter sips, but Eby persisted. As Gennot refreshed the cloth and kept it on her forehead, she at last was able to keep the liquid down. Her stomach calmed, and the headache eased a bit. She drifted off, and then knew by his clean, outdoor scent that Cameron was there. Even with her eyes shut she felt his presence in the room.
"Are ye verra ill then, lass?"
"Bad headache. I'll be better tomorrow. The light hurts so much." She heard him order the window shutters closed and the candles snuffed. She drifted again.
Deep in the cold night, shivers wracked her body. A chair scraped and a cover was laid over her and tucked in around her. The length of wool smelled of the outdoors. Even without seeing it, she knew it would be a Ross tartan and that Cameron was with her. She felt his big body lie down beside her and his arms drew her up against his warmth.
She wasn't so alone after all. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and he wiped them away and crooned soft words in Gaelic. Words she didn't understand, but that comforted her hurting body and soothed her soul.
Remembering how she'd left him exposed by pulling his unbelted plaid off, she hoped he was dressed in his short kilt and not standing naked beside her. If she hadn't been in so much pain, she'd have smiled despite the tears.
He'd been holding her hand, and when he reached for it again, she squeezed it to thank him. He squeezed back. She slept.
By dawn, he'd disappeared. Now the tartan covering her was the dress Stewart. She supposed he'd slipped in in secret last night to be with her, and had left this morning before anyone could know.
Her head still throbbed, but not as much. Eby slipped in with more posset. It had helped last night, and she drank it without protest. Her stomach was calm, but she refused food. She couldn't face parritch this morning. The cook coaxed her into drinking hot tea without cream or sugar and tied a scarf around her eyes to block out the light.
She slept again, not waking until mid-afternoon. The scarf had fallen down around her neck, and when she opened her eyes, Gennot was seated in the chair, knitting needles flying in her quick hands.
"Are ye feelin' better then?"
"Yes. Thank you for helping me."
"Alex was here to check on ye."
"I remember. That was kind of him."
Gennot scoffed. "Of course, he came. 'Tis his duty as laird, especially bein' as how he brought ye here and all."
Bein' as how he brought ye here... The words swirled around in her assaulted head. Had he brought her here? Had his thoughts, plus her determination to seduce a Ross, somehow linked across the centuries and pulled her across his threshold instead of the modern one? If that were possible, what thoughts might he have had that drew her to him? Would it be possible to send her back?
Don't think so hard, Phebe. You'll make your headache worse.
Hamish again escorted her to dinner. "Lean on me, lass. Ye've had a bit of a go with that headache, I know."
Her legs trembled, but his big hand beneath her elbow was enough to steady her.
She gathered together every shred of dignity she had, and walked with her head high, looking right into the eyes of the diners as she passed. English? And ready to betray the laird to the soldiers? Disgust flew over her. They'd think someone had tried to poison her. Weak as she was, she met their gazes straight on and was happy to see some drop away in embarrassment.
Dinner began again with the bens and glens call.
After they'd drunk to it, Cameron remained standing, speaking after the clatter had died down. "'Twas remiss of me not to welcome our guest, Miss Phebe Jones, last eve. She suffered an attack of the megrim last night after yesterday's ordeal. During her stay, ye're to assist her in any way ye can."
Though it was less hearty than it might have been, to a person they called out something in Gaelic she thought must have been a welcome.
Cameron's smile warmed her, and she acknowledged it with her own smile.
Dinner ended again with the pronouncement about the Ross having eaten. Hamish escorted her back to her room. Her strength had improved, and she didn't need his assistance, but welcomed his company. At her door, she said, "Hamish?"
"Aye, miss?"
"I understand the glens are the Highlands, but what are the bens?"
"Why, the world, miss. Never accuse a Highlander of not being connected with the world beyond Scotland." Pride rang in his tone.
"Of course. One other question, please. Does the laird know they posted extra sentries last night because of me?"
His left cheek twitched in a half-smile. "Aye, he does. He dinna order it, and the too-zealous man who did has been beaten proper-like."
"Beaten! But..."
"No one overrides a laird's orders. The matter's a serious one and cannot be ignored. The laird is the law here. He judges and sets the sentence. We're fortunate he's a fair man."
"But beaten!"
Now his brow furrowed in a puzzled frown. "Mayhap isna done where ye come from, but that's our way."
He turned to go, but stopped and smiled a broad smile. "The man's lucky he's still got his ballocks."
Ballocks? What were...oh. Testicles. Beating someone to within inches of his balls? Dear Lord, how barbaric.
It was almost enough to bring her headache back.
On the third day, she cornered Cameron's aunt. "Gennot, until the laird decides what to do with me, I feel useless here with everyone else working. My headache's gone. What can I do to help?"
The surprise on Gennot's face was obvious. She nodded. "I'll think on it."
Oh, great. I hope you come up with something soon.
It was the lunch hour before she came to Phebe. "It would help Eby and her staff if ye'd take food to the men working the horses."
Happy to have her time occupied and be outdoors, Phebe started out with a basket of food and two stone bottles of ale. A shirtless Cameron, torso glistening with sweat and muscles bulging as he strained for control, clung to the back of a recalcitrant stallion who was determined to get rid of him. In the end, no amount of bucks and kicks could dislodge Balmarbroch's laird. Dropping his head and chewing, the horse accepted his rider. The laird swung down, speaking soft Gaelic to him and rubbing his neck and forehead while the horse blew but remained docile.
Another man leaned on the fence ringing the corral. He was of wiry build and much older than Cameron. Cameron smiled and waved when he saw her, pulling his shirt off the railing. "Ah, lunch."
His smile set off bells in her soul.
Both men joined her. "Miss Jones, this is Conner, Master of Kine and Horse here. I train the horses, but he taught me everything I know. This is Maudie, his wife."
The approach of a second woman had gone unnoticed as she'd watched Cameron. Conner and Maudie walked with their basket to sit in the shade of a tree.
"Here, let me take that."
Phebe relinquished her basket to Cameron and followed him to a stack of hay bales outside the stable. He lifted her up, placing his hands high enough on her waist that his thumbs touched the undersides of her breasts.
"Nice," he whispered.
Her breasts quivered from his touch.
When he released her, his hands slid down and followed the curve of her hips and thighs before letting go. It set her to crotch to trembling.
In one easy movement, he was beside her, peeping in the basket. "Ah, pasties today."
"Are they what account for your cheerfulness this morning? What are pasties?"
"Ye dinna ken? They say the way into heaven is to offer one to Saint Peter at the gates of pearl. Here, have a bite."
His gaze met hers as he held the pie to her mouth and she bit into the flaky crust with its savory filling of tatties, neeps, carrots and beef. As she chewed, he studied her mouth. "If we were private, I'd kiss ye. I do love kissin' ye."
She almost choked.
"Not yet though. We canna be private yet." He finished off the rest of the pie in two bites, brushed the crumbs from his chin and emptied the bottles of ale. He didn't look at her when he asked, "Do ye like it here, lass?"
"I haven't been here long enough to know. Everyone was kind when my headache hit. Thank you for sending Hamish. He's a good man, isn't he?"
"Aye, a duine math. We grew up together. I was hidin' from the Watch when my da died. Hamish and Conner took care of Balmarbroch for me until I could get back. If I have to flee because the Watch learns I'm here, they'll do it again."
"Why does the Watch want you?"
"I've been outlawed. Spent time in an English prison for a crime I dinna commit. I escaped with the help of friends and was on the run for nigh to a year."
"Now I understand why some of your men were afraid I was a spy. They think I'm English, you know."
"Aye. It'll do for now...since ye dinna ken how ye came here from the Colonies."
He ran a finger over her hand, outlining each of her fingers and dipping down between them. The sensation was too evocative of his hands across her naked skin in foreplay, and she withdrew hers.
He chuckled. "Weel, I thought maybe ye might be a witch."
Alarm rang in her head. "Is that why you asked me if I was?"
"Aye. Selkies I dinna believe exist. But witches, I'm not as sure about. And since ye came to me mysterious like, I needed to ask ye."
As if she'd have told him if she was a witch. For a clever man, part of his appeal was this charming naïveté.
"There'll be a ceilidh in the great hall after sundown tonight. Come."
"What's that?"
"'Tis like a party, with singin' and dancin'." He slipped off the bales and reached for her. "Time to get back to work."
She left him with reluctance. With him, she didn't have to guard her words. As she returned to the kitchen, she became aware one of the groundsmen was keeping her in sight. For the first time, she realized someone was always around wherever she went--Hamish escorting her, this man keeping tabs on her. Maybe they didn't accept she was a spy, but they weren't going to let her leave. Just in case.
If they only knew. There was no reason to leave Balmarbroch. She had no place else to go. At least not yet.
Faithful Hamish escorted her to the great hall for the entertainment. Flames flickered in tall candelabra standing in the arches. Benches had been set against the walls, and people were filtering in to sit.
Cameron was in the center of a crowd of young females, and she smiled at the adoration on their faces. An attractive woman with auburn hair that brushed her shoulder blades seemed pushier than the others. Phebe also thought she was enthralled with him, and he seemed to pay her more attention than the others. At one point he said something to her, and they laughed. Another girl, thin and small of frame, waited in the outer circle, seemingly too shy to push her way through to him.
Small wonder they sought him. Her own heart locked in her throat at his magnificence. Tall and strong, and unaffected in manner, he wore a plaid pleated all the way around and anchored with a belt. The tartan's tail was tossed loosely over his left shoulder and looped several times around his arm. The other end appeared in front, slipped under the belt, draped across his manhood, and slid under the belt and over it so the last of it hung near the sporran on his left hip. His jerkin was split and patterned round the neck like the wide, gold collars worn by ancient Irish kings. It was worn over the usual white shirt with long, puffy sleeves and high collar. His pistol belt crossed his chest from right shoulder to left hip, and there his sporran dangled.
He wore a black velvet bonnet with a small plume.
The contrast between the man she'd seen on horseback and this one was not to be believed. In his element on the back of the stallion, he wore these clothes as if to the manor born, she thought.
Gennot approached her. She looked at her nephew, and for a fleeting moment, Phebe saw a flicker of pride and love cross her face. She nodded to Phebe and sat beside her, face once again grim.
For herself, Phebe thought Cameron looked good enough to eat. Did he wear something under his kilt tonight? It would be interesting to know.
The laird separated himself from the group of clinging young women and circulated about the room, visiting with crofters and his fighting men. One of the girls from his circle of admirers came to sit beside Gennot and Phebe.
"Miss Jones, this is Megy."
"Nice to meet you, Megy."
The girl looked at her with wary eyes. She was young, barely fifteen if she'd had that birthday, blessed with fine, strawberry blonde hair and eyes the color of a fawn's. She was one of the girls so entranced with Cameron. The one who'd not been in the inner circle of those clustering around him.
