The Charm Stone (13 page)

“ 'Tis a family business then, this board building and painting?”

“Aye,” she said, her grin a bit saucy. “I roamed all over the globe with him growing up. In fact, I had planned to help my dad with the shaping and glassing, even took a few engineering classes. Art was more a hobby of mine. My mom was an artist.”

“Yer mum? What does she think of you traipsing about the world?”

“She died just before I turned two.” Her expression turned a bit wistful, but she'd said it matter-of-factly.

“ Tis a loss that's difficult at any age.” He hadn't meant to share that. In fact he wasn't in the habit of sharing at all. He braced himself for the unwanted pity or, more likely, the spate of questions she was likely to ask. She surprised him by merely nodding.

“How old were you?” she asked quietly.

“I was in my twentieth year.”

“You have memories of her then. I don't remember mine. I have a few photos, but mostly their photos were the ones she took of my father surfing. I do have some of her artwork.” She smiled with a warmth that took more of an edge off the chill in the dank room than the fire had. “In fact, she was the inspiration for the work I did on my first board. It was a present to my dad. Then I did one for myself. It was for fun, I wasn't thinking of it as a career. He hung his in the shop, it piqued some interest, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Connal didn't claim to understand it all, but he had no trouble with her avocation as long as it didn't interfere with their destiny.

“Were you close to your father?”

Her question surprised him from his thoughts. “I'm no’ so sure you'd describe it as such. He was responsible for readying me and my brothers to rule our clan when they were called upon to do so.”

“Was he sick then?” She shook her head. “I can't imagine losing both of my parents.”

“He was no’ sick. We had to maintain a readiness to defend our land against those who would usurp it and the power it commanded. There was no time to waste on the learning or appreciation of art.”

She didn't look chastised. “Even as a child?”

“Even as a child.”

She nibbled on her bread, seemingly lost in thought. “I'm sorry,” she said at last.

“For?”

“It doesn't sound like a very happy childhood. I know mine was odd compared to just about anyone else's, so maybe I'm no judge. But I can't imagine having that kind of pressure, from such an early age. So…I'm sorry.”

Her understanding was unexpected, and he would have thought, unwelcome. And yet he found himself responding before he could think better of it. “It was no’ so bad. I played at swords and learned my maps and strategies. I thought it was a fine upbringing. I would have brought my own son up the same
way.” Had I had one.

“You never had any children?”

He shook his head. “I became laird in my twenty-first year. I was too busy holding what was left of our land and keeping my clan fed and housed. When the time finally came and the stone sent…” He looked into the fire. “It was too late.”

She put her tankard down and scooted forward in her chair, looking at him in disbelief. “You don't mean to tell me you believe the clan was defeated because a necklace was lost at sea.”

He sent her a swift glare. “Ye know nothing of it. And I lost my bride that day as well.”

Either she didn't see the warning in his eyes or she ignored it. He suspected, much to his dismay, it was the latter. “Did you love her so much you could never marry another?”

“It was no’ about love. Marriages were arranged for the benefit of the many, no’ the emotions of the two.”

“Well, I think that's sad. If you didn't love her, why didn't you marry someone else? Surely there was another powerful liaison to be made with some other poor unsuspecting clan wench.”

“No’ without the stone.”

She laughed in disbelief and his temper soared higher. “So you let everything go to hell?”

“We already were in hell.” He rose to his feet. “Proving my faith in the stone to the gods was the only chance we had left.”

She tossed down her bread and stood. “You honestly believe that, don't you?”

She turned away from him and something snapped. He grabbed her and spun her around, temper spinning beyond his grasp as well. “Aye, I believe it,” he said roughly. “And here you are, living proof that I was right.”

“And what good does it do you now?” she demanded, trying unsuccessfully to jerk free. “It's three hundred years too late.”

“It's never too late.” His dark gaze stormed into hers. “I've proven my faith and Fate rewarded me with the stone's return.”

“Well, I don't care what you think you've proven. You might have sold your soul, but I didn't sell mine.”

