The Charm Stone (12 page)

He stared at his bed and the tumble of linens tangled upon it. It was large and well stuffed with down, his refuge on many, many a long night. He had a flashing image of tucking her away in here with him, tangling the lean length of her in those linens… and in him. He wrested his gaze away and rummaged through the trunk at the foot of his bed, pulling out a loose-fitting linen shirt and a swath of plaid. It wasn't much, but then he'd always been more concerned with comfort rather than fashion.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, when he returned, the cloak falling open as she reached for the small bundle he held out to her.

He was reminded then of how she'd looked, standing in the midst of a fury, rain lashing her lithe frame, plastering the thin chemise she wore to her skin. His body tightened anew, even as he fought against it. It was all well and good that he wanted her. It made things easier, for certain. Though he'd have done his duty, fulfilled his destiny and that of his clan, no matter her earthly appearance. But this… this rampant need wouldn't do. He had to find some element of control. He had never forced himself on any woman and, despite knowing his destiny was right at his fingertips, he would not force her to have him.

But have her he would.

He pulled his gaze from her and reined in his
unruly impulses. “You can change in there,” he said almost gruffly, then motioned to his bedroom, where he'd lit one thin taper. He watched her go, surprised she'd done so without comment. In a short time he'd already come to realize she was a fully modern woman, one who had her own ideas and spoke them freely, with the full expectation that they be received with a weight equal to his own. He thought he'd prefer her silent and easily led. It unsettled him to discover that wasn't entirely true.

He busied himself in front of the modest fireplace, wishing the stacking of wood and lighting of tinder would drown out the rustling of fabric behind him. It didn't. It was as if he felt every caress against his own skin.

“Here is your cloak,” she said, coming up behind him. “It's pretty wet, but if you spread it before the fire—”

He turned then, and froze in the act of reaching for the sodden material lying over her arm.

She stilled as well, then looked down at herself before looking back at him. He was almost relieved to see the challenging light return to her eyes. Almost.

“I'm perfectly aware I look ridiculous,” she said defensively. “I have no idea how to put these things on.”

She did look ridiculous. Entirely so. And yet the heat pulsed through him anew. “It's a definite skill,” he said, unable to tear his gaze from her.

She was lithe of body, aye, but not a small or petite woman, and still his shirt hung on her frame, enveloping her, lending her an air of fragility he well knew she didn't possess. And yet… Perhaps it was the clumsy way she'd wrapped the plaid about her hips, tucking the end in her waist rather than draping it over her shoulder.

Could she possibly know how artfully his shirt clung to the tips of her breasts? Or that his fingers ached to push apart the gaping neckline just an inch or two farther to expose the roundness of her breasts to his gaze?

His throat tightened, as did the rest of his body. He'd do well to move away, or, at the very least speak, defuse the sudden tension in the room.

She suddenly seemed to realize where his attentions were directed, because she frowned and crossed her arms, covering herself. “You're blocking the heat,” she said, her tone returning now to the surly one he'd so quickly grown used to. Had he really missed it?

“Aye, it would appear I am,” he murmured.

She folded her arms even more tightly about her. “Men,” she muttered, then circled the small room the opposite direction he did and stopped before the fire, presenting him with her very stiff back.

He wondered if she realized how regally she stood, or that her frosty demeanor did little to diminish his growing fascination with her. He wondered a bit at it himself. It had been a long time since cunning or the development of strategy had been something he needed to worry about. He shouldn't have been surprised to discover that the challenge of the chase enticed him, invigorated him.

War was where he'd been trained to excel, strategically speaking. Looking at her frowning countenance, he suspected battle strategy might very well be necessary here. And yet… where to begin? He felt clumsy, rusty.

The first rule of battle was to reduce the enemy's defenses while increasing your own. To that end, he moved away from her, toward the small larder he'd created in a narrow antechamber next to the hallway door. “I don't have much in the way of foodstuffs,
but I do enjoy cheddar and bread with my wine. Would you care for some?”

