The Charm Stone (11 page)

“Are ye alright then?” he asked, his tone gruff, yet oddly gentle. “Did ye burn yourself?” He reached
for one hand, then the other, and turned them over so the rain washed over her palms.

Fine, she wanted to say. I'm fine. But his touch caused a ripple of awareness so intense that it drenched her senses much like the rain had drenched her skin. What was it about him that made her so hyperaware? She could only answer him with a brief shake of her head.

He ran his hands up her arms, then skimmed back the hair that was plastered to her head and face and cupped her face again as he peered down into her eyes. “I didna mean to roar at ye. When I saw the fire flicker behind yer windowpane…” He paused, then let out a shuddering sigh. “Ye took a lifetime off of me, lass, that ye did.” Then, surprisingly, he grinned, the slash of white illuminated brightly, as lightning streaked through the sky above. “If I'd had a lifetime to give, that is.”

Josie stood there, trembling, overwhelmed. By the storm, the fire… by him. She was suddenly quite aware that she wore next to nothing… but despite being chilled to the bone, the shivers racing uncontrollably through her had nothing to do with the storm. Her nipples peaked, her knees wavered, her thighs clenched. Hyperaware, she'd thought. Yes. Hypersensitive as well. It made no sense, especially considering the circumstances, how she could only think of wanting his hands on her.

Staring at the rain-lashed man standing before her, she knew the line between reality and fantasy had permanently blurred. And she wasn't so sure she cared any longer.

His grin faded as she continued to stand there and stare at him. “Och, but I must have ashes for brains.” He slid off his cloak and slung it around her, which only plastered the soaking-wet nightshirt she wore to her already freezing-cold skin.

That shock of reality jarred her from whatever spell he'd cast, but before she could regain even a shred of control over the situation-much less her-self-she found herself airborne and being held against his chest.

A small squeak of surprise was all she managed before he had her bundled tightly, like a child. Only there was nothing childlike about the sensations rocking through her.

“Come. You must get warm and dry.”

She knew she was beyond help when his edict only elicited visions of him stripping the damp nightshirt off her body… in front of a roaring fire.

Through the haze of desire, it took a few moments before she realized he wasn't heading back to Gregor's.

“Wait. What…where,” she spluttered. Not exactly the commanding tone she'd hoped for, but then she hadn't exactly been too worried about being in charge a moment ago when she was thigh deep in fantasyland.

It wasn't until he crossed the road and started down to the beach that she began to struggle. “Wait a minute,” she shouted over the roar of the wind. “You're not taking me out there through that.” She didn't need moonlight to know the surf was roiling. She could hear it.

“I thought you enjoyed daring the seas,” Connal said, not breaking stride despite her squirming.

“Calculated daring, yes. Suicide, no. Can we
please
go back to Gregor's?”

He didn't so much as pause. They crossed the beach.

She should have never let him mesmerize her like that. What was wrong with her anyway? “Put me down!”

But it was as if he didn't hear her. Infuriated, she
tried to pound on his chest, but her hands were all tangled in his cloak. How had she thought him remotely sexy? He was a pigheaded, stubborn, arrogant… Scot.

The roar of the waves was almost deafening. The causeway over to the tower had to be at least chest deep. And surging.
“You
don't have to worry about risking your life, you know!” She wrestled an arm free and grabbed at his hair, digging her fingers in and pulling until finally, mercifully, he stopped.

Of course, he was swearing and shouting at her now, but he'd stopped and that was all she cared about.

“I'll get you to safety, now stop yer panickin’!”

Rain poured down her face and she blinked furiously against it. “What, you're going to blink us up to the tower or something?”

“Blink?”

“Whatever the hell you call it when you vanish into thin air. That trick.”

“It's no’ a trick. But I canna whisk you off that way, if that's what yer asking.”

“Please put me down.”

“I'll no let any harm come to ye. What do ye take me for?”

Thunder rocked and lightning split the sky. Shaking from cold and… and everything, Josie peered up at Connal and said, “A dead guy?”

