Into the Dreaming (23 page)

Whye’er she’d come, she’d not be discovering his secrets. If she caught the merest glimpse of what he truly was, she’d flee his vale and ne’er return. Even in his own century the lasses had been wary of the Keltar Druids. Now he was Keltar Druid, and growing darker by the day.

He snorted. She wanted to poke about in his mind? He’d let her try, if such was necessary to keep her near him. But it would be on his terms, not hers. Terms he would swiftly spell out for her.

There was a connection between them, the likes of which he’d naught felt before. A full-blown mating heat. A tension that could make them fight with each other, or fall on each other in an entirely different manner. He wanted to explore that connection—nay, he
needed
to.

A man facing an inevitable death sentence, he was starved for what life remained for him. For a taste of passion; a heady brief swallow of what might have been.

Was it too much to ask that for a few days—a few wee and harmless days—he might forget about the thirteen and be naught but a man?

E
LISABETH SIPPED HER COFFEE IN SILENCE. IT WAS GOOD
and, perversely, that annoyed her. Dark and strong, topped with cream and a sprinkle of raw sugar and cinnamon. Exactly the way she prepared it for herself. Served in a heavy blue-speckled ceramic cup that held the heat. She’d stayed outside long enough that she’d gotten chilled all over again, and she cupped her fingers around the cup, thinking that she didn’t like him taking his coffee the same way she did. It made her feel as if they shared something, and she desperately needed distance from the man.

The kitchen was cozy and intimate, with soft lighting, and cabinets and counters fashioned of honeyed oak that matched the gleaming tables and chairs. The pale stone floor was strewn with woven rugs. Handmade baskets held loaves of crusty breads and bottles of wine, and fired clay jars were labeled with names of spices. It seemed simple for such a
man. Even dressed in exercise pants and a T-shirt, there was something powerful and complex about him.

And dangerously attractive.
Playgirl’
s Man of the Year had nothing on Dageus MacKeltar, she thought ruefully, not that she made a habit of loitering in Barnes & Noble, hiding the annual issue inside a copy of
Woman’s World
, peeking through the pages, or anything like that.

Elisabeth glanced at him when he rose and went to the counter, where he transferred the coffee from the brewing pot into a thermal carafe. When his back was to her, she studied him intently, noticing that his hair, caught at the nape, looked like it was folded under several times before he’d wrapped it in a leather thong.
Wow
, she thought,
it must fall to his waist when it’s free
. The image of a sleek fall of black silk against a naked golden back was unsettlingly erotic. Then again, everything about the man was unsettlingly erotic.

Standing a good foot taller than her, which put him near six-four, Dageus MacKeltar couldn’t have been further from a classic model of a patient needing therapy. He exuded confidence and control. He moved gracefully in his own skin, and seemed easy with silence. He was in exceptional physical condition and didn’t appear to have an insecure bone in his body, not that she’d mind hunting for one—and there she went again, veering straight off the path of professionalism.

Mentally shaking herself, she forced herself to focus, to behave as the Dr. Zanders she planned to be one day. She wished she could already claim the barrier of a title before her name. Better yet, she wished she could claim the experience.

She tugged off her cap and smoothed her plait, absently retucking stray curls where she could. “Mr. MacKeltar—”

“Dageus,” he interjected, with a smile over his shoulder. “And take off your coat, lass. Make yourself comfortable.”

No way in hell
, Elisabeth thought. She needed to be on her toes. She had to get him to agree to counseling. She’d be damned if she’d come all this way, for the promise of so much money, to fail on her first day because she’d made a few bad assumptions. Forcing a smile, she folded her restless hands beneath the table. “Mr. MacKeltar,” she said firmly, “I know we didn’t quite get off on the right foot—”

“Seemed a fine foot to me,” he murmured, moving back toward the table with the carafe.

“—because you didn’t know that Gwen had sent for me,” she continued, ignoring his comment. “But now that we’ve cleared things up, I’d like to—”

“Did Gwen say why she wanted you to see me?” he cut her off. Topping off her coffee, he sat down again, placing the carafe on the table.

So much for controlling the conversation, Elisabeth thought, irritably.