She sat beside Phebe, staring at her hands folded in her lap.
Cameron was approaching. Even without seeing him, the clean scent of the outdoors preceded him.
"Auntie, ye look most fine tonight. Miss Jones."
Phebe could feel the tension in the girl next to her. Knowing she'd looked at him with adoring eyes, she said, "Do you know Megy here?"
"I dinna believe we've met. Good evenin,' Miss Megy."
The girl brightened. "Aye, we have. When ye lived at yer uncle's place. The chief of the MacLeans."
"I'm sorry to admit I've forgotten such a pretty face as yers, Megy, but I dinna recall it. I was busy gettin' into mischief when I was with the MacLean."
The girl seemed to shrink, and Phebe felt sorry for her. She felt even worse when Cameron addressed her, and not the young girl, to say, "I'm glad you're here."
The entertainment began with a bard's poetry, which she didn't understand because it was in Gaelic. Then the clear tenor voice of a young Ross clansman rang out. Music was played on the bodhran and whistle while people tapped their toes and clapped their hands. The merriment died down when, from the back, came the squeal of the pipes, and two clansmen placed four sets of crossed swords on the floor. Cameron and three other men each took their places behind a pair.
"Those are the officers of the Ross regiment, and they're demonstrating the Highland battle dance," Gennot whispered. "One misstep, and the feet will be sliced by the honed blades of the swords. Fighting takes discipline, and losing concentration can mean yer life. The dance prepares them for this."
For Phebe, it brought to mind the preparations of Native American warriors the night before a battle. Those dances were meant to drive the men into a frenzy. A mindset to kill. Perhaps these did the same. She shivered despite the warmth of the room. "Do the women do this, too?"
"Never! The men perform the sword ritual."
In the twenty-first century, women did. Not so much the men. Phebe wondered why.
To the discordant sound of the pipes, the men moved with power and finesse within the squares formed by their crossed swords, backs straight, one hand on a hip, the other in the air. Faster and faster, feet flying, heads erect, yet eyes on the lethal blades.
At one point, the laird's belted plaid swung up enough that Phebe caught a glimpse of short, tartan trews. Good for him. With ladies present, it wouldn't do to be flapping his bush and those sizeable cock and balls at them.
The pipes' bellows sighed and died. The men, feet intact and swords unmoved, bowed to clamorous applause, and fiddlers began to play as open dancing began.
Cameron, his face damp from exertion, escorted his aunt to the floor. When she tired, he reached a hand to Phebe. When she took it, lust flooded her.
"Felt it, did ye?" He flashed that wicked smile.
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, but her gaze never left his.
They didn't touch again in the folk dance, but each move he made as he followed its pattern was one of seduction. He danced in, head turned toward hers, until his right shoulder almost grazed hers. Backing away, he moved to her left shoulder in the same way. Hands behind his back, spine straight, he would circle her, passing only inches from her in the intricate steps. She would feel his breath brush her cheeks or warm her neck, then he'd dance away again. She thought she'd die as sensations rippled through her that cried out for his touch.
By the time the dance ended, she was wrung out from the strain of wanting to pull her skirts up and insist he stick his dick deep into her right there on the floor in front of everyone and fuck her to exhaustion. Stricken by such uncontrolled thoughts, she thanked him and rushed from the floor to her room. The man trying to follow her had to scurry to keep up.
In her room she paced until she'd calmed down. Then she threw herself on the bed and let tears of frustration fall as she balled her hand into a fist and slammed it into the pillow until she was tired.
Good God, why am I here?
Two mornings later, Gennot asked her to gather eggs. It was a tad nippy to be out without a wrap, but the sun cast its golden light through an atmosphere clear and crisp. Here and there the tips of green plants and grasses peeped through the earth. Spring was scant weeks away.
Phebe took a deep breath of the fresh air and twirled, hugging the empty egg basket against her chest. Searching for the places the hens might have laid their eggs was like hunting at Easter. She held back, stretching out the time it would take to fill the basket with ovals the rich color of brown and those with the soft patina of white. Too many hours were spent inside doing nothing, and it was a joy to be out in the sunshine.
A full bladder forced her to seek the latrine. With care, she set the basket down a distance away. The idea of food near a latrine was distasteful. She was leaving the latrine when something hit her in the back. Then other hits came. Splat! Something hit the ground.
Whirling, Phebe heard running footsteps, but saw no one. On turning, however, she'd stepped in the splat. It was wet cattle shit, and it oozed up around her boots most foul. Lifting her skirts, she stepped out of it.
Although connected to a drain that washed waste away continuously, there was always an odor around the latrines. That smell had been replaced by the stronger and more immediate stench of what was on her boots.
Trying to scrape it off in the dirt as best she could, she located a tree to lean against for support. Using a large twig, she lifted her feet one at a time and scraped most of it off. When she moved away from the tree, she realized she was leaving deposits on the trunk. From the back of her gown.
Someone had deliberately thrown the foul stuff at her. But who? Kids, no doubt.
She rinsed the offending offal off the boots at the water pump, standing first with one stocking foot on the cold ground and then the other. There was nothing she could do here about the dress. Boots in hand, she tiptoed to the back door of the kitchen. When she'd reached there, she realized she'd left the basket of eggs. "Eby?" She stuck her head inside. "I have a problem here."
"Did ye fall?"
Phebe related what had happened.
Clucking her tongue in disgust, Eby sent a maid to assist her.
The maid held a blanket up to shield her while she dropped the dress to the ground, and then the maid wrapped her in the blanket. "I'll bring hot water to yer room for washing yer feet."
Phebe attempted to get to her room without being seen, but as she went down the corridor to her building, Cameron came out of one of the rooms. She stopped. Paralyzed. He'd said they must not have contact unless in private, and here they were in a public hall when bloomers were all she had on under the blanket.
He looked at her a long moment, then his eyes sparkled and the skin at the corners of crinkled. "Ah, mademoiselle, playin' ghostie are ye, then?"
She laughed and began to walk.
She felt a slight tug at the blanket, and it separated in front below where she held it together. It exposed her ruffled bloomers where they ended mid-thigh. Her legs were bare from there down.
His voice dropped low and coarse. "Ye have the legs of a young filly. Slender and strong. I wanted to see them again."
The saliva dried in her mouth.
"Ye look like a deer, caught in the torchlight."
"You said..."
His sigh was long and deep. "Aye, I did. But I havena touched ye, now, have I?"
The words had trouble leaving her throat. "You lay beside me one night and held me when I shivered with cold."
"In private, mind. Ye frightened me that night, and as laird, I'm responsible for all the people on Balmarbroch. Yer journey here has been a difficult one."
"That's a fine excuse for touching...and claiming you haven't."
"Nay, Phebe. 'Twasna touching. When I touch ye, ye'll know it. Yer sweet cunt will suck my swollen cock, and when I press hard against yer womb and pump until I have blessed ye with my seed, ye'll gasp and moan and weep in my arms for the pleasure of it."
Her cheeks were so hot they must be scarlet. He'd described her response to his lovemaking perfectly.
Her bloomers were too far away for her sex to dampen them, but her crotch was soggy with juices. Her breasts tingled, and her nipples had tightened. There was no release available for the desire spiraling up through her like a fireworks sparkler. She pulled the blanket together. Looking down, she whispered. "Don't. Please."
"Go then. Dinna tempt me."
His sudden curtness stung. She turned and fled.
In her room, she reached through the opening in her bloomers to stroke her throbbing clit. She'd forgotten how sore she still was there. The maid bringing the hot water rapped, and she stopped.
Clean again, all thoughts of an orgasm apart from him fled. It wasn't just because she was too sore, but, like a vibrator, it would be cheap titillation now that she'd had better.
The only clothes and boots in her wardrobe were those of Cameron's mother, so she dressed in them again. Hurrying into the yard to retrieve the basket of eggs, it wasn't where she'd set it down. She stared in shock when she found it. The eggs lay in a broken mass of shell, flattened yellow orbs and the thick slime of the whites. The basket itself had been stomped out of shape.
Goosebumps rose on her arms and the back of her neck. Someone did this in a rage, she thought. Was it aimed at her or someone else in the castle? Picking the basket up, she forced it into some semblance of its original shape and gathered more eggs.
The destruction of the eggs had ruined the hunt for her. She gathered without slowing to enjoy the morning.
She presented the basket to Eby. "I'm sorry about the basket. I guess I'm lucky whoever tossed offal at me didn't also throw eggs. Why would someone do this? I thought it was children, but I only heard one set of footsteps running away after I was hit in the back."
"Katte, fetch Mistress Ross, will ye?" Eby stared at the basket, hands on her generous hips.
The maid left and returned with Gennot, who frowned, her mouth a tight pucker, her brow furrowed. Phebe took her out to show her where everything had happened. After studying the ground around the dung pile and the broken eggs, she apologized to Phebe. "We dinna treat guests in this manner at Balmarbroch. I must report this to Alex."
Remembering the beating someone had endured, Phebe responded without thinking. "It's a small matter. No doubt a child."
Gennot pointed to a footprint near the eggs. "Young women wear shoes like that, not bairns."
"But..."
"The hens will lay more eggs, but the dress is ruined. The stain canna be removed. The boots we loaned ye had to be washed, and since we'll have to dry them near a fire, the leather may shrink. Attacking ye and destroying clothing is a serious matter."
Oh, damn. She'd forgotten they were borrowed. It wasn't up to her to say what was to be done in the matter, was it?
It turned out Megy had destroyed the eggs and ruined the dress. Phebe had been present when Gennot interviewed her.
She'd wrung her hands and cried. "I was jealous, ye see. And me anger burned hot. I'd wanted him to dance with me! And all he could see was her! He didn't even remember me. I know I was a wee bairn when we met and he was older, but I wanted to ask him to marry me."
"Puttin' all of that aside, do ye realize the seriousness of what ye've done?"
"I'm so sorry, Miss Phebe. 'Twas wicked of me, but I dinna mean to hurt ye. Meant to frighten ye so ye'd leave. I dinna want ye here." Megy covered her face and sobbed.
Later Phebe wished she'd gone then to Alex to beg for leniency. By the time she realized she should have, it was too late.
"Megan MacNeal, do ye realize the seriousness of what ye ha' done in attacking a guest and ruining a woman's clothing?"
Cameron glared at the girl from his seat on the dais in the main hall. Today was one of the days he heard cases and meted out punishment. Dressed in his laird's clothes, he looked every inch the judge.
Most of the clan of the castle had gathered in the room. When he got to the girl, people quieted and listened.
Megy stood before him, her pale face damp with tears, eyes downcast. Her quiet, "Yes," almost couldn't be heard.