His laughter filled the air between them, and just for a moment, the storm didn't exist. An instant later she was bundled tightly against him, her mouth muffled against his chest as he continued on down the beach.

So, yes, she'd reluctantly been forced to believe in ghosts. She'd also been forced to admit she was seriously sexually attracted to one ghost in particular. But lust didn't equal trust.

Josie did her best to hold her breath as she prepared herself for the impact of the cold water. Her lungs began to burn, her spine stiff to the point of aching… but the surf never surged up to claim them. She wriggled again, doing her best despite the fact that she had no arms to maneuver with.

“Hold still,” he commanded, then swore under his breath as he banged into something. “Yer no’ making this any easier for either of us. Now be still, damn ye. We're almost there.”

Almost there? How
could that be?

And then suddenly the roar of wind and surf ceased. She thought her ears had popped, the change was so abrupt. And the rain. She couldn't feel it pelting the cloak and her bare feet that were sticking out from beneath the hem. She was about to start struggling again when he relaxed his hold on her. He didn't put her down, but she was able to shrug her arms free and shove the cloak off her head and shoulders.

Not that it helped matters any. It was pitch-black. So much so, she couldn't see his face, which couldn't have been more than a few inches from her own.

“I have to set you on your feet. Stay where I set ye, so ye don't hurt yourself, ken?”

She was just grateful enough to feel the firm-and more importantly dry-ground beneath her toes not to argue. “Yeah, yeah, I ken.”

There was a scraping sound, then a yellow glow erupted in front of her, making her squint and block the light with her hand.

The glow dimmed almost instantly and she realized he'd lit an old oil lantern. Still, she had to blink a couple times before her surroundings came into view. Not that she could really see much of them. Most of her surroundings at the moment were Connal.

“You're hovering,” she said, ruthlessly tamping
down the libido that seemed to have a mind of its own. “Where are we?” She tried to lean around him and see. The walls on either side of them were made of stone, the floor beneath her feet was dirt or hard-packed sand, she couldn't tell. The ceiling wasn't much higher than she was tall, in fact Connal had to hunch over. “Is this a tunnel?”

He smiled. “Ye dinna think any Scot worth his plaid would build a place out in the water without an alternative means of access, do ye?”

She didn't answer him. Instead she turned around to look to see where they'd come from, but there was only a stone wall. She waited for the frisson of fear, the commonsense reaction that came when a woman realized she was trapped. Trapped with a man she didn't know, couldn't trust.

But the fear didn't come. She tried to peer past him, but whatever lay beyond the few feet of path she could see was quickly enveloped in darkness. “This leads to the tower, then?”

“Aye. The castle actually. Black Angus didna construct this. He hadna the means. But it was his idea. It was several generations later before the task was accomplished. It actually leads to the castle proper, but there is another corridor that leads to the tower.” He turned and held the lantern out in front of him. “I havena had cause to use this in some time. But it's held up for all the years before me, so it should be passable.”

Okay, so she had a jitter or two left in her. “When, exactly, was the last time you used it?”

“Not too far back. Right before the turn of the century.”

“Which century would that be?” she heard herself ask.

“Eighteenth, I believe?”

Okay then.
Why do I keep asking these things?

Better to just get on with it. She tugged the cloak around her and scooped up the part that dragged the ground. “Lead on.”

He looked a bit wary of her easy acquiescence, but he nodded in approval. “I can carry ye, if ye like.”

“I can manage,” she said, moving in front of him and starting slowly down the passage.

“Oh, I've no doubt of that,” he said, moving in behind her. “But you'll forgive me if I dinna ask ye to tend to the fire later.”

The grin quirked her lips before she could stop it; she was just glad he hadn't seen it. She needed to find some control here. Connal getting all cute and charming wasn't going to help. She kept moving, not daring to look back at him, but she could feel him treading heavily behind her.
One foot in front of the other,
she schooled herself.
Don't think about what lies ahead.

And definitely don't think about what will happen when he gets you alone in that tower.

