Kiss of the Highlander
Page 72
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“You’re not making this easy.”
“I doona intend to. Speak or leave. Doona waste my time.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay, but I’m warning you, it’s going to sound pretty far-fetched at first.”
He exhaled impatiently.
“I’m from your future—”
He stifled a groan. The lass was a bampot, addled, soft in the head. Wandering about naked outside, accusing men of tupping her, thinking she was from the future, indeed!
“—the twenty-first century, to be precise. I was hiking in the hills near Loch Ness when I fell into a cave and discovered you sleeping—”
He shook his head. “Cease this nonsense.”
“You said you wouldn’t interrupt.” She jumped to her feet, much too close for his comfort. “It’s hard enough for me to tell you this.”
Drustan’s eyes narrowed, and he backed up a step lest she touch him and he turn into a lustful beast again. She stood there, head tossed back. Her cheeks were flushed, her stormy eyes flashing, and she looked ready to pummel him, despite her diminutive size. She had courage, he’d give her that.
“Go on,” he growled.
“I found you in the cave. You were sleeping, and funny symbols were painted on your chest. Somehow, my falling on you woke you. You were confused, you had no idea where you were, and you helped me get out of the cave. You told me the strangest story I’d ever heard. You claimed you were from the sixteenth century, that someone had abducted and enchanted you, and you slept for nearly five centuries. You said the last thing you recalled was that someone had sent you a message to go to some glen near a loch if you wished to know who’d killed your brother. You said you went, but someone had drugged you and you started getting very tired.”
“Enchanted?” Drustan shook his head in amazement. The lass had an imagination that could compete with the finest bard. But she’d made her first mistake: He didn’t have a dead brother. He had only Dageus, who was alive and hale.
She took a deep breath and continued, undaunted by his blatant skepticism. “I didn’t believe you either, Drustan, and for that I’m sorry. You told me that if I accompanied you to Ban Drochaid, you would prove to me that you were telling the truth. We went to the stones, and your castle”—she swept a hand around the room—“this castle was a ruin. You took me into the circle.” She deliberately omitted the intense passion they shared therein, not wishing to alienate him further. With a wistful sigh, she continued. “And you sent me here, to your castle, in your century.”
Drustan blew out an exasperated breath. Aye, she was truly a madwoman, and one who knew the old rumors well. He knew the villagers loved to repeat the old tale that their ancestors had seen two entire fleets of Templars enter the walls of Castle Keltar centuries ago, never to come out again. Apparently she’d heard that those “pagan Highlanders” could open doorways and had incorporated it into her madness.
“But before I sent you back, using the stones in some pagan fashion”—he scoffed, not about to admit to such a thing—“I took your maidenhead, eh?” he said dryly. “I must confess, you’ve chosen a most unique way to try to trap a man into a wedding. Choose one about whom strange rumors abound. Claim he took your virginity in the future, thus, he can never argue conclusively against it.” He shook his head and smiled faintly. “I give you credit for your imagination and audacity, lass.”
Gwen glared at him. “For the last time, I am not trying to marry you, you overbearing slack-jawed troglodyte.”
“Slack-jawed—” He shook his head and blinked. “Good, because I can’t. I’m betrothed,” he said flatly. That would put an end to her crazed claims.
“Betrothed?” she echoed, stunned.
His eyes narrowed. “ ‘Tis plain that doesn’t please you. Careful lest you further betray yourself.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. You told me you weren’t…” She trailed off, eyes wide.
Yet another hole in her story, he mused darkly. He’d been betrothed for over half a year. Near all of Alba knew of his upcoming nuptials and were, like as not, watching with bated breath to see if he actually succeeded this time. And he would succeed. “I am. The match was agreed upon last Yuletide. Anya Elliott is due to arrive within the fortnight for our wedding.”
“Elliott?” she breathed.
“Aye, Dageus is going to fetch her and bring her here for the wedding.”
Gwen turned her back to him, to conceal the shock and pain she knew must be etched all over her face. Betrothed? Her soul mate was going to marry someone else?