“Well?” he prodded ruthlessly. “Aye or nay, lass?”

“Actually,” she hedged, “we were supposed to discuss things when I arrived yesterday, but the Jamesons said she won’t be getting out of the hospital for a few days.” She frowned then, realizing she might have blundered again. Living in the valley perhaps he’d not yet heard about the accident. “Did you know about Gwen’s accident?”

“Aye, I spoke with Drustan on the phone yestreen. He said ’twas some blethering American driving on the wrong side of the road.”

“If you kept the stupid sheep off the road, an American might have a chance,” she said irritably.

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Had a wee tussle with a sheep, did you then, lass?”

“A mailbox, while trying to avoid one of the meandering little beasts. Why in the world doesn’t anyone build fences around here?” she said, exasperated—by sheep, by a crappy flight the day before, by lack of information, and, most especially, by the stubborn Scotsman who kept taking control of the conversation that she was supposed to be in charge of.

“Spoils the beauty. Besides, we Scots doona like to pen things. ’Tis no’ our nature.”

Now why doesn’t that surprise me?
Elisabeth thought dryly, eyeing the man who seemed circumscribed by neither inhibition nor a perfectly healthy sense of shame. She took a sip of much-needed caffeine.

“You have no idea why Gwen asked you to come, do you, lass?”

Loath to admit it, she inclined her head, waiting to see what he might tell her.

“ ’Tis simple. Gwen has a tendency to meddle in the lives of those she cares for. I’d been feeling a bit gloomy for a time, and she fretted. But ’tis naught to fash yourself o’er.”

“You were feeling gloomy?”
Fash?
And what had he said moments ago … 
yestreen
? The man used dozens of words she’d never heard before. Perhaps all Scots did, she decided. The guidebook she’d devoured last week had cautioned that the higher one went into the Highlands, the more likely one was to encounter a thicker accent, even Gaelic.

“For a brief spell. ’Tis no’ uncommon. I’d gone through some changes in my life.”

“Recent changes?” she pressed, determined to keep him talking. “Job? Marriage? Are you married?”
Zanders, that
isn’t the way to go about it, you dip. You know the drill—rephrase the last thing they say as a question
.

“Are you asking after your own interests, lass?”

Elisabeth forced herself to smile pleasantly. He’d deflected her question with a question of his own. The man was not cooperating at all. Nimbly, she redirected. “It helps if I know something about you. I thought we’d start with the basics. Why don’t we begin with your age?”

“I’ve a score and ten or thereabouts,” he said easily. “And, nay, I’m no’ wed. But tit for tat, lass. How old are you?”

She shook her head.

“What harm is there in answering such a wee question? I’m answering yours. I’m under no obligation to do so,” he reminded pointedly. “Nor will I continue if you won’t.”

A few moments of silence ensued until she said grudgingly, “Twenty-four.” It sounded young, even to her. Any minute now he would ask how long she’d been practicing and she’d be forced to admit she was still a student. She may as well stand up and fling what remained of her credibility out the window. She’d already left the bulk of it on his doorstep.

“Are you married?” he asked.

She was so relieved that he’d not pressed the issue of her age and expertise, or lack thereof, that she answered him. “No, I’m not. But, Mr. MacKeltar, you really should let me ask the questions.”

“Dageus. Betrothed?”

“That’s an old-fashioned word,” Elisabeth murmured. She added it to the store of others she was collecting from him.

“I’m an old-fashioned man, lass. So?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Well, ’tis no’ about me, because I’ve no need of your services.”

“Gwen seemed to think you did.”

“I explained that—she frets o’er much.”

Elisabeth let the silence unfurl, wondering what he would do with it. He did nothing. He sat perfectly still and composed, staring levelly at her. So for a good two minutes, which felt like ten, they stared at each other. Until she was shocked to discover that she’d folded her arms and crossed her legs.

That he took pity on
her
unsettled her more than anything that had happened so far, and it hadn’t exactly been a banner morning.

“What, no more questions?” he asked, his golden eyes glittering.

“Do you have children?” she blurted, hastily unfolding her arms.
Where did that come from, Zanders?
She fought the urge to close her eyes and sink under the table.

