An Original Sin (13 page)

“This isna right.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I canna let ye distract me now that I know Mary Campbell is my real reason for being here.”

For a moment she couldn’t think past the fact that she had the power to distract him. Why should that make her so ridiculously pleased?
Never mind
. She had more serious things to ponder. Like how was she going to tell him his real reason for being here had nothing to do with Mary Campbell?

She couldn’t meet his intense stare, knowing what she planned for him. He’d just given her a perfect lead-in. She should tell him now. But she couldn’t; she just couldn’t. She’d never thought of herself as a coward, but he’d proved that was exactly what she was. She couldn’t tell him yet. But soon. She’d tell him soon. “Why
did
you think you were sent here?”

His slight flush of embarrassment surprised her. “I thought I was meant to teach ye the joys of love between a man and a woman.” He glanced away from her. “Of course, ’twas before I knew ye were a MacDonald.”

The joys of love.
For a minisecond, the thought sent silver shards of excitement slicing through her. Then the full implication of what he’d said penetrated.

She’d kill him. “Of course.” She’d kill him, then stomp on the remains, and enjoy every violent moment of it.
Here she’d been agonizing over his tender feelings, while he’d coldly planned to have sex with her because he felt it was his duty.

Maybe she wouldn’t tell him her plans. Maybe she’d let it be a MacDonald surprise. “I’m sure you’re relieved to have that responsibility lifted from your shoulders.”

He grinned. “Ye’re angry.” He seemed disgustingly pleased by his observation. “Ye would have enjoyed my lovemaking, lass.”

“I wouldn’t.” What an egotistical, overbearing—

“Ye still dinna lie well.” He shook his head in mock dismay, and his wind-tangled hair framed his face—the face of a dark god. “I would’ve pulled ye, naked, to my body and I—”

Like a child, she dropped the empty ice-cream cup and clapped her hands over her ears. “I can’t hear you, so don’t bother telling me any more.”

He reached for her hands, but Blade’s taxi appeared and spared her the ignominy of wrestling for possession of her ears.

“Ye’ll not escape that easily, Fortune,” he promised in a whisper that tingled along her nerve endings.

It hadn’t taken him long to forget she wasn’t supposed to distract him.

She’d fight him.
Not too hard, not too long.
No, she hadn’t thought that. This whole thing was ridiculous. He wanted to tease her, and he knew his words angered her. Of course anger was the only emotion she felt. Maybe tonight she would tell him her plan. That should guarantee he’d leave her alone permanently. She’d be happy then. Wouldn’t she?

Problem
. She didn’t have a plan. At least not a plan for getting this wild Scottish warrior back to the rest-over room. Maybe she’d better think of one quickly.

Blade pulled his taxi to a stop beside them, and Leith
silently held the door open. Fortune picked up Ganymede and climbed into the backseat. Climbing in beside her, Leith slammed the door, then slid over the few inches it took to touch her.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking him to move. Valiantly she attempted to ignore the warmth of his side pressed against her. She tried to concentrate on how to reveal his fate in such a way that he wouldn’t storm from the house.

She could still feel him. Shifting, he placed his arm across her shoulders. Pressed against the door, she had nowhere to go. Ganymede lay in her lap and watched the proceedings with slit-eyed approval. Fat lot of protection she’d get from him. What she needed was a huge, ferocious carnitak that—

“What place is that, Blade?”

She couldn’t believe it. He was more interested in the scenery than his effect on her.

“The SPCA.” Blade didn’t elaborate.

Leith opened his mouth to ask for a more in-depth explanation, but she dug her elbow sharply into his side. He grunted his surprise.

She’d enjoyed that. She could almost begin to understand the siren call of violence.

“They have dogs in cages.” His tone spoke of dank dungeons and sadistic jailers.

“Keep your voice down.” She glanced out the window as the cab whipped past the small building and outside cages. “I can see only a few dogs, and they look well fed. And they’re in a safe environment, free from fear of predators.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Mayhap they’d choose to run from predators in exchange for freedom.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

He turned to stare at her. “ ’Tis like that in yer world, isn’t it? Ye live in yer wee cages with no excitement
to make yer heart pound, yer breath come in mighty gasps.”