“I had nothing left,” he said, his voice quavering with barely restrained fury. “I rode into battle that last day with naught to my name, to my clan's name, but my honor and the determination to do what I must to my dying breath.” He leaned closer. “And that dying breath came all too soon, but not until the ground around me was soaked in the blood of women and children, and my own as well.” He swallowed hard against the bitterness that for so long had threatened to consume him, destroy him. “When the light came, I offered the one thing I had left. My eternal soul. But I didna sell it. I traded it. For the soul of my son.”

T
he way he said it, so intently, almost reverently, sent a shiver through her. If this hadn't involved her so… intimately, Josie might have even cheered for him. But she was involved. “I didn't get you into this mess,” she said, but her bravado was slipping as his gaze continued to bore into hers with such ferocity.

“Nay, but it is yer fate to see me out of it.” He pulled her to him, his mouth just above hers.

She pushed against his chest, hands fisted, whether in temper or to keep from grabbing at him, she wasn't quite sure. She wasn't certain of anything at the moment. The entire situation was beyond absurd really, yet here she was, smack in the middle of it. And not truly in any hurry to leave. “I don't believe in Destiny or Fate,” she said, “at least not blindly like you do.”

“And yet, here you are.” He tilted her chin. “Meaning ye chose to be here of your own free will. Either way, the outcome will be the same.”

“Pretty damn sure of yourself,” she said, but her voice was quivering, as was her body, pressed as it was against the hard length of his. And dear Lord was he hard.

His hold gentled then and a smile teased the
corners of that sinful mouth of his. She hadn't forgotten how it felt. In fact, at the moment, she could think of little else.

“I've made ye swear again.”

“You make me want to do a lot of things,” she muttered, but it was obvious he heard her quite clearly.

“I'd have thought I'd rather make you smile, but I find I have a strange attraction to all your moods.”

“How flattering,” she said dryly.

“I should think it would be. Are ye no’ still unwed because most men canno’ keep up with yer moods… and yer mouth?” His gaze dropped to her lips just then, drying her throat and stifling the biting comeback she was surely about to make. “I dinna have such a problem with ye.” He grinned then and she swore her inner thighs actually twitched. “Such is Fate's way, eh?”

She was going to have to ponder that statement at a later time because he kissed her then, and her entire world was reduced to the mind-bending feeling of his lips on hers.

“Open for me, lass,” he murmured against her mouth.

This was nothing like the other kiss they'd shared. There was no tumultuous storm, nor waves pounding the beach. She quickly realized there didn't need to be any external forces of nature… he was an overwhelming force in and of himself. Her mouth opened of its own volition beneath his and she was lost.

Josie didn't consider herself inexperienced, but she was instantly aware that she was in far over her head with this man. Ghost. Whatever. He felt-and tasted-pretty damn real at the moment. Her body raged, ached, all but screamed for him to release her from the stingingly sweet tension that he was building inside her with every second his mouth remained on hers.

Maybe it was some kind of otherworldly spell he was casting, she thought wildly, surprised she could think at all.

His mouth shifted from hers then, and she was clutching at his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers, fiercely unwilling to leave unfinished this maelstrom of emotions he'd ignited in her, and damn the source!

She felt him chuckle and that only fueled her on. “You started this,” she said against his mouth, “and you'll damn well finish it.”

“As I said, yer moods are an intriguing maze, but one I'm willing to puzzle my way through.” He pushed his hands through her hair, cupping her head, lifting her face to his.

“Whatever,” she said, pulling his mouth back to hers. “Just don't stop kissing me.”

“Gladly, lass,” he said, and returned his formidable attentions to her mouth. His hands skated down her back and cupped her hips, tucking hers tightly into his.

“Yes,” she sighed in heartfelt gratitude, feeling incredibly wanton and not caring. It was as if she were possessed and all that mattered was satisfying this screaming need. And he was the only one who could do that.

She clutched at his hips, almost growling in pleasure. She might have clawed off both their kilts, but he stilled her with one strong arm behind her back. She squirmed, her mouth fiercely commanding his, but he pulled back nonetheless.