Phebe ached for her--love-struck and too young to have realized the consequences of lashing out at Phebe, she faced the embarrassment of standing in front of people who acted like hawks ready to sink talons in her dignity and carry it away.
Cameron signaled to the disciplinarian, the man who carried out punishments. "Ten lashes to her back. Bare skin."
"No!" Horror swept through Phebe, and she stepped in front of Megy. The slender girl was just past fourteen, and her fair skin was far too delicate. Plus, she might never recover from the humiliation of having her back exposed and beaten in front of a crowd. Some of whom, Phebe guessed, attended these proceedings for entertainment.
Cameron looked down at her in amazement. "What?" His voice thundered.
She caught herself in time from crying out the punishment was too harsh, for it would have called his judgment into question in front of his people. She wouldn't do that to him. But she'd protested and couldn't back down.
Cameron's face might as well have been made of stone. It was as if she wasn't only a sassenach, but a complete stranger--someone he'd never met, much less humped. "Ye speak for this petitioner?"
"I...I do. I was the one she wished to hurt. I'm the one who offers forgiveness."
The entire hall had stilled.
"Will ye replace what has been damaged?"
Oh, Lord, she hadn't thought about that. He knew she couldn't. She had no money and nothing of value to trade.
"I cannot do so, Laird Ross."
"Then will ye take her punishment upon yer body?"
Well, now I've done it. I've been an idiot. Gulping, she said, "I will." She was afraid to look at Cameron.
The man who dealt the punishing blows was masked, but she figured people knew who he was. She didn't, and when he tied her hands to a pillar and unlaced her gown to the waist in back, it helped that he was anonymous. There were shocked gasps when her skin was exposed, but she didn't experience the humiliation the girl would have, not after having worn bikinis in public with far more than her back showing.
The first lash hit her like fire. She gasped. She felt the bite of the next as it sliced her skin. I'm tougher that Megy. I will make it through this.
As the fifth stroke flayed her, she wasn't sure. By the tenth, she hung from the ropes, unable to stand. She'd bitten through her tongue to keep from crying out. Pain was a thousand knives across her back.
Eby and Gennot covered her. Locking their arms around her waist and taking hers over their shoulders, they half carried her to her room.
Gennot must have given her laudanum, for she drifted in a drugged haze as they cleansed her wounds and applied a cooling salve. When they'd finished bandaging her, Eby made her sit up, eat parritch and drink two jars of ale. She was drunk by the time they laid her stomach-side down.
When she wakened to relieve herself, Gennot helped her to the chamber pot. Eby was there with spirits this time, and the burn of the harsh drink as it went down was welcome for it blotted out the fire across her back.
Two days later, she swam up out of the pit and sat up. Looking up at them, she said, "I did a very stupid thing."
For the first time, Gennot's features were soft as she answered her. "Nay, ye did a verra brave thing. Megy came to bring a nourishin' broth and wept when she saw ye. She has learned somethin' about forgiveness and loyalty, I'm thinkin'."
"Did the laird come?"
"Nay, lass. I doubt his pride would let him, and it wouldna have been proper because he ordered the punishment. Of a certainty, he'll na order such again for a young girl with delicate skin." Her tone softened as she added an afterthought. "He was verra angry with her for attacking ye."
She was glad about that, but it hurt that he hadn't come to check on her. Earlier, he'd seemed almost to love her.
As stubborn and unmanageable as he was, Cameron had been beaten many times growing up. He accepted most of the beatings as deserved. It was a matter of pride to take them without weeping. The English had tried to break him in prison, to beat him often enough and hard enough that they'd destroy his spirit, but he'd survived.
With Megy and Phebe, he'd been trapped in his position as laird. If he'd backed down or shortened the number of lashes, he would have looked weak and appeared to discount his own judgment. It would also have looked like favoritism for an outsider. Her protest was a natural response in a woman who knew the meaning of kindness and caring. He doubted his lover was aware the law offered what she'd stepped forward to do--take the punishment on behalf of the accused.
Seeing her slender wrists tied to the pole and her back bared, a back only he as her lover should have been privy to seeing, his stomach curdled and the blood left his head. A man's job was to provide for and protect those he loved, and he'd been helpless. Dizziness threatened to undo him. He'd addressed her once as calman geal, white dove, and the first lash across her flawless, pure skin had caused the scars on his back to ache.
Blood had streamed down her back, like the tears in his heart. The lashes progressed until she'd slumped and only the ropes binding her wrists supported her. He thought his heart would cease to beat in his chest. He grabbed the arms of his chair and clenched his jaw in order to endure until it was over.
Phebe didn't cry out. Each stroke elicited a smothered gasp from her, but she uttered no other sound.
Before the final stroke, he nodded to Gennot and Eby to care for her, and as they helped her out, he glimpsed blood on her mouth. Like him, she must ha' bitten her tongue to keep from crying out.
Holy Mother, but she was courageous. He sensed admiration spread its way through his people. As it did in his heart. Those who'd ignored her would see her now, and they'd like what they saw.
More than anything, he wanted to go to her. To tend to her wounds and cradle her, but she would hate him now. He hated himself. A deep darkness cloaked his soul.
"Laird?"
He looked up at the man who'd delivered the punishments.
"I was gentle wi' her. I dinna think the English use the lash on their women, and I tried to do it light. 'Twould be a shame if she scarred. I dinna think she will."
Cameron couldn't bring himself to speak. He acknowledged the man with a nod.
Dinner was a nightmare, yet he dare not eat in his room. No one knew of his relationship with her. They must not know how much he damned himself for the hurt he'd caused her. He was expected to administer justice without emotion, but in this case, he failed miserably. He could feel her suffering in his very bones.
Gennot, Eby and the kitchen staff would not speak to him of her condition.
Two days after the incident, unable to stand not knowing how she was, he ordered Conner and some of the other men to accompany him on a raid into MacKenzie territory to retrieve stolen kine.
Leaping into his saddle, he called out to Hamish, "When the lass has recovered, assign her to my library. The books ha' not been dusted or cared for in months. Should something happen to me, ye know Mistress Ross will own Balmarbroch."
Hamish studied him for a long moment before he nodded. "I'll tell the lass. Quit yer gloom and doom. I'll be here when ye return." He waved him away.
Cameron turned his horse, and hoof beats thundered as the men rode out.
On his orders, the damaged clothing had been replaced for the woman who'd loaned them and new clothes, with shoes that fit, had been made for Phebe.
As she recovered, Phebe's life began to develop a routine. She took long walks about the estate, enjoying them even when the mists drifted in. She joined women outside the castle walls as they picked the last of the apples in the orchard. Katte taught her how to make a pie crust and fill it with the cut-up fruit dusted with cinnamon and sugar. The smell of baking pies caused her mouth to water. Making one gave her great satisfaction.
Eby fed her well, Gennot checked on her, and a clansman always shadowed her on the walks. Her small chores outside gathering eggs and feeding the chickens were pleasurable, but the real joy was the library.
In this new rhythm to her life, sometimes she was too tired to stay up for the evening festivities of music and the bard's stories.
Three weeks after her lashing, Phebe was near the stables tossing feed to the hens when the lowing and bawling of cattle broke the morning's quiet. On the ridge above the castle, the heads of shaggy longhorn cattle appeared. Like the sun coming up, whole bodies rose into sight. Conner rode herd on one side, with Cameron on the opposite. Behind the herd rode the other men. The ground trembled from the impact of the hooves of the kine.
Tears stung her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She'd been so frightened for him. Gennot hadn't seemed worried, but Phebe, still weak from her thrashing, had been more vulnerable to the fear he might be killed or captured. Cattle rustling was as dangerous here as it was in the States. The penalty in the Highlands might be even more severe.
Hamish was in the barn, and she raced in to tell him.
He stared at the wetness on her face, and smiled. "Aye, lass. I hear them. Ye dinna think we'd lose him did ye? He's canny, and a most spectacular warrior, plus, the kine are ours. We relieved the MacKenzie of the bother of returnin' 'em. That's na theft."
"Oh, I thought..."
Hamish laughed. "Ye thought he was out stealin' cattle? Weel, I admit we Highlanders are known for it, and the laird is the best of us at it, but, nay, this was recovery, not theft."
As she walked away, she heard him say in a voice not intended for her ears, "Sweet on him, are ye, lass? Weel, ye couldna find better."
Was she "sweet" on Cameron? Or terrified something would happen to him before she'd had the chance to find her way home? Mind-boggling fucking was one thing, but to fall in love when she was going to leave him as soon as she could was another. She needed to keep her head on straight in that department.
The chickens had followed her and were pecking her feet for food. Casting the last of the grain to them, she picked up her basket and gathered eggs.
"Here are the eggs, Eby. The laird's back. He and his men drove the kine in a few minutes ago. Will you tell Gennot, please?"
She hurried to the main hall, expecting him to be there. He wasn't. Maybe he'd already made it to his rooms. Her disappointment was sharp. She'd have to be content with seeing him at dinner.
She climbed the stairs to the library where, amidst the smells of leather and ink and the feel of paper in her hands, she'd been happy in his absence. Thrilled when Hamish had first told her of his master's request, she'd discovered the books hadn't been catalogued. Begging ink and paper from Gennot, who was surprised she could read and write, she'd begun one. Now in her little sanctuary again, she looked out the window and down on the courtyard.
Her heart catapulted when he came striding into the yard, kilt swinging. Unshaven for weeks, he'd grown a short beard and mustache. It made him even more handsome.
A young woman approached him, the comely auburn-haired woman from the ceilidhe. Phebe didn't know her name. The woman ran the last few steps to meet him and flung herself into Cameron's arms. She pulled his face down to hers and kissed him.
Phebe backed away from the window, doubling over as pain worse than that of the thrashing seared her. She sank into the desk chair. All this time he'd seduced her with words while refusing to touch her, but this woman he kissed and hugged in the open.
Oh, how stupid I have been.
The catalogue was open in front of her, but she couldn't think. She sat with her pain, chiding herself for thinking he cared, and wondering how she could deal with her feelings. It seemed she sat there forever, helpless to do any work.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and the door flew open. Cameron closed it and slipped the bolt behind him. "I must have ye. I canna wait longer."
"Have me!" She jumped up, letting anger coil in her gut like a small snake ready to strike. "You... you..." She didn't have words for his betrayal.
"Look at me. My prick's a dirk, aching to find its way home."
"Home!" She looked down at the tent in his kilt. My God, the cheek of him. All this talk of not touching me, and how many women has he kissed, fondled and fucked since he diddled me?
He removed his gun belt and laid it on one of the bookcases. The action brought him close enough she could smell him--sweat, horse, dust, man. Cameron. Remembrance of his hands and lips exploring her secret places spread through her abdomen like a raging fire. She dared not give in to it.