I
t was foolish really. To be concerned about bringing her to his less than lavishly appointed chambers. Not that he had any need for mortal comforts himself… although he found solace in them anyway. Something about maintaining a sense of familiarity, he supposed.

He pushed back the heavy rug he'd hung over the open doorway. Despite the fact that he had no visitors and could remain unseen if he wished, he found he still enjoyed the illusion of privacy. He motioned her inside, holding the lantern out to guide her. “Just a moment while I light the tapers.” There were several sconces on the walls and a trio of thick candles on the low stone table.

She made a small, indistinguishable noise as the rooms glowed to life and he actually hesitated before turning to her. What she thought shouldn't have mattered to him. He told himself it was only because of her obvious reluctance to accept Fate's design that he felt this unnatural need to… to woo her. Ridiculous notion really, considering he'd never had to woo anyone in his life.

And yet there was a distinct sense of apprehension coiling in him when he turned back to her. “Humble lodgings, I know. But then I have little use for
lavish comforts.” He said it dismissively, yet held himself still as he awaited her reaction.

She looked around, cataloging the few meager belongings he had. He followed her gaze, thinking his armchair and small side table suddenly looked unbearably worn. The rug covering the floor shabby and threadbare. He kept the place swept clean, his linens as fresh as he could manage with water taken from Gregor's pump when the auld man was sleeping it off. All that time spent waiting, yet he'd never given a thought to having to impress his future mate. It was a bit late now, but it didna make him feel any less the fool.

“Is all this real?” she asked. “Or does it all disappear when you do?”

She seemed neither impressed nor unimpressed. He wasn't sure why that stung anyway, but it did. “I assure you everything here is quite real and quite permanent, inasmuch as things can be. I can close off the corridor leading to my rooms to keep any cu-riosity seekers out.”

“And no one mentions the light in the tower window?”

He noticed she still hadn't looked at him. “I dinna care much what anyone thinks. But I have a care when I make my presence known.” He said the last with emphasis, but she still didn't turn to face him.

“So, the islanders know the castle and tower are… haunted?”

He was growing impatient. “I care no’ what the islanders think.”

She did turn to face him then. “Well, they still care about you. Or the role you played in their history, anyway.”

That took him aback. So much so that he didn't know what to say.

“If Maeve's feelings are any indication of how the island as a whole feels, you're not too popular.”

“You've become chums with Maeve then?”

“I wouldn't call us chums, but we're friendly, yes.” She tilted her head. “Maeve's seen you then? Funny, because she didn't seem as if—”

“I've not met her or her husband. I've my own ways of knowing things. How is it that you've grown friendly with her?”

“She and her husband, Roddy, found me a place to stay. Very nice couple. All the folks I've met are friendly.”

He scowled, though why it bothered him that she was making herself at home here he had no idea. It was to his advantage that she like the island and its people. Perhaps he envied her easy way of fitting in. But then, he'd no’ had the chance to make a good first impression on his clansmen. “Glenmuir has always had a reputation for hospitality.”

She turned from him and looked around again. “Exactly what did you do all those years ago to make these hospitable people dislike you so much?”

“Ye should get out of those wet things,” he said instead, not at all interested in having a history lesson with her. Especially as it pertained to his role in it.

Her gaze swung to his, wariness filling her eyes. “I, um, thanks, but you don't have to- A fire would be fine. I'll dry out quickly.”

She was stammering. He swallowed a smile.
Best to keep her off-balance,
he thought. That way she wouldn't poke about in his past overmuch. She'd be too worried about his designs on the present… and on her.

She had his cloak clutched tightly about her. Her curls clung to her head in damp, misshapen clumps, and her bare feet were dusty and dirty from traipsing
through the tunnel. She looked like little more than a street urchin. Which did absolutely nothing to explain the surge of almost animal lust that spilled through him the instant he saw awareness bloom in her eyes.

“I really must insist,” he said. “I'll see if I can find you something.” He strode to the next room, fairly confident she wouldn't try to run. After all, she knew he'd just bring her back again.