Rather than catch her off guard, she merely said, “I didn't know ghosts ate and drank.”

He moved in behind her rigid frame. “There are some pleasures even we insist on retaining.”

There was a long pause and the scant space between them fairly vibrated as the tension shifted, grew.

Then, quietly, she asked, “Such as?”

Had he imagined the hoarseness in her voice? The underlying note of interest?

So much for building his own defenses, he thought ruefully. He'd managed to lower hers, yet one roughened little whisper and his body was galloping on, rushing headlong to the denouement. “Food, drink, the warmth of a fire,” he responded tightly, barely resisting the urge to touch her, to trace a finger along the delicate line of her neck, the curves of her broad shoulders. Her strength, he was surprised to find, called to him.

“That's… that's all?”

“What other creature comforts would you have me want?” he said, just beside her ear.

The slight catch in her breath undid him. He did touch her then. Just the barest whisper of his lips on the side of her neck. She shivered and he dug his fingers into his palms to keep from pulling her against him. “There is the taste of a woman,” he said roughly. “Yet I have no’ been allowed to sample such a delight.”

She stiffened slightly, then, after a moment, whispered, “At all?”

He found himself stiffening as well, though in an entirely different way. “If I am to prove my worthiness, then I must only taste that which is my destiny.”

She turned then, but backed quickly away when he
reached for her. He took hold of her anyway. “I'm no’ going to attack you.” He moved her bodily away from the fire. “I was only tryin’ to keep you from torchin’ my finest plaid. You and fire are not comfortable bedfellows.”

Despite the abrupt end to their provocative interlude, he grinned. There would be more. He knew this, and despite her frown, he suspected she did, too. “Ye needn't thank me, lass. Tis okay.”

She overcame her embarrassment swiftly and made a face at him, which had him grinning rather than scowling. Such a change from the simpering lasses that had paraded in front of his brothers and himself.

To his great dismay, she folded her arms over her chest once again. Where she stood now afforded him a delightful view of her profile as the glow from the table lantern lit her from behind.

She bent down somewhat and intercepted his gaze. “You're worse than a construction worker, you know?”

“A construction worker?”

“Men who build things and leer at women.”

“I suppose I've built my share of things, but I dinna leer.”

She merely stared at him.

“Och, leering is no’ the same as admirin’.”

“Not from where I'm standing.”

“Women,” he said darkly, wondering why he hadn't just tossed her on the bed first thing. His ancestors would have. Hell, his own brothers had. And it was precisely that impetuosity and lack of forethought that had landed him in the position of being forced to bargain his soul to the gods to save the remnants of his clan and any hope they had for a future.

“You… you said something about cheese?”

“Have a seat by the fire,” he said, then with a devilish
wink as that sort of attention seemed to unnerve her the most, he added, “but no’ too close, lass.”

“Ha, ha.” But when he took one step toward her she quickly made herself comfortable in the armchair that fronted the fire, arranging the folds of her plaid as a queen would her fur-lined robes.

He stifled another smile as he went about collecting food and mead. Aye, she'd make his son a good mother. There was a small twinge somewhere near his heart when he thought of it. He'd always thought of his clan's future being in the hands of his son. His. Not theirs. He'd never really thought of it that way, other than to pray his faith in the Fates wasn't misguided and there would someday be a wee bairn to lead on where he had failed.

But now he found himself turning, imagining the oddest things. A babe in her arms as she sat in front of the fire. Would she sit in this very room, then? Not likely. He turned back to his tasks, ignoring the chill that chased out the warmth inside him. He'd naught be here to see what she did, his bargain having been met and filled. So why imagine such a thing? He strode back to the fire and, with a clatter, placed the stoneware on the footstool she'd pushed to one side.

“I thought you'd want to sit on that.”

“Nay,” he interrupted her, sinking to floor beside it. “I've no need for softness,” he said, not caring how she took his surly manner. He'd gone soft himself there for a moment and would do well to guard against such lapses if he wanted to remain in control of things.