He spoke softly as he reached for her.
Eluding his hands, Phebe ran around the desk to put it between her and temptation. She fought the need to let herself go, to lose herself in him. "I know what you intend!"
"I certainly hope ye do." He grinned and the scar near his mouth deepened in color.
He came around to where she stood, but she circled to the front side again. "Stay right there. I'm not a toy you can play with."
The grin changed to one of puzzlement. "A toy? I dinna ken what ye mean."
"All this talk about not touching me, and your fancy words attempting to seduce me again. Then I see you kissing and hugging a redhead in the yard where anyone could see."
Hands on his hips, he threw his head back and laughed. "Ye thought that meant somethin' to me?"
"No, I guess it didn't. Any more than planting your dick inside me and fucking me until I was too sore to sit meant something to you." Irritation caused her to spit the words at him.
The laughter died. He stalked her now, voice husky. "Ye dinna notice 'twas all on her side, did ye, then? Did ye see my arms about her? Nay. Did ye notice me kissing her back? Nay. I canna help every female drawn to me because I'm laird, or every improper advance one of them makes because I'm not marrit, but I'm not required to give them my body or my heart. Ye have those, mo calman geal."
He'd backed her up against the door. Placing a hand on the panel on either side of her, he leaned in and rubbed his nose against hers. She was trapped.
"I don't understand Gaelic. You know that." Talking was difficult with her heart pulsing against her breastbone and her breath coming in staccato gasps.
His voice was hoarse, broken now by desire. "Calman geal means 'white dove.' I called ye my white dove."
"You've called me that before."
"Aye. When I saw your lovely skin against black lace the night ye seduced me."
"I..." She was going to deny seduction, but it would be a lie. She'd gone there with the intent to seduce, by happenstance unleashing her wiles on the wrong Ross. And now she was here, dealing with this.
"Fury took me when ye suffered Megy's punishment and yer back was bared to every man in the hall. I dinna ken what 'tis like in this Virginia ye came from, but here only a lover or husband should see it. Her penalty was harsh because it was ye she'd tried to hurt. Did ye know our laws allow someone else to suffer another's punishment?"
"No. I acted on impulse."
"Weel, they do, and a laird's pledged to uphold clan law. Trapped by my own rotten judgment, I could do nothing to cover yer nakedness or halt the thrashing when ye stepped in to take it for her. I hurt ye worse than if she'd harmed ye."
"I...I wasn't naked." His lips were soft and warm against her temples, trailing over to her eyelids and cheeks. He rubbed his cheek against hers, and the soft hairs of his beard caressing her made her feel more alive than she'd felt since the morning in the abandoned crofter's hut when he'd last touched her.
"I've been beaten many times, and I thought every scar would reopen when I saw the lash tear yer skin. I sent Eby and Gennot to ye because, as laird, I couldna tend ye as I wished. The disciplinarian told me ye'd not scar, but the women wouldna discuss yer condition wi' me. I thought to die because of it."
His voice mesmerized, his lips seduced...
"I fled Balmarbroch with the excuse of retrieving the kine because I couldna bear not seeing ye, fearful you'd hate me after the lashing as much as I hated myself."
"I could never hate you. I was terrified you'd be hurt when you went for the cattle." Every nerve in her body tingled. A sweet yearning began between her thighs as her flowing juices prepared her for opening to a hard, dripping cock.
"Are ye all right, then? Can ye forgive me for what I did to ye?"
"I'm fine. And, yes, I forgive you."
"I dinna think ye'd lie to me, but I want to see yer back."
She let him turn her and untie her laces as her breath quickened in anticipation.
He pulled her gown open. "Thank the saints, the man spoke truth. No scars."
Shivers of pleasure raced through her at the feel of his lips, soft against her skin.
He inhaled. "I do love the scent of the skin here at yer neck."
She loved his lips touching her there. As his lips moved across her shoulders, the fine hairs on her arms rose.
His thumb traced the groove of her spin down to her waist and inched below her skirt to the cleft between her buttocks. Her whole body tightened.
With a sigh, he turned her and pulled the gown down and off her arms. She closed her eyes as his hand tipped her chin up and his mouth--hot, urgent and demanding--pressed hers. His hands closed hard around her breasts, and an indescribable torment rushed through her.
She grabbed for his belt, undid the buckle and yanked on his kilt. The kilt dropped with a swish to the floor. Damn, his shirt covered him almost to his knees. "Take off your shirt," she growled against his teeth.
"To hell with the shirt."
Strong hands pushed her onto the desk, and he mounted her, holding the offending shirt up, while she spread the opening in her bloomers.
He started to push in and stopped.
Frantic to have him inside her, she cried, "Why are you stopping?"
"Ye've tightened up again. I dinna want to hurt ye."
"If you don't come inside me this instant, I'm going to skewer that cock of yours with my cunt!"
He rocked in.
"So exquisite," he uttered, as she felt the leaves of her walls relax and then wrap around his huge shaft. It fit her well. He drove into her...one...two...three.
She rose to meet every hard thrust. All the fierce longing growing inside her for weeks exploded with him at the final push. She trembled and convulsed beneath his weight as her inner walls milked his cock.
His voice was husky as he spoke. "Did I not say that day in the corridor ye would know when I touched ye?"
Yes, he'd touched her, she thought. Driven home hard and fast. Stamping his claim on her.
His cock was softening and, having been satisfied, would soon slip out with that pleasurable feeling as the underside rubbed across her threshold.
"Marry me," Cameron said.
It was like being hit in a crosswalk. She struggled to sit up, and he got off and replaced his kilt. Then he helped her off the desk and, after licking each breast and giving them a quick suck, he pulled her top up. He turned her and tied her laces.
"I do believe I offered for ye, Phebe Jones, but I'm hearin' naught but a frightenin' silence from ye."
Tears made him a blur in her vision. She sank into the chair and felt true grief for the first time since she'd arrived. "I can't marry you."
He knelt and took her hands in his. "Are ye marrit?"
She shook her head.
"Heiress to a great fortune, the likes of which would make a simple laird not worth yer while? Pledged to another man? Have the French disease?"
"No, no, no. You see, I haven't told you everything about me. I told you I came from Virginia in the Colonies."
"Aye." He went stone still.
Dread filled her as she told him what must be said. "What I left out was that I came from the future. From the year 2008."
After a long silence, in which she came close to fainting because she'd held her breath too long, his brow drew together and he tightened his lips as if he wrestled with what she'd said. She also saw fear register there.
"Ye said ye werena a witch. Are ye a ban-druidh, a sorceress then?"
She shook her head. The muscles in his face relaxed.
"Then how..."
"I don't know how. It's as I told you--I was there and then I was in your room." She explained once more about having been at the ball and why she'd worn the black lace gown. "It was a masquerade. That's why I have the mask."
He took her hands in his.
She forced herself to go on with her story. "I have friends who disappeared mysteriously last year without a trace at another masquerade ball. Of course, they could've gone into the future as easily, but after coming here, I've wondered if they went somewhere back in time as I did. Have you heard of a man and a woman who've made a sudden appearance in the Highlands like I did?"
"I've heard no rumors of the like."
She couldn't look him in the eyes, those beautiful gray eyes that could be serious or teasing. "I can't marry you because I've been trying to figure out how I got here...so I could go home."
"I see." He stood and released her hands.
She looked up and saw a dark shadow of sadness cross his face. She told herself he was young and would recover should she leave him, but hurting him now was like driving a dirk into her heart.
He turned his back and walked to the window, arms crossed. After a moment, he said, "Do ye care for me?"
"Oh, yes!" The tears escaped and dampened her cheeks through her smile.
He stared out the window for a long, long time. When he turned to her, he said, "Ye dinna ken how ye got here. Ye dinna ken how to go back." They were simple statements.
"That's right."
Silence settled on the room.
He smiled. "Weel, then, mo chride, I'm thinkin' we can be marrit until ye figure it out." He pulled her into his arms and swung her around the room.
She burst out laughing, marveling that he'd taken her announcement in all seriousness and yet was not to be deterred where she was concerned. He believed her about having come from the future. She felt lighter and walked taller. The secret was now a shared burden.
They left the room together. He headed for the stairs to the tower; she down to her rooms to clean up for supper.
She thought Hamish's eyes shone when he knocked to escort her to the main hall. "Alex would like ye to sit closer to him at table. 'Tis about time. I'll show ye what's proper."
When they entered the hall, a sudden silence settled over it. Heads turned to watch her, and fear laced through her at the thought of their disapproval. Then the men stamped their feet and cried something in Gaelic before raising their tankards and drinking to her.
She hated being the center of attention. She dropped her head as her face heated with embarrassment. "Why are they doing this?" It was a plaintive whisper.
Hamish leaned in to her. "Highlanders admire courage, lass. They drink to yer courage."
Alex's place was at the head of the table, with Hamish on his right and Conner to his left. It signified that the laird's mantle of authority fell on them in his absence. Gennot had resumed her normal place at Hamish's right. Phebe sat next to her, indicating she was now a person of standing with the laird and his aunt.
Megy worked her way between tables toward her. In her arms she carried cuttings of heather, the tiny lavender blossoms pleasing contrast against the deep green leaves on the branches. They'd been tied with what Phebe knew was a precious bit of purple ribbon.
The girl gave a little curtsy and presented them to her. Now tankards were banged on the tables in approval.
"How beautiful! Thank you, Megy."
"Me mum suggested it." Her faced glowed.
"Tell her how much I appreciate them."
Noise erupted again as the bread was passed and people talked and drank.
She waited for the wonderful moment when the noise would soften and their laird would appear. When he did, her heart almost shot through her chest wall. He paused for a moment, looking for her, and when he found her, he smiled. Warmth spread through her.
After the toast to the Highlands and the world, there was a split second before she began to eat when she looked up to see the young woman who'd thrown herself at Cameron in the courtyard glaring at her from several tables away. Phebe'd never experienced such unfettered hatred in her life.
"Who's that woman with the auburn hair?"
Gennot snorted in disgust. "That's Ellene. She's a Fraser and won't be happy to see you in this seat instead of her. She's been after Alex ever since he returned."
"I don't think she's just unhappy with me. I think she hates me. Should I be afraid of her?"
"After the punishment she saw Alex mete out to someone who tried to harm you, I don't think so. Not if she's smart."
Phebe'd been aware that some people hadn't toasted her, and now there was this vicious jealousy exhibited by Ellene. She sighed. I can't win 'em all. Despite what Gennot said, she didn't plan to turn her back on the woman, though, and she wondered who else hated her but hid it.