“I doona intend to. Speak or leave. Doona waste my time.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay, but I’m warning you, it’s going to sound pretty far-fetched at first.”
He exhaled impatiently.
“I’m from your future—”
He stifled a groan. The lass was a bampot, addled, soft in the head. Wandering about naked outside, accusing men of tupping her, thinking she was from the future, indeed!
“—the twenty-first century, to be precise. I was hiking in the hills near Loch Ness when I fell into a cave and discovered you sleeping—”
He shook his head. “Cease this nonsense.”
“You said you wouldn’t interrupt.” She jumped to her feet, much too close for his comfort. “It’s hard enough for me to tell you this.”
Drustan’s eyes narrowed, and he backed up a step lest she touch him and he turn into a lustful beast again. She stood there, head tossed back. Her cheeks were flushed, her stormy eyes flashing, and she looked ready to pummel him, despite her diminutive size. She had courage, he’d give her that.
“Go on,” he growled.
“I found you in the cave. You were sleeping, and funny symbols were painted on your chest. Somehow, my falling on you woke you. You were confused, you had no idea where you were, and you helped me get out of the cave. You told me the strangest story I’d ever heard. You claimed you were from the sixteenth century, that someone had abducted and enchanted you, and you slept for nearly five centuries. You said the last thing you recalled was that someone had sent you a message to go to some glen near a loch if you wished to know who’d killed your brother. You said you went, but someone had drugged you and you started getting very tired.”
“Enchanted?” Drustan shook his head in amazement. The lass had an imagination that could compete with the finest bard. But she’d made her first mistake: He didn’t have a dead brother. He had only Dageus, who was alive and hale.
She took a deep breath and continued, undaunted by his blatant skepticism. “I didn’t believe you either, Drustan, and for that I’m sorry. You told me that if I accompanied you to Ban Drochaid, you would prove to me that you were telling the truth. We went to the stones, and your castle”—she swept a hand around the room—“this castle was a ruin. You took me into the circle.” She deliberately omitted the intense passion they shared therein, not wishing to alienate him further. With a wistful sigh, she continued. “And you sent me here, to your castle, in your century.”
Drustan blew out an exasperated breath. Aye, she was truly a madwoman, and one who knew the old rumors well. He knew the villagers loved to repeat the old tale that their ancestors had seen two entire fleets of Templars enter the walls of Castle Keltar centuries ago, never to come out again. Apparently she’d heard that those “pagan Highlanders” could open doorways and had incorporated it into her madness.
“But before I sent you back, using the stones in some pagan fashion”—he scoffed, not about to admit to such a thing—“I took your maidenhead, eh?” he said dryly. “I must confess, you’ve chosen a most unique way to try to trap a man into a wedding. Choose one about whom strange rumors abound. Claim he took your virginity in the future, thus, he can never argue conclusively against it.” He shook his head and smiled faintly. “I give you credit for your imagination and audacity, lass.”
Gwen glared at him. “For the last time, I am not trying to marry you, you overbearing slack-jawed troglodyte.”
“Slack-jawed—” He shook his head and blinked. “Good, because I can’t. I’m betrothed,” he said flatly. That would put an end to her crazed claims.
“Betrothed?” she echoed, stunned.
His eyes narrowed. “ ‘Tis plain that doesn’t please you. Careful lest you further betray yourself.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. You told me you weren’t…” She trailed off, eyes wide.
Yet another hole in her story, he mused darkly. He’d been betrothed for over half a year. Near all of Alba knew of his upcoming nuptials and were, like as not, watching with bated breath to see if he actually succeeded this time. And he would succeed. “I am. The match was agreed upon last Yuletide. Anya Elliott is due to arrive within the fortnight for our wedding.”
“Elliott?” she breathed.
“Aye, Dageus is going to fetch her and bring her here for the wedding.”
Gwen turned her back to him, to conceal the shock and pain she knew must be etched all over her face. Betrothed? Her soul mate was going to marry someone else?