She glanced nervously at Blade. “Not so loud. Cages? That’s ridiculous. We go wherever we want.”

He smiled at her, but there was no humor in it. “The cage is in yer heart. I could ne’er live in yer world, bound by the rules that govern ye.”

Now he’d made her mad. “You know nothing of my world. I wouldn’t want to live in
your
world, where massacres like Glencoe are a way of life. I wouldn’t want to be near people who could kill like that.”

He grew still, and his face paled. “Glencoe should ne’er have happened. But sometimes ye must kill or be killed. Which would ye choose, lass?”

“The choice would never come up.” Why was she arguing about killing or being killed? Sighing, she admitted she knew the answer. This was about their completely different mind-sets, and the ability of one of them to exist in the other’s world.

He shook his head. “I dinna think I would fit into yer society.”

She turned from him and stared out the window. There it was. He didn’t want any part of her world. And yet she had to bring him back. She had a duty to the human race. But she’d probably hate herself as much as he’d hate his new home, a cage from which there’d be no escape, where he’d feel totally alien.

“What’re you guys arguing about?” Blade’s curious stare in the mirror pulled her back to reality.

“Nothing.” Nothing but the future of the human race as opposed to the future of one man’s life.

Leith worried. Fortune had remained quiet for the whole day. Even his excitement over the magic of television hadn’t drawn a sarcastic comment about primitiveness from her.

Now she lay in bed, the cover pulled up to her chin, her head turned from him. He shouldn’t mind her withdrawal. It would make it easier to ignore his body’s demands.

That was a lie. His body didn’t care what feelings she had for him. It wanted her.

He pulled off his shirt and rescued the small object that rested against his chest. Smiling, he wondered at his silliness. Small and wilted, it hardly made a fine offering to a lady.

Without warning, she turned her head and caught him holding the foolish thing in his hands.

“A flower?”

“ ’Tis a bit wilted.” Lord, he was embarrassed. He could feel warmth flooding his face. He loved women, but he couldn’t remember any who had managed to embarrass him.

“For me?” Sudden tears shone in her eyes.

God’s teeth, the woman was going to cry. Panic filled his soul. He’d rather fight a battle one-armed than face a woman’s tears. “It isna much of a gift. ’Twas beautiful when I saw it in Mary’s garden, but I left it too long inside my shirt.”

“It’s still beautiful.”

It wasn’t really. He looked down at it to avoid staring into Fortune’s glistening blue eyes and saw only a shriveled yellow flower. “I shouldna have picked it. Every living thing is best left in its rightful place.” He looked up to find tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked stricken. What had he said?

He should throw the flower out the open window and close his mouth, but he rushed into more speech rather than examine the tension filling the room. “It was alone in the garden, with no others of its kind nearby, no one to admire it.” He realized he spoke not about the flower.
Lord grant that Fortune would not recognize herself in the crushed yellow bloom. She wouldn’t want his admiration. Admiration? No, that didn’t describe his feelings at all. He grinned and feared it was a foolish grin.

“What? No red flowers?” She smiled through her tears.

Desperate for anything that would lighten her mood, he smiled back. “I didna see any red ones, but yellow suits ye also. ’Tis a sunny color, and wi’ yer red hair and blue eyes, ye remind me of a sunny day.” Had those ridiculous words come from his lips? The many women he’d bedded wouldn’t believe he’d said such a thing. He brought passion and expertise to his lovemaking, but never foolish compliments.

He shifted from foot to foot. “ ’Tis a poor offering.” He wished the wretched flower would disappear.

“It’s a wonderful gift.” Her voice was soft, her eyes luminous. She held out her hand for the flower.

He walked to her side of the bed with caution born of the belief that she might again break into tears, leaving him as helpless as a man with no weapon. He shoved the flower at her with all the grace of a fledging swordsman.

She wrapped her smaller hand around his fist. Drawing his hand to her mouth, she softly kissed his whitened knuckles, then removed the flower from his suddenly lax fingers.

He closed his eyes. A flash of memory. His mother standing behind their cottage, her dark hair blowing around her face, her eyes smiling with love as he toddled toward her with a handful of heather clutched in his baby fist. His mother. Why did he remember her now? Since she’d died, he’d driven her memory from his mind, his soul, afraid he’d remember only the way she’d looked in death on that long-ago morn.