When she took Cameron's lunch to him the next day, he grabbed her by the hand, pulled her into the dim light of the barn and kissed her. Feeling his cock rise, she slipped her hand under his kilt
"Hmm, the iron dick in its velvet glove." She thumbed the sensitive under lip of the head until he groaned in her ear, "If ye keep that up I'm goin' to cream your hand with my seed. Conner is at the end of the stalls. He'll get the scent of it, even if he dinna see what we do."
"Best not chance it. We mustn't be naughty and shock our elders." Releasing him, she stifled a giggle as they stepped apart, and waited until his cock had gone limp before venturing into the sunlight to eat.
"The priest will marry us, but we wilna issue bans so as not to draw the attention of the crown. Is that all right wi' ye?"
She nodded. Here in the soft sunlight and crisp air of early spring, with a few daffodil buds poking their heads above the brown earth and red squirrels racing up and down the trees, anything would be all right with her. Cameron was beside her, wanted her. She was content.
Later, she was in the apple orchard picking apples when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a flash of skirt and auburn hair disappear around a hillock near the loch. She wondered if Ellene was spying on her, waiting to do something vicious, but there were many women connected with the castle with hair that color, and she was in no danger here in the open with other women around.
Moments later, a kilted Scot sneaked from behind an outcropping of rocks near the loch and slipped around the hillock.
Phebe smiled. Ah, a tryst, she thought. Apparently her bodyguard either didn't see the man or thought it was a tryst, too. She didn't envy the girl, for the young man looked grubby and his socks sagged. She didn't recognize the tartan.
Thoughts of trysts with Cameron warmed her, and happiness was like sunlight itself.
She might have known it couldn't last.
Three nights later, in the blackest hour, she was awakened by Gennot. "Be quick. Ye must dress. Soldiers are in the area, and ye must hide until they leave. Wear my heavy cloak. You'll need this plaid."
Urgency caused Phebe's hands to shake as she dressed. Gennot knelt and pulled Phebe's skirts up to strap a leather scabbard around her calf. She stuck a dagger in it. "Do ye know how to use it?"
Phebe shook her head.
"The men'll show ye. Ye must drive it in just above the belly button, angled up so it slices what helps ye to breathe."
Good God, Phebe thought, that would sever the diaphragm. The person wouldn't ever take another breath. She swallowed over a wave of nausea. She didn't think killing was her style.
Still half asleep, she was hustled up to Cameron's room. His face was camouflaged with charcoal, and she frowned when he smeared it on her face, too. His kiss was brief before he opened the secret door and they began their descent. In addition to pistols and dirk in his belt, he carried a round, leather shield and a heavy sword with a broad blade.
He was dressed in long trews and a belted plaid in a tartan of muted greens and blues with touches of red that could be mistaken for winter berries or spring flowers. Ross hunting colors. She looked at the plaid Gennot had handed her, and it was the same.
The reality Cameron might be captured and returned to prison made her mouth go dry. She didn't want to be imprisoned by the English either. Without hesitating, she stepped onto the landing. On that first trip down, she'd trusted him because he was all she had to cling to in this century. Now she knew she could trust him with her life.
Love for him flooded her. Shocked her. She hadn't realized...and had agreed to marry him, but hadn't spoken of love.
"Cameron..."
"Shh."
When they exited the tunnel, Fearghas and five other clansmen were waiting in the thick mist. The horses' hooves and even their bridles had been silenced. They were battle-trained warriors, fully armed, their faces and hands streaked with charcoal. No one spoke.
She rode beside Cameron. They were each flanked by a rider--Kieran next to her and Brian on Cameron's right. Fearghas and Lúcas rode in front, while Seamus and Cailin brought up the rear. It was obvious the laird was to be protected at all cost, even if he was "canny and a powerful warrior."
The horses picked their way along a rocky path leading into the hills above the glen. Cameron reached over and pulled the hood of Phebe's cloak up over her head. She pulled the cloak tighter about her, grateful for its warmth against the sharp, damp chill.
Several hundred feet up, a figure on foot appeared beside the path and reported in. His plaid made him almost invisible. His voice was low. "A captain and three others are at the gates now."
Relief spread through her. At least they outnumbered the soldiers should they be found. Still, she sensed the men's nerves were strung like taut wires. It mirrored how she felt.
Once well into the mountains, they zigged here, zagged there and sometimes circled around craggy stone outcroppings. She lost track of where they'd been. They halted on a wide ledge below a craggy outcropping. With a hand signal from Cameron, Kieran dismounted and climbed nimbly up almost non-existent footholds to the top to watch.
Not being a seasoned rider, Phebe was relieved to be on her feet again. Cameron broke off branches of bracken to make a soft place for her and spread her plaid over it.
"Rest. We'll wake you when it's time."
Despite her anxieties, she fell asleep in minutes.
Cameron, Brian and Cailin stood watch below while the others rested.
Cameron had waited until Phebe slept before moving away. Her cloak smelled like Gennot, overwhelming the special scent of her that aroused him. She slept curled on her side like a little girl, and a wave of tenderness rolled over him. His love for her smote him hard, and he wondered how long he must wait until she discovered she loved him, too.
Weel, it dinna matter as long as she weds me. She'd know in time that Phebe-the-bookstore-clerk wasn't the kind of woman who could give herself so completely to just any man who came along.
He took up his position as sentry.
Fearghas tapped him when it was Cameron's time to rest.
Each watcher reported in. Kieran said, "I think they've completed their search. A campfire has flared up outside the castle walls. They'll be headin' east, I'm thinkin'."
"Away from us. Good. Unless it's a trick." Cameron nodded toward Phebe. "I'll wake her when it's time."
He wrapped himself in his plaid and slept on the hard ground where Cailin, Brian and Kieran were curling up.
Dawn crept in as gray light through a thinning white mist. Seamus had been on the cliff and he reported difficulty seeing into the glen, where the mist always settled before clearing.
"I've heard naught but birds and the movement of wee creatures. Lúcas has crept down a bit closer to our first watcher. I woke Brian to cover here for him."
"Duine math." Cameron clapped him on the shoulder.
The men brought out food packets strapped to their saddles, and bottles of mead to drink. Cameron sat with Phebe apart from the men. They munched on oat cakes, washing them down, she with cold cider and he with ale. She started to ask a question, and he signaled her with a finger to his lips to speak in a quiet voice.
"Is it safe to return to the castle?"
Wiping crumbs from his mouth and beard, he shook his head. "They'll not give up fast. We'll wander in the mountains 'til we're sure they havena moved toward us."
He rose to confer with Fearghas, and the snatches she overheard of their muffled voices told her they suspected someone had betrayed him to the soldiers. The idea stunned her. His people displayed such loyalty it blew her mind to imagine anyone hating him or holding a grudge that deep. Besides, the price on his head was too small to attract anyone hungry for money.
Lúcas hadn't returned, but they started off again, sometimes walking beside the horses, sometimes riding. If they were on a trail, she couldn't tell it, but the men seemed to know where they were going. The last rider erased evidence of their passing.
"What about Lúcas?" Phebe asked.
"He knows where we're going. He'll catch up."
They were walking their horses through a craggy area when disaster struck. From above them, a kilted man, with one side of his face painted blue, leaped down and grabbed the reins of the lead horse.
"Wilders!" Kiernan cried as he withdrew his broadsword and swung it at the attacker.
From the rear, war whoops rang out as a band of Wild Scots swarmed around them. Phebe heard the ring of metal as broadswords clashed. How ironic their enemy turned out to be the fearsome renegades from whose clutches Cameron had said he'd rescued her.
One of the raiders, hair uncombed, missing some front teeth, his kilt rumpled and filthy, headed straight for her. For a frightening split second, when she thought he would reach her, she thought he looked familiar.
And then Cameron engaged him. "Fearghas! Take her!"
Fearghas, who was nearest, grabbed her arm and shoved her into a narrow passage in the rocks.
"Run out the back if I'm killed and hide," he said. "Someone will come for ye."
Like a tennis player waiting to receive a serve, he half crouched in front of the opening, sword and shield at the ready, shifting his weight from one foot to the other to move fast in either direction.
Through the clash of arms and the hoof beats and screams of horses, she heard cries of men being wounded. The fighting drew nearer, and Fearghas stepped forward to protect her. She crept backwards, deeper into the passage. Her pulse pounded in her head until she thought it would burst. Her hands shook.
From behind her, a hand clamped over her mouth and an arm wrapped around her waist. Struggling, she fought to free herself, until a voice near her ear said, "Calm yerself. I must take ye to a safe place."
It was Lúcas.
"I can't leave him!"
"Himself ordered it before we left the castle. If ye dinna come, I'm to conk ye on the noggin and drag ye."
He would, too. She nodded, and he released her. She stumbled after him, the sharp edges of the stones pushing up into her feet through her boots. The musty smell of mildew in the passage gagged her.
Out in the daylight, she felt relief at seeing the Ross hunting tartan and his charcoal-smudged face after the garish colors and blue paint the Wild Scots wore.
The sounds faded as they crept away. And then they were running over stones and through marsh until he stopped inside a stand of pine trees surrounding a tarn.
She sank to ground, trying to catch her breath. A whinny caused her to look up. "You have most of the horses."
He blushed. "Aye, but only five. I've a way wi' horses. They come when I signal." His look turned somber. "The laird's wouldna come. They took it along wi' Alex. They wanted ye, but since they couldna get ye, they took him. They wanted our fine horses, too. Wilders always do."
Ice touched her soul. "Where is he?"
"I heard them say, and I know the place. When the others come, we'll go."
She washed her hands in the warm waters of the dark tarn, taking sips of the bitter stuff as he watched in surprise. It was fed by a mineral spring, and the smell of sulphur was strong, but fear had made her thirsty.
In ones and twos, the men wandered in. Cailin limped from a fearsome wound to his thigh, and Phebe washed it clean with water from the tarn and disinfected it with spirits. Cailin pounded his fist on the ground so as not to cry out from the sting. She ripped strips from her petticoat to strap it. She did the same for the gash on Fearghas's arm. The wounds of the others were light. Washing and spirits were enough.
Afterwards, they passed flasks of whiskey around. Fearghas offered some to Phebe, who shook her head. But when he said, "Gets yer liver up and strangthen's the fightin' arm," she drank it, coughing as the alcohol burned her throat.
All they needed now, she thought, was a little fancy dancing among crossed swords.
They'd killed two of the attackers, but the Wilders had captured Alex and taken three horses. Phebe was glad she'd been busy with the men's injuries, for it had kept her thoughts off what might be happening to him.
After a small war council, they set off, doubling up on the horses as necessary. She rode behind Lúcas. They'd muffled the horses' feet again and rode up a slope to a point overlooking a small glen.
Clouds scuttled across a sky, sometimes covering the brilliant sunlight, the disappearing mist no longer blocked. They pulled up and slipped, without sound, from their mounts.