He heard the wine splash in the tankard and forced his attentions back to her, though he kept his focus on the food. He sliced the cheese and flipped it onto a hunk of bread, then repeated the motion and nudged it toward her side of the platter.

“Interesting knife,” she said, quickly picking up the food when he darted a glare at her. She took several bites, then, apparently unable to remain silent for more than two minutes-had he really thought this trait intriguing?-she said, “Is it a family heirloom?”

He glanced down at the dagger, then back to his food, the fire… anything but her. “'Twas my father's.”

“It's really interesting. The pattern on the handle is- Can I see it?”

To her credit, she barely flinched when he swung his hard gaze back to hers as he flipped the dagger over in his hand. He presented the handle to her.

“Thank you,” she said, with just a whiff of sardonic amusement. She held his gaze for a moment longer and just like that the mood changed. She quickly shifted her gaze to the blade.

Oh yes,
Connal thought,
the chase is definitely on.

“The workmanship is amazing,” he heard her say. “That's one thing we've lost.”

He turned to find her shaking her head in dismay as she admired the scrollwork on the handle.

“This bothers you?”

“Too many things are production made.” She looked at him and shrugged. “People don't want to pay for craftsmanship, for the extra attention to detail.”

“You say this as if it were a personal affront.”

She smiled. “Well, my business hinges on those people who do feel the personal touch is worth paying for.”

He was about to sip his wine, but lowered it instead. He'd been so caught up in his own destiny, he'd given no thought to the life she'd led before coming into his. The first ripple of concern chased along his spine. He washed it away with a swig of mead. “What is this business of yours, then?”

“I'm a graphic artist.”

Ah,
he thought,
a painter.
He nodded, relaxing. He supposed that would be enriching for their child. “Art is no’ for everyone, I suppose.” He, himself, had barely paid it passing attention. War had consumed most of his life.

“True. Especially when it's on a surfboard. But I do okay.”

He'd just bitten off a hunk of cheese and almost choked on it. “You paint… those boards you ride?”

“And quite well, she said modestly.”

“You call that art?”

Her smile vanished. “Why yes, yes I do. And so do a number of the elite surfers in the world. Along with collectors. My work graces the walls of any number of fine homes.”

“Ah, then you paint on canvas as well.”

She was scowling now. “No. They hang the boards. My father's boards,” she added pointedly.

A point he was at a loss to understand. “What good does it do to hang a slab of wood meant for wave riding on a wall?”

Heat filled her cheeks, sparks flew from her eyes. He really shouldn't feel so energized by it, he thought, but it was there, as exhilarating as tasting the fine skin of her nape.

“Oh, I don't know,” she snapped. “Maybe the same reason you hang swords meant to slice people up on yours? She pointed over the fireplace.

“Hardly the same thing. I don't call that art.”

“You probably wouldn't know art it if bit you on the…kilt.”

“You may have a point,” he conceded, with as much grace as he could muster. “I was never much for the fripperies or adornments.”

She looked around his room and said, “I think it's safe to say that's an understatement.”

“Do ye now?” He bit off another piece of cheese,
rethinking the wisdom of goading her. After a moment spent hating himself for wishing he'd feathered his nest with the finest silks, just to show her he could give her fine things-which he couldn't-he grudgingly asked, “How did ye come to paint on these boards?”

“My father. He was a world-class surfer in his day, worked part-time for some of the more well known board designers when he was younger. He was intrigued by the whole process and became a shaper.”

“Shaper?”

“The one who creates the shape of the board. They're not all the same.”

“A craftsman then. And a sportsman.”

“He is both, yes.”

“Successful, I take it?”

She nodded. “Very. His work is in high demand. They are one-of-a-kind. Anyone who buys a Griff's Gun knows they're getting quality.”

“Gun? I thought you said—”

“It's slang, for surfboard. For shooting waves.”

He gave her a look. “That much I deduced on my own.”

She smiled and he decided it might be worth wading through the complexity of her moods after all, simply for the opportunity to make her lips curve so enticingly.