“With no
wife
?” he said indignantly. “What manner of man do you take me for? Have you children?” he flung it right back at her.

“No,” she said, dismayed to hear herself sound as defensive as he had. She took a deep breath, and bleakly acknowledged that she shouldn’t have come back in the cottage the second time. She simply wasn’t in top form. It occurred to her that he might not have anywhere near the presence she was attributing to him. Perhaps she was simply so jet-lagged that everything seemed larger than life and insurmountable this morning.

She seized upon the excuse gratefully. If only she’d recognized it sooner, after their initial fiasco of a conversation, she
would have coolly and professionally informed him that she’d come back the next day. The sooner she terminated this conversation, the better. God only knew what might come out of her mouth if she stayed. She would retreat, rest, and return the cool, focused Elisabeth Zanders who had earned, and would fight to keep, the highest GPA in the psych department at Harvard.

“I’m sorry, Mr. MacKeltar,” she apologized, abruptly pushing her cup away and rising to her feet, “but I’m afraid I’m not quite myself this morning. It’s become apparent to me that I’m far more jet-lagged than I’d realized.”

“Is that what you’ll blame it on, then, lass?” he said softly, standing as well.

His tongue flickered out, wetting his full lips in a gesture that purred invitation, and dared her to acknowledge it. His golden eyes met hers, and for an awful moment Elisabeth felt like he was seeing right into her soul. That he was fully aware of the impact he had on her, and would wait patiently until she admitted it. That the man standing before her could manipulate circles around her. That there wasn’t a single psychologist’s tactic she could use on him that he wouldn’t see right through.

A good psychologist would have said,
Blame
what
on?
and confronted him. But she didn’t, because she wasn’t entirely certain he wouldn’t baldly reply,
The fact that I throw you off balance because you can’t stop thinking about getting me naked
.

And she was thinking about it. Every time she looked at him.

“Thank you for the coffee, Mr. MacKeltar,” she said smoothly, pretending there was no palpable, mind-boggling
tension charging the air between them. She was damned if she was going to request his permission to counsel him, she decided. With such a strong-willed man, it would be far wiser to proceed matter-of-factly. To act as if whether or not she was going to treat him wasn’t even in question. “Let’s set a time for tomorrow so we can get off to a fresh start,” she said firmly.

And tonight she would phone Gwen and pick her brain clean. There was no way she was approaching Dageus MacKeltar again until she knew more about him.

“You wouldn’t be thinking of troubling Gwen while she’s in the hospital, would you now?” Dageus said softly. “With Gwen’s delicate condition and the traumatic accident, I’ll no’ have you upsetting her.” Clearly Gwen had some kind of plan involving the lass, Dageus mused, or she wouldn’t have hired her, but he didn’t think Gwen would tell her about the thirteen, at least not in a casual phone conversation, or she would have already done so. Still, he would take no chances. Elisabeth Zanders was a lovely wee lass with fire and intelligence and, if he was clever, he could have her all to himself for a time. The intensity of his determination to have her, to explore what she thought and felt, to learn the feel of her body yielding naked and warm beneath his, startled him. Were he a man of single-minded clarity, such determination might have done more than startle him, it might have warned him. But he wasn’t. And it didn’t.

Elisabeth was shocked by how accurately he’d guessed her thoughts. While she floundered for a response, he stepped closer. The man really had a thing for invading personal space.

“Have dinner with me this eve, lass,” he purred, plucking
her cap from her hands and gently smoothing it over her hair. “I’m a fair cook.”

She backed up hastily, just as the tips of his fingers brushed her ear. She tingled where he’d touched her. “Tomorrow.”

He studied her intently. After a moment, he seemed to decide that she wasn’t going to budge an inch on that. “Tomorrow then. Breakfast with me.”

“One o’clock,” she countered firmly, backing down the hallway toward the door.

“Or forget it,” he said flatly, stalking her down the hallway.

She stopped backing when her spine hit the door.

He stopped a foot from her. “The way I see it, Elisabeth Zanders, you’ve a bit of a problem, doona you?”

When she didn’t reply, he smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Aye, you do. Gwen asked you to come talk with me. I’ll wager she’s paying you for your time, is she no’?”