Brian belly-crawled to the edge and looked down, hand signaling to the other men. All the others except Cailin crawled over to see. Phebe wasn't about to be left behind.
There had been ten of them and two were now slung over horses. She assumed they'd be carried to their clans for burial. Cameron had been tied to a tree, and half his face and that side of his shirt were bright red with blood. His eyes were closed, his head slumped near one shoulder. Phebe bit back a cry.
"He had five men on him, lass, or ye'd not see him this way. They havena kilt him for he would be no use to them dead." It was Fearghas's voice in her ear.
None of the horses were tethered. Even those with bodies strapped to them moved about cropping grasses.
One Wilder sat slumped against a tree, his plaid soaked with blood over his abdomen, eyes glazed over, no doubt from pain. Phebe didn't think he'd be much of a threat until she saw a pistol on the ground beside him. The others were sitting in a circle thirty feet away, drinking whiskey, guffawing and punching each other.
"Celebratin' their three fine new horses, and the Laird of Balmarbroch to use as ransom," Brian said in disgust.
They crawled away until well back from the edge, and another war council began in hushed tones. She heard about head count and number of sentries posted and where.
"Fools, they are. One sentry."
"They think we're nursing our wounds and on foot."
In a quiet voice, Kiernan said, "We let him down. Our job was to protect him and the lass. Now they'll take him to the fort for ransom."
"Aye, and they wilna get far before they ha' the fightin' men of the Chieftain of the Ross and the Laird of Balmardroch on them. Stupid people."
"Weel, let's na let it get that far."
They wanted her to stay behind with Cailin, but she refused. She had her dagger, and he gave her his belt with his dirk. His broadsword was too heavy for her to carry. No wonder Cameron's chest and shoulders were big and his pecs as hard as marble.
They crept down to the encampment. Brian disabled the sentry with one silent blow. Lúcas moved into position to signal the horses to him when the moment arrived.
Phebe worked her way behind Cameron's tree, and then, dagger in her teeth, lay on her belly to inch her way forward to cut his bonds behind the tree. When she reached him, she first tried to untie the knot. When she couldn't, she began to saw with the dagger.
"Christ, Phebe, don't cut me," Cameron whispered.
"Sorry." He was alive and conscious. Joy rushed through her. She kissed his hands and worked with more caution.
One man left the circle to relieve himself and didn't return. She peeked around the tree and saw the pistol had disappeared beside the man with the belly wound. One less worry, she thought.
Hearing footsteps approach, she stopped and lay flat, hiding the shiny weapon under her body. She could caught only a glimpse of the man, but she thought he was the one who'd come for her. He paused to look at the wounded Wilder. Then he walked toward Cameron and she heard the sound of a kick and Cameron grunted. Something splashed on the ground next to the tree and the sharp scent of ale rose.
The sound of his footsteps grew softer, and she heard him say, "I think Charlie's gone and died. The laird's still out. I wasted good ale on him and he didn't stir."
No one spoke. Three of their men were dead, and no one seemed to care. What evil people.
At last the final strand of rope was cut through and fell away. Cameron sighed and flexed his fingers and hands, still behind the trunk. Phebe pulled the dirk from Cailin's belt and slid the haft into his hand.
Turning, she inched her way back to cover. She knew little of what happened next. She heard horses running, and men swearing as steel clashed. Cailin appeared with her horse, and Cameron lifted her and swung up behind her. They tore away to the curses of the Wilders, who were now horseless. Not even those carrying the dead remained. Lúcas had hit the rumps of those two and sent them to wherever home might be.
The other men rode up, each holding the reins of a Wilder mount. They went thundering across the mountain, well out of range of any Wilders on foot.
When they pulled up to eat lunch in a small rocky meadow beside a brook, Phebe examined Cameron, fear riding her.
"A scalp wound. They bleed so bloody much. Ruint my shirt. I'm not hurt bad, Phebe, although the blow did stun me enough that they took me."
A thorough cleaning was impossible. Blood had already dried hard over the wound, and she couldn't tell how deep it was or if stitches were necessary. As long as it wasn't bleeding, she figured he would be okay.
Cameron insisted she wash her oatcakes and cheese down with whiskey instead of ale. The malt burned her on the way down, and then it filled her with a warm glow. They lay back in the grass where occasional peeks of the sun had warmed it.
She was on her back. Cameron lay on his side propped on one elbow looking down at her. He'd been tickling her nose with a bit of tall grass.
He took her hand and pressed it to his kilt. His cock was as stiff as iron. "Fightin' gives me a ferocious hard-on. I need ye."
He slid his knee between her thighs.
"We're not married!"
"Pledged."
"We can't do this. The men will see!"
"Nay, they'll na know. Not unless ye're as noisy as usual. 'Twill be fast."
His knee rubbed against her sex, and his hand begin to work up her skirts.
"No. Besides, your trews..."
"Removed 'em. There's only me beneath this plaid."
"Cameron, we can't..." His hand, the hand that had slain men to protect her, caressed her inner thighs, and she knew they would. He would not be stopped. The indescribable torment of wanting him rose in her, and she spread her legs.
"Look at me," he ordered, his voice as rough as gravel. "I want to see ye when ye come."
She climaxed with one powerful thrust, sensations tearing through her as she looked into his passion-glazed eyes. She bit her lips to keep from crying out, and dug her fingernails in his shoulders as thunder roared through her, rolled again and again and again as if never to stop.
A few more thrusts, and she felt his balls tighten and begin to pulsate as he threw himself into the gathering gale of his own orgasm and "blessed" her with his seed.
Shaken by the encounter, she went limp. He'd been right. It had been fast.
He kissed the tip of her nose and rearranged their clothing. He turned on his side, propped on one elbow. "After we're marrit, do ye think it'll always be like this? This wantin' ye every time I see you, wantin' to throw myself into ye and lose myself in your softness, in the wee sounds of pleasure ye make?"
"I don't know," Phebe said. "I've never felt this way before."
He grinned at her. "I'm glad you havena. Now...I think we need to be gettin' back to the castle."
It was nightfall before they reached it. Scouts had located no evidence of soldiers, Wild Scots or the Watch.
Gennot took Cameron in hand. They swept things off the kitchen table, and she made him lay on it with his head off the edge. Phebe supported his head and neck while Gennot washed his hair and soaked the dried blood off the wound. Katte brought a bucket to catch the dirty water.
That process complete, he slid down on the table so his head rested on a towel there. His aunt poured spirits in the wound and took four neat stitches to pull the edges together.
Through all this, Phebe felt a bit green. Cameron had refused whiskey to dull his senses, but she knew he was in pain when his mouth tightened and the pupils in his gray eyes of a sudden flared wide. His hands gripped the edges of the table.
Once they'd finished, Eby bustled in. "We've hot tubs for the both of ye. Hurry along before the water chills."
Phebe figured they were both due for that luxury.
The next morning, her things were moved to the keep, to the room next to the library.
"You moved my room," she said when she took lunch to Cameron.
"'Tis proper for ye to be in the keep now. We're to be marrit in three days." He took the basket from her and motioned her to a sunny spot to sit.
"Three days!"
"Takes that long for the priest to get here and the Chieftain of the Ross to arrive. The chieftain was comin' anyway for his yearly visit."
"But I have nothing to wear"--oh, she was going to be very wicked here--"except my black lace gown and high heels." She attempted an innocent demeanor.
The response wasn't what she'd anticipated. Instead of horror at her suggestion, he leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Nay, I want ye to save those for when ye come to me on our wedding night."
She caught her breath as heat sprang up across her breasts and down her belly to her thighs. He wanted to relive the magic of their first night together. Powerful, thoughtful, a cunt-clenching lover and a romantic. What more could she ask for?
To her surprise, preparations for the wedding of a laird and the visit of a clan chieftain were quite involved. Arrangements had to be made for the chieftain's retinue and their mounts, as well as for the villagers and crofters who'd come in for the celebration.
"Since we're to be wed by a priest and dinna wish to be labeled Jacobites, we'll be attended by family and a few friends as witnesses for the ceremony."
The fewer, the better, in Phebe's mind. She was becoming increasingly anxious about this marriage.
The entire castle staff moved in a flurry to air bed linens and rooms, to cook and bake, order more baked goods from the town baker, mix massive amounts of feed for the horses and build an extra water trough. Clan chieftains were referred to as "The," so The Ross would bring tents his soldiers would erect inside the castle walls. He and his wife and their personal guards would be housed in the keep.
Phebe pitched in to help wherever she could to settle her nerves, but two days before the wedding, she had nothing to wear.
"Gennot..."
But Cameron's aunt was off to deal with a problem some workers were having.
"Eby, I haven't anything to wear yet. Do I wear what I have on?"
Eby rocked back, floured hands on hips, and roared, "Lass, has no one told ye? The wife of The Ross will bring hers to loan ye. The mistress figured you're near the same size. She has her wedding gown, but she's taller. We have the gown Alex's mother wore, but she was shorter. Alex is a laird, you see. Ye must be outfitted proper." Eby's pride that she served a laird shone in her eyes.
"Oh."
"The mistress gave your shoe size to the cobbler. He'll have dancing slippers for ye to try tomorrow."
The Ross arrived with his people, and he and Anne, his wife, approved of Phebe. She liked them.
Dawn came without fanfare on her wedding day.
Her wedding dress was a long-sleeve, white silk bodice decorated with Scottish pearls, and an "apron," better described as an overskirt. split in front to show a creamy satin petticoat. Anne's ladies maid had put her hair up, pulling a ringlet down here and there in the back, and a narrow strand in front of each ear. The only jewelry she wore were her green crystal earrings.
Stockings of fine French silk thread fastened with garters just below her knees covered her legs, and her dancing slippers were white leather. As a little girl, she'd wanted to be a fairy princess. She felt like one now.
As she left her room and started down the stairs, a beautiful woman passed her coming up. She was dressed in light blue silk with an overskirt of light blue stripes. She wore a strand of Scottish pearls about her neck and pearls in her ears. Her blonde hair was elegantly curled and dressed, and an ornamental hairpiece had been pinned to one side.
Phebe paused, taking in the woman's loveliness. She smiled and nodded to her.
Gray eyes looked back at her, and happiness radiated from the woman's smile.
So spiritual was that moment when the woman smiled, Phebe felt as if she'd been blessed. She moved on down past the woman, wondering who she was.
The Ross was to give her away. Hamish and Conner stood in their finest formal wear with Cameron, who was dressed more elegantly than she'd seen him yet. Relaxed and easy, he waited for her, and her love for him threatened to overwhelm her. It wouldn't do to cry when she reached him.