He opened his eyes and reached for his normal response to a woman. “Dinna tempt me, lass. Ye might get
more than ye expected.” He hoped he’d struck the light tone he wanted.

She smiled at him. Fortunately, her tears had dried. “How often does a Campbell give a MacDonald flowers?”

He returned her smile and relaxed. “Only when they’re placed on a MacDonald grave.” He switched off the light—it was amazing how quickly he’d adapted to such modern comforts—and finished stripping off his clothes.

He climbed into bed beside her, then lay still.

“Leith…how would you feel if you knew you’d never return home again?” Her voice sounded tentative, unsure.

He thought before answering. This present time had wondrous things, but he still felt apart from it, a bumbling stranger who might say or do something stupid at any moment. Granted, he now had friends in Blade and Lily, interesting work, and…Fortune. But he missed the land, his land, with all its rugged beauty. He also knew he must make his peace with his brother if he were ever to feel whole again.

He would miss Fortune, though. He could not believe he was thinking that about a MacDonald, but it was true.

Why had the powers sent her to this time with him if they didn’t intend that he teach her the joys of love? They certainly couldn’t expect someone like Michael to—The idea filled him with unreasoning rage.

Maybe he had two reasons for being here. The thought that he might still join with her made his blood sing as it did right before he rushed into battle.

Perhaps when he returned he could take her with him. No, she would never survive the primitiveness of his time. She’d be like the wilted yellow flower he’d ripped from its rightful place in the garden. It would be far better if she returned to her own time. His sudden feeling of loss surprised him.

“Well,” she prompted. “How would you feel?”

“I’d rather die.”

She sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

“Why did ye ask?” He knew what answer he wished from her.
Fool.
Even if she said she wanted him to remain with her, it meant nothing, nothing at all, because he still had to return to his time, to Hugh.

“No reason.” She turned her back to him, but he sensed she wasn’t asleep. He could feel her stiffness, her restlessness, across the width of the bed.

He gave in to temptation without even a small fight. He shoved aside his hate for the MacDonalds, ground into his very soul by mutual raids and murders, and slid across the centuries of distrust to mold his body to her back. Before she could react, he put his arms around her and held her still.

“Dinna fear. I mean only to warm ye.”

“It isn’t cold.” Her voice sounded strangely choked, and she held herself stiff and unyielding.

“Use yer imagination, lass. Believe in things that aren’t real, that dinna have logical explanations.” He gave her a slight squeeze to punctuate his command.

“I thought that’s what I was doing ever since I met you.”

He would have sworn he heard laughter in her voice, felt her relax slightly. He couldn’t help himself; he moved his hips more tightly against her. Immediately he felt her stiffen again.

“Maybe you should go back to your side of the bed.”

He could kick himself. She was a virgin, no matter how advanced her civilization. One more move from him and she’d return to her lumpy couch. Slowly. He must move slowly.

Startled, he realized what he planned. It didn’t matter that her name was MacDonald, or that he’d been sent to this time for the sake of Mary Campbell. He wanted to
make love with this particular woman, and he wanted it beyond all reasoning.

But not tonight. She wasn’t ready. If they made love tonight, she’d blame him tomorrow, and he knew already he’d want Fortune more than once.

Already feeling the pain of denial, he forced himself to move his hips away from her. But denying himself now would garner greater pleasure later. “Dinna fear, lass. I willna ask of ye anything ye’re not willing to give freely. I can wait.”

“Then you’ll wait a long time.”

Her statement lacked conviction, and he smiled into the darkness. But he smiled through pain. He had to distract himself from the throbbing demands of his body. “Ye’ve said several times that ye make men. Tell me about this.”

He felt her relax again as she prepared to discuss something familiar, something nonthreatening.

“Jan Kredski’s mistake opened a new area of opportunity. I have my own business, Creature Comforts. I create custom-made men to fit the desires of individual customers. Sort of like a sculptor is commissioned to do a specific likeness. I make body types, facial features, and hair colors geared to appeal to each woman’s fantasy.”