“Connal—”

On hearing her say his name, his black eyes flashed as if truly lit by some inner demon. Rather than douse the inferno raging between them, it only served to fan the flames higher.

“Ye will be mine,” he said hoarsely. “Ye are mine, Josie.”

“Just finish me, Connal.” Begging, she'd been reduced to begging. But the wild light in his eyes only grew brighter and she knew she'd do a whole lot more than beg if that's what it took. Tomorrow she'd be sane, tomorrow she'd be rational.

She tugged at his kilt, almost whimpering in frustration as his mouth did wicked things to the side of her neck. Then his hands came up and over the aching tips of her breasts and she moaned, forgetting completely what she'd been doing even a second ago. “Don't stop that.”

“Never.”

His thumbs were thick and perfect as they rubbed back and forth. “Dear God,” she managed.

“Aye, I owe them I do,” he murmured against the damp skin of her neck. Damp not because of the storm, but because her entire body was in heat.

He sat in the armchair and pulled her down on top of him, somehow managing to push his shirt off of her shoulders as he did. The plaid she'd wrapped around tugged loose and she let it slide low on her hips even as he shoved it up her thighs and shifted her so she straddled him.

He lowered his mouth to her breasts and she arched her back, fisting her hands in his long hair, wishing, praying, pleading that this night never end. Then she'd never have to face tomorrow.

That was her last thought as he slid her up snugly against him and she discovered the answer to the eternal question. No, Scotsman didn't wear anything beneath their kilts. And, an instant later, she was profoundly grateful that she hadn't either.

“Hold on to me,” he commanded, as he shifted his attention from one breast to the other.

“Yes,” she said, arching her back, opening herself to him, “just please—” Her plea ended on a long,
very loud groan of absolute perfect pleasure as he pushed inside her. “Oh God, oh yes,” she cried as she moved forward again, and came the instant he filled her completely.

She rocked against him, rode him shamelessly, until the last vestiges of quivering orgasm finally left her. It felt like an eternity… and she soon realized that eternity wasn't enough. “I don't know what's wrong with me,” she murmured to no one in particular.

“At the moment, you're perfection,” Connal said roughly.

Her face was buried in his hair, her entire body was slicked with sweat, and she felt like she could sleep for a hundred years. Three hundred. But just as the first edge of cold, harsh reality began to nudge its way into her brain, she felt his lips begin a slow, torturous journey along the side of her neck, then lower. And when he nudged her back slightly, to allow him access once again to her breasts, she told herself she was simply too spent to stop him. But he proved that untrue almost immediately. He flicked one nipple to life with the tip of his tongue, then, while she moaned softly, moved to the other one.

He was still alive and hard inside her and she was already moving on him by the time his fingers replaced his tongue… and his tongue began a rather insistent mating ritual with her own.

She dueled with him, sparred and parried, and felt the sweet climb begin again. She didn't have time to be amazed, she was too busy single-mindedly pursuing that same exquisite release her body had already learned could be hers. Addicted, she thought, she could easily become addicted to this. Otherworldly sex rocked.

It was hearing his uneven breathing that spurred
her beyond seeking her own pleasures. She slowly took control of the kiss, commanding the duel… and him. He was gripping her hips now, pushing hard into her as she gripped the back of the chair in order to remain astride him. The guttural noises he made shoved her even closer to another climax. “Yes,” she panted as his rhythm increased and she did her damnedest to keep up. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Her muscles clenched, gripping him tightly, and when he roared through his release, she screamed through hers.

Stone walls were a good thing, she thought mindlessly, lying limply against him.

“The gods have surely gone mad,” he said raggedly.

She couldn't move, couldn't even lift her head to look at him. She was numb, and hoped to stay that way for as long as mortally possible. Mortally. She felt a hysterical giggle rise in her throat and fought to quash it. There had been nothing mortal about what she'd just done. Or, more precisely, to whom she'd done it.

“What amuses you?”

“Ghost sex,” she managed, then snickered despite her best efforts not to. Oh, she was giddy with exhaustion and… and everything else. She really didn't want to talk. Or think. Especially think. She only wanted to feel. Feeling was safe. Feeling was good.