As Phebe waited on Malcolm Ross's arm to be escorted down the chapel aisle, she wished she could tell him that one day a Ross would sign the Colonists' Declaration of Independence from Britain, and his brother's widow would design the first flag of the United States.
Becoming a Ross humbled her.
Anne and Gennot acted as her attendants. She carried a simple spray of heather because that was the only flower in bloom.
Cameron's hand was warm as he took hers, and he smiled when he noticed the earrings. His voice was firm as he said his vows. The ring he slid on her finger had been his mother's wedding ring, and the sweetness of the gesture almost brought her to tears.
For him she had a silver Celtic band she'd purchased in the village with funds borrowed from Anne Ross, which she could repay after her marriage. It symbolized how she'd come to him--penniless and unadorned, except for her earrings.
Her gift to him was her love.
The wedding mass was a blur. They took the sacraments, were pronounced husband and wife, and she turned to go out with him.
"Wait, Phebe. Hamish? Conner?"
Hamish stepped forward with an arisaid in the clan tartan. Cameron wrapped the length of plaid about her shoulders, and fastened it with a silver brooch set with jasper and malachite. "Ye wear my mother's ring. This plaid brooch was my father's. Now ye have symbols of the clans of the blood that runs in my veins."
Hamish and Conner knelt before her with daggers drawn, hafts up. They pledged their swords to her and renewed their pledge to their laird.
Happy tears rolled down her cheeks as Cameron guided her to The Ross, who rose as his laird went down on one knee before him. She knelt, too, as Cameron once more swore fealty.
They were toasted by the now half-drunk crowds outside as the rich scents of roasting pig and beef wafted around them. Then they were escorted by the Rosses to an archway of crossed claymores held by men in dress kilt and battle gear.
They ducked and raced under it to cheers and ribald remarks about the size of Cameron's cock. She laughed at the remarks. Little did they know how much she already knew on that subject.
She and Cameron feasted and danced until they were giddy and out of breath, and Phebe thought her bladder would burst. Torches lit up the grounds, and she slipped out to the latrine.
As she approached it, she spotted a Highlander moving with stealth toward the stables. There was no reason for anyone to move in stealth here, unless they were up to mischief. She didn't recognize his tartan, but...she recognized him.
Urgency aside, she ran to the first Ross she recognized... Kiernan. "That man going into the stables. He's one of the Wilders who attacked us! I'd thought he looked familiar, and now I realize I saw him outside the orchard one day."
Kiernan whistled and a group of the laird's fighting men surrounded the stables in an instant. Before she knew it, Cameron, Hamish and Conner had joined them in response to Kiernan's signal.
Seamus and Brian dragged the struggling, cursing man from the stables. "Ye recognize him, too?"
Cameron nodded. "Kicked me, tried to drown me in ale. Phebe, ye said ye saw him here at the castle before he attacked us in the mountains. Are ye sure this is the Wilder?"
The hatred in the man's eyes scalded her when she nodded. "He crept to a hillock a young woman had run gone behind. A lover's tryst, I thought."
"The Ross will deal with this."
The man paled as his hands were tied and he was bustled off to a higher power.
Phebe raced to the latrine before her bladder ruined the borrowed gown. Cameron stood guard outside while his men combed the crowds for other Wild Scots.
Having relieved herself, she said, "I thought they'd stumbled on us when they attacked, but Lúcas said they'd come for me and the horses and got lucky capturing you. When I saw him here, he was following a woman with auburn hair. I didn't see her face."
They were in the great hall when the chief's men hauled the Wild Scotsman in. They also brought in Ellene.
Malcolm, The Ross, strode in behind them and stepped in front to face them. He addressed Ellene. "The charge brought by this man is that ye paid him to steal the laird's betrothed."
Ellene's weeping was pitiful. She pointed at the Wild Scotsman. "He lies! I wasna with this man behind the hillock." Then she turned her accusations on Phebe. "And she's a liar, too. Witch I call her. Magic brought her here to entrap the laird and steal him from me."
Struck speechless and paralyzed with fear she'd be condemned as a witch, Phebe said nothing.
Cameron's voice was calm. "She dinna say ye were with this man behind the hillock. She said he was here and sneaked to follow a woman with auburn hair behind the hillock. She said he was with the attackers and tried to steal her. I say he tied me up when I was wounded, kicked me and tried to drown me in ale. As for being a witch, I asked her, and she denied it."
The girl was losing control now. She mocked him in a singsong voice, "'She denied it.'" Then her tone returned to venom. "And I say ye let yer cock rule yer head! Witch she is. I tell you, she lies!"
The partygoers seemed stunned by the disrespect to their laird, but Phebe sensed they were frightened she might well be a witch. And could she blame them? She had claimed amnesia of a sort, so her coming was as much a mystery to them as it was to her.
A rumbling began, low and building, in the crowd.
"She canna lie." The voice came from the back, silencing the grumbling. Lúcas pushed his way to the front. "Is it na true a witch will die if she drinks of the waters of St. Michael wi'out being asked?"
He continued until he stood in front of the chief. "She drank of it. I saw it. And is she na alive, here in front of ye?"
That seemed to settle it for Malcolm Ross. "Take the Wilder and his woman away. I'll deal with them when we ha' returned to Castle Ross."
Anne Ross put an arm around Phebe's shoulders, and the partygoers went back to partying. "I'm so sorry, my dear. What a terrible thing on your wedding night. Have no fear. Malcolm will see they never bother you or Cameron again."
Cameron moved beside Phebe. "Ah, Madame Ross, ye are so beautiful tonight. Will ye na dance wi' your husband?"
In his arms the nastiness of that part of the night faded. In the world, there were but two hearts beating in rhythm.
People were drifting off when they said their goodnights and climbed the stairs. Cameron continued up to his floor. Gennot came to her room to help her remove the dress so it could be returned to Anne.
"Such a bright spirit ye are, Phebe Ross. I'm so glad Cameron brought ye into our lives. I wish his parents and my husband had lived to share this day. I hope ye dinna mind that I slipped paintings of them into your room. I think passin' from this life to the next leaves only the bad memories behind. 'Tis up to the living to give them more good ones." She gave her a light kiss on her forehead. "Be happy, my dear."
When she was gone, Phebe looked for the paintings and found small, oval head-and-shoulder portraits of each. Cameron resembled his father--the height, the easy carriage and the broad, powerful shoulders of a warrior, the serious expression. But it was his mother he most resembled--her blond hair, although his was darker, her beauty in masculine form, the fine line of her jaw and nose, the gray eyes and her smile.
Phoebe looked again and recognized the light blue folds of the silk dress, the Scottish pearls, the happy, approving smile of the woman on the staircase.
She sat for awhile, remembering that moment. Remembering the blessing that had settled over her. And then she dressed to meet her husband.
The black panties felt cool and smooth against her skin. So different from cotton bloomers. Her dress still fit, but the stilettos were like balancing on stilts after weeks of comfortable walking boots. Her hair had grown into an unmanageable stage, but she thought her new husband would like it. The earrings were still in her handbag with her gloves.
In the absence of makeup, she'd used bruised red flower petals to pink her lips. It's as good as I can get, she told herself. And it'll please Cameron.
For a moment, she closed her eyes and thought about home and the year 2008. A fierce longing to go back swept through her, so powerful it dizzied her. She shook it off. This was home. There was nothing for her in that future time. No one to mourn her, and but a few to even wonder what had happened to her. If she found a way to return, it would be to take Cameron with her, to let him see that world. Her place was here with him now, at Balmarbroch in the Highland glens.
She added the velvet cloak and, looking both ways to be sure she wouldn't be seen, she slipped out of the room. The raucous sounds of toasts, drinking and feasting below faded as she climbed the stairs to the third floor. She almost thought with a smile she could hear Michael Bublé crooning. This was her wedding night, and the man she loved waited for her.
She smiled as she recalled finding room number three-four-seven that night in Washington. She'd walked with such boldness through that door to seduce a Cam Ross, and instead had found his ancestor, Alistair Alexander Charles Cameron James Ross. She'd fucked him instead. And he'd stolen her heart.
She put on the mask and reached for the door. It was locked. How strange. She knew Cameron was in there. She knocked. Waited. Then knocked again.
The door opened and she pushed into the room before she realized a woman had opened it. The woman stared at her with wide eyes.
"Phebe? Is that you behind that mask?" Diana asked.
Behind her, Lance rose from a chair and crossed the room to them.
A surprise, she thought. Cameron located them, and this is a wedding surprise for me.
Peeling off the mask, she flung her arms around them both. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you. When we couldn't find any clues to your disappearance after the Mardi Gras ball, and after I came here, I thought maybe you'd been sent back here, too. Cameron said he'd heard nothing of it, but he found you. What a wonderful wedding surprise."
Stepping back, she saw pain and confusion on their faces.
"And where is here?" Diana's voice was soft and gentle.
And where's Cameron? "It's..." Phebe's voice trailed off as she looked around the room. No hearth, no shield or weapons on wall or chest. Carpeted floor.
Reality came slowly to her because she resisted it. Because her heart might shatter if she acknowledged the truth. In time, her mind accepted what her eyes told her. This was Diana's apartment. The place Phebe'd kept open for her, only now there was a light in the window.
Her purse dropped to the floor as she covered her mouth with her hands. "Nooo... Oh, please God, not now, not now!"
Lance caught her as she crumpled.
The world darkened around her very soul.
"Please, Phebe, wake up, babe. Wake up for Diana. Lance is here. We have so much to tell you, but we can't if you don't open your eyes."
The voice was far away. In a place where pain twisted and wrenched and wounded like a white-hot dagger in her gut. She would not go there. She would not.
"Lance, can't you do something? She's not eating, and now she's refusing to drink. We'll have to call a doctor if we can't get her to come back to us."
The voice remained at a safe distance. She would not be coaxed.
"I'll try, Di, but forcing her to remember may make her sicker."
"Can't you look without forcing her to do that?"
He sighs, but he wants to please the woman. "I'll try. Hold her hand and talk to her."
The woman's hand is warm. Phebe's hands are icy. Warm is good. The hands on her head are big and strong. Callused, too. They've handled a sword, dealt death. She screams his name--Cameron! He doesn't come for her. Her mind weeps. She's cold all over. She wants to die. Why don't these people let her go?
Searing heat is penetrating her brain. The man is looking into her thoughts, invading her memory. She screams again, feels her body convulse against the intrusion.
"God, Lance, what's happening to her?"
He removes his hands and her body quiets. "It was muddled, but I think she went back to the Highlands before Culloden happened. She fell in love with a Highland laird and married him. The night she came to us was her wedding night."
"Poor Phebe. How horrible."
Wetness on her hand. Tears. In the quiet, the woman cries as she says how sorry she is for what has happened and she knows how unbearable Phebe's pain must be.
Wetness on her cheeks. Phebe's tears now.
"Phebe, this is Lance. You remember Le Faye Morgan, don't you? Do you remember I warned you and Diana to stay away from her carousel? I warned you because I'm a wizard, and I knew it was a portal."
Lance. Such a looker. Not as beautiful as Cameron, though. No man's as beautiful or as strong as Cameron.
Now the woman's voice says, "I got on the merry-go-round, and it flung me back to Wales before Arthur's time. Lance was going there anyway, and he followed me. We fell in love, Phebe. And we made our way back here. Or...I guess coming from there to here would be coming forward to now, wouldn't it?"
The man's hands again on her head. This time they don't hurt. They insist on her attention.
"It's important that you listen to me, Phebe. If Diana and I could return, you can find your way back to the Highlands and the man you love. But you can't if you don't wake up. You must live in order to live again."
There's an urgency to the man's voice, this man who invaded her mind and knows her pain. Knows about Cameron. Now the woman knows, too, and they understand her torment. Cameron waiting for the bride who doesn't come to him. The burden isn't hers alone.
"I know you want to go back to him." Diana's voice brightens with excitement. "We can make it happen, Phebe. We can!"
She can rest now. She will need strength for the journey home.
"Did you see her body relax? Her breathing's no longer tortured. I think she heard us and will waken."
"Thank God."
Oh, the luxury of being in Arlington again--electric lights, central heating and air, flush toilets, pasteurized milk for her tea, a Starbuck's china mug to pour it in.
But Phebe missed parritch and oatcakes, eggs newly wrested from beneath a fat hen and thick slabs of bacon fried over a wood-burning fire.
They were eating breakfast in a sunny nook overlooking a street crowded with cars. And the noise. She'd forgotten how noisy the city is. She tried not to think of cool mists and the gentle silence of the green glens and dark crags of the Highlands.
"Feels strange to be back, doesn't it?" Diana asked.
Phebe nodded. "Disjointed." She told them what had happened after they'd disappeared in New Orleans, about the FBI investigation and what they'd observed near the carousel. "Tell me again what it was like for you. Your voices were too faint when I was sick."
She smiled up at Lance. "I do remember your wizard tricks, however. That was the first step to freeing me from my grief, and I'll always owe you for it."
Lance and Diana told their story, and Phebe told hers. They sat talking until lunch time.
"Lance knew the carousel was in a circle of standing stones that was a portal to the past, which is why he warned us not to get on it. He'd come that night to travel back to his brother's time," Diana said.
Lance asked if there was something like that at the castle? "Either at the masquerade ball in Washington or the Highlands? You know, standing stones, a fairy circle, something...anything?"
Phebe shook her head. "Unlike your journey, I didn't hear noises or have any body experiences. I was here and then I was there." It was too embarrassing to tell them she'd planned to go to a strange man's room for sex. "I was lonely and sick of my dull life. I... It was stupid, but somehow I thought a wild night of partying would fix it. What I wanted was to find someone to love me and someone to love. Now I have, but I'm here instead of with him."
"You were in the twenty-first century, you stepped across the threshold and were in the eighteenth?" Lance asked.
"Not the threshold to Cameron's rooms. It didn't happen there." Without mentioning her ménage voyeurism, another embarrassing thing, she explained she'd entered the wrong room. In retreating, she'd stepped over that threshold into the hall of the ancient Blaird Castle and watched the Scots below. "I thought I'd had too much to drink."
"Have you any clue at all as to what took you there?" Diana probed.
"Or brought you back here?" Lance added.
"Nothing odd, except after I'd changed from my wedding dress into the black lace last night, there was a moment when I felt a powerful wave of homesickness and longing to come back here. It dizzied me, but it didn't last. I knew I wanted to be stay with Cameron. I decided it was fatigue from the wedding ceremonies."
She searched her memory for anything else unusual. "I also thought I heard snatches of Michael Bublé singing the song the D. J. played at the ball, but it was faint."
Diana and Lance stared at each other, then Lance went to the CD player and switched it on. "One of these songs?"
She listened through a couple of tracks. "That one." Again, she watched them exchange looks.
"You tell," Lance said.
Excitement flared in Diana's eyes. "It never occurred to us you'd traveled like we had. We thought you'd been abducted and murdered. That song was playing in the background last evening. Lance was comforting me because I was grieving for you. I wanted so much for you to be here with us. Safe. And then..."
"You knocked on the door." Lance ended the sentence.
A phrase crept into her mind. "...especially bein' as how he brought ye here and all."
Who'd said that? Gennot. She'd been talking about how Cameron had checked on Phebe when she'd had the migraine. Said it was his duty as laird, "...especially bein' as how he brought ye here and all."
Phebe had wondered then if it was possible Cameron's thoughts had pulled her through time to Balmarbroch, but headache pain had turned her brain to mush. It was too difficult to ponder it. By the time she was better, she'd forgotten.
The words flew out of her mouth as she told them. "Do you think?"
"I think it's possible," Lance said.
Dressed in her black lace gown and stilettos, Phebe opened the overnight bag she'd retrieved from storage at Blaird Castle. She'd offered apologies for the hotel's inconvenience and paid her bill. Now she stared at the items in front of her.
Nylon stockings and panties, toothbrush, toothpaste, lip gloss, deodorant, migraine medication, makeup... What did one take on a journey back to a long ago century?
Diana grinned as Phebe stuffed the panties and the amoxicillin bottle in her purse.
"I won't need the stockings, and soft willow twigs make great toothbrushes. Eby's headache posset worked as well as my prescription. The amoxicillin may come in handy, but I don't need the other things, do I?"
"The rest you can do without. I learned that lesson, too," Diana said.
Lance and Diana walked with her to the second floor, where he'd rented the ménage room for the night for her.
Phebe stopped in front of it as terror laced through her. She turned to them. "What if it doesn't work?"
Diana hugged her goodbye. "If it doesn't, we'll be here and you'll try again. But it will work. He's waiting for you. Grieving like I did."
"Send your love to him. Let his longing bring you to him as it must have before. It'll be even stronger now because he's fallen in love with you." Lance hugged her as she thanked him one last time.
He opened the door, and she stepped inside and let it close behind her. She was shivering now from anxiety and longing and fear. She pulled her cloak tighter and let her mind draw within itself, remembering...
When she was ready, she opened the door and crossed the threshold. Diana and Lance were gone. She was too scared to look down below, for fear she'd see people from the twenty-first century. Her knees were weak and threatening to fold as she climbed to the third floor.
Then she was at the door. And through.
He stood in his plaid by the fire, and the face he turned to her was lined and wet with tears.
"Hello," she said, as she dropped purse and cloak on the low chest near the door and advanced to him.
She pulled one glove off with deliberate slowness and let it drop.
He frowned, not believing. "Phebe?"
The other glove dropped silently beside it.
She continued toward him, hips a sultry sway, arms extended now, fingers beckoning. Sensual, sexy, hungry for his cock to invade her cunt. She longed to lose herself in him the way he said he lost himself in her.
He strode toward her and pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. "I thought ye'd figured out how to go back, and I'd never see ye again."
She pressed a finger to his lips and crooned to him in Gaelic. "Hush, mo cridhe, my heart, and touch me. I have missed you so much."
He held back. "I couldna bear to lose ye again. I must know--are ye here then, for good?"
"Forever and always. But if you don't touch me this instant, I'm going to throw you to the floor and ravish you."
"Weel, we canna have that, can we?" He nuzzled her neck, and she shivered as gooseflesh of delight rose on her arms.. "I think this began when ye dropped the top of yer dress and showed me your tits."
"No, it began when I pulled off your plaid and discovered your balls."
"No, with yer..." He rubbed his nose across hers.
"Oh, hell, let's start with me sucking your cock."
They burst out laughing, and then the laughter died as they found each other. Truly found each other. And touched.
Carolina Valdez, author of the popular Amber Heat Wave winner Dark Stranger, composed her first stories at the age of eight. That was about the time Santa left the first books she had in her home-abridged versions of the Wizard of Oz for children. She has happy memories of trips to used bookstores with her mother to locate and buy the full versions when she was ten or twelve.
Captivated by the odd characters and their adventures, Carolina wrote a letter to L. Frank Baum, the author. Ruth Plumly Thompson replied, enclosing a map of the Kingdom of Oz. Sadly, the letter and map have disappeared over the years, but the love of writing and creating her own fictional worlds have remained. Carolina has a collection of Oz books, one of which, given to her by her mother when it was new, has recently been appraised at $350.
Before writing for Amber Quill Press, Carolina had more than sixty publications to her credit, ranging from children's stories to articles in professional journals. A public health nurse with an advanced university degree, she won RN Magazine's First Award for Writing, and has been published also in the American Journal of Nursing. She was a Guideposts Writers Workshop and Guideposts Reunion Workshop winner, and her work has appeared in that periodical and several Daily Guideposts books. Among her other wins are the Soul-Making Literary Prize for Essay, the Marjorie Davis Roller Award for non-fiction, Della Crowder Memorial and Millenium awards for poetry, and the Norman E. and Marjorie J. Roller first prize for a story about a horse that can float on water.
She contributed (under the name Carol Holman) to Mean Girls Grown Up, a book regarding adult female relational aggression.
Dark Stranger was her first venture into sensual romance. Her first attempt into the murder genre can be read on-line at Mysterical-E. Her latest can be found in the 2006 crime anthology, LAndmarked for Murder.
Among her current projects is Tie 'Em Up, Tie 'Em Down, a novella for Amber Allure.
Valdez is a member of the Orange County, From The Heart, and Hearts Of History chapters of Romance Writers of America and Sisters in Crime/Los Angeles.
She resides with her husband in sunny Southern California. 
available at AmberHeat.com!
Gloriana, princess of the golden dragons of the high mountains, has a sacred destiny to fulfill, but first she's required to mate and produce an heir. In human form, as Arondele and hiding her true nature, she's fallen in love with Rodick, a powerful knight in the enchanted kingdom of Ahnerion. Only after seducing an aroused but reluctant Rodick does she learn that, for not being a virgin when she mates for the first time as Gloriana, the penalty is death. For both of them.
Terrified for Rodick's safety, she abandons him. They will slay her, but at least he'll be safe.
Flaming passion fuels Rodick's hunt to find Gloriana. When he learns what she is, and realizes that to have her he must battle her father, Dreicomar, the powerful and fearsome king of the golden dragons, will his love stand the test? And will he and his princess survive?
In Both Print And Electronic Formats
Horror
Romance
Fantasy
Mainstream
Young Adult
Science Fiction
Suspense/Thriller
Action/Adventure
Non-Fiction
Paranormal
Historical
Western
Mystery
GLBT

